Kimchi & Calamari(21)

“You found something out about me, didn’t you?” I asked as we ran upstairs.

“You bet I did,” he said.

While we waited for the computer to boot up, Nash told me about his new lab partner in science. “I think she’s Korean, Joseph, no kidding. She’s really pretty and smart.”

It had to be Ok-hee. I reminded him about Yongsu being the new kid in band and told him that was her brother. “The Hans bought the Jiffy Wash, near my mom’s shop,” I said.

“I’ll carry towels for your mom whenever she wants,” said Nash, “as long as Ok-hee’s there.”

Nash sounded slick, but I knew him well enough to know he probably acted shy around Ok-hee.

The computer screen finally lit up. With a click Nash called up a website called “Finding Your Ki-bun.”

“What’s ki-bun?” I asked.

“It sounds like good spirit, inner peace, that sort of thing. This website is for Korean adoptees tracing their family connections.”

I wanted to do this, but my hands still trembled as I looked at the screen.

“You’re not alone, Joseph. Check out these messages,” Nash said.

The listings reminded me of newspaper classifieds, only sadder:

Please help me find my sister: We were left in the terminal at Kwangju Airport on July 16, 1978. I was three months old and my sister, Ji-Kun Lim, was four. She probably has an American name now. I’d give anything to see her.



Looking for leads to my Korean past: I traveled from Seoul to Minneapolis in ‘86 when I was five months old. I have a small Mongolian spot birthmark on my left elbow. I want to meet someone I’m related to. I promise not to interfere with your life. I just want to know my other side.



Need answers: My wife and I recently had our first baby, and it’s made me wonder about my early years. I was found in front of the American Embassy in Seoul on Christmas Eve, 1982. I was two years old and I had a tag on my wrist with my birth name, Oksu. Does anyone know my story?



Nash broke the silence. “Some stories, huh?”

“Do we know if any of these people found their families?” I asked.

Nash highlighted a message from a twenty-four-year-old graphic designer in Phoenix. “Look, Joseph. This lady made a connection.”

Family reunion   in Phoenix: My deepest thanks to those who cared enough to read my story. Because of you, I’ve been reunited with my father. The funny part is that we look alike, speak alike, and even laugh alike! He will be coming to Arizona to visit next month.



I tried to imagine meeting a Korean relative for the first time. Somebody who looks just like me. Would I crack a joke? Would my voice quiver when I introduced myself? Would we hug?

Nash roamed around the website. He clicked the e-form for making a posting and waited for me to say something.

Then Chicken Calderaro started clucking. “I don’t know what I’m getting into, Nash. Maybe this was a bad idea. What do you think?”

“I’d want to know my story. But what do you want?”

I stared at the computer screen and reread the message from the lady in Phoenix. Then I looked right at Nash. “I want to know,” I finally replied.

“Then let’s go for it.”

Well, if I was going to search, my message was going to get noticed. “I’ll talk, you type, Nash. Here’s the lead-in:

New Jersey Italian Stallion looking for Korean connection: Clue lies in the basket a little old lady found at the Pusan police station in May fourteen years ago….





Too Tangled for Spider-Man




“Why would anyone name a band Chicago?” Steve whispered from the bass drum.

“It sure beats calling it Hoboken,” I said.

“Hey, watch what you say, Joseph. I was born in Hoboken.”

“Yeah, I can tell by your bad breath,” I shot back, and we both laughed.

Mrs. Athena had summoned us for a special early-bird session. We were working on “Saturday in the Park,” a seventies hit that leaned heavy on drums and trumpet. This was supposed to be the kickoff song for the concert, but Mrs. Athena said it needed some TLC. Personally, I think it was those can’t-reed-to-save-their-lives clarinets that needed help, not the rest of us.

Jeff was absent, so Steve and I were multitasking most of the percussion instruments. It felt like circuit training—intervals of banging mallets on the xylophone, whacking the timpani, and then running to the snare, all while handling cymbals, too. Here’s one of many band myths: people think cymbals are the musical equivalent of wrecking balls that crash into each other randomly, but there’s more of an art to it than that. If you play them right, cymbals should slice each other like you’re cutting cheese off a pizza.