Hi friends,

This is a letter I wrote for 아빠, to 아빠, on Tuesday, March 24, 2026, in remembrance of his departure from this world two and a half years ago.

Two and a half years ago.
10 seasons ago.
30 months ago.

Today, May 26, 2026, marks 32 months without him.

I wrote my original letter in Korean, and I have placed the English translation of my letter underneath the original. Thank you for being a witness to our love, our grief, our courage, and our lives.

With love,
Jieun

PS — Feel free to listen to this song by Lee Jeok, 걱정말아요 그대, while you read the letter.

* * *

아빠,

벌써 이 년 반이 지났네.
이 년 반을 개월 수로 세어보니까 30개월이 지난 걸 깨달았어.
30개월.
30개월은 엄청난 시간이야, 그치 아빠?

믿어지지가 않아.
이 년 반이라는 시간이 눈 깜박할 사이에 지나갔어.
아빠가 이세상을 떠난 지 이렇게 오랜 세월이 흘렀다는 사실에 너무 황당했어.
느낌으로는 시간이 그만큼 안 지나 간 거 같은 데.
길어봐야 일 년 반 쯤 된 거 같은 데.
근데 생각해 보면은, 이 년 반이 맞아.
우리는 지난 이 년 반 동안 정말 많은 일들을 겪었어.
이 년 반이 지났다는 사실이 마음을 너무 아프게 하네.

가을, 겨울, 봄, 여름.
가을, 겨울, 봄, 여름.
가을, 겨울, 봄.

아빠가 10계절 동안 이 세상을 떠나 있었어.

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2026년 5월 오월, May 5, 2026 — 6:40 am

Today is Tuesday.
Today is 어린이날.
Today is the 12-year death anniversary of Calvin, Shane, and Karolina.

My friends, Calvin, Shane, and Karolina, died on May 5, 2014.

I wonder how their families are doing.
How have they survived the last twelve years?
How did they survive the deaths of their children?
How have they kept putting one foot in front of the other, every single day for the last twelve years? How have they found a way to keep living? How are they still here?

For twelve years.
For twelve years.

After surviving 아빠’s death, after living through the last twelve years, after learning more about this world than I ever wish I knew — about death, life, love, suffering, grief, and the fragile resilience of our humanity — I can see their lives and deaths with a much wider perspective than I had when they died.

When they died, I was 25 years old.
Today, I’m 37.

I lost my friends.
I lost my colleagues.
I lost my interns.

Their families lost their world.

I intimately know it all.

The shattering. The shock. The denial. The rage. The wailing. The tears. The regrets. The despair. The collapsing. The panic. The terror. The feeling out of control. The endless yearning. The flashes of memories. The devastating silence.

The way a part of us dies with them.

The thousands of deaths we experience when they die. The thousands of firsts we must endure without them. The excruciating pain our bodies will never forget. The way we keep revisiting the past because that’s where they live.

The brutality of time.

The way time stops for us while it keeps moving around us. The way time seems to keep moving forward for everyone else except us. The way time freezes. The way time shatters. The way time collapses. The way time stills.

The way we desperately wish for all of this to be a dream, and by some miracle, they’re still alive. The way, when we’re in between our sleeping and our waking selves, we almost forget that they’re gone. The way the crushing reality comes rushing in. The way our bodies can never fully accept that they’re really gone.

The way death permanently reshapes the way we see the world. The inability to understand the purpose of life. The inability to comprehend a world without their existence. The grueling, miraculous act of rebuilding a life with a canyon in our hearts. The constant searching for glimpses of them in the world.

The way they tenaciously remain with us.
The way we see them in ourselves every day.
The comfort and torture of this experience.

The heartbreak that inevitably comes with every joyful moment. The cruel, generous way life continues without them. The endless waves of grief, in all its shapes and forms, as we keep moving forward in time with and without them.

The intolerability of their absence.
The miracle of our enduring.

They died out of time.

They died too young.
They died too soon.
They never got to say goodbye.
They never got to live the full lives they deserved to live.
They never got to grow through their twenties.
They never got to see their thirities.
They never got to say all the things they wanted to say.
They never got to do all of the things they wanted to do.

Their deaths will always be an injustice.

Calvin Voneravong
July 21, 1992 to May 5, 2014
Calvin was the eldest son of his beloved parents. His parents were Laotian refugees who were displaced from their home country of Laos to America. Calvin grew up in Houston, Texas. He was the older brother of his younger sister. He was a graffiti artist. He was the kind of person who made you feel safe to be yourself because he was very much himself. He was humble. He was passionate. He was small in stature. He was full of life. He wore black-rimmed glasses and put his hair up in a small bun. He wore a black and gold Wu-Tang sweatshirt. He was funny. He was sensitive. He was kind. He had a beautiful smile.

Calvin was 21 years old. In two and a half months, he would have turned 22.

Tyler Shane Wagers.
January 20, 1993 to May 5, 2014.
Shane was the only child of his single mother. Tyler was his first name, but to us, he was Shane. He grew up in Norwood, Ohio, a town close to Cincinnati. He was tall, skinny, and gangly. I remember his cardigans. I remember he had to get a root canal while he was working at the office. He had a slightly southern accent, but he wasn’t from the south. He was sarcastic and funny. He was incredibly reliable and hardworking.

He was 21 years old. He celebrated his 21st birthday at the office with us.

Karolina Christine Mora
June 21, 1987 to May 5, 2014
Karolina was the first daughter of her beloved parents. She was the middle child of five — she had two older brothers, one younger brother, and one younger sister. She grew up in Long Beach, California. She was full of joy. She had a beaming smile. Her laugh was contagious. She exuded warmth and kindness. She wore brightly colored clothes. She had a heart as deep and as wide as the ocean.

Karolina was 26 years old. In a month and a half, she would have turned 27.

They all deeply cared about people.
They were all fiercely loved by their family, friends, and communities.
They all lived their lives in accordance with their values.

I will never forget the day they died.

I will never forget sitting outside the office by myself on the pavement in front of the glass front door, in complete disbelief. I will never forget watching M punching the metal spiral staircase up to his office. I will never forget talking to C near the merch storage by the giant garage door. I will never forget sitting together with all of the staff members and interns in the lunch/conference room upstairs. I will never forget calling Greg. I will never forget calling umma and appa. I will never forget talking to Calvin’s dad on the phone. I will never forget calling all of the other Nomads. I will never forget sitting together with everyone in front of the intern house around the fire pit.

I will never forget how time stopped that day.

They were so young.
We were all so young.

Today, Calvin would be 33, almost 34.
Shane would be 33.
Karolina would be 38, almost 39.

Their deaths were the first deaths.

Their deaths forever shaped me. Their deaths shaped my choices. Their deaths shaped the way I looked at my life. Their deaths taught me that life is short. Their deaths taught me that we never know if we will have tomorrow.

Their deaths taught me to live the life I want to live, while I still have time.

Their deaths gave me the courage to pursue a career in music in 2015. Their deaths gave me the courage to move back to New York in 2016. Their deaths pushed me to move back to the east coast so I could live closer to my parents after living far away from them in California for three-and-a-half years.

I’m here in Korea because of them.

I wish they never taught me any of these things.
I wish they were still alive.

Lubbock, Texas.

Their families have carried them in their hearts every day for the last 12 years. Their families have lived without the brightest lights of their lives, every day, for the last 12 years.

On April 29, 2014, six days before he died, Shane said something that remained with many of us. He said:

“I’m in the middle of nowhere; between Houston and Austin just gazing at the stars in utter darkness. I feel so small seeing the expansive beauty above me, but fortunate. I appreciate this perfect moment and the teammates I’m sharing it with.”

