Korean Atlanta: Chamblee + Duluth

Lyrics

February, 1983.
The fellowship hall smells of floor wax and barley tea.
Just a few families.
A quiet start.

Pastor Young H. Kim bows his head.
A new Methodist church for a new Atlanta.
Down on Buford Highway, a 1987 Hyundai Excel unloads the first boxes of dried persimmons.
Nobody noticed.
Just another convenience store under the Georgia pines.

And I just have to grin.
From Chamblee to Duluth, a quiet hum.
A city built inside a city, when no one was looking.
The twin hearts of a home you carried with you.

The census taker in 1990 counts one thousand, two hundred souls.
By 2010, the forms say eight thousand, four hundred.
On Saturday mornings, at Pleasantdale Elementary, the sound of children tracing Hangul letters.
A future learning its own name.

And I just have to grin.
From Chamblee to Duluth, a steady hum.
A city built inside a city, while no one was looking.
The twin hearts of a home you made brand new.

I remember a tax appraisal from 1994.
A duplex off the main road.
A jujube tree fruiting in the backyard.
And in the garage, an upright piano for after-school lessons.
Outside the H Mart, the August air thick with saeujeot and hot asphalt.
Inside, the tilapia swim in their cold, clean tanks, waiting.

Look what you built.
A quiet hum.
Just have to grin.