Gina 미진 Kim

United States

I'm 17 and I like to write and draw. Go check out my stuff at (shameless plug). I write mostly creative non-fiction because I feel like I have a lot of stories to tell.

Message to Readers

I know it's a little long, but any feedback is helpful!


February 8, 2019



One: Minky’s
       On Saturday nights, neighbors would stop by the cluttered counter to gossip with my mom. Saturday nights at Minky’s were always the busiest. My mom said that it was because the poor people needed to begin the week with something to do, or at least something to watch. Our shop was in a deserted town outside Anaheim, but there were always strange visitors. Grandmas with worn, freckled hands and too-black hair shrieked about having to go to the market every other day to feed their unmarried sons; their mouths puckered with complaints but faces boasting with sly glances and smirks. Of course, I never told this to my mom. She would think of it as rude.
       “You need to respect your elders! Whether they’re right or wrong, you respect them,” she always said.
       But it didn’t matter what I thought of them because I was always behind the counter, in a small room lined with abandoned TVs; made invisible by the blue buzz of some cartoon. The best of them never knew of my existence. Sometimes, curious strangers would look into my little fortress and meet my screen-lit eyes, their expressions a mixture of bemused embarrassment. Scared, ashamed, sorry, or a combination of all three, they’d mumble goodbye and walk away. After a lost customer, my mom always looked back at me: smiling her sad smile with her dark eyes and wisps of hair hanging bedraggled across her pretty face.

it was
Me, as alice in a wonderland existing under the world–a  s e c r e t
it was.
between me and Mom
a world full of candy and chips; cartoons and laughter
a world of rats as big as dogs and sneezes full of dust
I remember the pink room.
first, the beaded curtain worn to lines: overgrown and greasy bangs to poke
my eyes
Then, the ugly orange light: the only callused hands that knew to block
my sight–a  s e c r e t
it is
between me and the old man.
black lace.
naked tummies.
feet cold from shame.
it was

