Publisher's Note — Before "Strong," I Thought of "Pure" — by Sylvia Kim

I met him by chance at a community event. Within the first few minutes of conversation, something felt immediately familiar — as if I already knew him, or at least had heard his name before. As I later realized, that was exactly right. He had come up more than once in circles I moved through, the way certain people do when they've quietly earned the respect of everyone around them.

There are questions I find myself asking every person I sit down with — especially those who have walked a long road in this country. How did you get here? What did you carry? What kept you going when it would have been easier to stop?

His answers surprised me — not because they were dramatic, but because they were so plainly honest. He spoke without pretense. And when he talked about his daughters, when he talked about the years he spent building something without anyone asking him to — his expression changed. The composure was still there. But underneath it, something warmer and more human came through. That is the man I want our readers to meet.

What I remember most about Captain Peter Kwon is not his rank, not his record, and not the long list of firsts attached to his name. What I remember is this: a person who carried a burden no one gave him — and turned it into the engine that drove twenty-five years of service to this community. The first word that comes to me when I think of him is not "strong." It is "pure." And that, more than anything else, is why he stays with me.

He sat with his legs crossed, back straight

Navy suit, warm brown leather shoes, a gold watch on his left wrist. A Fort Lee studio — white brick walls, a mint green chair, soft light. He looked comfortable, but not casual. There is a particular stillness that comes from spending years in rooms where composure is everything, where you learn to hold yourself steady because other people's safety depends on it.

When a question ended, he didn't answer immediately. He took a breath, looked down for just a moment, then looked up and spoke. Directly. He never reached for an easier version of the truth. That pattern broke once. When his son came up. He slowed down. Very slowly.

"Honestly, I don't think I'd tell my son to become a cop."

He had given twenty-five years to that work.

The room where he was the only one

This story begins with a single moment. It was 1999. He was twenty-four. He had scored high enough on the Suffolk County Police written exam to be called in with the top hundred candidates. He walked into the room and looked around. He was the only minority there. Out of a hundred people.

"I knew the second I walked in. This isn't the place."

Peter Kwon's family immigrated from Korea in 1977, when he was four. They settled first in Brooklyn's Greenpoint, sharing a single bedroom. Both parents worked, with no money for a babysitter, so his mother left food warming on the radiator before she left in the mornings. His father caught rats in the apartment. And young Peter, in what became family legend, kept throwing toys out the window until the family was finally evicted.

They moved — Brooklyn to the Bronx, a brief stop in New Jersey, then Bayside, Queens. He studied sociology at NYU — a major he describes, with complete honesty, as meaning "I had no idea what I wanted to do." He started a Criminal Justice graduate program at John Jay, dropped out, tried real estate briefly, did a Merrill Lynch internship and quit after six weeks. "It just wasn't me. That's when I figured it out — I was going to be a cop."

The NYPD process didn't feel right either. He relocated to Fairview, New Jersey — a small studio near the Bergen-Hudson line — and applied to both Prosecutor's Offices without knowing a single person inside either. "In New Jersey, it helps to know somebody. I was betting on my résumé." Both called him the same week. Bergen offered an Agent position with no guarantee of promotion; Hudson offered a direct path to the Academy. He chose Hudson, with the quiet intention of eventually moving somewhere better. This coming July marks twenty-five years. He never moved.

The standard he set for himself

He completed the Academy in December 2001, weeks after September 11th. In January 2002, he was assigned to Narcotics. "From the first day, it just fit. Like waking up and knowing exactly where you're supposed to be." Hudson County's law enforcement community was — and remains — predominantly Hispanic and Black. Being Korean wasn't a particular distinction. "In this work, it doesn't matter who you are. What matters is whether your partner can trust you when things go wrong."

But quietly, without fanfare, he gave himself a standard no one else had set.

"I knew that my reputation here would become the expectation for the next Korean who came in. If I did well, they'd assume the next one would too."

He paused, then added: "That was the burden I gave myself. But it's also what kept me going."

In 2012 he became Sergeant — the first Korean American Sergeant in HCPO history — commanding the Municipal Task Force. In 2018 he transferred to the Sexual Victims Unit, a fundamentally different kind of work. In December 2021 he became Lieutenant, again a first in command of a field unit. Today he serves as Captain, commanding the Narcotics and Gang Unit. First Korean American Sergeant. First Lieutenant. First Captain. He doesn't lead with any of it. You have to ask.

Five children, one father

During his years as a Sergeant — working nights 7 p.m. to 3 a.m. — he went through a divorce and was awarded full custody of his three daughters. Their mother stopped all contact within three months.

"I wasn't naturally the nurturing type. That was the mother's role, the way I thought about it. But there was no choice. You just do what has to be done."