I cannot believe it’s been twelve years.

We still miss you.
We are still thinking of you.
We will never forget you.

With love,
Jieun

I want to introduce you to my favorite coffee shop in Brooklyn.

Welcome to Phil Cafe. Meet the incredible owner, 필 카페 사장님, 박대진, Daejin Park.

I found Phil Cafe in August 2025, right after I got back from Korea last summer.

After I returned to America from a 20-day trip to Korea, I came back to America grieving the immense loss of home. Last July, I jumped through the portal of space and time and shared precious time with my family, visited 아빠’s hometown of 평택 for the first time since 2001, ate Korean food for every meal, and was surrounded by the sights, sounds, tastes, and smells of Korea. Our return to America felt abrupt, devastating, and disorienting.

They call this the Korea blues.

At the time, I lived on the border of Crown Heights and Prospect Heights, and as a resident of the neighborhood since 2016, we have never had enough good Korean spots. As an immigrant, these cultural refuges — coffee shops, restaurants, bakeries — hold the familiar sounds, smells, tastes, and sights of our people, our world, and our home. They are essential for keeping us rooted, nourished, and alive. To stay connected with Korea while living in Brooklyn for ten years, I relied heavily on frequent trips to Virginia where I would stock up on 반찬 and food that 엄마 would pack for us in a giant cooler, daily phone calls with 엄마 and 아빠, and driving, walking, or taking the train to all of the nearby and not-so-nearby Korean restaurants.

Sometimes we would take the train to K-Town in the city, but most of the time, we would just go to Queens. The Long Island City 한아름 was our go-to spot for Korean food, Korean people, and Korean vibes.

I don’t drink coffee, but I love to work and write in coffee shops. As an extrovert, coffee shops allow me to be in my own intimate world of creativity, but still exist in the presence of people. When I came back to New York from Korea last summer, I needed a space to remind me of home, a space to feel safe in, and a space to create in. I was so desperate for Korea that I was willing to take the train to K-Town, if that was my only option.

I looked up Korean coffee shops near me, and to my surprise, a coffee shop I had never seen popped up: Phil Cafe.

It was in Bedstuy, pretty close to the Classon G train station — not super close to me, but totally walkable by New York standards. On a sunny August morning, I decided to check it out.

I walked 30 minutes to Phil Cafe, and when I walked through the front door, I was greeted by the kind, quiet smile of Phil Cafe 사장님, 박대진, Daejin Park.

He stood tall behind the counter, his face adorned with thick, black-rimmed glasses. He looked like he could be in his late forties. He spoke English with a heavy Korean accent. I felt right at home.

Phil Cafe is filled with sights, sounds, tastes, and smells of Korea.

One of my favorite things is the sounds that fill the space. As someone who grew up in a Korean household, it’s incredibly comforting to be surrounded by the daily sounds of Korean life. Every day, 사장님 plays a mix of his generation’s Korean music, my generation’s Korean music, and our present generation’s Korean music. Many of his employees are also Korean, so in the distance, you can hear the staff exchanging casual conversations and laughter with one another in our home language.

Along with a variety of coffees, teas, and baked goods, Phil Cafe offers a variety of Korean street food on their menu, too. A must-try is their Korean street toast — an egg-and-green-onion omelette and a few slices of tomato and ham, drizzled with spicy mayo and nestled between two slices of thick grilled toast.

Since my departure from New York in November, they have expanded their menu to 돈까스, 볶음밥, 국밥, and more.

From August to November, I went to Phil Cafe almost every day. I’m one of those people that loves having my regular spots, so if I love a place, I will be there all the time. Every day, when I walked in, I 인사-ed and said, “안녕하세요.” And every day, when I walked out, I 인사-ed and said, “수고하세요.”

After several weeks of regular attendance, 사장님 and I started having longer conversations. He asked me what I was doing at his coffee shop every day. I asked him when he immigrated from Korea. He told me about his family. I told him about mine.

Every day, he gave me the opportunity to speak Korean to someone other than 엄마. Every day, he gave me the opportunity to feel connected to 아빠, to Korea, to my family, to myself.

Apart from the incredible food, 사장님 is an incredible person. He is warm, kind, and full of 정. He takes care of his customers like they are family.

One time, he brought me a plate of fried 고구마.
Another time, he brought me a street toast in a cup.
His generosity and care made me cry.

A lot of people seem to go to Phil Cafe for the same reasons I do. They are yearning to feel connected to Korea, Koreans, and themselves. The shop is filled with people of color, a lot of Asian faces, and a lot of Koreans. One time, while I was talking to 사장님, a biracial Korean man in his late-20s walked through the front door. He 인사-ed to 사장님, ordered some coffee and food, and they had a little conversation together in Korean. I could see that this was one of the few, precious places in the neighborhood that this guy could go to, where he could speak Korean with someone and feel at home.

In November, before I left New York, I wanted to express my gratitude to 사장님 for showing me so much love and kindness, for sharing his story with me, and for creating such a safe space for Koreans of the diaspora, so I wrote him a letter.

When I gave him the letter, I cried. I told him 아빠 had died two years ago, and that through the fatherly love he showed me at the coffee shop every day, I got to experience the miracle of feeling 아빠’s love again.

I am forever a Phil Cafe and 사장님 fan. If you live in Brooklyn, or if you’re visiting Brooklyn, visit my favorite coffee shop in Brooklyn, Phil Cafe.

Let’s shower Phil Cafe 사장님 with love in the comments!

사장님, 응원합니다!

With love,
Jieun

* * *

필 카페 사장님 에게,

사장님! 짧은 시간이었지만, 그동안 정말 감사했습니다. 제대로 소개를 못해서 지금 하겠습니다.

안녕하세요! 제 이름은 고지은 입니다. 저는 작가입니다. 서울에서 태어났고, 2살때 엄마랑 미국으로 이민 왔습니다. 37살이고, 남편하고 아들이랑 브루클린에 살고 있습니다. 우리 아들의 이름은 해준이고, 1살입니다. 버지니아에서 자랐고, 뉴욕에 10년을 살았습니다. 우리 부모님은 미국으로 이민온 후, 세탁소, 빨래방, 델리, 하고 피자 가게에서 부지런하게 일했습니다. 우리 부모님은 하나 밖에 없는 딸에게 최고의 삶을 주기 위해 일했고, 저는 우리 부모님의 성실한 보살핌 속에서 자랐습니다.

2016년도에 제가 음악가가 되겠다는 꿈을 이루기 위해 뉴욕으로 이사왔어요. 2020년도에 우리 아빠가 말기 폐암 진단을 받았어요. 우리 아빠랑 엄마를 지키기 위해 저는 제 꿈을 접어야 했습니다. 공연을 하는 게 어려워졌기 때문에, 자연스럽게 음악이 글쓰기로 전환했습니다. 4년 동안, 저는 암으로 투병하는 아빠를 돌보았습니다.

우리 가족이 아빠의 암을 4년 동안 버티어낸 후, 그 암이 뇌랑 척수액으로 전이되면서, 암이 뇌수막 질환으로 진행되었습니다. 2023년 9월 26일에 우리 아빠가 돌아가셨어요.

2025년 7월에, 우리 아빠가 돌아가신 지 2년 후, 우리 가족들과 같이 한국으로 나갔어요. 우리가 한국에 나간지 6년이 지났었어요.

