By Kat Sewon Oh (MIA ’23)

This essay is dedicated to my uncle, who passed away seven years ago today, and my aunt, who passed away yesterday.

Two decades ago, my aunt drove me every day after school to my parents’ 24/7 grocery store in Astoria, Queens. I did my homework to the soundtrack of my mother punching numbers on the cash register, my uncle grilling deli sandwiches, and my father snipping flowers to make the most beautiful bouquets. This vibrant multipurpose store was the economic lifeline of my family. 

When I told my parents that I want to run a family store just like theirs, there was no hesitation in their response: “Absolutely not.” 

The store was their American dream, not mine. My parents wanted me sitting at an office desk, not cutting my hands on rose thorns. They never mentioned the customer spitting on my mother’s face and shouting racial slurs at her (My sandwich is not warm!) to not distract me from studying. They secretly ate their expired inventory to make sure that I never would. 

My father had a plan: I would receive an elite education, and they would buy me a car and have enough savings for a simple retirement. 

Fast forward to 2020. I graduated from Yale and now worked in middle management at a mission-driven nonprofit. My parents relocated the store to Chelsea in 2006, and they had only two years left until the end of the store lease. 

According to my father’s calculations, we would have just enough to begin our comfortable future in 2022. My family could stay at home and play cards all day. I could pursue my dreams and not be burdened by my family.

2020 was also when COVID-19 changed everything. My parents, stuck in the city as essential workers, were forced to watch thousands of commuters, including their patrons, flee from New York for the safety of their summer homes. 

To adhere to new health compliance mandates, they stocked hand sanitizer and disinfecting wipes while operating at a loss. They couldn’t invest in the technology required for delivery apps, the new default for everyone in lockdown. 

Our unrelenting landlord refused to reduce our rent despite being aware of the economic crisis. If we continued paying $14,000 every month, our cash flow would have immediately run dry. I hired a lawyer to stop the landlord from yelling at my crying mother over the phone. 

Against these odds, my family wished to persist. I quit my salaried job to lighten my parents’ load and do their administrative work. 

I remember the acute stress of applying for Paycheck Protection Program (PPP) loans, which the government provided to help businesses stay afloat during the pandemic. Even as a native English speaker, it was difficult to navigate the city government’s bureaucratic delay and obscure instructions. I barely got enough for my family’s wages. Countless other applications were denied due to insufficient government funds. 

While I did paperwork at home, my mind kept coming back to the reality of my family dumping heavy boxes of spoiled inventory. Rotten produce, sour milk, and wilting flowers quickly filled up their heavy-duty garbage bags. I quit my dream job to assist my family’s efforts, but I wondered, am I doing enough?

Our unpaid rent accumulated. Thankfully our lawyer found an opening in the lease where we could forgo paying without threat of legal action or foreclosure, but only if we vacated the store immediately. 

On August 28, 2020, the store permanently closed. It felt strange to not be able to call myself “the daughter of grocery store owners” for the first time in over 20 years. 

My parents withdrew all of their retirement savings to pay for their own groceries. My mother tried to find a job, but I insisted that she rest her legs, straining with varicose, swollen veins from standing for over 12 hours at a time. My father begged me to let him at least pay the down payment for my car. 

As politicians argued that people were siphoning off unemployment benefits, my parents worried about why their stimulus check still hadn’t reached their mailbox. Once hardworking keepers of their own fate, my parents now saw their entire livelihoods in the hands of strangers, who were debating economic theory while blissfully ignoring the rows of small businesses shutting down. 

In 2022, my family has haphazardly adapted to their “comfortable” future. My stubborn mother, intent on finding a part-time desk job, is learning how to type on a keyboard, an alien object unlike her cash register. My father occasionally comments that my belated uncle was blessed to not see our waning cash reserves. My 74-year-old aunt, once my energetic chauffeur, pretended her ankles didn’t swell up when standing in line for free produce at YWCA, a national nonprofit dedicated to serving women, girls, and their families. 

I’m now a Master’s student at SIPA, and school is just a daily reminder of what I have lost. I grimaced every time my economics professors drew supply and demand graphs and erased my family’s struggles. 

Many of my classmates bemoan being “broke.” While I agree that Sweetgreen salads are expensive, my definition of “broke” is overpacking dining hall containers to give my parents dinner. That to-go container is my attempt to finally provide enough to my parents, to provide what our country couldn’t.

My father meticulously planned his American dream over three decades. America did not plan at all for the pandemic. 

When the country scrambled to climb out of this unforeseen flood, there wasn’t enough room on the ark, and small businesses were left to drown.

Kat Sewon Oh (MIA ’23) is studying Human Rights and Humanitarian Policy with specializations in Technology, Media, and Communications, as well as East Asia. Originally from a background of social services and nonprofit work, she now hopes to pursue a career in public relations and digital media at NGOs advancing human, civil, and LGBTQ+ rights.