His parents moved in. The family rebuilt itself around that structure. Weekends at Hershey Park, camping, the occasional Six Flags. He came home at night to find the girls asleep, and left in the morning as they woke. He raised them, in his own words, not to be sheltered: "I've seen enough of the world in this job to know the best thing I could do was make sure they could see it clearly and handle themselves." He met his current wife after those years. "She was too good to be true." Together they have a son and a daughter. Five children in total — his oldest graduating graduate school this year, his youngest still small, twenty-three years between them.

He has served Hudson County for twenty-five years and never once lived there. Today he lives with his family in Oakland, New Jersey. On weekends he mows the lawn and fixes things; his wife would rather hire someone. "She still doesn't understand it," he said, and smiled — the most relaxed expression of the entire interview.

Building something that lasts

In 2011 he co-founded KABLE — the Korean-American Brotherhood in Law Enforcement — connecting Korean American officers across federal, state, and local agencies. "I don't enjoy this kind of thing, honestly. Organizing, being the face of something. I'd rather be left alone." And yet he keeps going — more, not less. The reason, without hesitation: "Frustration." The gap between what the Korean American community could be and what it currently is. The absence of an independent voice.

"Our community needs to be strong enough that officials come to us. Not the other way around. That's when the voice becomes real."

He also spoke about addressing mental health openly within the community — moving away from shame and silence. "This isn't someone else's issue. It belongs to us too. The more we talk about it, the more people we help." Twenty-five years into a career, he is getting louder, not quieter. And when his son came up, he slowed: "Honestly, I don't think I'd tell my son to become a cop. It doesn't feel like the same valued profession anymore. Sadly."

Back to the beginning

Near the end, the question came: how does he want to be remembered? He smiled — the slightly self-conscious smile of someone unused to the question. "As someone who did good work. That's enough." Standing in that Suffolk County room in 1999, the only person who looked like him, he made a quiet decision — not to be the best for himself, but because the next person who came in deserved to inherit something better than what he had found. He built that. One promotion at a time. Three daughters raised, twenty-five years of nights in Jersey City, a standard held that no one had asked him to hold. The door is open now. He opened it. He was going to leave. He never did. And that, in the end, is its own kind of history.

Highlights

———

Hudson County Prosecutor's Office에서 25년. HCPO 역사상 최초의 한인 Captain — Peter Kwon. 1999년 그 방에서 자신만이 소수민족이었던 스물네 살 청년이, 25년 후 다음 사람이 들어설 때 혼자가 아닐 수 있는 자리를 만들어내기까지.

발행인의 글 — 강인함보다 먼저 떠오른 단어, '순수함' — 실비아 김

아주 우연한 계기로 한 행사장에서 그를 처음 만나게 되었다. 처음 몇 마디를 나누는 순간, 이상하게도 낯설지 않았다. 우연히 만났지만, 어쩐지 이 만남은 단순한 우연으로 끝나지 않을 것 같은 특별한 느낌이 있었다.

첫인상만 보면 그는 조금 차가워 보일 수도 있었다. 어쩌면 살짝 무섭게 느껴질 만큼 단단한 분위기도 있었다. 하지만 인터뷰가 시작되고 그의 이야기가 열리기 시작하면서, 그 단단함 너머에 있는 너무도 순수한 마음이 보였다. 아무리 강해 보이는 사람이라 해도, 자신의 아이들을 이야기하고 가장 따뜻한 기억들을 꺼내놓는 순간에는 눈빛이 달라진다.

무엇보다 인상 깊었던 것은 그가 '아빠'라는 이름으로 살아가는 모습이었다. 다섯 아이의 아버지. 그런데도 그는 참 행복해 보였다. 내가 Captain Peter Kwon을 떠올릴 때 가장 먼저 생각나는 단어는 강인함이 아니다. 오히려 '순수함'이다. 그리고 바로 그 점이야말로, 내가 그를 더욱 깊이 기억하게 되는 이유다.

네이비 블루 수트를 입고, 다리를 꼬고 앉아 있었다

자세는 편안했지만 등이 곧았다. 흔들리지 않는 눈빛으로 정면을 봤다. 처음 보면 차갑다고 느낄 수도 있다. 그런데 그건 차가운 게 아니었다. 단단한 것이었다. 25년을 Jersey City의 밤거리에서 일한 사람의 몸이 기억하는 자세였다. 질문이 끝나면 바로 답하지 않았다. 인터뷰 내내 그랬다. 말을 돌리는 법이 없었다. 그 패턴이 한 번 깨진 순간이 있었다. 아들 이야기가 나왔을 때였다.

"솔직히 지금은 아들한테 경찰이 되라고 하지 않을 것 같아요."

25년을 바친 일에 대해 하는 말이었다.

그 방에서 혼자였던 순간

1999년, 스물네 살. Suffolk County Police 필기시험 상위 100명 안에 들어 다음 전형에 불려갔다. 그는 문을 열고 방 안을 둘러봤다. 100명 중에 소수민족이 자신 혼자였다.

"그 방에 들어가는 순간 알았죠. 여기는 아니다."