Two: Family
       My family was perfect. We ate out together almost every week, and my sister and I got whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted. We jet-skied every summer and snowboarded Mammoth Mountain every year without fail. I was covered head to toe in glittering Juicy Couture tracksuits, perhaps with a single missing button or mismatched leg lengths, but I didn’t mind. Along with my starfish voice-automated diary, I had everything that my classmates only dared to dream of.
       My parents were gone most of the day, but I was happy spending time with my grandma and my sister. I didn’t know much about my parents’ work. All I knew was that my mom was an owner of a video store, and my dad a fashion designer. My mom was busy recording, organizing, and labeling thousands of DVDs and videotapes every day and so couldn’t spend much time with me, but still I loved our rundown video shop. Minky’s was our own dinky little castle. My dad, however, was a different story. My grandma told me that he went to work, but I didn’t really know what that meant because he would be sleeping when I left for school, and wouldn’t return until I had fallen asleep. For years, I only stole glimpses of the back of his sleeping head while rushing to school. I wondered if he did the same to me when he came back from work.
       Sometimes, he brought home buckets full of these bedazzled tracksuits home, dramatically flinging the trunk of the car open just for my sister and me to stare at the glimmering clothes in awe. We would dig through them for half an hour, trying to salvage what we could before either one of us claimed the one with more sequins. It was our personal Black Friday. And my dad and my mom would silently recede into the kitchen––my mom holding a mysterious check, and my dad fuming. I was too busy trying to rip a velvet headband from my sister’s unrelenting grip to notice.
       I never asked about my dad because, in my mind, I already knew. When my dad went to work every morning and came back at midnight I imagined him to be lounging on a ruby red velvet chair as he sketched brilliant designs in fits of inspiration. Besides, I was usually in the basement of my mom’s video shop, eyes glazed over from hours of cartoons––fingers sticky from melting ice-cream. I didn’t have the time nor the desire to know about him and his work. My definition of him was enough because I couldn’t imagine my dad being anything less.
       The countless hours of waiting at the shop meant I had memorized all the contents of the most popular cartoons, beginning to end. My favorite was 짱구, a cartoon about a rebellious little Asian boy who ran around with his underwear on his head. With this great feat came admiration from all my classmates, but the kindergarten teacher would look at me for a while and pat my back––arched to the sky with pride.
       I liked to tell my classmates that my mom was a housewife, just like everyone else. Why I lied, I don’t know, but I guess I was ashamed of my mom’s running makeup and small white hands in a shop where only strange neighbors visited. While the other mothers went shopping with their friends and played dress up with their kids, my mom worked. I didn’t want my family to seem poor. So when the girls in my class asked why my grandma always picked me up, I lied that my mom was sick. After a while, they stopped asking. Every morning when I arrived at school, my teacher offered to do my hair. Sometimes, we would even share a bowl of milkless Cheerios. I said yes because there was never anyone else around that early in the morning, and I liked having my hair brushed. Besides, all the other girls in my class came in with tight braids and pink bows in their permed hair.  
Four: Christmas
       My family never celebrated Christmas. Maybe it was because we were Korean. But the festive songs and cold weather during the holiday season were only taunts to remind me of all the fun I was missing out on. But I had grown to not care. When I was eight, I was determined to be a proud owner of a Christmas tree and had whined until my parents promised to rent one a few weeks before Christmas. Friday night, the night of Christmas, my sister and I climbed up on chairs and drowned our tree in sparkling ornaments and tinsel that our mom had bought on sale in the 99 cents store. We were never allowed in the 99 cents store before. I don’t know why, but our mom––and all other Asian moms––had something against that store. As it was our first time there, it was almost too much to take in––especially with the blinking snowmen and singing dolls. My sister and I ran around the store shrieking as we let our hands run over all the carpets lined on the walls. We draped the tinsel over our necks, twirling the ends as to follow the rich ladies only seen in cartoons. Our mom pretended to call our efforts and excitement a waste of time, but my sister and I knew she was just as excited. It was her first Christmas tree in years too. Besides, she was excited to spend time with us.
A short hour later, the tree could no longer be called a tree. There was no green left to cover. Tonight would have been our first Christmas celebration, but of course, our dad was missing. Then, the phone rang. After a few moments of being unable to keep still while staring at my mom, she finally spoke:
       “Your dad has something for you downstairs. Oh, and get your sister.”
I don’t think I’ve ever run that fast before in my eight years of living.
Five: Waking Up
       I yelled across the hallway, asking if anyone had seen my lost pen. Our hallway walls were littered with baby pictures of me and my sister: perched on a velvet couch like sad china dolls on shelves. Identical lace hats, poofy navy dresses, and glaring eyes.  
       “I don’t know where your pen is,” my mom mumbled at the other end of the hallway. “Follow your dad.” Without waiting for my response, she walked towards a bag bursting with my toys. We were doing a spring cleaning session; our jam-packed balcony the first to go.
       “But I don’t want to go.”
       “He’s going to work,” she yelled behind her shoulder as she picked up the bag.
I was never offered to follow my dad to work before. The thought nor the offer never came up. My dad liked taking me to places like Home Depot, Ikea, and the market, but never his workplace. Once again, the timing was just never right. But this time, my dad was on a two-day long vacation, like I was. So of course, when my dad asked me to help him unload our many boxes that contained the trash on our balcony, I was more than excited.
I ran to the door.
       After strapping in all the boxes, my dad sat in silence for a moment in the relentless summer sun. With my feet swimming in my Ugg boots and my True Religion overalls clinging to my legs, I was sweating puddles by the time he was done.
