Just as I wondered about my Korean family, I assumed that they wondered about me. They probably dreamed about where I lived and what my life was like. In 1971, my sister Whasoon and I were ripped apart. She finally came to visit my world last month. So wonderful! ! !
Enjoy the Youtube video by clicking the picture:
Whasoon, Sungmi, Yunyong, and Yugin! I am finally spending time with my family members here in my home city of Minneapolis. I love it. We’ve eaten Korean food at Mirror of Korea in St. Paul, shopped at Southdale mall in Edina, watched movies together, cooked together; and we’re just getting started. They’ll be with us for a month, and I’m thrilled.
Brad and Whasoon cooked a wonderful meal tonight. Spaghetti, bruschetta, greens salad, and tasty-salty olives from Whole Foods. Everyone loved it. Brad was drinking pinot grigio while he was doing the cooking, so it wouldn’t have mattered how it tasted for him. 🙂
We plan to visit the Mall of America (of course), Chicago for four days, the Guthrie and Stone Arch bridge. We’ll go skating, sliding, and possibly check out the last of the Hollydazzle parade. Luckily, Heon – our new Korean American friend – was able to come and translate the first night. Our good friend Paul was there for us at the airport!
It was the fulfillment of a dream, to sit with my eldest sister at my dining room table, drinking tea and just talking. She is one of the people I remember most from my Korean past (she and my father). I remember loving her cooking when I lived with her in Geumsan.
I used to think that “coming full circle” was an event. Now, I realize that it is sometimes a process. A long and lovely movement toward things coming back together.
Pray for nice weather. We want them to be impressed! 🙂
Edina Magazine’s Maureen Millea Smith wrote an article about what inspires local authors. (Minnesota is a hotbed of literary talent!) The November issue has an article about me and four other authors.
Spoiler Alert: Brad is and was my muse. Please follow the link to Edina Magazine and read the article.
AT the Guthrie Theater’s Dowling Studio
On Friday, September 20th (Brad’s birthday), Brad and I saw the play ‘How to be a Korean Woman’, written and marvelously acted by Sun Mee Chomet. Paula Vesley, a friend of Brad’s, gave the tickets to Brad as a birthday present. (Thank you Paula! We loved it!) Chomet’s play is about a Korean adoptee who finds her birth mother after 38 years.
When she was six months old, Sun Mee’s Korean aunt and uncle gave her over to the adoption agency. Her mother went to get her daughter back, but they lied to her and told her that it was too late. (The adoption agency lied to my Korean mother, too, saying that I would be returned educated and well-fed and that I would not be someone else’s daughter.) And so began Sun Mee Chomet’s journey to the other side of the planet. The play is about reaching back and living forward.
‘How To Be A Korean Woman’ took Brad and I on a profound journey of tears, laughter, hope, and acceptance. Sun Mee had us howling one minute in a Korean shopping center, only to have us cringing the next as she struggles with the adoption officials to find her birth mother. Then she brought us along to her reunion and made us cry. In the end, she left us with sense of hope and acceptance of the way things are rather than the way they should be.
‘How To Be A Korean Woman’ has been produced in Seoul, Korea; Philadelphia, PA; and of course here in the Twin Cities. Sun Mee will be taking her play international soon. Friday night’s show was sold out, absolutely packed. I predict that she will play to similar audiences throughout the world.
Visit her site: http://www.sunmeechomet.com
I’ve been honored to speak at many organizations throughout the Midwest since Songs of My Families has been published. This June 22nd I have been asked to speak at the Como Cottage Concert Series. (Events tab.) I can hardly wait.
The series is hosted by one of Minnesota’s most gifted poets, Timothy Young, and his very talented wife Dalyce Elliott. Tim has published numerous books, CDs of music and poetry, and chapbooks. His most notable works are Herds of Bears Surround Us and Building in Deeper Water. Brad has a copy of Tim’s poem Men Don’t Dance in America framed and mounted just before the entrance to his psychology session room in Hastings. They have been good friends since the Robert Bly Men’s Conferences in the 1980s. (Now he’s my friend, too!)
I have been lucky enough to see Tim’s wife Dalyce channel goddess energy through her violin. She is one of those rare and soulful talents. (Maybe she’ll play a little before I read.)
I will be speaking about my time in Korea and my reunions with my Korean mother and my daughter Suzie. And I will read from Songs of My Families.
