Memoir: Tales of Desperation and Ingenuity

Blood and bloodlines

When I was nine my father pooled his and my mother’s savings from their overseas jobs to move us from Okinawa to Southern California, which he’d chosen for the density of golf courses. He’d also considered South Carolina, but after a lifetime in the tropics he was done with humidity, so San Diego it was.

It was the early 70’s. My father bought two Lincoln Continentals – a Town Car for himself and a Coupe for my mother. Having spent his life on islands, he got a kick out of navigating the massive steel beast down six-lane highways, driving state to state for fun, playing Mantovani on the eight track, and flicking cigarette ashes into a vinyl bag he dangled from the dash lighter. I’d slide down the bench seat as far away as possible from the smoke while keeping an eye on the bag for when it ignited, which, because my father chain smoked, it invariably did.

As my father drove, he would tell me stories.

There was the story of his father, who was part of the first wave of Korean immigrants th…