Xenophobia

In 1989, New York was a gorging city full of people chasing and catching dreams.

One year out of college, I was the admin at a bespoke architecture group. Snow swirled in white pancakes in the updraft across Fifth Avenue, and I stood at an office window entranced by the hustling life and undeniable beauty around me.

Through the office door came a tightly packed young man who moved like a cat as he crossed to the contractor desk. His gear, all black, was dusted with slush, and he sprayed droplets as he walked. His bicycle was very fine, and I was amazed that he could lift it with 2 fingers to lean up in a corner. He introduced himself as Ko. He explained that he’d come to New York to be a bicycle racer.

One morning, as I walked up Fifth toward the office, jutting like an ice breaker through the cold, a reckless messenger passed me and stopped and hopped off his bike in one motion. Only it wasn’t a messenger, it was Ko. As he passed me he said, “You have a very nice skirt,” and made a curving gesture that I realized was the curve from the small of my back.

We fell in love over the following months, and I eventually moved from my apartment to his little studio on 96th at Second Ave., and then over Christmas became engaged.

I brought him home to meet Mom and her husband, and Dad and his wife. Over the first two days, Mom’s husband, in his 60s, squinted at Ko every time they met in the same room. Soon, Ko reported that he was ill and then missed nearly all meals and activities.

We drove down to meet Dad, who received him coolly. At one moment alone I confronted Dad, who said looked me in the eye over his glasses and said simply, “His parents killed some of my friends.”

After that, a wall materialized between Ko and me that we couldn’t cross. He began drinking lots of vodka every night, and I began to hate his slurring shouts. In June, I returned his olivine engagement ring and left New York to wander down the East Coast states, trying to figure out what I was returning to.