Here is the information about the event. (Reservations requested):
The Como Cottage Concert Series’
Timothy Young and Dalyce Elliott present
Author of Songs of My Families
KELLY FERN
Saturday June 22, 2013 7:30 pm
1610 Fernwood St. St. Paul, MN 55108
***Seating is limited to 25
so reserve your seat at tim@twoboots.net
or call 651-488-4896
Our Como Park house sits just north of the Como Lake golf course, east of the State Fair grounds, west of Lexington and south of Larpenteur. From Minneapolis, take 35W North, to Hwy 36, to Hamline Exit. Exit and turn south on Hamline until Larpenteur, turn east to Fernwood, go south one block to 1610 Fernwood.
Due to the intimacy of the concert, this is a perfume-free environment
Seats go quickly, PLEASE RSVP SOON TO RESERVE A SEAT
Songs of My Families
A Thirty-Seven-Year Odyssey from Korea to America and Back
Kelly Fern, Brad Fern, MA, LAMFT
In 1971, Lee Myonghi, aged five, was taken from her family and placed in a Korean orphanage. Six months later, she was flown to the United States, where she and two other Korean girls were adopted by a Minnesota couple. They renamed her Kelly Jean. Eleven years later, Kelly found herself at the doorstep of a Minnesota agency, although this time as a teen mother giving her own child up for adoption. Kelly later married and had two more children. Then, in 2007, Kelly’s husband found her original, Korean family, and so began a journey that reunited Kelly with the family whom she thought had abandoned her, and brought her face to face with the daughter she herself had lost twenty-five years before.
Told with refreshing honesty, Songs of My Families is the moving story of two generations of women forced to make agonizing choices as they coped with harsh economic realities and personal crises. It is also an affirmation of the strength of family, the importance of one’s cultural heritage, and the enduring power of love.
Kelly Fern was born in Geumsan, South Korea, and came to the United States when she was five years old. She graduated from the University of Minnesota with a B.A. in European Studies. She is a behavioral detection officer for the Department of Homeland Security and a French language interpreter. Kelly lives with her husband and their two children in Minneapolis.
Brad Fern is a psychotherapist in private practice in Hastings, Minnesota. He has been involved in mythopoetic men’s work since 1986. He is the co-author of Ashes to Gold: The Alchemy of Mentoring the Delinquent Boy and Songs of My Families.
The book trailer has finally come out! Thanks to all of you for helping us get the word out about “Songs of My Families”.
Here in this clip from the Korean Broadcasting System documentary, my youngest brother Pyongsoo helps my mother down the front steps of her house. Within minutes she will meet me for the first time in 37 years. This is the story told in my memoir “Songs of My Families”.
My nephew Sungsoo is driving us from Daegon to Geumsan. I try to soak in the beautiful landscape along the way. This is my motherland, for goodness sake, the mountainous land from where I came. But it’s no use. I’m too tired to keep my head up. I get as comfortable as I can and fall asleep.
My mother’s back is bent from years of hard work in the fields. She sits in her walker and waits for her lost daughter. Some of the neighbors start to gather around. “Dudio” is the Korean word for “finally.” You can hear the narrator say “Dudio” as the car arrives.
“Kelly,” Brad says, as he is getting out of the car. “There’s your mother.” He hugs her, and backs out of the way so she can make her way to me.
I can see her standing in front of the car. She has dark-black curly hair and glasses. I get out and we come together. She cries my Korean name over and over again as she hugs me. “Myhongiya! Myhongiya!” She touches my face so tenderly and brushes the hair back from my face. I want so desperately to remember her, but I don’t.
Cici greets her biological grandmother. Brad’s got Max – still groggy from jetlag – practically draped over his shoulder. I’m so thankful Brad and the kids came with me on this trip. I can’t imagine being here without them. The emotion has already been so heavy. There’s so much to process, so much to take in. I wouldn’t want to do this alone.
I look around for the translator each time my mother speaks to me, and it hits me. Suddenly, I realize that I won’t be able to speak to my family. We no longer share the same language, and it makes me sad.
We turn, all of us, and walk to my mother’s house. Soon, we’ll be eating a wonderful feast!
South Korea is poised to be a world leader in many respects. Since that despicable civil war nearly leveled the country over sixty years ago, several generations of hardworking Koreans have invested in their country’s infrastructure. It’s beginning to pay off.
According to Geoff Duncan of Digital Trends, South Korea has the fastest internet in the world “with both the highest average connection bandwidth to Internet users (17.5 Mbps) as well as the highest average peak bandwidth delivered to users — a whopping 47.9 Mbps. At those speeds, a typical movie can be downloaded in its entirety in high-definition in just over 30 minutes. A typical song download? Less than three and a half seconds.”
