Clay Walls

by Kim Ronyoung

Genres: General Fiction; Asian American; Classics; Cultural Heritage

Synopsis

A landmark modern classic about the Korean American immigrant experience and the dawn of Los Angeles’s Koreatown

A Penguin Classic

Kim Ronyoung (Gloria Hahn, 1926–1987) tells the story of Haesu and Chun, immigrants who fled Japanese-occupied Korea for Los Angeles in the decade prior to World War II, and their American-born children. First published in 1986, Clay Walls offers a portrait of what being Korean in California meant in the first half of the twentieth century and how these immigrants’ nationalist spirit helped them withstand racism and poverty. Kim explores the tensions within a family of immigrants and new Americans and brings to the forefront the themes of Korean immigration, U.S. racism, generational trauma, and the early decades of Los Angeles’s Koreatown from a Korean American woman’s point of view. Through three sections representing the perspectives of mother, father, and daughter, what resonates the most is the voice of a woman and her self-determination, through national identity, marriage, and motherhood.

Release date: December 10, 2024

Publisher: Penguin Classics

Print pages: 368

Sample

One

"You've missed a spot," Mrs. Randolph said, pointing. "Dirty."

Haesu had been holding her breath. She let it out with a cough.

Mrs. Randolph shook her finger at the incriminating stain. "Look," she demanded, then made scrubbing motions in the air. "You clean."

Haesu nodded. She took in another breath and held it as she rubbed away the offensive stain.

"That's better." Mrs. Randolph nodded with approval. "Good. Clean. Very good. Do that every week," she said, scrubbing the air again. She smiled at Haesu and left the room.

Haesu spat into the toilet and threw the rag into the bucket. "Sangnyun!" she muttered to herself. "Sangnyun, sangnyun, sangnyun!" she sputtered aloud. She did not know the English equivalent for "low woman," but she did know how to say, "I quit" and later said it to Mrs. Randolph. The woman looked at her in disbelief.

"I don't understand. We were getting on so well. I . . ." Mrs. Randolph pointed to herself, "teach you." She pointed at Haesu. "You do good. Why you say 'I quit'?"

"Toilet make me sick."

"That's part of the job."

"No job. No toilet. Not me. I go home." Haesu held out her hand, palm up to receive her pay.

Mrs. Randolph stiffened as she backed away from Haesu's outstretched hand. "Oo-oh no. You're supposed to give me adequate notice. I'm not obligated to pay you anything."

They were words not in Haesu's vocabulary. Perhaps she had not made herself clear. Haesu raised her hand higher.

Mrs. Randolph tightened her lips. "So you're going to be difficult. I'm very disappointed in you, Haesu, but I'm going to be fair." She motioned Haesu to stay put and left the room.

Haesu sighed with relief and put down her hand. She knew that Mrs. Randolph's purse was on top of the dresser in the bedroom; the woman had gone to get the money. As she waited, Haesu looked around. It was a beautiful room. She had thought so when she first agreed to take the job. Later, when she ran the vacuum over the carpet, she had admired the peach-like pinks and the varying shades of blues of the flowing Persian pattern. She felt an affinity with the design. Perhaps what some historians say is true, that sometime in the distant past Hittites were in Korea. She ran her fingers over the surface of the table. The mahogany wood still glowed warmly from her earlier care. She had not minded dusting the furniture. It was cleaning the toilet she could not stand.

Mrs. Randolph returned carrying a coin purse. She gestured for Haesu to hold out her hand, then emptied the contents of the purse into the outstretched palm. The coins barely added up to one dollar. Haesu held up two fingers of her other hand.

Mrs. Randolph gave a laugh. "No. You quit. Two dollars only if you were permanent." She shook her head; it was final.

Carefully, so as not to scratch the surface, Haesu placed the coins on the table. She picked up a dime. "Car fare," she explained.

Mrs. Randolph glared at Haesu. She began to fume. "Why you insolent yellow . . ."

Haesu knew they were words she would not want translated. She turned on her heels and walked out.


The dime clinked lightly as it fell to the bottom of the coin box. Haesu found a seat by the window. She would put her mind to the scenes that passed before her and forget the woman. She enjoyed her rides on streetcars, becoming familiar with the foreign land without suffering the embarrassment of having to speak its language. In three months, she had learned more about America from the seat of streetcars than from anywhere else.

The ride from Bunker Hill to Temple Street was all too brief for her. Only a few minutes separated the mansions of well-to-do Americans from the plain wood-framed houses of the ghettos. But it might as well be a hundred years, she thought. Her country's history went back thousands of years but no one in America seemed to care. To her dismay, few Americans knew where Korea was. This was 1920. The United States was supposed to be a modern country. Yet to Americans, Koreans were "Oriental," the same as Chinese, Japanese, or Filipino.