한국이 그리워서 갔어요. 한국에 있는 우리 가족을 보고 싶어서 갔어요. 우리 엄마를 형제들이랑 만나게 해주고 싶어서 갔어요. 우리 아빠 고향인 평택을 보고 싶어서 갔어요. 해준이를 한국에 있는 가족을 만나게 해주고 싶어서 갔어요. 우리 아빠와 소통하고 싶어서 갔어요. 우리 가족의 마음을 치유하고 싶어서 갔어요.

한국에서 미국으로 돌아왔을 때, 한국이 너무 그리웠어요. 한국의 소리, 한국의 향기, 한국의 풍경. 우리 가족, 한국의 산, 한국의 하늘, 한국 사람. 한국에 대한 모든 것을 그리웠어요.

제 근처에 한국 카페를 찾고 있었는데, 놀랍게도 필 카페를 발견한거에요!

문을 열고 들어온 순간, 마치 집에 온 것 같은 느낌이 들었어요. 사장님과 직원들이 한국말로 이야기를 나누는 소리를 듣는 게 너무 좋았고 마음을 따뜻하게 만들었어요. 카페 안에 한국 음악을 듣는 소리도 너무 좋았어요. 사장님이 어떻게 미국으로 이민을 왔는지에 대한 이야기를 듣는 것을 좋아했고, 사장님이 어떻게 필 카페를 시작하게 된 이야기를 듣는 것도 좋아했어요. 사장님은 정말 존경스럽습니다.

우리 에게 필 카페를 주셔서 너무 감사합니다. 한국인들, 교포들, 그리고 모든 사람들이 모여서 안전한, 따뜻한 장소를 만들어 주셔서 감사합니다. 저한테 한국말로 대화할 수 있는 기회를 만들어주셔서 감사합니다. 우리 아빠를 떠올리게 해줘서 감사합니다. 고구마튀김 하고 토스트를 주셔서 감사합니다. 딸처럼 아껴 줘서 감사합니다. 우리 아빠가 정말 보고싶어요. 사장님의 친절을 통해 우리 아빠의 사랑을 느꼈어요.

2월달에 포항으로 이사갑니다. 그동안 저를 아껴 주셔서 너무 감사합니다. 사장님의 친절을 잊지 않겠습니다. 포항에서 응원 하고 많은 성공과 행복을 기원합니다. 아자 아자 화이팅!

단골 손님 지은이가

* * *

Dear Phil Cafe Sajangnim,

Sajangnim! Although our time has been brief, I wanted to express my profound gratitude for you. Thank you.

I never properly introduced myself to you, so I’ll do it now.

Hi! My name is Jieun Ko. I am a writer. I was born in Seoul, and when I was two years old, I immigrated to America with my 엄마 to reunite with my 아빠. I’m 37 years old and I live in Brooklyn with my husband and my son. My son’s name is Haejoon and he is one year old. I grew up in Virginia and I have lived in New York for the past ten years. When my parents immigrated to America, they worked incredibly hard — at dry cleaners, laundromats, delis, and pizza shops. They worked to give their only daughter the best possible life, and I was raised within their profound and sincere care.

Ten years ago, in 2016, I moved to New York to fulfill my dream of becoming a musician. Six years ago, in 2020, at the beginning of the coronavirus, my 아빠 was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. To take care of him and 엄마, I had to put my dream on pause. It became increasingly difficult for us to play shows, so my music career naturally shifted into writing. For almost four years, I took care of my 아빠 as he struggled through cancer.

After enduring cancer for almost four years, my 아빠’s lung cancer spread to his brain and spinal fluid and became Leptomeningeal Disease. On September 26, 2023, he passed away.

In July 2025, two years after he died, I took my family back to Korea. It had been six years since we had returned to Korea.

I went to Korea because I missed Korea. I went to Korea because I missed my family. I went to Korea because I wanted to to reunite my 엄마 with her brothers and sister. I went to Korea because I wanted to visit my 아빠’s hometown, Pyeongtaek, again. I went to Korea because I wanted to introduce Haejoon to our family. I went to Korea because I wanted to feel connected to my 아빠. I went to Korea because I wanted to heal our family’s hearts.

When I returned to America from Korea, I missed Korea so much. The sounds of Korea, the smells of Korea, the views of Korea. Our family, the Korean mountains, the Korean people, the Korean sky. I missed everything about Korea.

I was trying to find a Korean coffee shop nearby, and to my surprise, I found Phil Cafe.

As soon as I walked through the doors, I felt at home. Hearing the sounds of Korean shared in stories between you and your staff members made me incredibly happy and warmed my heart. I loved hearing the Korean music you would play in the coffee shop. I loved hearing your story of how you immigrated to America. I loved hearing the story of how you started Phil Cafe. You are an inspiration.

Thank you so much for giving us Phil Cafe.

Thank you for creating a space for Koreans, for gyopos, for everyone, to gather and feel safe, warm, and comforted. Thank you for creating the rare opportunity for me to speak Korean. Thank you for bringing up memories of my 아빠. Thank you for giving me the fried goguma and the street toast. Thank you for treating me like your own daughter. I really miss my 아빠. Through your acts of kindness, I felt my 아빠’s love.

In the second month of the year, I will be moving to Pohang. Thank you for taking care of me during my time here. I will never forget your kindness.

I will be fiercely cheering you on from Pohang. I wish you all the success and happiness, Sajangnim. Aja Aja, Fighting!

With love,
Phil Cafe’s dedicated regular customer, Jieun

* * *

🌸 About the Give Them Their Flowers Series 🌸

Give Them Their Flowers is a collection of letters to my favorite people, living beings, and places — coffee shops, restaurants, bookstores, neighbors, family members, pets, and friends — where I give them their flowers and tell them how much of an impact they have had on my life.

After 아빠 died, I was drowning in regrets. In the wake of his departure, I was left with so many things I wish I had said and so many things I wish I had done. Even when you try your absolute best, when someone dies, your best doesn’t feel like it could ever have been good enough. After two and half years, I still have days when regrets bubble up to the surface. There are still so many things I wish I could say, things I wish he could hear, responses I wish I could receive, things I wish I could do, things I wish we could do together, questions I wish I could ask, answers I wish I could receive, and conversations I wish we could have.

It’s hard to speak the words that live in our hearts to the people we love. “I love you. I’m sorry. I miss you. Thank you. You hurt me. Will you forgive me? I forgive you. 사랑해. 미안해. 보고 싶어. 고마워. 니가 날 마음 아프게 했어. 날 용서해 줄래? 용서할게.” As humans, we tend to wait to say the things we want to say to the people we love. Sometimes, because we’re scared, we don’t say the things we want to say at all. Sometimes we lose our opportunity to say the things we want to say because our time has been pulled to an end.

Give Them Their Flowers is my effort to try and give the people I love their flowers before our time comes to an end. It’s my attempt to deliver all the love that lives in my heart to the people I love before my time comes to an end. It’s my endeavor to live my life with courage — even if it’s hard, even it’s scary, even if it’s uncomfortable. My ultimate goal is to build up the courage to write one of these letters to 엄마 before her time ends.

This week’s free letter is brought to you by the generous support of our Patreon and Substack Members. ♡

With Love, Jieun is possible because of you. Every financial contribution you provide makes the creative life possible for me. Your paid subscription is appreciated beyond measure. Thank you.

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이유나, Christina Yuna Lee, East Orange, New Jersey
Our daughter, our sister, our neighbor, our friend
December 19, 1986 - February 13, 2022

Yuna died on Sunday, February 13, 2022. She was 35 years old. She was the firstborn daughter of her beloved parents. She was their precious 큰딸. Her parents are first-generation Korean immigrants. Her 아빠’s name, her dad’s name, is 이성곤 Sungkon Lee. He was born in 1955 in Seoul, Korea, two years after the Korean War was brought to a stalemate and the country was split in half. In 1984, her parents were displaced to America through immigration. Two years later, they brought Yuna into the world. She was their joy. She was their life. She was their miracle. Her name, Yuna, means abundance and grace.