It’s common to see Korean children watching internet-delivered HD television in cars, so they don’t have to miss their favorite programs, music videos, or Olympic events (as long as they’re passengers and not drivers). The United States crosses the finish line at a respectable 5.8 Mbps, or thirteenth. That same movie Duncan references would take Uncle Sam three times as long to download.
As my brother drove us from the Incheon airport and headed toward Geumsan, we tore our eyes from the crisp little screen just in time to look out the window at the longest suspension bridge I have ever seen. The Incheon Bridge – which connects Yeongjong Island and the mainland of Incheon – is the 7th largest cable-stayed bridge in the world, according to Wikipedia.
The bridge reduces travel time between Yeongjon Island and Incheon by up to one hour compared to the old bridge, and provides a beautiful view of the island and Korea’s second most populous city.
It’s absolutely beautiful. The bold and modern design of the bridge is breathtaking in its complexity and elegance.
Korean culture is also gaining momentum. Korean movies are the rage throughout many parts of the world. Asia is experiencing something akin to the British invasion, succumbing to the onslaught of many highly-choreographed boy and girl bands, or “K-Pop” as it has come to be known.
And of course, there is that wild and strange Korean music video, Gangnam Style. The trance that the Incheon bridge had imposed upon me was broken by that nerdy-looking Korean man dancing and singing, “Hey, sexy lady.”
“Mom, mom! Look at this guy,” Cici said. My niece told me that it was one of the most popular music videos in Korea. I was amused by the silliness of his expressions, the sense of humor he had infused into his dancing, and the wild cast of characters he had dancing with him. Mostly, he seemed to be poking fun at himself, which I thought was wonderful.
That evening while watching the American evening news at my sister’s home in Geumsan, they showed a short clip of the video and proclaimed that it had gone viral. It was being watched all around the world.
Yes, Korea is ready to lead in many ways, some of them quite unusual.
There are few people in this world who would consider rising at four in the morning to take his friends to the airport for their vacation. Brad’s friend Rick is a true gem. Not only did he show up at our doorstep before the sun rose, he managed to jam all of our suitcases into the trunk of his Audi. He was sporting a smile and that fantastic, enthusiastic personality of his. And he drove us to the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport with plenty of time to spare. Thanks Rick!
There’s an old joke that goes something like this, “The airline that flew me into town lost my luggage. I don’t want to embarrass them by mentioning their name, so I’ll just say their initials: TWA.” That’s a classic quip from the Johnny Carson era about how bad some American carriers can be.
Likewise, I don’t want to publically rat out any company, so I’ll just say that our dysfunctional airline’s name would be something like “United Parcel Service” if UPS wasn’t a Parcel Service.
The plane they dispatched for the Minneapolis to Chicago leg of our flight was less than stellar. It had seen its better days (likely the final days of WWI). The arm rest between Brad and Cici’s seat was completely missing, Cici’s seat declined to recline, the flight attendant was a bit abrupt (rather more like a “fight” attendant than flight attendant), and the curtain between the economy section and the business class section was threadbare and ripped in places.
It seemed so ridiculous that anyone would pay extra money to sit on the other side of that ripped nhagahide curtain. Admittedly, the seats were a little wider there, and the up-fronties were given peanuts and napkins. But other than that, they were breathing the same recycled air that we were, and they still had to deal with Ms. Grumpy pants.
Regardless, Un#@*d Airlines got us to the windy city with all of our arms and legs attached, and that’s all they ever really promised to do. They followed through on their part of the bargain, so I shouldn’t complain. When the tires finally hit the ground, Brad applauded.
After the plane taxied around in circles so the pilot could complete the number of flight hours required to complete his licensure, they delivered Brad, the kids, and me to concourse “B”, which was ten miles away from Terminal 5, which housed concourse “M”, which in turn contained Gate 12: our gateway to the Boeing 777 we’d be flying. We’d been effectively handed off to Asiana Airlines, one of the most well-run carriers in the world. Soon we’d be basking in the benevolent glow of an army of perfect little Korean flight attendants on a really clean, well-maintained plane.
I must admit, however, that flying the Asiana creates a bit of a civil rights dilemma for me. All of Asiana’s flight attendants are perfect. Each one is model-beautiful, thin as a chopstick, and blessed with warm smiles and impeccable manners. It’s as if airline management hired the Stepford Wives to invent a flight-attendant injection mold.
