Choked Up Before Those Signs in LA Koreatown

Choked Up Before Those Signs in LA Koreatown

Reading 120 Years of Korean Immigration History in LA Koreatown

The global Korean diaspora reaches around 7 million people. Among all locations, Los Angeles (LA) is the most symbolic space. Today, LA Koreatown has grown into a massive community wielding commercial, cultural, and political influence. Yet behind its glamorous exterior lie 120 years of immigration history and densely layered moments of fierce survival.

On this trip, I stopped by LA after finishing a Mexican cruise. Instead of heading to tourist attractions, my feet naturally turned toward Koreatown. When I visited BCD Tofu House for lunch, a long waiting line had already formed. It was impressive to see that even though lunch hour had long passed, the line didn't dwindle at all, and a significant number of locals were in that queue. It was a scene proving that Korean food is no longer an "exotic cuisine" but has permeated into the daily life of this city.

Turning around to enter Han Bat Sul Lung Tang, the ox bone soup I tasted was not at all inferior compared to any longstanding restaurant in Seoul. Asking the Mexican staff member for "one more kkakdugi" and even pouring the radish kimchi juice into the soup, a thought suddenly crossed my mind: the time and labor of immigrants must be soaked into even a single bowl of hot soup with rice. A flavor preserved in a foreign land went beyond a simple meal to satisfy hunger—it stood as a bulwark of Korean national identity.

Korean immigration to the United States began in 1885 with the political exile of Enlightenment figures, including Philip Jaisohn (Seo Jae-pil). On January 13, 1903, labor immigration started in earnest as 102 Koreans set off for Hawaiian sugarcane plantations. Arduous labor in an unfamiliar land was a struggle for survival, but at the same time, it was a choice made for the future of their homeland.

Later, some immigrants moved to the US mainland and settled in Riverside, California. Established there, "Pachappa Camp" is recognized as the first Korean settlement community in the Americas. The figure who led this was none other than Ahn Chang-ho. He organized the workers to build a community and laid the foundation for self-reliance through strict discipline. Rules such as lights out at 9 PM, bans on gambling and binge drinking, and maintaining cleanliness were a necessary order for the community's survival. The money earned through labor was gathered as independence funds, and their sweat was directly linked to the future of their nation.

As time passed, patterns of immigration changed. The 1965 Immigration and Nationality Act was a turning point for Korean society. With the expansion of professional-visa and family-sponsored immigration, Korean settlement in LA surged. Amid the urban reorganization at the time, Koreans jumped into small businesses based on commercial areas that had become relatively inexpensive. Grocery stores, dry cleaners, restaurants, and markets sprang up one by one, and commercial networks began to take shape.

The "Hangul Signboard Campaign" of 1972 was a symbolic event. As shops inside the town began hanging signs written in Korean, the streets changed noticeably. It is said that within two months, around 60 businesses participated. This was not merely a cosmetic change in design, but a declaration that "we are members of this place, and at the same time, we are Koreans." The LA City Council's official recognition of Koreatown as a neighborhood designation in 1980 was an institutional fruition of these efforts.

However, there was also pain along this history of growth. The 1992 LA Riots left deep scars on the Korean American community. Amid the looting and arson, countless Korean businesses suffered immense damage. Yet, the Korean community rose up again. Community solidarity and self-help efforts rebuilt Koreatown, serving instead as an opportunity to expand political participation and civic rights.

Walking through LA Koreatown today brings a strange sense of déjà vu. The strip mall structures known as "plazas," along with the fonts and colors of the Korean signboards, somehow resemble 1970s and 80s Korea. Time has passed, but the atmosphere of those times seems to linger, condensed.

For a while, I looked up at the signboards lining the street. In every single letter, the labor, responsibilities, frustrations, and hopes of immigrants seemed to dwell. A signboard makes no sound, but a story was undeniably held within it. Koreatown is not just a typical commercial district. It is a map of sweat shed by immigrants to lay down roots in an unfamiliar land, and another hometown crafted by the diaspora.

A signboard went beyond a mere business name; it was a solemn declaration. That we survived here, and that we defended our names right here. The reason a lump formed in my throat while walking the streets of LA Koreatown is likely because I deeply experienced that truth. Immigration is not a statistic converted into numbers, but a human story—and Koreatown is a living historical space built by the dense layering of those stories.