Peter Kwon의 가족이 미국에 온 건 1977년, 그가 네 살 때였다. 첫 정착지는 Brooklyn Greenpoint. 가족은 방 하나를 함께 썼다. 어머니는 냄비에 음식을 담아 라디에이터 위에 올려놓고 나갔다. 아버지는 아파트에서 쥐를 잡았다. 그러다 어린 Peter가 장난감을 창문 밖으로 계속 던지는 바람에 가족은 결국 집에서 쫓겨났다.

NYU 사회학과를 나왔다. "뭘 하고 싶은지 몰라서 고른 전공이에요." John Jay 대학원 중퇴, 부동산, Merrill Lynch 6주. "저랑 안 맞았어요. 그때 깨달았죠 — 나는 그냥 경찰이 되어야 한다고." Fairview, NJ로 이사를 와 Hudson과 Bergen Prosecutor's Office에 동시에 지원했다. "저는 이력서 하나로 승부를 봐야 했죠." Hudson County는 바로 Academy 입교를 제안했다. 이번 7월이면 25년이 된다. 한 번도 떠나지 않았다.

부담이 힘이 됐다

2001년 12월 Academy를 마쳤다. 9.11 직후였다. 2002년 1월 Narcotics Division 배치. "자다가 일어나서 밥 먹으러 가는 것처럼 자연스러웠어요." 밤 7시에 출근해서 새벽 3시에 퇴근하는 생활이었다. 그는 조용히, 아무도 모르게, 자신에게 하나의 기준을 세워뒀다.

"내 명성이 곧 다음에 들어올 한국 사람에 대한 기대가 된다는 걸 알고 있었어요. 그게 내가 스스로에게 준 부담이었는데 — 동시에 그게 나를 움직이게 하는 힘이었어요."

2012년 Sergeant 승진, HCPO 최초의 한인 Sergeant. 2018년 Sexual Victims Unit. 2021년 12월 Lieutenant, 역시 최초. 그리고 지금 Captain. 최초의 한인 Sergeant, Lieutenant, Captain. 그는 이 사실들을 먼저 꺼내지 않는다. 물어봐야 말한다.

다섯 아이, 그리고 한 가지 선택

Sergeant 시절, 이혼을 했다. 세 딸의 단독 양육권을 가졌다. 아이들의 친모는 이혼 석 달 후 연락이 끊겼다. "제가 원래 살뜰하게 챙기는 성격이 아니에요, 솔직히. 근데 어쩔 수 없잖아요. 그냥 해야 하는 거니까." 부모님이 짐을 들고 들어왔다. 설명은 없었다. 그게 이 가족이 다시 온전해지는 방법이었다. 세 딸을 키우면서 그는 부드럽게 감싸는 대신, 세상을 있는 그대로 보게 하는 것을 선택했다. 지금의 아내를 만난 건 그 이후다. 아들과 딸이 또 있어 다섯이다. 지금은 Oakland, NJ에 가족과 산다. 주말에는 잔디를 깎고 집 안 뭔가를 고친다. 인터뷰 내내 나온 가장 편안한 표정이었다.

답답함이 만든 것

2011년, KABLE — Korean-American Brotherhood in Law Enforcement — 을 공동 창립했다. "저는 원래 이런 거 안 좋아해요. 그냥 날 좀 내버려 뒀으면 해요." 그런데도 그는 멈추지 않는다. 계속하는 이유를 물었을 때, 그는 잠깐 창쪽을 봤다. "답답해서요." 한인 커뮤니티가 가질 수 있는 모습과 지금의 모습 사이의 간격. 독립적인 목소리의 부재.

"우리 커뮤니티가 스스로 힘을 가져야 해요. 정치인이 우리한테 와서 '도와줄 수 있어?'라고 물을 수 있는 구조. 우리가 그 사람한테 가는 게 아니라."

정신건강을 수치심으로 숨기는 문화에 대해서도 직접 말했다. "이건 다른 사람들의 문제가 아니에요. 우리도 직면해야 해요." 25년을 한 일에 종착하는 사람이 — 오히려 목소리를 키우고 있다.

그리고 다시, 그 방으로

인터뷰 말미에 물었다. 은퇴하면 어떻게 기억되고 싶냐고. 그는 잠깐 웃었다. 멋쩍게, 처음으로. "그냥 일 잘 하는 사람이요. 그것만으로 충분해요." 1999년, 그 방에 혼자 서 있던 스물네 살짜리를 떠올리면, 그 말이 달리 들린다. 그는 그 방에서 나와 아무도 알아주지 않는 기준을 스스로 세우고, 그 기준대로 25년을 살았다. 그가 남긴 건 직함이 아니다. 다음 사람이 그 방에 들어설 때, 혼자가 아닐 수 있게 된 것이다. 떠날 생각이었다. 그냥 남았다. 그것만으로, 이미 역사가 됐다.

하이라이트