Yuna was an 언니 to her younger sister, 이유진 Angela Yujin Lee. They were incredibly close. They were best friends. Yuna was a 누나 to Paul and Peter Park, her close family friends who were more like her brothers. Their families always celebrated holidays together and went on family vacations together. She was a niece, a 조카. Her 큰엄마, 이복순 Boksun Lee, adored her. She was a beloved neighbor. She was a cherished colleague. She was an beloved friend.

Yuna was born and raised in West Orange, New Jersey. She attended Pleasantdale (now Kelly) Elementary School, Roosevelt Middle School, and West Orange High School through her freshman year. After her freshman year, she and her family moved to Millburn, New Jersey. She attended Millburn High School until she graduated.

When asked to describe her, Yuna’s 아빠 said:

“평범한 딸이었어요. 착하고, 친구들 관계 좋고, 주변에서 늘 같이 어울리는 사람들이 많았고 — 인기가 좋은 그런 아이었어요. 그리고 늘 유쾌하고 주변에서 이쁘다는 소리를도 많이 듣고. 그래서 참 그렇게 떠나게 돼서 너무 안타깝습니다.”

“She was our humble daughter. She was kind. She had a lot of close friends. Whenever you saw her, she was always surrounded by a lot of people. She was a deeply loved person. That’s the kind of child she was. She was always bright, energetic, beaming, and cheerful. The people around her were always telling her how beautiful she was. For her to leave this world in such a brutal way fills me with tremendous grief.”

Yuna grew up going to a Korean Catholic Church with her family. They attended St. Michael’s Catholic Church in Palisades Park, New Jersey, one of the most densely populated Korean diaspora cities in America.

In 2004, she graduated high school and attended Rutgers University. She majored in art history. Her family celebrated her graduation with her in 2008.

Yuna was an artist. It was in her blood. Her 아빠 attended college at Hanyang University in Korea and studied chemical engineering. Upon graduation, he worked at Korea Electric Power Corporation (KEPCO), bu after immigrating to America in 1984, like many Korean immigrants, he ran his own business in New Jersey. In 2013, he made his literary debut when his poem was selected for the New York Literary Award for New Writers. In 2016, he published his first poetry collection, “나는 그들의 이름을 모른다 I Don’t Know Their Names.” The collection contains approximately 70 poems including, “꽃 Flowers,” “파도 Waves,” “내 마음의 꽃밭 The Flower Garden of My Heart,” “설해목 Snowy Sea Tree,” “아파야 사랑이다 It Has to be Painful for it to be Love,” and “이슬 Dew.”

Yuna was a New Yorker. She spent a lot of time in New York City. The city was her second home. In 2010, two years after she graduated from college, she moved to New York and worked for Eli Klein at his contemporary art gallery in the West Village, Eli Klein Gallery. Yuna and Eli worked together for more than four years. Throughout the years, they remained friends.

Yuna worked as the senior creative producer at Splice, a cloud-based subscription service for music producers that provides access to royalty-free samples, loops, instruments, and presets, allowing musical artists to discover and download sounds for music creation. At work, she was dedicated to making beautiful and inclusive label and pack art. Her effortless ability to make anyone and everyone feel welcomed and included was unparalleled.

In a memorial piece written by her colleagues at Splice, they said, “She was a pillar of unity on any project, in any meeting, with any group of people. Her grace in communicating ideas and rallying the team, always balanced with humor and a firm grip on reality, was beyond admirable. In her work with Splice, she took her lifelong passions for music, art, and storytelling and applied them to eye-catching visuals that leaped off the screen. ​​She helped create and roll out deep-dive interviews with creators and the stories behind their work.” In an interview for Splice’s employee spotlight series, Yuna said, “The most gratifying work is just to be able to connect with creators and bring their stories to life. Giving them that platform has just been so wonderful.”

Yuna was joy. She was the kind of person everyone wanted to be friends with. Her friends described her as irreplaceable. She was the kind of person who could light up any room with her smile, her energy, her kindness, and her brilliance. She was the kind of person who made you feel special. She was the kind of person who made you feel seen and heard, like you mattered. She loved people. She was beloved.

Here are four stories shared by four of her friends at Splice:

Christina and I were fast friends. On her second week or so at Splice, we met around the corner of her new apartment to get coffee at Sunday to Sunday. She was excited about having her own place to listen to vinyl records, but longed for our (then) closed office to reopen, so she could be around people again.

Christina started at Splice around the same time as the Asian hate crime shootings in Atlanta. It was an emotional and gutting introduction. We met on a call with the other Asians in our work community to support one another. Afterwards, I reached out to her and we talked about how we could galvanize this moment to do some really important work at Splice.

We bonded over a shared mission for a more inclusive creator space, among many other things. She hoped to start conversations around diversity and opportunities for creators of all backgrounds at our company.

She formed the Art Appropriation Council after many hours of discussion about the place of Asians in the music community, and how we, in our small little corner of the industry, could combat racism and appropriation.

After the Atlanta attacks, we and the other Asians at Splice formed a channel to support one another. The thought of folks we didn’t know being senselessly murdered struck us all deeply. We had long conversations about how we could continue to be there for our Splice community. The last and most recent message in this channel was Christina wishing us all a happy Lunar New Year.

There is not much else to say. Christina was an irreplaceable presence. Heartbroken or devastated doesn’t begin to cover it. “Now what?” is the question that keeps ringing — what do we do as a community? What could we have done differently? There are no answers. Just endless questions. Christina forever. My thoughts to her family and many loved ones.

—Kenneth Takanami, New York City

Christina and I met through work in March 2021, and I knew we’d become fast friends — or should I say more accurately, I wanted to become fast friends. Sitting in front of me was a kind, smart, cool, beautiful person — who wouldn’t want to be friends with her? And luckily, we became just that, having so much in common around our interests and how we see the world. And we were both single gals in the city who loved to go out on the town and all that fun stuff. We just really bonded.

But the important point in all of that is, I know it’s not unique to me. I know I’m one of countless people in the world who had that exact same experience with her. Maybe you’re not a single gal in the city, but you connected with her in a real way right off the bat because Christina made you feel heard and accepted and warm. What a special person, to have those abilities — to be so generous of spirit that you constantly make the people around you feel good.

Years ago, a friend told me about this idea that everyone’s personality and core has a different color light attached to it — pink purple, blue, green, etc. And as you move through the world, you bond with certain people based on these colored lights, whether they’re the same or complementary colors. And there are a few special people out there that simply contain the whole spectrum of visible light — they bond with all the colors and brightly reflect all colors back.

I truly believe that Christina was one of those special reflective lights, and all who knew her are so much brighter for it.

—Katie Smith, New York City

From the first time that we met about a year ago, the qualities that instantly stood out about Christina were how genuine, selfless, and passionate she was. That is how I will always remember her.

Christina’s dedication to empowering the 30+ producers on our team, and the hundreds of sample creators and musicians worldwide, evolved the way that we release packs at Splice. She was committed to amplifying creators’ stories and fostering intentional representation for the communities with whom we work. This rang true from planning new sample labels, to triple-checking an email, to ensure that every creator’s voice was heard as part of a pack story she was working on. No detail was too small.

