I took the 7 train to Flushing, where many Koreans live. If someone has perfectly done-up makeup, carries a luxury handbag, and is wearing high platform heels, there's a good chance they’re Korean. Gazing out the window at the subway ride and seeing so many Koreans inside made me feel like I was back in Korea.
Why have I come so far—and miss my homeland so much?
Before I got married, I lived for a few months in a room in Elmhurst, Queens, in the apartment of two sisters. I spent my mornings rushing to school and my evenings studying in the library, so I didn’t talk much with them. I only knew that the younger sister was bubbly and single, and the older one was quiet and politely divorced.
One early evening, when the sky was painted red, I had a rare chance to ride the 7 train into Manhattan with the older sister. On the moving train, she stared at the fiery sky looking deeply sad—like she might start crying any second.
“Are you okay?” I gently asked.
She looked down and wiped away her tears.
“I miss my daughter. I wonder if she misses me too when she sees the sunset like this.”
“You have a daughter?” I asked.
Even after months of living together, she had hardly ever spoken. This time, she opened up. She told me she had worked as a waitress to support her husband through his PhD. But after he earned his degree, he fell in love with someone else from his program and demanded a divorce—taking their daughter with him.
“Do I smell bad?” she asked suddenly.
“What do you mean?” I replied.
“After cooking in a restaurant for so long, the food smells cling to me—no matter how much I bathe, they won’t rinse away. My ex-husband hated that I smelled like food.”
I watched her face, framed against the sunset, and tears welled in my eyes. A small, fragile woman like her had sacrificed so much, to the point where she couldn’t even wash away food smells from her body—and then was betrayed not only by her husband but also lost her child. The thought that the world allows such injustice was unbearable. It frightened me that her ex-husband could go on to find happiness with someone else after inflicting such pain.
She had once told me:
“Don’t quit studying and get married just to support your husband. If you don’t want to end up like me.”
That brief, painful exchange left a deep impact on me.
Today, the 7 train—this same line to Flushing—carries the hopes, burdens, and untold stories of countless struggling immigrants. Watching its curved form bobbing down the tracks makes my heart ache, and tears prick my eyes. How many Koreans are riding it now, with stories of sorrow and joy woven into their everyday commutes? The 7 train continues to rattle through it all—bearing their lives.