Legacy Project

Eugenia Kim was born in 1952 in White Plains, New York, to parents who immigrated to the United States between World War II and the Korean War. Because her father had worked for the US military government in Korea, Eugenia’s family had certain privileges which allowed them to relocate to the United States during the interwar period. Eugenia was born while her father was working for the Voice of America, and soon afterwards the family moved to the DMV, where she spent most of her childhood in Tacoma Park. Both of her parents were deeply involved with the early Korean American community in Washington, D.C., her father a minister of the Methodist Church and her mother a local contact for fresh kimchi for Asian restaurants in the area. After college, Eugenia worked in hospitality, then in graphic design, before going back to school for an MFA in creative writing; today, she is the author of two published novels. Believing that creative expression is a powerful means of meditating on one’s identity, she encourages anyone who has ever struggled with the question “Who am I?” to turn to storytelling for an answer.

Thomas Park Clement was born in Seoul in the middle of the Korean War. He tells us that the earliest memories he has are of the flashes and noises from explosions outside his crib area, and that the trauma of war would resurface in recurrent fever dreams for years afterward. When he was four and a half years old, his biological mother led him to a street where she instructed him to look down the road in one direction; this would be the final time he saw his biological family. Soon thereafter, a Methodist nurse found and brought him to an orphanage, where he endured constant bullying and belittlement alongside other mixed children. A year later, he was adopted into the Clement family to begin the next chapter of his life in America. Inspired by the cartoon “Clyde Crashcup,” he strived to become an inventor, and today has 77 patents to his name in medical technology, and has donated funds for members of the Korean American Adoptees’ community to receive DNA testing kits for free.

Jung Ja Lee, who sometimes goes by “JJ,” was born in Seoul in 1945, growing up with three older sisters, an older brother, and a younger brother. When the Korean War broke out, she remembers how her uncle unexpectedly arrived at her home with his own family, warning them that it was time for them to head south. Their family sought refuge at Pyeongtaek City, located in the south of Gyeonggi Province, a journey that took 9 days of walking by foot on country roads to avoid running into soldiers. Upon returning to their home in Seoul, Mrs. Lee found that while her home was intact, their furniture had been stripped of its drawers, presumably by individuals who were unable to flee Seoul but needed fires to burn. Later in life, she operated a Baskin Robbins in Toronto, Canada, with her husband, and she continues to call Canada her home. When asked by her daughter, Vivian Lee, if she has a message she’d like to tell her grandchildren, Mrs. Lee says that she wishes to spend more time with them… and that she is a confidential bearer of their secrets!

Chown Soon Cho was born in Bugok-ri, Gochang-gun, North Jeolla Province, during the Japanese occupation. When she was three years old, her mother gave her to her eldest aunt to raise as her own, a common practice at the time. It wasn’t until she was ten years old that her grandmother revealed that she had been adopted by her relative, a surprise which, at the time, developed into feelings of betrayal. Soon after, the Korean War forced Mrs. Cho to shelter with her grandparents, rather than seeking refuge elsewhere. She recalls seeing the North Korean enter her village, as well as the traumatic experience of being held hostage by them. After the war concluded, she married and had eight children before immigrating to the United States in 1984, with her children following her later. Although her life has been filled with moments of profound sorrow, she tells us that today, she finds joy in her children and grandchildren, asking for little more than their own happiness.

Myung Hee Jung was born in Yeonggwang county, North Jeolla Province, as the second youngest among eight children: she had five older brothers, an older sister, and a younger sister. When she was in eighth grade, her mother moved to the United States by herself for reasons Myung Hee didn’t yet understand, though this meant that she had to become the primary caretaker for her younger sister. After graduating from high school, Myung Hee moved to Seoul where her older sister lived with the dream of attending college; by day, she would work as an elementary school teacher, and by night, she would study and take classes taught at a broadcast university. At her mother’s urging, Myung Hee moved to America around 1989-90 so that she might get married. While she reminisces on the past dreams of a college education, Myung Hee says that if she were given the choice between college or the family she has today, she would choose the latter in a heartbeat.

Lily Kim was born in 1972 in Suwon, South Korea, as the youngest of four sisters. Growing up, she recalls having been a rather talkative child who took a keen interest in other people, which she attributes to living in a household with three older siblings. When she was 24 years old, she moved to Los Angeles to study, though she soon found a job as a reporter for Radio Korea. She tells us of certain differences between Korean American media and mainstream media, with the former needing to fulfill journalistic, outreach, educational, and advocacy roles at times. She also describes Korean American media as having a hyperlocal focus, with stories on immigration and public safety catering to the specific needs of Koreatown. As a reporter, Lily has seen how effective journalism produced real and meaningful changes in her community, from the establishment of a police station after the Saigu Uprising to the redistricting of Koreatown so that it could vote as one bloc. Her favorite story from the field, however, is when after she covered a piece on a robbed toy drive, donations from the community poured in to ensure the drive could happen by Christmas.

Vida Marie Misook Adams was born in 1997 in Los Angeles, California, to a Korean mother and a Black father. An only child, she grew up in Koreatown before moving to Canoga Park in the Valley. As a Korean American of mixed heritage, she recalls how she often felt as though her maternal relatives were not as accepting of her, an unspoken racism which was realized in her exclusion from birthday parties and family photos. Yet at the same time, Vida has maintained a strong and profoundly intimate connection with Koreatown, the neighborhood she calls home and where she attributes the happiest days of her life to. Out of every place she’s ever been, she shares how it was in Koreatown that she felt like she “had the right to belong,” taking pride in the community’s history, and expressing an acute sadness at the fact that it has changed so much since her childhood.

Judy Han and Jennifer Chun were both born in Seoul, Korea; both also grew up in the United States. They talk about their individual experiences grappling with Korean and queer identity and the complicated interstitial space they’ve had to navigate in reconciling them. For Jennifer, “Korean American” was something she grappled with later in life; she recounts how in her childhood, perhaps owing to the socialization (and objectification) of Asian girls, she was more concerned with her gender. In college, she found the language and space to reflect on her gender identity, a process that she says is ongoing to this day. For Judy, the lines between Korean and Korean American gender and gender identity were always blurred; everything was so enmeshed with one another. They talk about how they knew they were queer from an early age but waited until college to express their identity for fear of worrying their parents. They sensed that their being queer would oftentimes disrupt Korean spaces, whether the space is church, family, or with others in their community. Though they’ve never wanted to make others uncomfortable, at a certain point, Judy realized that it was on others to put up with them, not the other way around. Both Judy and Jennifer acknowledge that there are “tensions which arise by accident” by being queer and Korean, but that they believe this discomfort can result in change for the better.

Lori Song, 65, was born and raised in Los Angeles to Korean and Japanese parents who arrived in L.A. from Hawaii in the 1950s. She has a twin brother who looks just like her, and a younger brother as well; with regards to her mixed heritage, she describes herself as a “fourth generation person on both sides.” From as early as she could remember, Lori recalls how she had always felt a sense of relief when cross-dressing, and remembers how transformative the first time she wore women’s clothing from head to toe had been. She recalls, too, how difficult her teenage years were (though she states that “teenage years are hard, no matter the era); eventually, Lori decided to give one last shot in “trying to be a man,” but knew, deep down, that it wasn’t who she really was. Slowly, she began coming out to her friends and family, and although some responses have been more lukewarm than others, she feels joy in how today’s younger generation are accepting of her as who she is. Recently, Lori began hormone therapy, and although she says that changes have been slow because she started later in life, she encourages us to “be brave enough to just do your thing,” no matter how young or old we might be.