When I met Christina for the first time in person last fall, it felt like we had been best friends for 10 years. When I asked her for visual artist recommendations for the album with my grandfather (with a very vague description), she hit me back in 10 minutes with a fully fledged Pinterest board of ideas titled, “Block Grandpa,” so that she could better understand who might be a good fit. This was just the kind of person she was.

There really aren’t any words to capture how unbelievably tragic, senseless, and horrific this loss is. There is a saying though, that I’ve held dear for over a decade: In Remembrance, There is Life. I know that everyone who was fortunate enough to cross paths with Christina will continue to carry her light forward and honor her memory. Rest in peace, Christina Yuna Lee. May your memory be a blessing.

—Matt Block, New York City

It was a Tuesday, and although I didn’t expect a crowd, I was surprised to find only one person tucked away in the back of the office. I was familiar with Christina, but only as a friendly face on occasional Zoom calls. We exchanged casual hellos and I took a seat nearby.

As I began unpacking my things, Christina perked up asking, “Is that On The Road?!” I was a little embarrassed to be reading Kerouac’s quintessential hipster bible, but felt immediately at ease in the conversation with Christina, who excitedly shared that she had read it for the first time a year prior, and how it sort of fueled her fascination with the city.

We went on for at least 30 minutes, talking about books and sharing recommendations, and I knew right away that I was making a very special friend.

I was completely swept up in Christina’s sincere curiosity and kindness. I was inspired by her confidence and openness, especially given we’d never met in person. She then insisted on giving me a tour of the office, showing me where I could find all the snacks and other nicknacks.

After that day, we continued to text, share books, and met up on a few occasions for drinks with friends. More recently, I asked her if she’d be interested in joining a small book club with some friends of mine, which she enthusiastically accepted. I was SO excited to be making friends with Christina. I got a strong feeling that this is the type of friend that will help me become a better person. I saw characteristics in Christina that I wanted to adapt myself and reflect to others. I’m so grateful for these memories. I will never forget you, Christina.

—Jordan Welner, New York City

Yuna moved to Chinatown in 2021, in the middle of the pandemic. According to Tana Ganeva:

“When Christina Yuna Lee moved to Chinatown, in a three story walk-up across from Columbus Park, her Dad, Sungkon Lee, warily eyed the neighborhood. “I told her, ‘There are so many homeless shelters here. Isn’t it dangerous?’” His politically progressive daughter chided him. “They’re just poor, they’re not dangerous!” she said. 35-year-old Yuna, a senior creative producer, had long been involved in environmental causes and human rights.”

On Sunday, February 13, 2022, at 4:30 am, Yuna was brutally murdered in her own home. She was on her way home, and as she exited her Uber, a man stalked her, and followed her into her apartment building. He followed her up six flights of stairs to her sixth-floor walk-up apartment, pushed his way into her home, and stabbed her over 40 times with a knife from her own kitchen.

Yuna’s neighbors called the police upon hearing her screams. The police arrived within three minutes, but they did not enter her home to attempt to rescue Yuna until 1 hour and 20 minutes after their arrival.

Her screams disappeared into silence.

In September 2021, the person who killed Yuna had been arrested for punching a 62-year-old man in the face at the Chinatown subway station. New York state laws allowed this person to be let out on supervised release, one month before he killed Yuna.

To a packed courtroom, with tears falling from his eyes, Yuna’s 아빠 said:

“Why did God do such terrible things to our family?”

Yuna’s 큰엄마 spoke on behalf of her mother who was too devastated by her daughter’s death to speak or appear publicly. In a television interview, Yuna’s 큰엄마 said:

“Who’s going to bring her back? Nobody. Nobody’s going to bring her back. She was screaming “help!” Why didn’t the police act quickly while she was screaming for help? I was shocked, and in my mind, all I could think about was, “How much did she suffer? How much pain?”

Five days after Yuna’s death, on Friday, February 18, 2022, in the early hours of the morning, over 300 family and friends gathered to say goodbye to Yuna at a Korean Mass held at St. Michael’s Catholic Church, her home church in Palisades Park. Her memorial urn was placed in a funeral home in Basking Ridge, New Jersey, surrounded by bouquets of flowers that her family brought to her every day.

After her death, her family mobilized and created the Christina Yuna Lee Memorial Fund, which became The Christina Alliance. Her younger sister, Yujin, was at the helm of this endeavor to honor her sister’s life and legacy with meaningful action.

Through the collective efforts of the community that rallied together around Yuna and her family from across the globe, her family raised $430,025. These funds were donated to organizations that were significant to Yuna: Womankind, Planned Parenthood, Elizabeth Street Garden, and Safewalks. A small portion of the funds went towards planting a tree and memorial bench at Prospect Park, one of Yuna’s favorite places in the city.

On April 13, 2022, two months after Yuna’s death, her friend and former boss, Eli Klein, held an opening reception for a group exhibition at Eli Klein Gallery, in honor and remembrance of Yuna.

The exhibition was called: with her voice, penetrate earth’s floor.

The exhibition was curated by Asian diaspora artist, stephanie mei huang, and works by nine contemporary femme artists in the AAPI community, including Yuna herself, were presented, to celebrate her life and grieve her death. 50 percent of all sales were donated to the Christina Yuna Lee Memorial Fund.

Eli said, “Art was a big part of her life, and I wanted to memorialize her legacy as much as possible. She’s someone that deserves to be remembered in a larger context than this single tragedy.”

After Yuna’s death, her family sued the state of New York and the New York Police Department for negligence in not acting quickly enough to save Yuna’s life. The person who killed her was sentenced to 30 years in state prison. Her family has been asking for a homeless shelter in the area to be named the Christina Yuna Lee Homeless Shelter, to honor Yuna’s life and death and serve as a reminder to the community of what happened to her. The New York Police Department and New York’s former mayor, Eric Adams, has yet to honor Yuna’s family’s wishes or apologize to her family for her preventable, unjust death.

On July 30, 2024, a blistering summer day, Yuna’s 아빠 spoke at a press conference following the sentencing of his daughter’s murderer. In a black suit, black-framed glasses, a shattered heart held together by a miracle, and his courageous, immigrant English, he read the family statement in front of a crowd of reporters, cameras, and supporters.

When asked how their family was doing in the aftermath of his daughter’s death, Yuna’s 아빠 said:

“저희 같은 일을 겪고 나면 당연히 가족들이 힘드니까요. 힘든 거를 잘 이겨내려고 좀 전에 하던 일을 열심히 하면서 열심히 살고 있습니다.”

“If you experience something as traumatic as what our family has gone through, you are absolutely going to suffer. To try and overcome our grief, we have been working diligently, and we just keep fighting to live our lives.”

“The sun is shining outside. But where do I go?”

When Yuna died, I felt it.
If you lived in New York, you felt it.
It felt incredibly close.

I’m Korean.
I grew up in America.
I was 33.
I lived in New York.
I have Korean immigrant parents.
I have an 엄마 and an 아빠.
I love Prospect Park.
I grew up Catholic.
I grew up going to a Korean Catholic Church.
I’m a musician.
I’m an artist.

What happened to her could have happened to me.
What happened to her could have happened to my friend.
She could have been my friend.
She was my friend.
What happened to her happened to my friend.

She died less than a month after Michelle Alyssa Go was brutally killed. She died less than a year after the Atlanta Spa shootings where six Asian women were brutally killed. She died in the midst of the onslaught of brutal attacks against Asians that skyrocketed during the pandemic and traumatized our community.

When Yuna died, the news surrounding her death was incredibly loud. Reporters continued to talk about the brutal way she died, but all I could think about was how she lived. Who was she? What was her story?

I didn’t want her life to be reduced to a name, a news story, and a number.