My dad was a man of few words. He was stocky and strong, showing neither joy nor sadness. He never cried. He never said no. Because of this, I grew up interpreting him through my imagination. In my head, he was Superman.
       The car ride to his factory was a slow one.
       We drove through the crowded streets of L.A as I sat watching the world through the window of our Audi––spying on the people on the sidewalks on either side of me. My right cheek was numb from leaning on the cold glass of the window for so long. One sad-looking lady was wearing a purple vest and forcing ripe mangoes into busy hands. I watched her as she scrambled back and forth on the streets, looking as if she were dancing in the silence of our car. Her purple vest was slowly turning navy in her sweat.
       The buzz and glamour of L.A faded as my dad drove on and on. Buildings that dared to poke at the clouds were reduced to squat grey factories that lined the edges of the freeway. They stretched out and changed colors as the car flew by. There were a few other cars around and funny-looking abandoned shops. At last, we stopped in front of a dingy factory––cracking and about ready to fall apart. It was scary to me. There was a spiky fence that groaned with the wind, and metal buckets with their insides stained black with use.  We were at his workplace.
       There was no front door. Shaking the key around the half-broken doorknob of the backdoor, my dad led me in. The fantasy of cotton-candy couches disappeared as a roach ran over my foot. There were warning signs everywhere I turned: bright yellow warnings of toxic materials related to cancer and neon blue and red warnings of chemical burns and dangerous machines. They reminded me of the bright colors of poisonous animals in the rainforest: otherworldly and far too bright. The biggest, as well as the most obnoxious, red sign seemed to laugh at me as soon as I walked in. It warned that there was no guarantee of safety. That all injuries were not to be taken into the responsibility of the company. I thought of the many times my dad came home with a big bandage on his arm. He told us that it was from fighting monsters to protect our house. To think that I laughed along.
       “Dad, where’s your desk?” The factory was an open space about the size of two football fields. Rusting buckets heavy with dark ink were gaping holes in the earth. They smelled of chemicals and oil. Scared but too curious to resist looking into one, I peeked inside the open mouth. A fly was floating atop the ink, along with my disbelieving face.
       “Snapple?” To my far left, my dad leaned back on a torn swivel chair. Looking at his computer, he searched his pockets and pulled out two quarters. He then reached over a dented metal desk and pushed them into the slot of an old vending machine. Its button pad no longer had letters and numbers on them, but my dad pushed them with familiarity. I took the Snapple and drank it with a frozen smile while my dad rummaged through a cabinet. It tasted funny, but at least it was cold.
Six: Dad
       I had never realized what a small man my dad was. I guess I never took a good look at him. At eleven years old, the top of my head reached his eyebrows. By next year, I would be taller than him. Why, I saw him as a tall, young man with shining shoes and a blinding smile, I don’t know. Rather, he was quite the opposite. The bottoms of his pants were frayed and beginning to rip. His legs were short, but strong, due to many years of labor, as were his hands. Once in awhile, after he has had too many drinks, he would turn to me with a goofy smile and show me his hands. Running my fingers over his smooth, calloused hands, he always told me the same story: how the police could never catch him because he had no fingerprint. Then I always asked him the same question. “How come you have no fingerprint?” He would then answer “From buying you pretty clothes.”
       White scars colored his dark legs. I already knew the story behind the one running down from his thigh to the bottom of his knee. He liked to tell me and my sister of when he fell off his motorcycle on the freeway and had almost lost a leg. We nodded along with rounded eyes and sweaty palms every time; uncaring that we had heard it a hundred times over. We only knew the story was nearing its end once he began whispering that he had seven nails holding his knee together. My sister and I always screamed in feigned disgust and ran to our rooms laughing. “Nothing will kill me! Not the speed, not the world,” he would scream after our flying hair.
       We took a lift to the second floor of the factory. Teeth seemed to have replaced its doors, and the red buttons were staring eyes. The second floor was worse than the first. Both floors were cold and dirty, but where the first floor let you ignore the utter absence of people with all the machinery, the second floor did not. It was eerie. Rolls of fabric and prints were strewn across the cracking floor, and the lights overhead were gray. However, the worst thing about the second floor was its vastness. Rows and rows of sewing machines on top of wooden tables stretched to the far back of the area. Clothing wires hung above every table, and the wooden chairs were worn to a smooth white. My dad led me into a small room with a naked lightbulb that flickered on and off. It smelled of the wet cement of the aftermath of a water festival. Inside were our snowboards, my old desk, boxes of wires and plastic bags––labeled “Samples”––of Juicy Couture tracksuits. My dad grabbed a few wires and led me back to our car. The door swung close with a loud bang; laughing at my ignorance. I was silent the entire trip back, the rustling echo of the plastic bags of sparkling tracksuits just like my own sitting in the wet room still in my head. The sky was a pretty Californian orange.
       Now, my mom had retreated to her room to sleep after setting my dad’s dinner, but I was not willing to give up on my eleventh birthday. The day had passed, but I waited. The cake was already back in the refrigerator, and King of the Hill was still playing in the background. Finally, the door clicked open, and my dad carefully stepped in. His face was dark and his lips were black; he smelled of cigarettes and sweat. Smiling, he handed me a bag. But I was close to tears. Snatching the bag, I stomped into my own room but stopped at the door to look through the hallway one last time. Only to see my dad’s slumped figure in the slight backlight of the living room. He dragged himself to our dining table and turned on the T.V while he ate. I fell asleep on my tear-soaked pillow–– listening to a soft, buzzing conversation between two mysterious men in the T.V.


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  • February 8, 2019 - 12:39pm (Now Viewing)

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