As shops began to come into view, Haesu leaned forward to see the merchandise in the windows. In front of the Five and Ten-cent Store, children were selling lemonade. A discarded crate and hand-scrawled signs indicated they were in business. Charmed, Haesu smiled and waved at the children. When she recognized the shops near her stop, she pulled the cord to signal the conductor she wanted off.

Clara's house was several blocks away. Although the rambling Victorian was really the meeting house of the National Association of Koreans, Haesu thought of it as Clara's. It was because of Clara that Haesu and her husband, Chun, were given a room, a room usually reserved for visiting Korean dignitaries. It was because of Clara that Mr. Yim, her husband, had agreed to make an exception to the rule.

The front door was open. Rudy Vallée's tremulous voice filtered through the screen door. Clara was practicing the foxtrot again. Haesu stepped out of her shoes and carried them into the house.

"I quit my job," she announced, loud enough to be heard over the Victrola.

Clara stopped dancing and took the needle off the record. "But you've just started," she said.

Haesu set her shoes on the floor and plopped into the sofa. "It was horrible. That sangnyun stood over me while I worked. I had to practically wipe my face on her filthy toilet to satisfy her."

"Oh, Onni, how terrible," Clara said, looking as if she had swallowed something distasteful.

The expression on Clara's face made Haesu laugh. "Onni," older sister. The honorific title further softened her anger. "The work wasn't hard. I could have done it," Haesu said confidently. "I have to admit the sangnyun has good taste. Beautiful furniture. Carpets this thick." She indicated the thickness with her forefinger and thumb. "Such lovely patterns. Like the twining tendrils on old Korean chests. Do you think we have Persian blood in us?"

Clara laughed. "I wouldn't know. You're the one who always says you're one hundred percent Korean."

"I am. But I'm talking about way back. Long, long ago. It would be fun to know." She absentmindedly picked up one of the round velvet pillows Clara kept on the sofa and ran her hand over it, smoothing down the nap of the fabric. "What difference does it make now?" she said with a sigh. "What difference does it make who our ancestors were? I don't have a job."

"A lot of difference, Onni. Your ancestors were yangbans. No one can ever deny that. Everyone knows that children of aristocrats are not supposed to clean toilets," Clara declared.

Haesu tossed the pillow aside with such force that it bounced off the sofa onto the floor. "Then what am I doing here?"

Clara picked up the pillow and brushed it off. "How many times are you going to ask me that? You're here . . ."

"Living with you and Mr. Yim because Chun and I can't afford a place of our own," Haesu said.

"Why do you let that bother you? Mr. Yim and I don't mind. We want you here." Clara sat down next to Haesu and slipped her arm into Haesu's. "You're like a sister to me. If you were in my place, you would do the same."

Haesu looked earnestly into Clara's eyes. "I would, that's true. We had such fun in Korea, laughing at everything, worrying about nothing."

"It will be that way again. We haven't been here long enough. I've only been here a year and you've hardly had time to unpack. We'll get used to America." Clara leaped from her seat and pulled at Haesu's arm. "Put on your shoes and let's do the foxtrot. I think I'm getting it."

Laughing as she pulled away, Haesu protested, "No, no. I can't do that kind of dance."

"Yes you can. Just loosen up. You act like an old lady, Haesu. You act like you're eighty not twenty." Clara put Rudy Vallée on again and began dancing around the parlor, gliding effortlessly on the linoleum.

Haesu drew her feet onto the sofa out of Clara's way. She reached for the cushion and held it in her lap. Clara's enthusiasm amused her. It also puzzled her. Rudy Vallée stirred nothing in Haesu to make her want to dance.


Haesu stood at the screen door waiting for Chun. Since Monday she had been thinking about what she would say to her husband. She knew what she would not say to him. At dinner on Monday, when Haesu had explained to Mr. Yim why she had quit her job, Clara had chimed in with, “It’s so hard here. Haesu’s right. We had such fun in Korea, laughing at everything, worrying about nothing.”

Mr. Yim's jaw had dropped, the kimchi he held in his chopsticks falling onto his rice, causing a momentary lapse in his usual courtly manners. "Laughing at everything and worrying about nothing?" he had said incredulously. "Then, tell me, what are we doing here?" While Haesu and Clara had searched for an answer, Mr. Yim had sardonically added, "As I recall, no one I knew was laughing at Japanese atrocities. Everyone I knew was worrying about persecution." Haesu had shrunk with embarrassment; Mr. Yim was a Korean patriot who had suffered torture in a Japanese prison, and was now forced to live in exile to escape death. "How thoughtless of me," she had replied. "Please forgive me."