She was a person. She was someone’s daughter. She was someone’s sister. She was someone’s friend. She was someone’s neighbor. She was someone. She was someone.

I wrote a letter to Yuna — one in Korean, and a translation in English.

I created a community project called Letters for Yuna where I asked people to send in audio letters to Yuna. 아빠 wrote and recorded a letter for my project.

I recorded a podcast episode with Greg, where we talked about the impact of Yuna’s death on our lives, and in that episode, I shared all of the audio letters for Yuna that I had collected for my project.

I organized a gathering for Asian diaspora women, so we could grieve together.

I created a tribute for Yuna. I searched for, found, and collected stories about her that her friends and colleagues at Splice had shared on Instagram. I wrote about the person she was, I included this collection of stories, and I shared it with my online community.

Greg and I attended the opening reception of with her voice, penetrate earth’s floor in the West Village. It was a beautiful, sunny day. Spring was beginning to bloom. The Hudson River faced the west side of the gallery. The golden sunlight glinting off the water poured in through the front windows. Her brilliant, radiant light was with us. Artists, Asian diaspora, women, femmes, friends, and people from across New York City, gathered in the gallery to grieve, remember, and honor the life and death of our daughter, our sister, our friend, Yuna.

Four years later, I am still brought to tears by Yuna’s death.

How many more tears have her 엄마 and 아빠 shed?
How many more tears has Yujin shed?
How many more tears have her friends shed?

This morning, I was thinking about how her family has endured.

When you lose someone you love, continuing to live your life feels impossible. When you lose your child, that pain and impossibility of enduring are compounded one-thousand-fold.

How do you keep living when your child is brutally murdered?

How have Yuna’s 엄마 and 아빠 survived these last four years? How did her 아빠 attend all of those court hearings? How did he sit in a room with the person who took his 큰딸’s life? How have Yuna’s 엄마 and 아빠 found their breath every morning? How are they still alive?

In Korea, when you have a child, your name goes away and your name become’s your child’s name. 유나 엄마, 유나 아빠, Yuna Umma, Yuna Appa. What happens when your child dies? When your child dies, who do you become?

Yujin has not held her 언니 in four years.
유나 어머님 and 유나 아버님 haven’t held their 큰딸 in four years.
Four years ago, their world’s brightest light left this earth.

Yuna would be turning 40 this year.

Reorienting ourselves in a world without the people we love is brutal terrain. It’s the wilderness at night. There is no cleared path forward. With the support of our community, we have to make one.

I want to share two poems written by Yuna’s 아빠. One is in Korean with the translation in English, and one is a translated version of another one of his poems in English. He wrote, “After You Left,” after Yuna died.

I ask you to hold Yuna’s family in your heart today. I ask you to remember Yuna, and the brilliant, beautiful, hilarious, creative, beaming, singular person she was. I ask you to support The Christina Alliance. I ask you to grieve.

꽃 | 이성곤

꽃들은 볼 때마다
항상 웃으며 반긴다
오랜 세월 한결같다
꽃들에겐 슬픔이 없을까
문득 생각해 본다
예전에 그녀는 항상 웃었고
그녀에겐 슬픔이 없는 줄 알았다
그녀가 떠난다고 했을 때
비로소 그녀의 슬픔을 알았듯
꽃이 질 때야
꽃의 슬픔을 알게 될까 두렵다

Every time I see the flowers,
they always greet me with a smile,
they remain the same for so long.
Do flowers have any sadness
I suddenly wonder.
She used to always smile,
and I thought she had no sadness.
Just as I only realized her sadness when she said she was leaving,
I fear that I will only understand the sadness of flowers when they wither.

After You Left | 이성곤

If you miss someone,
try walking in the dark
You may not see anything,
but it’s never empty.
You are there, hidden in the dark.
The wind carries with it your scent,
or you could bloom as a flower to greet me.
Now I am at peace.
Nothing is gone forever—
You and I, though we are apart for now,
we’ll meet again when it’s time
and we’ll say our temporary goodbyes when it’s time
What more is there to feel?

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Keith Porter Jr., Compton, California
Our son, our father, our brother, our neighbor, our friend
1982 - December 31, 2025

Keith died on New Year’s Eve, Wednesday, December 31, 2025, right before the dawn of a new year. He was 43 years old. He was the father of his two incredible daughters, Semiya and Aniya, ages 10 and 20. He was a proud girl dad. He was a brother. He was a cousin. He was an uncle. He was a nephew. He was a neighbor. He was a colleague. He was a friend. His closest friends called him “Pooter.” He was the only child of his beloved mother, Franceola Armstrong. They were incredibly close. She called him “her baby.” She said, “From day one that he was born, I knew that he was my joy.”

Keith was born and raised in Compton, California. He attended Verbum Dei High School, an all-boys Catholic school located in Watts, California, where he played football and basketball. Keith was a hardcore California sports fan. He loved the San Francisco 49ers, the Los Angeles Kings, the Los Angeles Lakers, and the LA Dodgers. Bonded over sports, he remained close with his high school best friend, Adrian Metoyer III, all throughout his life. To Adrian, Keith was his little brother.

His family meant everything to him. His daughters were his world. He worked tirelessly to provide the best possible lives for them. They were the pride of his life.

He loved his mother. He called her every morning before he went to work to say, “Good morning, mom. How’s your day? I love you.” Growing up, his father was heavily involved in the gangs of Compton, and his mother worked relentlessly to keep him away from that lifestyle. He and his mother lived together until about a year ago, when he moved to the San Fernando Valley to live closer to his girlfriend.

He was incredibly close with his brother, his grandparents, his cousins, his aunts, his uncles, his nieces, and his nephews. For Keith, family extended beyond blood — family included his friends, his neighbors, his colleagues, and his customers. He became friends with anyone he met. No one was a stranger to him. Adrian described him as “a very, very kind person, gracious, compassionate, loyal and understanding.”

Keith believed in the goodness of humanity. He took care of his community, he had a giant heart, and he deeply loved people. He rescued animals, he advocated for foster families, and he raised funds to support battered women. He supported Adrian and Adrian’s partner, Tamara Cedré, on a documentary series called A Space Between Us, a public art project documenting the pandemic stories of communities of color throughout San Bernardino County.

Keith was the kind of person who brought people together. His cousin Jsané Tyler said, “When he walked in, he brought joy. He always had a laugh, a joke, a smile.” To his family and friends, he was known as a performer. He loved cooking, he loved fishing, and he loved music. He loved making people feel special, and he would go out of his way to bring joy to people’s days. He was the kind of person who would come over to your house, open your refrigerator, and cook a delicious meal for you.

Keith was incredibly diligent and hardworking. No job was beneath him. He was willing to do anything to provide the best lives that he could for his daughters. Every job he did, he did it with joy. He worked as a waiter. He worked as a tow truck driver for AAA. He worked as an aide for students with special needs. In 2019, he started his own food business where he cooked street tacos and fed the people of Long Beach on Taco Tuesdays. In 2020, during the pandemic, he moved to Billings, Montana to work for Montana Safety Services Council, a nonprofit educational association that produces safety and health related services for the public. In 2025, after he moved to Northridge, he became a treasured employee of the Northridge Home Depot. His positive attitude and work ethic were infectious, and he quickly became one of the most popular people in their store. His fellow coworkers and customers cherished him.

On New Year’s Eve, Wednesday, December 31, Keith was shot and killed by an off-duty ICE agent while he was celebrating the the new year in Northridge, Los Angeles, right outside of the Village Pointe apartments where he lived. He never got to ring in the new year. He never got to hold his mom and his daughters one last time. He never got to say goodbye.

