Every family has a currency. In some houses, it’s affection; in others, it’s silence. In the house I grew up in, located in the affluent Itaewon district of Seoul, the currency was power, wealth, and the heavy, unyielding pedestal of the name Choi.

To the outside world, my early childhood in 1975 was a masterclass in Korean luxury. We lived in a sprawling mansion staffed by a small army of chauffeurs and maids. When I walked beside my father, a prominent figure at a powerful South Korean conglomerate, I watched adults bow. It was a world made of glass: brilliant, reflective, and completely cold.

Inside those walls, the reality was entirely different. The luxury was a backdrop for a torrential storm of marital warfare between my parents. To survive the screaming and the thick anxiety that rolled through the hallways, I retreated into books, devouring chapter stories at just four years old as a way to drown out the noise. That world of glass is where my memoir, Who Stole My Pork Belly?, truly begins its story.

The Last Mobile

My only real connection to my father was a quiet, nightly ritual. Long after the arguments died down, he would tiptoe into my room to swap out the musical mobile above my crib. For thirty seconds, the corporate empire faded, and he was just a dad changing a music box.

But one night, the music stopped. A violent argument shattered the routine, the door never opened, and the mobile ran down into absolute silence. Shortly after, to protect us from the fallout of a bitter divorce trial, my mother made the agonizing decision to tear my brother and me away from everything we knew.

Landing in America

We boarded a plane and landed at LAX with nothing but the clothes on our backs, entering a dizzying new world that smelled of coffee and jet fuel. The transition from a South Korean palace to a starting-over life in Los Angeles was jarred by an immediate culture shock.

Yet, the moment my grandfather gathered us in his arms at the terminal, I understood a new version of safety. We moved into my grandparents’ historic Windsor House in Hancock Park. I remember running through the massive hallways, clutching the few English words I knew, and screaming, “Wow, this is a mansion!” My grandparents laughed, and for the first time in months, I finally exhaled.

The Lesson of the Pedestal

Forgetting a life of inherited wealth isn’t easy for a child, but America forced me to adapt quickly. I learned that your background doesn’t guarantee your footing. From navigating the strict discipline of a grandfather who demanded perfect manners to dealing with the literal sting of a school system that didn’t always understand an immigrant child, the trajectory of my life shifted permanently.

The pedestal was gone. The real work of building a life from the ground up had just begun.

That work would one day carry me through twenty-five years as an attorney and finally to telling this story.

The full journey from that silent mobile to the streets of LA and beyond is waiting for you in my memoir. Get your copy on Amazon today.