Up until two weeks ago Haesu walked with Chun to Clara's house on Thursdays. Chun had found them work as live-in domestics. But Haesu could not bear being summoned by the persistent ringing of a bell and, after two months, had quit. Chun had insisted upon staying on, choosing the security of room and board and five dollars a month. Haesu now saw him only on his days off.

As soon as she recognized his slight build and flat-footed gait, she flung open the screen door and walked out to meet him.

Chun did not stop for her. She had to turn around and walk alongside him, matching her steps to his. "I quit my job," she said.

"Let's talk about it later," he said, speeding up. "I have to go to the bathroom. The damn food makes me sick." He hopped up the front steps and disappeared into the house.

Later that night, when they were alone in their room, Haesu told her husband the details of her quitting.

"You'll get used to the work," he said.

"Never! I'll never get used to cleaning someone else's filth."

"It takes two minutes to clean a toilet. It won't kill you," he said as he climbed into bed.

Haesu felt the heat rise to her cheeks. "I'll never understand how you do it, how you can remain mute while someone orders you to come here, go there, do this, do that . . . like you were some trained animal. They call you a houseboy. A twenty-five-year-old man being called 'boy.'"

"They can call me what they want. I don't put the words in their mouths. The work is easy. Work for pay. There's no problem as long as they don't lay a hand on me. Just a job, Haesu. Work for pay."

"Cheap pay and demeaning work," she said.

Chun shrugged his shoulders. "No work, no pay. No money, no house, no food, no nothing. It's as simple as that."

"That's not good enough for me and I won't disgrace my family by resorting to menial labor," she whispered hoarsely, keeping her voice down as her anger rose. She was obliged to maintain the peace of her host's home.

"I haven't met a yangban yet who thought any work was good enough for him. Me? I'm just a farmer's son. Any work is good enough for me. Isn't that right?" He pulled the covers over him.

"I don't want to talk about that now. I have an idea. Are you listening? Riding home on the streetcar, I saw these little stands where people were selling things. Nothing big and fancy. Little things. Standing in the sun selling . . . things. It didn't seem like hard work. Why can't we do something like that? Are you listening?" She shook his shoulders.

Chun snorted. "You? Selling things? Out in the sun where all the Koreans can see you?"

Haesu pulled the blanket from his shoulders. "I don't care about that. All I care about is that we be our own boss. Can't you see that? No one will tell us what to do."

Chun pulled the blanket from her. "Let a man get some sleep, will you?" He covered himself then turned his back to her.

Haesu walked over to his side of the bed. She leaned over him and put her lips close to his ear. She spoke softly. "I will never work for anyone. Do you hear me, Chun? I'll never clean someone else's filth. Never! You'll never make enough money as a houseboy to support us. Do you hear me, Chun? As soon as we make enough money, we are going back to Korea. We don't belong here. Just tell me, what are we doing here?" She really had laughed at everything and worried about nothing in Korea; a daughter protected from the world by her parents, groomed in seclusion for marriage.

Chun's answer was a series of rattled breaths followed by deep snores.


In the morning, Chun showed no indication that he had heard her. She raised the subject the following week. She pursued the matter until Chun held up his hand to stop her.

"All right, all right, have it your way," he said. "We'll ask Mr. Yim. See what he thinks."

Mr. Yim was the titular head of the house. In truth, the house was more his than Clara's because he was paid by the National Association of Koreans, the NAK, to maintain the clubhouse. He was fifteen years older than Clara, older than everyone who lived under his roof. He treated them all as he would his own children.

Haesu waited impatiently as Chun explained her idea to Mr. Yim. Ordinarily, Chun's terse speech left her yearning for more. Now she hoped for greater brevity.

Mr. Yim's response was important to her. She's never felt qualified to enter into debate with him about anything. He was a yangban higher born than she. And he was a scholar. But his life had become one of contradictions. Ten years ago, when the Japanese confiscated his land, he refused to relinquish his ancestral home to the usurpers and set his house on fire. He left for America with only the money in his pocket and found work in Los Angeles washing dishes. When he began to receive a small stipend from the NAK for his organizational work, he arranged to have a bride sent from Korea. He was besieged with photographs from potential mothers-in-law who listed their daughters many virtues; they were after his family name. Mr. Yim chose Clara. He claimed that he chose her because of her family background and honest face, but everyone knew it was because she was an exceptional beauty. "You're a classic Korean beauty," Haesu would tell Clara, "with delicate features and skin as smooth and fair as porcelain."