The Moonlight King: The true story of a modern day fight for freedom

By Derek DeCosta

Seoul, Korea 1977. A young couple makes the toughest of decisions. Driven by shame they send their only son far away into foreign adoption. Their son is just six years old. A new country. A new life he cannot possibly understand. He is tortured and beaten. Broken and battered. Forced into unspeakable acts. He builds walls that cannot be seen. And bars that cannot be broken. Scars that do not heal. And wounds always open. Can he battle his demons? And conquer the darkness? The fight for freedom is within... "The Moonlight King" The true life story of Derek DeCosta.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: May 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662908675

Book preview

PREFACE

This is the true story of a young boy whose bright and happy future is suddenly replaced with one of darkness, uncertainty, and pain, when he becomes an unwitting pawn in his parents attempt at hiding a shameful past.

Despite the many torturous years at the hands of an adoptive single parent and her son, the boy knows deep within that he is meant for a far greater fate than the one he is dealt, and endeavors to escape his unjust imprisonment.

And throughout several decades, each victory of his survival marks another rung in the ladder he must climb in order to become the man he was meant to be, to take charge of his shattered life, and to transform from a slave to the ruler of his destiny.

His inspiring story is a reflection of our own battles and victories, both small and large: it is the moments of fear in breaking down, and the times of joy in breaking through. His demons and the courage to fight them are reflections of our own lives as we all struggle in becoming our own Kings and Queens.

We are either Kings or Pawns of men.

-Napoleon Bonaparte

ONE

Her hand shakes out the stuttered ink lines on to the tear stained pages of the legal document. My mother finishes her signature on the line just below my fathers. This mark will signal the end of my happy, privileged life, and the beginning of my unknown destiny…

The warmth of the afternoon sun covers us like a soft blanket. I stand statue-still with my right arm fully extended overhead and my index finger stretched out like a beacon. Around me on the hilltop are my sister, cousins, and friends. They too stand in similar fashion; frozen and pointing, as if posing for a photo no one is taking. We draw in slow and quiet breaths, waiting.

Finally, my patience pays off as a dragonfly lands on top of my pointed finger that it mistakes for a branch. Now I slowly creep up my thumb as I simultaneously retract the branch finger. It’s too late for my four-winged traveler to reconsider a new rest area as I seal my fingers around its tiny legs.

I got one, I got one! I yell out, scaring off the remaining dragonflies.

This is a game we play during the warm season when these temporary pets are in abundance in Korea. The game is finalized when I tie a thin thread to the tail of the insect and then let it fly away, at least the length of the string, anyway. This is our version of remote-controlled airplanes.

My sister and cousins do likewise, and we fly our captive pets overhead as we run beneath them, giggling with delight all the while. Of course sometimes a dragonfly would break away from its stringy bonds, and the game would start all over again.

We spend the rest of the day running through streams, hunting for frogs and playing hide and seek. I am a young boy filled with thoughts of adventure and play. At night my dreams are warm and peaceful, unburdened; the type a well-loved little boy should have. My mother covers me with kisses when I wake up in the mornings.

You’re a mama’s boy! my sister taunts. Her sibling jealousy is brushed off with ease. After all, she is the apple of my father’s eye, and we all know it. But I believe I have her trumped:

I am the first born son.

Koreans take great pride in their male children, in particular the first born. It seems like some form of hierarchy for a monarchy that does not exist. My father was the first son born to his family, and I mine. My rank comes with inherent privileges, including a wide margin for error in my constant mischief. I am the first to be fed at every meal, and the principle concern for my mom or sister at any outing. It is a constant comfort that I take for granted. I don’t realize the self-serving and sexist role I have lucked into, because I am but a child and have no way to contrast it to any other kind of life.

This regal stature is most ironic, given my pending sentence, unforeseen, yet to be served.

In a throwback Korean tradition, my number one son status elevates me to be sought after as prospective marriage material. At five years old I am seemingly paired, in an arranged marriage, with my friend and neighbor. This is an investment for her family, as they see my father’s side of my family as a form of financial security for their daughter. I guess it doesn’t hurt that we are the best of friends. But at our age, neither of us really grasps this concept. And we focus on playing hide and seek and catching frogs along the mountainside for fun or food. And I continue to bask in the glow of protection and love given to me by my family and friends.

