A landmark modern classic about the Korean American immigrant experience and the dawn of Los Angeles’s Koreatown A Penguin Classic Kim Ronyoung (Gloria Hahn, 1926–1987) tells the story of Haesu and Chun, immigrants who fled Japanese-occupied Korea for Los Angeles in the decade prior to World War II, and their American-born children. First published in 1986, Clay Walls offers a portrait of what being Korean in California meant in the first half of the twentieth century and how these immigrants’ nationalist spirit helped them withstand racism and poverty. Kim explores the tensions within a family of immigrants and new Americans and brings to the forefront the themes of Korean immigration, U.S. racism, generational trauma, and the early decades of Los Angeles’s Koreatown from a Korean American woman’s point of view. Through three sections representing the perspectives of mother, father, and daughter, what resonates the most is the voice of a woman and her self-determination, through national identity, marriage, and motherhood. Kim Ronyoung was the pen name of Gloria Hahn (1926–1987), a Korean American writer who was born and raised in Los Angeles’s Koreatown. After her children graduated from college, Kim earned a bachelor of arts in Far Eastern art and culture at San Francisco State University. She was a docent at the Asian Art Museum in San Francisco. Throughout her life, Kim wrote many poems, short stories, and essays. Her first and only novel, Clay Walls , was the first major novel focusing on the experiences of Korean immigrants and Korean Americans in the United States. It was published in 1987, shortly before her death. Kim passed away on February 3, 1987, at the age of sixty, after a lengthy battle with breast cancer. David Cho (introduction) is director of multicultural development at Wheaton College and specializes in late-nineteenth- to twentieth-century American literature, American ethnic literature, and Asian Pacific American literature. One "You've missed a spot," Mrs. Randolph said, pointing. "Dirty." Haesu had been holding her breath. She let it out with a cough. Mrs. Randolph shook her finger at the incriminating stain. "Look," she demanded, then made scrubbing motions in the air. "You clean." Haesu nodded. She took in another breath and held it as she rubbed away the offensive stain. "That's better." Mrs. Randolph nodded with approval. "Good. Clean. Very good. Do that every week," she said, scrubbing the air again. She smiled at Haesu and left the room. Haesu spat into the toilet and threw the rag into the bucket. "Sangnyun!" she muttered to herself. "Sangnyun, sangnyun, sangnyun!" she sputtered aloud. She did not know the English equivalent for "low woman," but she did know how to say, "I quit" and later said it to Mrs. Randolph. The woman looked at her in disbelief. "I don't understand. We were getting on so well. I . . ." Mrs. Randolph pointed to herself, "teach you." She pointed at Haesu. "You do good. Why you say 'I quit'?" "Toilet make me sick." "That's part of the job." "No job. No toilet. Not me. I go home." Haesu held out her hand, palm up to receive her pay. Mrs. Randolph stiffened as she backed away from Haesu's outstretched hand. "Oo-oh no. You're supposed to give me adequate notice. I'm not obligated to pay you anything." They were words not in Haesu's vocabulary. Perhaps she had not made herself clear. Haesu raised her hand higher. Mrs. Randolph tightened her lips. "So you're going to be difficult. I'm very disappointed in you, Haesu, but I'm going to be fair." She motioned Haesu to stay put and left the room. Haesu sighed with relief and put down her hand. She knew that Mrs. Randolph's purse was on top of the dresser in the bedroom; the woman had gone to get the money. As she waited, Haesu looked around. It was a beautiful room. She had thought so when she first agreed to take the job. Later, when she ran the vacuum over the carpet, she had admired the peach-like pinks and the varying shades of blues of the flowing Persian pattern. She felt an affinity with the design. Perhaps what some historians say is true, that sometime in the distant past Hittites were in Korea. She ran her fingers over the surface of the table. The mahogany wood still glowed warmly from her earlier care. She had not minded dusting the furniture. It was cleaning the toilet she could not stand. Mrs. Randolph returned carrying a coin purse. She gestured for Haesu to hold out her hand, then emptied the contents of the purse into the outstretched palm. The coins barely added up to one dollar. Haesu held up two fingers of her other hand. Mrs. Randolph gave a laugh. "No. You quit. Two dollars only if you were permanent." She shook her head; it was final. Carefully, so as not to scratch the surface, Haesu placed the coins on the table. She picked up a dime. "Car fare," she explained. Mrs. Randolph glared at Haesu. She began to fume. "Why you insolent yellow . . ." H