Clay Walls - Softcover

Ronyoung, Kim

 
9780143138242: Clay Walls
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0143138243 ISBN 13: 9780143138242
Verlag: Penguin Classics, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

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

Clay Walls 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, it offers a portrait of what being Korean in the USA meant in the first half of the twentieth century, exploring themes of immigration, racism and generational trauma, and depicting the early decades of Los Angeles’s Koreatown. 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.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Kim Ronyoung (Author)
Kim Ronyoung was the pen name of Gloria Hahn (1926–1987), a Korean American writer born and raised in Los Angeles’s Koreatown. After her children graduated, Kim earned a BA in Far Eastern art and culture at San Francisco State University. She was a docent at the Asian Art Museum in San Francisco and wrote many poems, short stories and essays. Her first and only novel, Clay Walls, was the first major novel focusing on the experiences of Korean immigrants and Korean Americans in the United States. It was published in 1987, shortly before her death. Kim passed away on February 3 1987, at the age of sixty, after a lengthy battle with breast cancer.

David Cho (Introducer)
David Cho is director of multicultural development at Wheaton College and specializes in late-nineteenth- to twentieth-century American literature, American ethnic literature and Asian Pacific American literature.

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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...

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Verlag
Penguin Classics
Erscheinungsdatum
2025
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0143138243
ISBN 13 
9780143138242
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
272
Kontakt zum Hersteller
SC
https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/

CL MODESTO LAFUENTE 41
Madrid
Madrid
Spanien

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