What We Carry Forward
The scent of starch and PERC still lingers in my memory—the sharp hiss of steam from the machines, the rhythm of my mother’s work, the way fluorescent light blared against floral wallpaper. These images come from Heritage Dry Cleaners, the small business my parents built and the backdrop of my earliest lessons in persistence, service, and love. This story was first written for The Moth StorySLAM in Denver, and it continues to remind me how drive can be both a personal force and an inheritance.
There we sat, in the back belly of a place that carried a blend of disdain and a hint of comfort in my heart. The air clung with moisture from the day’s steam, the concrete floor emanated a coolness from below, and the bits of dark green, worn carpet sat sprawled and unwieldy around the edges throughout the space. It was quiet as my mom and I waited for the afternoon employee to relieve us of the day.
This was a place from my childhood. A place I saw my parents try to “make it” as small business owners in America. Where I learned some early, and foundational lessons on service, people management, how to count change without a calculator, all while observing firsthand how people navigated through life paycheck-to-paycheck.
It was also a place of embarrassment and milestones, like the day I waited for a pause between the punctuations of steam to confide in my mother that my period had arrived. I watched her cry and heard her gasp, “My baby isn’t a baby anymore!” before announcing the news to every customer who walked through the door.
It’s where I cultivated the seeds of my sunny disposition, as my mom radiated a resiliency in her joy through the ebbs and flows of holding and being accountable for so much.
And, it’s also where I watched my parents create a safe haven for strangers and friends long after closing time, offering a space to be heard and feel supported as they confronted life’s valleys.
Here, at the Heritage Dry Cleaners, the backdrop of my most formative life lessons, I could never shake my aversion to the perception tethered to Korean-Americans and this line of work. In the 90s, roughly 80% of dry cleaners in Southern California were run by people of Korean descent. And, as a young teen, instead of seeing this business as a bold feat of entrepreneurship, a pursuit for family, and the American dream, it was a stinging reminder of Asian immigrants confined to blue-collar jobs, immersed in the task of handling, sorting and cleaning other people's soiled garments.
But here I was, 25 years old, woefully unemployed and living at home in our middle-of-nowhere town in the Mojave Desert. A place I never thought I’d return. Ridgecrest, Gateway to Death Valley, originally called Crumbville, population, small. The Naval Ordnance Testing Station where we were accustomed to the ground shaking from missiles and rockets dropping on the open testing range.
I sat with my mom in the stillness of the back break area waiting for the boiler’s final release of steam—a signal that the morning work was done. As minutes stretched, we sat in each other’s company. I rustled through the newspapers, hoping to find a morsel of intrigue from the happenings of our town while my mom prepared the bank deposits for the day.
Then, in a pause pregnant with significance, my mom looked off into the distance and said, “You know, one day, you’ll reach a point in your life where you’ll look back and ask, ‘what did I accomplish?’”
That instant felt like a suspended breath in time, as if the question was one she was contemplating at that very moment. Compulsively, I jumped to comfort, assuring her that she had provided me, my brother, and my sister a good life—one of modesty but fullness. That she and my dad had given us so much security, stability, love, and possibility.
As my mother's words lingered in the air, I was swept up in a rush of memories and emotions, all converging into a singular moment of clarity. It was as if the past, present, and future merged within the break room, enfolding us in the embrace of the chipped powder-pink walls.
Her question, hanging like a fragile thread, became a prism through which I could view my own life, both a perspective-altering gift and a sense of responsibility. As I spoke my words to her, they also reminded me that I was one outcome of the white-knucked, relentless, and beautiful pursuit of her dreams. The angst and frustration of my current situation vaporized in the presence of deep gratitude.
*HISSSSSSSSSSS*
That moment marked the inception of a gentle, resolute rhythm—a cadence of questions pulsing through my mind: Am I fully recognizing my gifts and what it took to create them? Am I daring to dream audaciously enough? Am I loving with the full expanse of my heart? Am I embracing my ancestral wisdom, faith, and courage? Am I letting my aspirations rise above fear?
As the final hiss of steam escaped from the boiler, I felt the power of her question begin to transform something within me. And, to this day, it’s a treasured heirloom I carry with me that continues to reveal, propel, and inspire me forward in my life-long journey to dream, love, connect, and create.
