Leaving NYC Was a Great Life Decision. Guess Where I Ended Up.

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Oct. 8 2013 8:08 AM

Escape From New York

Leaving the city was a great life decision. Guess where I ended up.

Moon rises over Chrysler Building
Some places are so iconic it is possible to know them from afar. For the author, that was New York.

Photo courtesy Salim Virji/Flickr via Creative Commons

Excerpted and adapted from Goodbye to All That: Writers on Loving and Leaving New York, edited by Sari Botton. Available from Seal Press, a member of the Perseus Books Group. Copyright 2013.

Even before I’d ever set foot on its teeming streets, New York City represented to me the perfect place. As in perfectly opposite of the place I was: I was 9 and growing up in Hibbing, Minn., a rural mining town where, in winter, snowdrifts could easily engulf cars. I was bookish, introverted, the daughter of Korean immigrants. Everyone else seemed tall, blond, athletic. The center of town was the indoor hockey arena that seated hundreds. My favorite place was the tiny public library. My love of reading and solitude did not make me a particularly sought-after playmate.

The billboard that welcomes you to Hibbing boasts world’s largest open pit mine!! There is little preserved to indicate Bob Dylan once lived here, confounding the pilgrims who’ve driven 200 miles straight north from the Minneapolis airport. Any and all locals of a certain age will instead cheerily recount how he was laughed off the stage at the high school talent show. To the town, Bob Dylan wasn’t a cause for celebration but a long-haired countercultural freak. If you’re a misfit, either you acquiesce to having your rough edges pummeled to fit the groove of conformity, or you leave. Dylan left Hibbing almost immediately after that disastrous performance at the high school and headed for—where else?—New York.


I’d similarly marked New York as my future destination—I’d already decided to become a writer, and that’s where the writers went. Logical.

Taking William Saroyan’s advice about how to become a writer—“You write, man, you write”—I wrote. I became a published author when, in my senior year of high school, Seventeen accepted my essay “Volunteer Workers Are Not Schmucks!” Schmuck was a word I picked up from Mad magazine, unaware of its origins in the word penis. The lack of Jews in our town (Robert Zimmerman’s family was one of the few) left me unacquainted with Yiddish, yet here I was already speaking like a New Yorker. My editor gently changed the title to “Volunteer Work Does Pay Off!”

It is strange to think you can have a spiritual home even before you have ever been there. But some places are so iconic—the Taj Mahal, Paris, the moon—it is possible to know them from afar. That was New York for me. When I arrived at age 23, everything was instantly familiar. What people are most apt to complain about—the bustle and chaos—both excited and soothed me. I didn’t like the urine smells, the near-suffocation by crowds, the unbearably hot subway cars covered with lurid graffiti. But those were all because the place was chockablock with people. What I loved, I realized, was the teeming number of human stories being pushed right into my face—a cornucopia from the muse, the freedom to observe unobserved. This environment doesn’t exist in a small town, where you never escape surveillance.

When I was out and about in Hibbing, curtains would swish aside, Vincent Price eyes peering out. Was it small-town snoopiness or the dreaded invisible letter A(as in Asian in a white town)? Once, when my sister and I went to play at the house of a little girl we knew from church, she started closing the electric garage when she saw us coming, saying: “My mother told me I’m not supposed to play with you!” Asian, I could only conclude.

In New York, being Korean-American would be just part of who I was, along with single female writer, recent college grad, cat owner. Ironically, being among such diversity allowed me to seek out others of my various tribes: writers and Asian-Americans. Hating being singled out for being Asian elsewhere, we could choose to identify as such in New York. And, ironically, with Korean groceries starting to dot the Upper West Side, the owners would sometimes chide me for not speaking Korean; in New York, sometimes, I wasn’t Korean enough.

I didn’t live in a garret or with tons of roommates. A Goldman Sachs salary allowed me an apartment in one of those 1970s cookie-cutter high-rises near Lincoln Center. The apartment was a studio sloppily bisected by a fake wall to make it into a one-bedroom. It made the space smaller, but I liked having another room to go into. It was almost comical, the logistics of containing the necessities of daily life in two shallow closets, then trying to make only-in-New-York decisions such as determining which cleaning supplies were attractive enough to remain out (vacuum) and which needed to be hidden (bucket, mop, and rubber gloves). The “view” was a close-up of the Chinese consulate, a similarly featureless brick building. Tower Records (now defunct) blocked out any aspirational sun, so that even on the brightest days, the best I’d get was a pencil-thin shaft of light moving through the interstice between the buildings, not enough to sustain even an air plant. Instead, I got a cat, who spent all day snoring on the printer.

I had moved to New York with an inchoate sense that writers went there and then stuff happened. Writing-wise, the straightforward transaction—write, get paid, make a living—that I’d envisioned given my early Seventeen success turned out to be more complicated. The alumni contacts at magazines that I’d been given by the college career office all rebuffed me, and I was retroactively glad my tiger parents had made me major in something “secure” like economics. At the investment bank, I earned ample money with handsome benefits, but the work left me exhausted. I was waking up at 4:30 a.m. just to get in a solid hour of writing before heading off to my job, where a misplaced decimal point could mean disaster. I was a terrible employee but also a stunted writer. While my banking peers were applying to Harvard Business School, the highest-paying writing gig I scored was a free dinner for winning a writing contest at West Side Weekly, describing my travails at the DMV.

I still wrote. I even finished a novel. And what had begun as mild distaste for my job at the august Goldman Sachs became full-bore loathing. But it brought in the money and allowed me to stay in New York, where I still held out hope that proximity to the literary world might engender its affection for me. I acquired an unexpected “in” when my boyfriend (now husband) followed me to New York one year later and won a job as an editorial assistant at a venerable publishing house. To make up for the poverty-line salary ($13,000), assistants often received invitations to literary events, which is how I ended up at a PEN reading, standing in line to get a book signed by two authors I loved. The signing broke up before they got to me, and author No. 1 said the equivalent of “Fuck off, kid,” but No. 2 actually took a minute to chat with me. When I tremulously mentioned that I’d written a novel, she said I should send her 20 pages.


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