On Tuesday, January 23, Keith was laid to rest. His funeral was held at Faithful Central Bible Church in Inglewood. He was buried in Green Hills Memorial Park in Palos Verdes. His friends and family gathered for his repast at the Toyota Headquarters in Torrance.

“I don’t blame anybody. I’m not negative. I have a wonderful spirit. I love, and I love hard, and I’m gonna keep on doing it because that’s just the way I live. I love God — I’m a very Godly person, and that’s how I’m going to continue to live my life. I have two beautiful young little girls out here, and I’m going to raise them the way I’m supposed to. I pray. I talk to my brothers. I talk to God, family, because at the end of the day, that’s all I really got. But I feel rich though. I wake up every morning and I try to put on the best fabrics that I got, every single day. No matter if I got a dollar in my pocket, no matter if I got 10 million dollars in my pocket. You would never know (laughs) because I’m not broken yet, and it’s gonna be hard to break me because I have a strong spirit, and I grew up with a whole lot of love. I know there’s a lot of people that love me out here.”

— Keith Porter, in an interview recorded by his best friend, Adrian Montoyer III

As I was putting together this tribute for Keith, I was brought to tears by how much he reminded me of 아빠.

Just like Keith, 아빠 was incredibly hardworking. No job was ever beneath him, and he was willing to work any job if it meant he could take care of his family. Throughout his 37 years in America, 아빠 worked as a cook at a sub and pizza shop, he pressed shirts, ironed pants, and washed clothes at a dry cleaners and a laundromat, he cleaned buildings at night as a janitor, he sold POM juice to people out of our Springfield condominium, he taxied people around Virginia for Lyft and Uber, and he worked at the airport wrapping flight utensils. Even on his worst days, with so many odds stacked against him, 아빠 always found a way to work with a smile on his face. I am only where I’m at in my life because I stand on the shoulders of a father who was willing to do whatever it took to give me a better life than the one he had. This is who Keith was to his daughters.

Just like 아빠 fiercely loved me, Keith fiercely loved his daughters. Seeing pictures of him celebrating his daughters’ birthdays, watching videos of him dancing with them, sending his eldest to prom, celebrating her graduation from high school, seeing how his face would light up every time he looked at them — I had the honor of being the recipient of that kind of fatherly love every day of my life for 35 years.

아빠 and Keith had the same vibrant energy, faith in humanity, and love for people. 아빠 always went out of his way to make people laugh, he always went out of his way to help others, and he was always full of joy. No one was a stranger to 아빠 either.

Keith was my neighbor. From 2012 to 2015, I lived in Los Angeles, too. I lived in Harbor City, I lived in Long Beach, and I worked in Torrance. I’ve been to that Toyota Headquarters where his family held his repast. I’ve been to Inglewood, Compton, and Palos Verdes. I love California. I love LA. It’s my second home.

Just like Haejoon is my world, Keith was his mother’s world. He called his mom “the person who loved him most in the world.” Tamara said, “She was a mother who was holding down her son. Keith believed in his best friend’s dreams because she believed in his dreams first.” For 43 years, she watched her baby come into this world, grow up, and learn how to exist in the world. She watched him become a toddler, a kid, a teenager, a man, and a father. She watched him have hopes, chase dreams, overcome obstacles, and achieve milestones. She watched her baby become a father. She did a million things throughout Keith’s 43 years of life to keep him safe and remind him that he was deeply loved. At an appearance before the Los Angeles City Council, Keith’s mom pled over and over again, “Please get justice for my child. Please get justice for my baby.”

After Keith died, his daughter Aniya shared her words with the public:

“My name is Aniya Porter. My father’s name was Keith Porter Junior. My father is dead. He was killed by an off-duty ICE agent. It was unjust. And I’ve seen things I don’t like, and I want to remind people that this is real life. This is my real life. This isn’t news. This isn’t an article I can just swipe away on. My dad is dead. Please respect him. Say his name. Fuck ICE. And black lives matter. Justice for Keith Porter Junior.”

Keith, we miss you.
Keith, we love you.
Keith, you should still be here.

We will keep fighting for your justice.
We will keep saying your name.
We will keep telling your story.
We will never forget you.

With love,
Jieun

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Alex Jeffrey Pretti, Minneapolis, Minnesota
Our son, our brother, our neighbor, our friend.
November 9, 1988 - January 24, 2026

Alex died on Saturday, January 24, 2026. He was 37 years old. He was the beloved son of his parents, Michael and Susan Pretti. He was a brother. He was a friend. He was a neighbor. He was a human being. He had a long, beautiful, adventurous life ahead of him.

Born in Illinois, Alex grew up in Green Bay, Wisconsin where he played football, baseball, and ran track for Preble High School. He was a Boy Scout and sang in the Green Bay Boy Choir. In 2006, he attended the University of Minnesota, and in 2011, he graduated with a bachelor’s degree in Biology, Society, and Environment. He lived in South Minneapolis and he was cherished by his family, friends, colleagues, patients, and community.

Alex wanted to make a difference in the world. He was the kind of person who put his life on the line to protect people in their most vulnerable moments. He had protested after the murder of George Floyd in 2020. He served as a Registered Nurse in the Intensive Care Unit at the Minneapolis Veterans Affairs Hospital, where he devoted his life to the care, protection, and recovery of veterans. His mother said, “I do not throw the term ‘hero’ around lightly. However, his last thought and act was to protect a woman.”

Alex loved people. He loved nature. He loved mountain biking. He loved his dog, Joule. His neighbors in South Minneapolis remember his as a quiet and helpful presence, always willing to lend a hand or ensure the safety of those around him.1

On Saturday, January 24, Alex was shot and killed by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents while he was protecting two women who were being physically assaulted by them. When these two women were shoved by ICE agents, and one had been shoved to the ground, Alex put himself in harm’s way to protect the women from further attacks by standing between the agents and filming them on his phone. Completely unprovoked, ICE agents sprayed pepper spray in his face, assaulted him to the ground, and shot him ten times in a period of five seconds.

Alex died while protecting human life and human dignity. Some of his final words before he was shot, were shared with the woman who was shoved to the ground: “Are you okay?” His name, “Alex,” means: “defender of the people.”

I never knew Alex in this life, but he was my friend. We lived parallel lives. I’m an only child, too. I’m 37 years old, too. We were born in the same year. We went to elementary school, middle school, high school, and college at the same times. I love singing, I love sports, I love nature, and I love people, too. I never met Alex in this life, but I saw him at the hospital with 아빠 every day. The nurses that took care of 아빠 at the hospital — protective, kind, caring, sacrificing — this was who Alex was. Alex wasn’t my son in this life, but he is my son. I love my son more fiercely than I have ever loved another human being, and I deeply desire to protect him from the perils of this world. I wasn’t the child of Alex’s parents in this life, but I am their child. I know how deeply my 엄마 and 아빠 love me, and I know how deeply they have loved me for the last 37 years of my life. As their only child, I am their world. Their only desire in this life is for me to be happy and safe.

I wonder why he wanted to work at the veteran’s hospital? I wonder why he wanted to work in the ICU? I wonder what drew him to the medical field? I wonder what his dreams were? I wonder what his hopes were for this year? I wonder what his hopes were for his life?

I have recently come to understand that courage is walking toward our fears with trembling hands. Courage cannot exist without fear — fear gives us something to face our courage towards. In the presence of armed, masked men terrorizing his neighbors in the streets of his city, Alex must have been scared. But with trembling hands, he stepped toward his fears and protected his neighbors, even though he knew he could die.

