Let's go back to Brooklyn

“I want to leave New York!”
Those words came with a sigh from my husband, tired of our still uncertain life—even after all the struggles and challenges we had faced in New York.

Was he frustrated because some of our colleagues had already returned to Korea years ago and quickly became professors during the economic boom? Or was he unhappy being stuck in New York with a wife who loved the city so much?
Then, he made a declaration:
“I’m going back to Korea to look for a university position.”
And I said,
“Then I’ll move to northern New Jersey, even if I have to borrow money. I want to live near a deep blue lake surrounded by trees, where deer roam freely.”
We agreed. Better to let him try than to hear for the rest of my life that he couldn’t become a professor because of me. My philosophy is simple: Do what you want—even if you end up crying from regret.

So, in January 1995, after 10 years of marriage, we decided to live apart for a while and follow our own paths. My husband went to Seoul. I moved to New Jersey with our two young children.

When we moved, I let go of our old, unreliable car and bought a cute new one. I turned up the classical music, let my long hair blow in the wind, and drove stylishly down Anderson Avenue in North Bergen. I felt amazing.

I transferred the kids to an elementary school known for its great academics and even signed them up for soccer. Watching them run across the green field in colorful uniforms filled me with pride. Cheering with the other parents—most of them white—I felt like I was finally enjoying life in America.

The garden outside the library’s big window was so peaceful that just looking at it eased my stress. One day, a group of deer appeared in our backyard. The baby deer were so adorable and magical that tears welled up in my eyes. On weekends, we spent hours wandering around shopping malls, exploring endless rows of goods. The kids were excited too, seeing toys they’d never seen before. My husband’s voice on the phone also sounded cheerful. He said he was meeting friends often and going out drinking as he handed out his résumé here and there.

That fall, as the leaves turned red and gold, I sat by the window and stared at the backyard—with tears in my eyes. It wasn’t just the beauty of nature. There was something deeper—an emptiness stirring inside me. When darkness followed the red sunset, a heavy, unfamiliar silence fell—unlike the city’s noise. It felt like I was trapped on a remote island.

“Mom, what’s wrong? Let’s go home—to Brooklyn. Why isn’t Dad coming?”
The kids, used to a diverse environment, were having a hard time adjusting to a school where everyone was either white or Asian. They often begged to go home.

“This is your home now,” I said.
They even wrote letters saying, “Dad, we promise to be good. Please come back soon,” and asked me to send them.

Meanwhile, my husband spent nearly a year in Seoul, working part-time and trying to find a permanent position. His early excitement faded, and even his social life quieted down. He began to sound lonely.

“Maybe I’ve lived in the U.S. too long,” he said. “Life in Korea isn’t easy. I think I should come back.”

“Good idea,” I said. “After seeing deer in the backyard a few times, it’s not that exciting anymore. I’m tired from driving the kids everywhere and haven’t even painted. Let’s just go back to Brooklyn.”

My husband returned after venting all his frustrations about his homeland over the year.
Just like the character in The Burning Bullet (Obaltan)—who, as a war refugee, repeatedly mumbles “Let’s go back... Let’s go back…” without even realizing it—my husband stopped muttering those words. And my dream of a peaceful country life slowly melted away, deep in my subconscious.

But still, sometimes it creeps back.
“Kids, Mom and Dad saw an amazing summer house! Want to come see it?”
“If you like it, you two can move there. We’ll just stay in Brooklyn!”