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introduction ★ Della Adams My father, Clarence Adams, was a man of conviction who lived his life without compromise, regardless of the consequences. Even before he passed on September 17, 1999, it was always my dream that the story of this extraordinary African American, who had lived such an uncommon and fascinating life, could be told to the world. My father many times attempted to put his life down on paper, hoping that in doing so he would correct the distortions and fabrications that surrounded his decision in 1953 not to return home from a North Korean prison camp, but to create a new life for himself in the People’s Republic of China. These misrepresentations and untruths surfaced again in 1966, when he decided to return to the United States, bringing his Chinese wife and two young children with him. Above all, my father wanted Americans to understand why he went to China. He did not adhere to some abstract or subversive political ideology. To the contrary, he based his decision solely on his inalienable right to live as a human being. America denied him that right, whereas China assured him open and equal opportunities. It was just that simple. I also had a selfish reason for wanting his story told. Through the process of gathering notes, letters, tape recordings, photographs, newspaper articles, and official documents, as well as reliving our countless conversations, I fervently hoped to reconnect with him. My father had been snatched from me when he died in my arms as I drove frantically down the interstate trying to get him to the hospital. He had suffered an acute emphysema attack and was having extreme difficulties breathing. When my three attempts to call 911 failed to reach anyone, I had no choice but to drive him myself. His last words to me were, “Della, I’m not going to make it.” The trauma and unrelenting pain of that night have never left me. The public telling of his story is a very personal attempt to come to terms with his death and to mitigate some of my emotional suffering. My father was a great storyteller. Listeners were simply spellbound when he described his experiences growing up in rigidly segregated Memphis, of being a combat infantryman and POW in North Korea, an expatriate in China, and, later, an accused witness before the House Un-American Activities Committee . I was certainly one of his most avid listeners, and I greatly regret that xvi : Introduction he was unable to finish writing his autobiography, even though the words in this book are certainly his. Quite by accident, I came in contact with Lewis Carlson, who called me shortly after my father’s death. At the time he was working on a book about Korean War POWs. Initially he had wanted to interview my father, but after learning of his death, he asked to talk with me. At first, I was not receptive because I knew how strongly my father would have felt about having someone else tell his story. He had suffered several bad experiences when people he trusted took that story and twisted it for their own use. Something in Lew’s voice, however, told me that it was going to be all right. After reading his Remembered Prisoners of a Forgotten War, in which he faithfully recounted my words about my father, I felt that he was the right person with whom to collaborate in putting together this book. . . . . . ★ . . . . . Throughout our turbulent years in China and, later, in the United States, my father was the focal point for all members of our family. After losing him, all of us experienced great difficulty in finding our own way. His unrelenting determination to succeed and great personal courage would have been dif- ficult for anyone to live up to. My brother in particular had a hard time, but even as a daughter, I was expected to show great bravery. I remember when I was about eight years old running home from school crying after an older boy threatened to beat me up because of my mixed race. My father came home early from work to deal with the problem. He stood on the porch and told me in no uncertain terms that if I did not go back and fight that nasty boy he was going to whip me. I was more afraid of disappointing my father than of getting beaten up by any boy. So I...

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