the ugly earring

She was crying as I waited for the light to change at the intersection of 8th and Hobart Blvd. Sensing the awkwardness of her wanting to lift her eyeglasses and wipe her face dry, I remained with my back to her, pretending not to notice. Pushing the walk sign button, hoping that the light would change quickly so that she could return to the thoughts of herself and an empty street, cars driving by with no faces or hands gripping the steering wheel.

It took awhile for the light to change. She remained seated on the doorstep of a Korean bookstore, underneath the green awning, several feet away from the glass entrance with its sun-faded posters of the alphabet and illustrations of monkeys and horses arranged in a numerical chart. She still hadn’t removed her glasses or wiped her tear-stricken face; instead, she clung to her knees as she did when I strolled past and noticed her tears. She was a sore thumb in this part of the neighborhood–an innocent Korean girl barely sixteen with her pink hoodie zipped to the base of her neck and her backpack still attached to her shoulders. Could this have been the source of her fear, her tears–this shadier part of town where the Hispanic men blow whistles and catcalls as you cross the street? Where the ice cream truck rings its bells at 8pm and the children remain awake, riding their scooters through the puddles of water? Even I was apprehensive when I first moved in.

Articles about a Koreatown rapist surfaced as I unpacked my record player and LPs. One Saturday night waiting for the elevator to do some laundry, a drunken tenant fanatically explained that the basement, which is now the laundry room, was haunted by a ghost/person who had been murdered down there. The other evening, a cop’s micro-phoned voice screamed “drop the weapon!” which echoed throughout the neighborhood All of this is part of the courtyard crescendo –the helicopter spotlight shining into the apartment, the domestic argument becoming heated and inflamed, the Pilipino karaoke singers crooning an out-of-tune song.

The longer you live here, the more numb to it you become. Poverty hangs like a loose tree limb down on Hobart Blvd. At Ralph’s supermarket, they fill their shopping carts with two 12-packs of Coca-Cola, frozen pizzas, Snickers bars, ice cream and Doritos. They walk through the halls with bags of McDonald’s and Chinese carry-out. Like little children playing grown up. Then there is a darker reality–the men who garbage dig, picking out the recyclable water bottles and soda cans. A pamphlet left on my apartment door reads, “ Fair Share for Koreatown….one of the poorest neighborhoods in Los Angeles…nearly 50 percent of families here are living under the federal poverty line.” It comes as no surprise then that a one-bedroom apartment would house an entire family of five or six. Across the hallway, a preteen boy named Jesus sits on the fire escape with a soccer ball, bored already with his spring break vacation. Voyeurism is depressing–not like spying into the 6th Street mansions where the lawns are manicured and the families dine at kitchen tables instead of huddled around a small eight-inch television.

Still, I love this neighborhood. I walk its broken sidewalks and its trash-ridden streets, even on nights when there’s only a half moon and a weak streetlamp to light the way. It’s authentic–more real than the shoddy facades I came across in Hollywood.

As I crossed the street, I watched from a distance as she inched back into reality. Approaching her was the playful gait of two young girls and their father leaving a restuarant. Would she regain her composure and walk away before the young girls could see her? I stood and waited for the interaction.

If she didn’t wipe her tears perhaps I would bring her a mandarin orange and sit with her.

I thought, “My eyes too have produced a lot of tears lately.”

But why was she crying? Did her father forget to pick her up from her Monday youth group meeting? Did she see her boy crush walk into the Rosen karaoke bar with some emaciated girl with big shoes and long hair?

I kept note as the two girls and their stoic-faced father reached the crosswalk. As she lifted her glasses and quickly dried her face with the sleeve of the pink hoodie, the father grabbed both of his daughter’s hands. The eldest one, already too curious, stood and watched as the girl wiped her nose and straightened her pink sweatshirt.

The moment was over, and I continued my walk to the Korean market with a list of tomatoes, pineapple, mint leaves, cashews racing through my head.

Yes, it was pointless to buy oranges.

She would be gone by the time I made it back to the intersection of 8th and Hobart Blvd.