You can bet that the pilots (one of whom was sporting the beginnings of a makju belly) are never in danger of being fired because they eat too much ice cream or dried squid and put on 15 pounds. But I digress. I love Asiana. I’m not complaining.
I looked up at the flight monitor attached to the ceiling. The illuminated map said we were half way across Canada, near the Arctic Circle, heading west toward the land from whence I came. It was dark in the plane. They’d shut all the blinds so people could sleep and adjust to Korea time. We were sitting three rows from the very back of the plane. Max was curled up under a blanket, sleeping. Cici was rocking to the music coming from her earphones. Brad was struggling to activate the on-demand video screen attached to the seat in front of him.
No use, Brad. They want us to sleep. Go to sleep!
Truth is often stranger than fiction, and international communication is often more humorous than a Three Stooges movie. After 41 years, the Republic of Korea still hasn’t officially recognized that I’m no longer a Korean citizen.
One rainy morning two weeks ago, my very handsome younger brother Chulsoo sent an urgent email saying that all of my parents’ children must sign legal documents, giving permission to sell my mother’s house. If the documents aren’t signed by me, he wrote, then mother’s house will languish in bureaucratic limbo until the bank takes over and liquidates. My family would lose the equity they have in mother’s house.
Many Korean children – like me – have been put up for adoption without the proper paperwork, but apparently unanimous agreement by siblings is a legal necessity in some real estate transactions. Other biological families of Korean adoptees get around these obstacles by simply declaring the adoptee “missing”. They fill out the appropriate forms, the adopted child is documented as lost somewhere in the world and unavailable, and the family moves on legally. My family, however, celebrated my return in 2008. They welcomed me back into the family. They could have just listed me as missing and saved themselves a lot of trouble, but they are choosing to embrace me legally. Not only do I exist – according to them – I am a cherished member of the family.
The closest Korean consulate to Minneapolis, however, is the one in Chicago. Faxes and notary stamps would not suffice, according to my brother. I would have to go there in person and try, with what little paperwork and pictures I have, to prove that I am Myonghi Lee. It was the Memorial Weekend Friday, so Brad and I had started checking on flights to the windy city. The trip was going to be a pain; hundreds of dollars spent flying there to sign papers and then racing right back in time for work.
I called the Chicago consulate to see if they would be open on the holiday Monday. The woman I talked to told me something I was extremely relieved to hear. The Korean consulates dispatch outreach teams all over the United States so Koreans don’t have to travel to get green cards, visas, or other documentation. A Korean consulate team was scheduled to open the next day in a suburb just a half hour from my home. Once again, I thought, my late Korean father was watching over me. Instead of flying to Chicago, all I had to do was drive to Brooklyn Center, MN.
The next day at work, I wrangled half the day off. Since I start work at 5:00 am, I arrived at KAA fairly early. Unfortunately, the team only comes to Minnesota once a year, and scores of other Koreans and Korean Americans had already showed up. The hallway leading to the KAA office was packed. Kids were running all over the place, and every room I looked into was full. A man standing in the doorway handing out numbers gave me a card with the number 45 on it. He took me into a room with a big oval table. A beautiful young Korean woman was filling out paperwork at that table with an elderly Korean woman sitting across from her doing the same. We both sat down, and he started asking me questions.
“What is your brother’s phone number?” He asked.
“I don’t know. I never call him. We need an interpreter when we speak.”
The man looked confused, so I explained to him about my Korean family and why they needed my signature. “Take this and wait for your number to be called,” he said, as he handed me the finished paperwork. 
Over 4 hours later my number was called. The same man who helped earlier lead me into the waiting area. He said that over 100 people showed up that day for consulate services. “The Consulate usually comes about once a year, but since we had such a huge showing we have decided to come again in October.”
최종적으로
Then he passed me along to a woman who told me a notary stamp would be required. By then, I was exasperated, but I had no choice. I exited the building and headed off to my bank. Thank heaven there was a branch office nearby. I got the proper stamps and signatures, and finally raced back and got everything squared away.
The next business day, Brad ran the papers over to the post office and sent the papers off to my brother in Geumsan. As is usual with bureaucratic messes, I came away exhausted and frustrated. But there was also a light feeling inside of my heart that day. My family was claiming me as a member again. It felt good to be real, to be officially “recognized” by my family. I’m not missing. I’m no longer lost.
Songs of My Families 