In the early hours of the dawn, when the world is asleep, thoughts spring up like a fountain. A sudden idea woke me from my sleep. I got up to write it down before it slipped away. Before touching the keyboard, I look out the window. From the 8th floor, I see the Hudson River in the distance, submerged in darkness. It is so still that even the current seems to have stopped. Brightly lit apartment windows pierce through the silence of the night, proving that someone else is awake.
I look into a curtainless window across the narrow street. A young man lies under a dim light. He sleeps wrapped in a blanket, with only his face showing. His skin is as white as his bedding. He reminds me of my own child, whom I used to wake up with a shout in the morning. I often see him sitting on his bed by the window, looking at his computer around noon. I wonder if he just ate and lay back down, or if he works a night shift.
Through the window above him, I see a woman showering. Her naked body is blurred by the steam. As she wipes down the tub afterward, her silhouette feels familiar—like a nude painting by Renoir come to life. When her bathroom light goes out, I hesitate for a moment before moving my gaze to another window.
Across the main road to the west, a woman leans out her window, her chest partially exposed. On warm days, she opens the window and showers. Watching her feels like seeing Edward Hopper's A Woman in the Sun in real life. Like her, I want to cast everything off and breathe the morning air deep into my lungs, but I can only pace inside my room, staying outside the frame.
I don’t feel much emotion seeing these women. Back in school, I did countless croquis sketches, quickly capturing nude models as they changed poses. What truly draws my attention is the kitchen of an apartment directly facing my window.
An Asian man in a black T-shirt moves busily in the kitchen—opening the fridge, frying things at the stove, leaning in and out. When he sets the table, a stout Asian woman in floral pajamas appears. They sit across from each other and eat. The man often gets up to serve her something. They stand side-by-side at the sink for a while, perhaps doing the dishes. Then, the lights go out. Like a curtain falling after a play, the scene vanishes into silence.
The man in the black T-shirt looks sharp and neat. I want to see his face clearly, but I can't. I imagine him with the face of a man I once loved who often wore black turtlenecks. I imagine the woman in the floral pajamas as a friend I didn't like. I feel a bit envious that she doesn't have to work in the kitchen like I do, but I also find myself disliking her.
One day, a screen was placed over their kitchen window. Did they notice my gaze? Still, out of habit, I glance at that window and fall into another imagination.
Long ago, I lived on the second floor of a seven-story building near Grand Street in Chinatown, Manhattan. I used to wake up to the chatter of Chinese women in the old, cramped elevator as they headed to the sewing factory on the 7th floor. As they passed my floor, the noise would fade away like it was sinking underwater. I would fall back asleep. In the evening, the chatter would return, sounding like a storm passing by as they went home. I would stop what I was doing and join them to buy groceries in Chinatown.
Before moving into that building, my husband and I lived apart in Queens with roommates, even after our civil ceremony at City Hall. In 1982, my husband received an "Artist Certification" from the DCLA, which allowed artists to live and work in loft spaces in SoHo and NoHo. He lived in an empty warehouse with a roommate. Since we were both struggling painters, we couldn't afford to live together.
Six months later, his roommate suggested we all live together on Grand Street. It was a large studio with high ceilings. The roommate took one side, and we took the other. We had a lofted bedroom up the stairs. In the corner of our bedroom, there was a pile of drums and percussion instruments left by a previous tenant. Lying next to them, I felt like a traveling circus performer resting in a tent after a long tour. "When will this wandering end? What will happen to my life if it doesn't?" I sometimes regretted marrying a painter.
Rent was $1,000—we paid $600 and the roommate paid $400. Our kitchen was under the bedroom. We kept a calendar in the corner to track grocery expenses and split them three ways. Every time we calculated the bills, we exchanged bitter smiles, wondering how much longer we could survive. In that huge, unheated space, the winter made me think of Doctor Zhivago wandering the Siberian plains. I wondered where I would be if I were as beautiful as the protagonist, Lara, while I shivered in the cold. The building was old and full of rats and bugs. I would often fall asleep scratching my skin. My husband, feeling sorry for me, would put down white paper and tap the ceiling to catch the bugs that fell.
Even though we were struggling, so many friends visited us! they would sleep and hang out on a dirty grey sofa in the middle of the studio. Some acquaintances from Seoul stayed for months until they found a place. They called our studio "Grand Street Church." They called my husband "Pastor Lee" and our roommate "Elder Hwang." During the holidays, they basically lived there. Unlike us, who went to second-tier colleges, "Elder Hwang" was a graduate of Seoul National University. He would bring home buckets of marinated beef left over from alumni parties. With a jar of kimchi, we were perfectly happy. The dirt and noise didn't matter. Looking back, I wonder why those visits didn't feel exhausting then. It feels like I was living someone else's life.
The landlord grew bean sprouts in the dark basement. Once a month, I’d go down there to pay rent. It was so dark I had to shout for him. He would stomp over in large boots, and I’d ask, "Isn't it too dark?" He’d reply, "If it's bright, they grow too fast." He would hand me a few handfuls of sprouts as a bonus. After paying rent, we’d be broke, but we survived on bean sprout soup and rice while continuing our art. Eventually, rising rent forced us to leave Grand Street. Our roommate fortunately became a professor and returned to Seoul. We crossed the Williamsburg Bridge looking for a cheaper place and settled in an old dye factory at the edge of Greenpoint, Brooklyn.
