“Ma’am, do you know how hard it was for me to come all the way here? I thought I wouldn’t make it.”
When my friend’s young son said this, like a secret he had kept in his heart for a long time, I froze as if I’d been hit on the head with a metal rod. My friend had sent him baby to Korea because it was too hard to work and raise a child. After a few years, when she got more stable, she brought the child back to the U.S.
One day, that child was playing in the park with my kids. He sat down next to me, looking bored, let out a sigh, and said those words. From the mouth of a first grader came words you would expect from a grown-up who had suffered through a hard life. I was too shocked to say anything. I just sat there in silence.
My husband immigrated to Los Angeles in 1975. He worked as a kitchen helper in a restaurant, painted houses, and later worked in newspaper advertising. After moving to New York, he went to school and worked at a vegetable store, clothing store, and wig wholesaler. He finished school while working. After we got married, he did street vending, ran a clothing store, worked as a carpenter, and then worked at a shoe store. His last job was at a lamp store run by a friend, where he painted lamps.
At first, he worked five days a week at the lamp store. Then he cut back to four. Like a drug addict trying to quit slowly, he worked less and less—until finally, he only worked one day a week and then quit completely.
Now, my husband is a full-time artist. When he began cutting back his work days, I was very nervous. Our life wasn’t improving, our children were growing up, and he was working less. I didn’t know how we would survive. Thankfully, he used the extra time to focus on his art, and his paintings started to sell. The money he earned from his artwork made up for the income he lost by not working.
Each time my husband cut back on work, I would look for a job in the newspaper. He told me.
“We can both become full-time artists only if we need to hold on and focus on our art without going out to work.”
That passing comment stayed in my heart like a seed. Now, both of us are full-time artists. Is this a dream? Or is it real? Sometimes I worry that poverty might return. But when I realize that this is truly our life now, I feel a strange shiver all over my body—I'm not sure if it’s happiness or sadness.
“Mom, we helped you save a lot of money, right?”
Our kids say this proudly, like they were heroes. When they say that, I don’t know what to say. My mind rewinds like an old video, back to those difficult days.
Every winter, our kids went to a free indoor tennis court on Roosevelt Island at 6 a.m. on weekends. They learned to swim at the city pool and played music in the school band. They never had new clothes. They wore hand-me-downs or clothes from thrift shops. Luckily, since they were boys, they didn’t complain much. Even now, though our financial situation is better, they still shop at Beacon’s Closet in Brooklyn. They say vintage clothes are comfortable and suit them.
Each time my husband cut back on work and we struggled, I kept going, holding on to the hope that someday, like that friend's child, I could finally say:
“Do you know how hard it was to get here?”
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