Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Arriving as a preamble to Easter week, Palm Sunday always held an almost-dearer place in my heart than the big resurrection day – partly because I’ve always enjoyed the anticipation more than the actualization, and partly because palm fronds were a part of that morning’s church service. After every winter, their essence of newness, their bright but quiet canary color, edged with the freshest and slightest sliver of green reminding of how recently they had been cut. The palm fronds were a tangible bit of the hope of spring, the hope of Easter, there to be held in our hands and blessed by a Holy-Water wielding priest. 

When I was an altar boy and serving on this day, I’d follow the priest around carrying the bucket of Holy Water as he traversed the entire church, dipping and swinging his wet scepter over his eager audience. It felt healing and hopeful, and at that young age I readily believed in such magic. That belief was enough, that trust was a source of confidence  even if none of it turned out to be true, even if we had all been duped. The belief was what mattered, and there would be nothing to shatter it for years to come. I was lucky that way. 

Today palms no longer represent the Sunday before Easter. They’ve gone back to their plant kingdom, assumed places of artifice and background beauty. They signal California sun and shadowy noirish films of sepia-toned warmth and decadence. A far cry from the innocence of Palm Sunday – and maybe it wasn’t never all that innocent anyway. The story of Jesus begins taking its darkest turns this week. Maybe the palm was a signal of warning, or portent. Such drama is always appreciated in these parts, particularly when it’s the drama of appearance. The world is harsh enough. Let’s cloak it in palm fronds, in freshness and green and all things spring. 

“I came to this country in 1952, arriving by boat in Seattle. It was cold and wet the day that I arrived in the United States from Korea. I spent the first night here in jail (or some kind of detention center) because my papers were not right and I could not speak English well enough to explain anything.” ~ Sok Nam Ko, ‘The Way Back Home‘

This is a story of an immigrant from Korea, who came to America and forged a new life for himself while retaining the essence of his homeland.

This is a story of how we form our families and communities, and how we celebrate and reconcile our differences and disparities.

This is a story of a journey through a life cut short, a journey that for so long felt somehow incomplete, but that in retrospect was a journey that completed itself in its accomplishments, and everything it left behind.

Above all else, this is a story about love: love for one’s family, love for one’s adopted country, love for one’s homeland, love for the homelands we each make around the world, and love for the ongoing journey of making connections across cultures and countries and differences.

This is a story of my best friend’s father, Sok Nam Ko, and his incredible and all-too-short journey on this earth. As a legacy and testament to him, the Sok Nam Ko Foundation works to continue Dr. Ko’s passion for connecting cultures and people around the world by providing support for students looking to travel to other countries and enrich their lives. 

In so many ways, over so many years, Dr. Ko – ‘Uncle Sok’ in my childhood memories – has become like a ghost to me. This is my way of rediscovering the man I knew when I was just a kid, and finding a way back to him as an adult. Even though he is gone, there is still much to be learned, new stories to be heard, and new connections to be made. I invite you to join us on this journey as it continues on the new social media accounts for the Sok Nam Ko Foundation.

FaceBook: https://www.facebook.com/SokNamKoFoundation

Twitter: https://twitter.com/foundation_ko

“I was born in Kaesong, Korea. It is impossible to say whether it was a happy occasion or an unexpected accident that I came into this world on November 5, 1934…” ~ Sok Nam Ko, ‘The Way Back Home’

Sok Nam Ko was born in Kaesong, Korea on November 5, 1934, during the Japanese occupation. Eleven years later, the United States and Soviet Union divided his homeland, setting the stage for Korea’s bloody civil war. Separated from his family by the fighting, Ko left in 1952 at the age of seventeen to begin a new life in a small American town. There he found a home with the Harrington family and the people of Castleton, Vermont. Ko immediately embraced America and its patchwork culture, participating in the political, educational ad social life of his chosen country. He adopted a distinctly American sense of individualism and a belief in the fundamental equality of all people, while retaining a strong sense of Korean identity, imbued by his childhood experiences. He died on March 16, 1991, but his spirit remains strong in the purpose and mission of the Sok Nam Ko Educational Exchange Foundation, which fosters the connections and exchanges between all the cultures of the world.

Starting before anyone is quite ready, but not at all unwelcome, these are the first unfurling leaves of the fig trees I’ve overwintered in the garage. What a happy sight to see their buds swell and burst, and now the bright unfolding of the foliage. I don’t bother to get too attached – these first leaves tend to be killed off by late freezes and the shock of the sun after an unlit garage – but behind them will be the leaves and fruit that will see us through the summer to come. 

Last year we had quite the fig harvest – starting in mid-summer and going into the fall. Hopefully this year will allow us to reap similar riches. If not, these handsome leaves and the enchanting form of their branches will have to suffice. Beauty will be enough. Sustenance would be a bonus. 

Do not be fooled by its cute fuzzy garb, or its seasonally appropriate appearance – the rabbit is one of the garden’s most destructive enemies. My own Easter bunny trauma aside, I happen to adore these woodland creatures, so I put up with a certain degree of destruction – such as chewed up bamboo plants or foot-high bark peeling of the dogwood trees. In fact, something ate the ever green boughs underneath which this puffball sits. Strange that it wouldn’t think not to harm the source of shelter, but they’re no different from any other creature whose main instinct is survival – reason and planning for the future fall by the wayside when the task at hand is merely surviving a winter of starvation. For that reason, my heart softens a bit, and forgives the loss of some bamboo and fir boughs. At this point in our gardens, nothing is so precious that it can’t be a gift to a hungry rabbit. 

This particular character is a happy sign of life returning to the outside world. Robins and blue jays and cardinals have already been chirping and flying to and fro in the front yard, while the squirrels have been making their usual ruckus in the backyard. Spring breathes new life into our surroundings. The world stirs, the land twitches, and the ice melts. The journey begins… 

This is the face I give when someone tries to schedule a Zoom meeting smack dab in the middle of a Saturday. 

You know who you are.