(Los Angeles, USA) - In 1980, I was born in Los Angeles to two Korean immigrant parents. My father named me Rickey, since he’d already named my older sister Vickey. From that reference alone it should be apparent that my father was a strange man. I grew up in the heart of LA. My early childhood memories recall spending hot summer days running around on cement grounds with neighboring Korean, Black, and Mexican children. We were all so young and when you’re a child, race is not an issue, so long as we all had a game to play and an ice cream truck that would stop by every day at noon.

When I turned five, my parents decided that the city was changing and made the move up north to the San Fernando Valley. I spent the better years of my adolescence in what seemed at first a suburban oasis; however, upon graduating high school I decided that I wanted to escape the suffocating heat and culture of the Valley. UC San Diego accepted my plea for mercy and by the time Fall Quarter had hit, I was residing near the birthplace of Shamu and enjoying the freedom which college afforded.

Fast forward a few years to the winter of 2000, my third year in college, I created a web media project called Evil Monito – www.evilmonito.com – it was an online magazine humbly began from out of my dorm room. My platform was to deconstruct pop culture through a sociopolitical lens. Certainly, a task easier said than done. I embarked on a self-taught crash course in html coding and Photoshop and designed the site within two weeks. The result was the debut of Evil Monito in January 2001 . I promoted this project relentlessly through all the will power I could muster.

When I finished school, there were no jobs in San Diego so I did what most left-wing-Che Guevaran-angst-driven college graduates would do… I ended up working at Starbucks. That’s right, after spending a good four years as a Communications major and ripping apart the system of globalization and writing papers challenging the westernization of the modern world, yours truly was serving up frappuccinos and inquiring ready customers if they preferred foam on their lattes. Needless to say this wasn’t the ideal job I had in mind. The experience was a humbling one and it taught me one thing: it isn’t easy trying to be a freelance writer drafting up polemical diatribes, when no one really cares what you have to say. The reality was, the pay was good and it allowed me to live in a relatively stable condition. I used what spare time I had maintaining Evil Monito and writing vociferously for a slew of independent and commercial magazines, mostly delving in sociopolitical analysis on popular trends.

So here I was trudging along in what seemed liked a hopeless life, where I became a walking post-college stereotype: a café worker pursuing the lofty ambitions of a successful writing career. It was tough times and I was going through a moral dilemma. Had I chosen the right path of becoming a journalist and an enthusiastic participant in the arts? Should I have taken a more traditional route and entered the stifling lair of Corporate America?

My parents would routinely check up on me, insisting that I come home and get a regular 9 to 5. However, despite the uncertainties, I knew it just wasn’t an option for me. Part of the reason I left home for college was that I wanted to break away from the tyranny of that domestic life and embrace my independence as a freethinking individual.

Six months into my illustrious barista career, I broke down in defeat and decided to make the move to LA - but it wasn’t back to my parents’ house, no sir, I was planning to make it out on my own and live in the city on my own terms. I packed my bags and with less than one hundred dollars to my name I drove up north and stayed at my friend’s apartment located on the outskirts of Koreatown. I was excited and frightened at the same time, not knowing what would come of each day.

Coming back to LA after all those years away as a college student was a sobering experience. The city was completely foreign to me. I noticed that a park was across the way from the apartment I was staying in. Later I would discover that this was MacArthur Park, where by daytime it was pleasant enough with Salvadorean kids running in glee in a game of soccer while their grandmothers with wizened countenances would peer out ever so cautiously. At night, MacArthur Park proved to be otherworldly, with vagrants walking inside the fields and shadowy figures taking their nightly doses of heroin, perched atop the very same benches that children played board games on during the day. The environment of this park both disturbed and fascinated me.

Weekends were spent walking down 7th Street where I discovered new eateries such as Mama’s Hot Tamales (located at the cross street, Alvarado St.), a non-profit co-op organization where “Mama” Sandi would graciously host, ensure everyone’s horchata was up to par, and explain in detail the various different regions of Mexico where each tamale originated from. Inside the restaurant, an extended wing housed a bookstore where subject matter ranged from ethnic studies to labor law to left-wing ideology.

The following summer, I met a girl. We would spend a good amount of evenings on the roof and take in the view of the city, hearing all the strange noises of sirens in the distance and constant flares from “ghetto birds” that would periodically make their visits to the neighborhood. All this was so beautiful to me.

On one particular night, we noticed all the wonderful neon signs atop hotels of old grandeur, as if each building held its head high in crowned jewels. Without hesitation, we descended downstairs and ran down 6th street to the Asbury Hotel. We waited anxiously outside on the sidewalk, and as the gate opened, we cautiously snuck in, feeling like schoolchildren giddy with mischief. The interior lobby was restored Art Deco; we admired in haste, then quickly found the elevator and headed up. Once we made it to the roof, we walked gently as if on sacred ground. The Asbury sign glowed red in its huge lettering, and for a moment it seemed as if life stood still. I felt a rush of pure joy, the act of discovery and reveling in it.

I now live in Echo Park which I affectionately call “LA’s Portland.” It’s been five years that I’ve lived in the city. After my initial brief stint as a vagabond, life again took a hold of me and directed me to its corporate avenues. I live rather comfortably and I am proud to say I didn’t go home to my parents; I stuck it out and burrowed my place inside LA.

At times I drive around heading east on 6th and I pass MacArthur park, and I still do find time to eat at Mama’s Hot Tamales, but I’ve never made my way again to the top of the Asbury… and regrettably, there’s a part of me that knows I never will. I don’t know whether to be saddened by this. Too often we live in this city, but we don’t let the city live within us. I won’t ever forget those first few months of struggling here, which was the closest I got to understanding the soul of Los Angeles and feeling the vibrancy emanating from its urban community. I wonder if I’ll ever feel for LA like that again….