Free Kimchi & Calamari by Rose Kent Page A

me.”
    Then why wasn’t I having those heart-pounding,firecracker-exploding feelings? My mind wasn’t even on Kelly. Instead, my thoughts bounced from my essay about who I wasn’t , to wondering about who I was . I needed to solve this MBA puzzle. Like why I always sneeze five times in a row. No one else I know sneezes more than three times. Or my constant craving for spicy food. Or my never-ending wondering about who came before me in that long line of ancestors Mrs. Peroutka talked about.
    Maybe my birth mother sneezes in sets of five. Maybe my birth father loads his plate with hot peppers too. Who knows? Maybe some of my Korean relatives resisted the Japanese occupiers the way Sohn Kee Chung had.
    I really wanted to know. No, I needed to know. There had to be a way to find out, I decided, even if the essay was already finished. I know Nash would help me. I’d tell him what Kelly said about that adopted Russian girl posting a note on the Internet. Maybe we could try that!
    That’s what was on my mind more than anything else. Even more than Kelly.

Finding Your Ki-bun
    A few days later, I rang the doorbell at Nash’s house less than ten minutes after he called. I licked my lips. They still tasted like the spice from the barbecue chips I’d wolfed down.
    â€œYou found something out about me, didn’t you?” I asked as we ran upstairs.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œI’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 .”
    â€œWhat’s ki-bun ?” I asked.
    â€œIt 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.
    â€œYou’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 anAmerican 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?”
    â€œDo 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