Basically, neither my sister nor I ever want for anything. Today we are on our way home after another fun filled day of candy, snow cones, and splashing in the water park where I spent the day doggy paddling from one end of the pool and into my mother’s waiting arms at the other. I reach out for her hands reflexively like my security blanket.

Are we going to the restaurant for bulgogi (marinated barbecued beef) and kim chee? I ask and put my order in simultaneously. Her canned response of yes whatever you want is replaced suddenly by,

No honey, we are getting family portraits taken today first. It takes another minute for her to explain what the word portraits mean before I can justify my pouting and complaining. As she speaks, my mother kneels down in front of me with a gentle smile. She strokes my face and hair with her soft manicured hands and tells me I will get a very special treat if I am a good boy and take these photos for her. My sister grumbles behind me, annoyed that I am once again being appeased for my childish behavior.

The deal is sealed with her usual soft kiss on my forehead and a deep embrace into her bosom with her slender arms wrapped around my body. I melt into her; it is my favorite place in the whole world. I love it more than the water parks, more than the candy, and even more than bulgogi and kim chee. I love my mother with every fiber of my being. And so, I nod my compliance to her as we stare at each other with cheek to cheek smiles. And as usual, my sister is nearly forgotten during another one of our bonding experiences as she simply just stands in the background of each affectionate scene.

We walk back to our house and change clothes before going to the town photographer’s office. My sister readily puts on the red skirt and floral print blouse my mother hands her with respectful obedience. I am not so compliant, and we spend more than our allotted time trying on several outfits until she finally loses her patience and throws on her first choice of a black turtleneck and knitted slacks onto my fidgeting and now tired body. The full day of parks and recreations has caught up to me, and my mind yearns for my normal nap that usually occurs around this time of day. But instead we begin our trek down the mountainside road and into town again.

By the time the camera is focused on us, I am in a full out tantrum from being overtired. The photographer tries to coax me into laughter along with my mother from behind the lens. I can only muster a scowling pout as my sister continues to kneel politely next to me patiently waiting out my latest hissy fit.

Afterwards we all sit at the local restaurant looking over the table filled with my bulgogi and kim chee that I had previously requested. Along with this bounty is a plate of soft rice pastry filled with sweet bean paste. This is the treat my mother promised me for my cooperation at our photo shoot. Finally I got what I wanted! It seems only karmic that the spoiled brat could not even finish his delicious meal since he was finally overcome by the weight of the nap never conceived.

And so my mother cradles me into her bosom once more as she carries my sleepy body back to our home on the mountainside. My sister walks along next to us, eating all of the warm sweet buns and smiling quietly to herself. We seem to be destined for this type of life; one of privilege and pleasure. And every day continues to pass just like this.

I am five years old.

The spoiled brat poses for our portrait

TWO

Iwas born on April 23, 1971 to the delight of my loving parents. They named me Yoon Sang Kyun. And for my first five plus years I live a happy and privileged life in the busy and growing city of Seoul, South Korea, doing what every healthy, well-adjusted little boy tends to do: explore his world, play with his friends, and torment his sister and parents with mischief. Life is good.

Until one late summer day it is suddenly decided that my sister and I are to go live with our aunt and uncle on their cabbage farm in Uijeongbu (wee-jung-boo), just north of Seoul. We have never visited my uncle without my mother before this day. Being just a child, I do not understand the concept of divorce, or how long we will be staying with my favorite aunt. I just know I always loved visiting her. So I don’t think of it as a bad thing, just confusing.

But not for long; living at the farm is better than we ever thought possible, despite there being no TV sets or refrigerators. In fact the only luxuries available are a water well in the center of the village, and an outhouse at the end; Uijeongbu’s idea of plumbing. But we quickly adapt and are very happy wearing the clothes that my aunt makes for us. I certainly don’t care that they aren’t from the best stores as I run around the mountainside with my friends, playing tag, and inventing all manner of new games.

Most recently we’ve been playing with a football that my cousin got from a soldier as trade for his mother’s Kim Chee, which is marinated cabbage, onion, garlic in a red pepper sauce. A staple side dish throughout Korea, and one of my personal favorites. Cabbage is big here. Another new thing for my sister and me is excavating the hillsides in search of edible roots or mushrooms. For city kids we are learning to love the county life.