"Once you leave the Four Great Gates, it's hard to get back inside." My father used to say this about leaving central Seoul. I constantly worried if I would ever return to Manhattan. My face probably looked like Rodin’s The Thinker gazing into the gates of hell.
From the 70s to the 90s, Greenpoint was "Little Poland." Polish women often worked as cleaners in Manhattan hotels or wealthy homes, while the men were skilled construction workers. Right next door, in Williamsburg, lived the Hasidic Jews. With their black clothes, sidelocks (peyos), and specific hats, they lived in a closed community, rejecting outside technology and culture.
I frequented the Metropolitan Pool in Williamsburg. My two sons learned to swim there starting at six months old and were on the city swim team. One day, everything was different. There were yellow floral curtains over the windows so no one could see inside. When I opened my locker, I nearly jumped—a blonde wig was sitting there like a severed head. Every locker was occupied by a wig.
There were no men in the pool. Women were floating in the water wearing long skirts that covered their entire bodies instead of swimsuits. Every eye was on me—the only Asian person in a swimsuit. Confused, I swam back and forth to figure out what was happening. A pale woman approached me. "Do you need a job?" "What job?" I asked. "Cleaning job." I realized she thought I was looking for work as a maid. I smiled and replied, "I need a cleaning lady, too." Her face turned red with annoyance, and she floated back to her group to whisper.
I later learned that Wednesday mornings were now reserved for Hasidic women. I wondered why they wanted to push me out when New York is a place where everyone is mixed together. Laying on the water and looking at the sky, I decided then: I needed to go back to Manhattan.
My sons, who grew up in Greenpoint, love the neighborhood. I thought they would leave after college, but they are "hipsters" now and have no intention of going. Since I didn't want to keep cooking for them, I was the one who had to leave. The neighborhood gentrified and became like SoHo. As rent rose, the Polish immigrants moved to Queens, and young professionals moved in. In early 2014, after 30 years in Greenpoint, I moved to the Upper West Side of Manhattan.
At first, there was only an expensive Whole Foods, and I prayed for a Trader Joe’s. Soon, one opened. Then I wished for an H Mart, and one appeared nearby. I wanted a Shake Shack, and it opened within my walking distance. I even jokingly wished for a Krispy Kreme, and it appeared (though it closed a few years later). When I thought about a Target, it opened right across from Whole Foods. My only remaining wish is for an IKEA, though that might be hard given the space they need.
"Mom, I won an event and got some money!" my younger son told me. I told him about all the stores that had opened because I wished for them. "It's strange. If you want something, it comes true. But I can't bring myself to wish for my art and writing to be great." "You've already had three wishes come true, so it might not work," he joked. "Can't I get a refill?" "Maybe in five years," he said. It sounded like he was telling me to focus on my work for the next five years.
One of my favorite walks is through Riverside Park up to Columbia University, then back down Broadway. I like the energy of the students. Even when they look tired from studying, they feel "fresh." My father used to say he liked being around young people to absorb their energy. I feel the same; walking through a college town puts a spring in my step.
However, walking down Broadway, I see more and more empty shops—a result of the pandemic and online shopping. It makes me sad. Homeless people sit in the corners of these empty stores. Since everyone uses credit cards now, I imagine their income has dropped too, as I rarely carry cash or coins myself.
One warm evening, drawn out by the sunset, I was walking near Columbia when a white woman called out to me. "Wow, I love your outfit!" She was very stylish herself. "You look great, too!" I replied. She asked for my number and suggested we grab tea. She was so bold I wondered if she was hitting on me, but she turned out to be a charming, positive single woman. She was a designer who had divorced her husband years ago. She was like a moving piece of art, layering her clothes with great care. She reminded me of my father’s words: "If a woman loses her sense of romance, she loses her charm."
"Want to go for a walk?" she texts me often. Since she wakes up late and I wake up early, she’s usually the one to initiate. We go to dance classes and neighborhood events. Most of her friends are Jewish artists. When they ask how we met, she proudly says, "I chased her down the street to be her friend!" I laugh and add, "We became friends because we were both enchanted by the sunset."
The liberal Jews on the Upper West Side are very different from the Hasidic Jews in my old neighborhood. My friend tells me about her ancestors who came through Ellis Island and changed their name to "Pasco" because they loved Italy. Since they arrived before WWI, their feelings toward history are different.
Neither of us is religious. We go to Zabar’s on 80th and Broadway. She teaches me her recipes, and I enjoy them. This past Passover, I even tried Matzos and experienced Jewish culture.
As a child, I wanted to fly like a bird. When I floated in the Metropolitan Pool, I imagined I was flying. But I was pushed away by the exclusive culture of the Hasidic Jews. If I had fought that current with stubbornness, I might have sunk. Instead, I learned to go with the flow. That flow led me to the Upper West Side, where I met friends of a different color.
At the end of a long wandering, I have found a home on the Upper West Side. Instead of fighting the current, I am riding the waves and enjoying the people I meet. My past struggles have given me the eyes to appreciate my current abundance. Looking at the New York dawn through those eyes, the city no longer feels like a strange place.
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