When the world falls asleep in the deep of the dawn, thoughts well up within me like a spring. I awaken suddenly, struck by a fleeting reflection. Before reaching for my keyboard, my gaze drifts outside. From my window, the distant East River lies submerged in darkness, so still that even its flow seems frozen in the silence. Yet, piercing through the night’s solitude, the brightly lit windows of neighboring apartments stand as luminous proof of other waking lives.
Across the narrow street, I glance into a window without curtains. An Asian man in a black t-shirt is busy in his kitchen—opening and closing the refrigerator, moving back and forth in front of the stove. Once he sets the table, a plump Asian woman in floral pajamas appears. The two sit opposite each other, sharing a meal. Afterward, they stand close together at the sink for a long time, side by side, washing dishes. Then, the light goes out. Like a heavy curtain falling on a theater stage, the scenery vanishes into stillness. By habit, I keep stealing glances at that dark window, letting my imagination drift back into our own past.
A long time ago, I lived on the second floor of a seven-story building near Grand Street, by Manhattan's Chinatown. Every morning, I was awakened by the chatter of Chinese women riding the cramped elevator up to the garment factory. In the evening, their boisterous voices would fill the building once more like a passing storm. Hearing them, I would pause my work and join the rhythm of the neighborhood, heading out into Chinatown to buy ingredients for dinner.
Before moving into that building, my husband and I lived apart, having only exchanged vows at City Hall. Lacking a steady income, we simply could not afford to live together, so he stayed with his roommate and I stayed with mine. About six months later, his roommate suggested we all move in together. We shared a massive studio with soaring ceilings; the roommate took one side, and we took the other.
Our landlord grew and sold bean sprouts in the dark, murky basement. Once a month, when I went downstairs to pay the rent, he would clomp forward in his heavy rubber boots, accept the money, and generously wrap up three or four handfuls of bean sprouts for us. Left without a single penny after rent, we kept ourselves alive on bean sprout soup, seasoned bean sprouts, and bean sprout rice—yet we stubbornly held onto our artwork and endured. Eventually, unable to keep up with the soaring rent, we had to leave Manhattan.
Crossing the Williamsburg Bridge in search of a cheaper refuge, we found an abandoned factory building at the very end of Manhattan Avenue in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, right by the waterfront. The landlord had done nothing more than draw lines with chalk on the wooden floor to divide the immense loft among various tenants. We erected temporary walls for privacy and shared a communal bathroom on the floor. Still, we loved the cheap rent and the sweeping view of the Manhattan skyline. The landlord had warned us that there was no heating, but having moved in during the height of summer, we didn't care much.
Then, winter arrived. The biting wind pierced through the countless gaps in the old windows, freezing us to the bone. Even now, the memory of that cold makes me shudder. Yet, against all odds, we endured that grueling time and gave birth to our two children.
From those years, a certain memory remains like an indelible scar on my heart. "Auntie, do you know how hard it was for me to come back here? I thought I’d never make it." The words from my friend's young child froze me completely, striking me like a heavy blow. My friend had struggled so much balancing work and motherhood that she had sent her infant back to Korea, finally bringing the child back years later when circumstances improved. The child, after playing in the park with my own children, quietly sat down next to me, let out a deep sigh, and shared that heavy thought. I could offer no words of comfort; I could only sit there, utterly stunned. The child's words engraved themselves deeply into my soul.
My husband took on any job he could find, from working as a kitchen assistant to doing carpentry. Finally, he settled into a job doing coloring work at a lamp shop run by a junior colleague. At first, he worked six days a week. Then, like a severe addict slowly weaning himself off a drug, he cut back his hours day by day—to four days, then three. Eventually, he worked only one day a week, until he quit entirely.
Each time he reduced his days at the shop, I was consumed by anxiety. Our financial situation wasn't improving, our children were growing, and he was letting go of our lifeline. Desperate, I flipped through the job listings in the newspaper. Each time, my husband would say, "Don't go out to work. We have to endure through our art. That is the only way we can both become full-time artists."
Fortunately, the time he reclaimed from his day job was poured entirely into his art, and his paintings began to sell. Today, we are both the "full-time artists" we once only dreamed of being. What felt like an impossible dream has quietly become our reality. At times, a sudden wave of anxiety hits me, fearing that the shadow of poverty might creep back. But the moment I realize this is our indisputable reality, a shiver—of whether joy or sorrow, I cannot tell—spreads through my entire body.
In the still of the dawn, I repeat that child's words inside my heart, hoping that one day, I too can say the exact same thing to the world: "You have no idea how hard it was for me to get here."
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