The rest of the summer and into early fall I spend my days running along the riverbed and through our local mountainside playing with my friends. We take turns climbing to the top of the small spruce trees and laugh with childish glee as the wind and our tiny bodies sway the branches from side to side on our homemade carnival rides.

Hurry up Sangkyunee! My best friend and self proclaimed girlfriend sings down to me as she looks over her narrow shoulder with a sly grin. I smile back as we chase each other up the mountainside.

I can hear the low rumble and swishing sounds of the flowing river below us as I take in big gulps of the manure free crisp air, and fill my lungs to fuel my burning yet satisfied body towards our finish line. The surrounding trees and blossoms begin to thin out as we near our mountain top playground.

I’m gonna get you! I taunt my prey, as I pump my gazelle like legs faster and faster. The sting in my eyes from the salty sweat goes unnoticed as I take in a final deep breath and stretch out my left arm to grab the back of her shoulder. You’re it! I squeal out with pride. We have finally reached the top and both take turns catching our breaths and exchanging ear to ear grins. The cool wind blows around us like a soft funnel, hinting of pine as it dries off the dewy sweat from our faces. My girlfriend pulls me in by my arms as she gives me a quick kiss on my flushed cheeks and whispers,

Now, you’re it. She flashes a quick smile, and we begin our race again. This time down the twisting hillside, until we finish with cannonball dives into the cool riverbed off the giant rock. The same rock my aunt and the other women of the village use to wash and beat our clothes clean with earlier that day.

The refreshing water engulfs me and embraces me like my mother used to during our bath time on so many nights before we came to this farm. I stand belly deep within its massaging current and splash my friend as I yell out with childish zeal.

Our friendly river washes off the dirt, the sweat, and my fears yet unrealized before we head back to our village for dinner.

In winter there is plenty of snowball fight ammunition to go around. My sister, our friends and I team up to pelt each other with round after slushy round until we can throw no more, and collapse in a heap of weak laughter. Once inside we warm ourselves by huddling around the center of the room, where beneath the floorboards a large briquette glows, radiating the most simple yet wonderful frozen-nose, toes and finger-melting heat. The houses in this farm village have no electricity or furnaces; this is how homes are heated. It is also why we sleep on a common futon on the floor in this same room; body heat. But despite not having the luxuries of the city, we are blissfully happy.

After my parents’ separation, our father rarely comes to see us anymore. We always traveled to see him. The reason for this schedule was never clarified. Although I suspect it had something to do with avoiding my mother’s disdain to his presence. She openly and discreetly hated him with the kind of respectful insults you might give your worst in-law or that neighbor no one likes.

Today my sister leads me into the city and to our father’s barber shop that he owns. We visit him sporadically so that my sister can milk him into giving us money to go buy candy or toys.

And as we turn around the familiar street corner to his shop, I can smell the first hint of the unique mixture of shaving cream and after shave balm infusing into the street air already laden with the smells of noodle soups and kim chee from the restaurants across the street.

His shop is clearly marked with the traditional spinning spiraled sign, universally recognized for its craft. And as we walk up the short steps into the shop, I see my father at work with his signature cigarette hanging from his mouth. He gives us his usual greeting of a half smirk and quick wink from behind the plume of hazy smoke. I hear him mumble through pursed lips that we are his children to his waiting customer. The other man sits reclined back in the barber chair with hot shaving lather masking him like a fake beard; he looks sideways and sends a sincere wave and smile down towards us. My father continues his work as he talks with my sister.

I watch him intently as he stretches out the giant leather belt next to the barber chair and begin to sharpen the straight razor in his right hand with broad sword cutting like motions. He senses my curiosity, and in an unusual moment in connecting with his only son, begins to snap the belt in mid air as he sharpens his blade. This show of his barber prowess does the job, and I find myself in a pause of admiration for my father as opposed to the normal level of intimidation instilled in me by the endless repetition of negative propaganda about him from my loving mother.

