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Frances & Ginger Park, a father's memory inspires two sisters to write about their heritage.

Dreams despite hunger

A father's memory inspires two sisters to remember, love and write about their heritage.

By Frances Park & Ginger Park

Only one photograph from our father's childhood hung on the walls of our suburban home in Virginia. It was taken in 1928, when he was 5 years old.

Growing up, we passed that photograph in his study thousands of times, never really stopping to look at it. Maybe it was because we saw what most people saw: a Harvard man who traveled the globe as an economist for the World Bank. To us, he had always just been our dad. He was the man who took us to High's and balanced ice cream cones on the way back to the car.

We knew he was born in Korea during the Japanese Occupation to a poor minister and his wife. He spent his youth in villages with names we could not pronounce. But those things didn't play a part in our American lives.

His business trips to Third World countries often took him away from the family, and we would count the days until his return. Thank goodness he wrote to us daily. His main concern was that we were fed well.

"Eat plenty, kids. Ask Mommy to buy the treats that you like."

Our father always came home bearing gifts -- native dolls, masks, woodcarvings. He embraced every culture and wanted us to share in the celebration. That meant slide shows in which exotic scenery often included images of smiling children. We never wondered who these children were; we were just glad our dad was home.

Then, on one of his trips, he suffered a fatal stroke. Our family clung to each other and tried to keep his memory alive. Our mother could not bring herself to pack his things away. His closet went undisturbed. His study remained untouched. For years.

When we finally began to donate his clothes and hundreds of books, we knew the healing process had begun.

One day his childhood photograph on the wall caught our eye. How could we never have noticed that he was dressed in a ragged garment meant for a child half his age? And that his eyes were hollow and his body malnourished? This was our father, a hungry Korean boy.

We got out his postcards and letters and read them feverishly. We got out all his slides, hoping for glimpses of him. What stood out were faces -- children's faces. We didn't see their smiles anymore, just the hunger in their eyes.

Our mother explained that our father witnessed much disparity when he was overseas. He had no appetite for dining with dignitaries in posh hotels to discuss plans for the building of highways and ports when outside the streets were swarming with hungry children. If only he could wrap them up in his arms and sweep them off to a better life. But he knew, realistically, he couldn't do that. When his work was done, he had to leave the children behind.

"Like one girl selling flowers in front of the Erawan Hotel," our mother remembered. "So skinny, so poor. Next business trip in Bangkok, he saw her again. She was still selling flowers, only she was a little taller now. Broke his heart."

Our father shared such sentiments with our mother, but not with us, his daughters. We learned from her that his family was so poor he had to go to work at age 13. He would rise every day at 4 a.m. to milk goats. Afterward, he would deliver the milk by bicycle to wealthy Japanese families and merchants. When he completed his deliveries, he would pedal to Seoul to purchase biji, or goat feed.

One morning, while he was pedaling in the torrential monsoon rains, he fell off his bicycle in front of the palatial Ban-doh Hotel. To his horror, his buckets of biji had spilled onto the busy sidewalk. Suddenly he felt so small and helpless, and tears ran down his cheeks in the pouring rain. But then it seemed something magical happened to him, for his eyes swam to the very top of the Ban-doh Hotel and glimmered with hope.

"Your daddy told himself, 'One day I will build something bigger than the Ban-doh Hotel,' " our mother recalled with a sad smile. "He was a milk boy with dreams."

Discovering our father's past -- how his impoverished boyhood made him a quiet, sensitive soul -- has changed the way we live our lives and see the world.