As my dad continues to flatter his favorite child, I take in my surroundings of his store and the goings on across the street through the giant windows laden with large painted letters with the store name and its offered services written backwards from my angle. My sister ends our transaction and visit in less than two minutes and I turn back to see him handing her the small wad of bills for our shopping spree. He bends down and gives her a deep hug and a kiss on her smiling cheeks; I receive the unspoken nod and a rub on the back of my head. My dad tells us to come visit him at the pub later on that day. He says he has a surprise for us.

We spend the rest of our day buying candy until we stop by my schoolmate’s house just blocks away from my dad’s shop to watch American shows on his prized possession, their TV set. Two hours later after the final episode of the Lucille Ball show, we rush out to meet our father at his pub.

My sister and I hold hands as we zig zag around bar tables full of drunken men and women engulfed in boisterous banter and cigarette smoke. Then she spots him. He stands out of any crowd because of his movie star good looks and his spotlight grabbing personality. I can see why my mother must have been drawn toward him. Except that it is not my mother sitting next to him tonight. It is yet another hopeful wannabe attached to his arm listening to his lies that she is his dream girl, and possibly our new step mother. My dad goes through his usual swagger of showing off his children and finishes his sales pitch by nudging me into this strange woman’s arms filled with breath taking cheap perfume, not like my mother’s soothing jasmine. She slurs about how adorable I am through her liquor and smoke filled breaths. I can’t help but cringe reflexively at this strangers touch. Even at my innocent age, I sense the injustice of this moment and reach out for my sister to signal my limitations.

My father suddenly seems bored with this charade and puts an end to our scripted scene. He kisses my sister goodbye while rubbing my head. And we zig zag back out through the smokey tables and onto the city streets. I can hear him cheering as the heavy wooden door thuds to a close ordering another round for his friends and his fiancé of the night. He is the life of the party. Too bad my dad doesn’t seem to notice the real purpose in his life walking out with his wadded clump of guilt money.

I would never see my father again.

My only photo of my father

At the end of our sixth month staying at my aunt’s farm, my mom asks to meet us at our favorite restaurant. I love and miss her very much and wonder where she has been: several weeks often pass between her visits. But I do not ask; I am content just to be near her again, smiling up at her while she orders my favorite dish, Jia Jang Myun, Korean noodles with dark bean sauce. I feel at peace eating my dinner with one hand and holding her soft fingers with my other. She smells like blossoms. She always does. While we eat, mom begins to tell my sister and me that we will be going on a trip, to someplace called America. I wonder how far from my aunt’s farm that is and am about to ask but quickly abandon the question as she tells us that the streets there are filled with candy, toys, and ice cream.

When can we go? I almost choke, I’m so excited. Candy filled streets? This I have to see! What a great outing this will be!

Soon, Sangkyunee, she says with a strange sadness.

Why so sad? I wonder and ask, Are you coming too, mom? But why wouldn’t she? We had been on so many happy outings together before. Her reply is muted by my sister’s cries of dispute. Why, I wonder, is my stupid sister arguing with her? Didn’t she hear the part about the ice cream?

Byung Soon is three years older and has taken on the responsibility of looking after me in our mother’s absence. I learn that she has seen what I would never: my parent’s constant arguing, the other women, and the other men. Divorce is not looked upon kindly in 1976 South Korea. So my parents are shamed into hiding us at our aunt’s farm, far away from prying eyes and possible family disgrace.

My sister eventually shuts up and it soon becomes apparent that for this America trip our mother will not be accompanying us. It makes me sad to realize this. But surely we will see her when we get back, full of stories about this wonderful place with ice cream and candy and toys in the streets. And I will laugh and share these stories while sitting here next to her, smelling blossoms, at our favorite restaurant, eating Jia Jang Myun.

It is a week since the lunch visit from my mother. A normal week of school and play, errands and more play, except that my aunt seemed sad at times.

Now she is starting to cry a little, as my uncle carefully and slowly packs our meager belongings onto the bicycle that has been our taxi to school and to market for so many days…until this one; today the bike is to become a moving van. He secures the load and then turns toward my sister and me.

My aunt is now crying uncontrollably, filling her deep, sunburned cheeks from the months of working the cabbage fields with glistening tears. Even Uncle is crying, softly, though. His stone-like features have never expressed