He met the relentless injustice of our world with his own relentless courage.

I will not forget the way he looked at the masked man straight in the eye, with unflinching conviction. The world desperately needs more people like him, and now, our world must continue without him.

Alex’s death is a massive injustice. He should still be here. He should still be breathing, smiling, laughing, and caring for the people he loved so deeply.

I am holding his parents in my heart. Right now, they are planning their only child’s funeral, they are preparing to bury their son, they are planning their final goodbyes, they are wondering how they will continue to endure in this life without him. How did they look at their son’s bullet-ridden, still body?

They are picking out his casket. They are deciding whether to cremate or embalm his body. They are deciding whether to do an open or closed casket for the funeral. They are deciding if they want to do a viewing and a service or just a funeral service. They are deciding on the order of events for his funeral. They are deciding where to hold his funeral. They are deciding what to put on the funeral pamphlet. They are writing a eulogy. They are picking out an outfit for him. They are picking out a cemetery for him. They are picking out a burial location for him. They are deciding what to write on his tombstone.

Planning a funeral for 아빠 right after he died is one of the most insane things I’ve ever done in my life. It’s like planning a party at the height of your grief. Alex’s death was a sudden death and a public execution. Parents are not supposed to bury their children. It was not supposed to be this way.

They will carry this immense grief for the rest of their lives. How will they survive this devastating loss?

Alex, we miss you.
Alex, we love you.
Alex, we will not forget you.

May we, as a community of human beings, continue to fulfill Alex’s legacy of fiercely protecting human life and human dignity. May we keep him alive in our memories, in our spirits, and in our daily acts of our lives.

With love,
Jieun

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I’ve been writing letters to 아빠 since he died.

It was a way for me to talk to him.
It was a way for me to feel connected to him.
It was a way for me to remember him.
It was a way for me to grieve.
It was a way for me to keep him alive.
It was a way for me to keep myself alive.

This is my seventh letter to 아빠, after two years in the sky. I wrote it in September. I translated the letter into English below the original letter.

Thank you for being a witness.

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On Sunday, November 30, 2025, my friend Zach Hyunhee Han, 한현희, left this world. He fought a 2-year, 10-month battle with stage 4 cholangiocarcinoma, bile duct cancer. He was only 35 years old.

I met Zach through Instagram when 아빠 was dying, in July 2023. He had been battling stage 4 bile duct cancer since February of that same year, and he found my family’s story through mutual friends. He shared our family’s story with his community, he donated to our family’s gofundme, and he asked his community to support us.

This is how we became friends.

Zach and I must have met when I visited Syracuse in December 2012, when I was on tour working for Liberty in North Korea as a Nomad — a traveling representative for the organization. I met his two best friends, Josh and JJ, and in 2013, they flew to California to work as Nomads for the organization. I was their manager.

10 years later, I was connecting with Zach through cancer.

I asked him how he found out about his cancer, and he told me he had eaten 계장 one day, had severe gas build-up and abdominal pain, and that’s what led him to discover that he had cancer. The cancer was in his liver and his lymph nodes. Bile duct cancer is usually only discovered in its late and final stages.

Zach was battling stage 4 cancer at 32 years old.

He told me he might have found it sooner if he had had health insurance. He hadn’t been covered since 2014. I hate America.

“The perks of being a freelance artist,” he said sarcastically. He also said, “At least the 계장 was good.” Zach was funny.

When I told him I was in a band with Greg, he told me, before film and photography, his first passion was trumpet.

He told me he lived in Jackson Heights for most of his life, but he wanted to leave New York — MTA raises their fares, beta facial recognition, rent is going up, everyone is angry. He wanted to be a 산남자. I wonder if he ever watched the show, “나는 자연인이다.” It’s a show about Korean men living by themselves in the wilderness of Korea. 아빠 loved that show. I wish Zach could’ve had the chance to live out his 산남자 era.

Zach and I connected through cancer, but with the 인연 that had already been woven into our relationship — through LiNK, through Josh and JJ, through artistry, through New York — it felt like we were already friends.

He felt like a 동생 to me — the way Josh and JJ did, the way a lot of Koreans feel to me. He felt familiar. He felt like family.

He told me about his cancer journey. He was receiving treatment at Memorial Sloan Kettering. He had just undergone multiple rounds of chemotherapy, and the next steps were immunotherapy. I asked him if he had done any radiation, and he told me that bile duct cancer usually doesn’t respond well to radiation, so he wanted to avoid it, if possible. I felt devastated at the reality that his life had taken such a sharp turn, when the lives of his friends got to continue forward without the bouldering burden of cancer.

You’re not supposed to have cancer at 32.
You’re not supposed to undergo multiple rounds of chemotherapy at 32.
You’re not supposed to think about the end of your life at 32.

After 아빠 died, we stayed connected. On treatment days, I would check on him. How did treatment go? How did he feel?

He got a black cat named Neo. He did kettlebells to stay strong during treatment cycles.

He took photos. He worked on films. He released his first short film, Piano Practice, which was beautiful, honest, and brilliant. It was the first of three films he was planning on making about 한, the felt and unspoken experience of grief, anger, sadness, and resentment, felt by all Korean people. The Han trilogy. He never got to make his two other films. I’ll never get to see them.

He visited Maine. He visited Los Angeles, where Josh and JJ live.

When I saw that he had gone to Maine and was eating lobster rolls and whoopie pies with his friends, I told him I was happy to see him enjoying his life. He said, “I don’t intend on wasting whatever amount of time I have left.”

He went golfing. He told me about Alley Pond in Douglaston, Long Island. Because of Zach, I went golfing there twice — on my first Father’s Day without 아빠, and on 아빠’s 65th birthday.

He went to Mets games. He went to Knicks games.

He almost took our family photos when I was pregnant, but I never ended up taking maternity photos because I was overwhelmed by life, pregnancy, and grief.

He once told me, “I think kimbap should be the only thing allowed to be marked up like crazy. The amount of labor to make the vegetables… The tediousness of making the eggs and then slicing them.” I responded, “And to think about how much kimbap our moms made for us.” He wholeheartedly agreed.

I wish I had had more capacity and time during our friendship. We became friends when both of our lives were so concentrated. We became friends when 아빠 was dying, when 아빠 died, when I was pregnant, and when I became a mother. We became friends when he was battling terminal cancer.

We tried to meet up so many times.

April, May, and June 2024. One of my last messages to Zach was, “Wishing you a gentle new year, Zach. Let’s meet up in 2025!!” The last time I talked to Zach was in April.

On Monday, November 24, I found out through Josh and JJ that Zach’s cancer had worsened. He only had one treatment option left — a histotripsy, which is a liver treatment that uses focused ultrasound to destroy liver tumors. He had found the best doctor for this treatment in California, but it would not be covered by health insurance. It would cost $50,000, just for the treatment. I hate America.

His community rallied around him and raised $62,000.

I wanted to meet up with him last week — the week we were leaving New York, the week I found out his cancer had worsened.

He wasn’t able to receive the treatment.
We never got to meet.
I am devastated by this reality.

I found out Zach died on Monday morning, December 1.
He had died the previous night, Sunday, November 30, at 6:13 pm.

We moved out of our apartment in New York and drove down to Virginia on Saturday. We unloaded all of our things into 엄마’s house on Sunday. I found out Zach died on Monday.

I hate how death makes us feel so much regret.

I regret not picking a date on the calendar and driving to Jackson Heights to meet up with Zach. I regret not getting our family photos taken by him. I regret not asking him if I could go to Sloan Kettering and sit with him through a chemo treatment cycle. I regret not going to Day 2 of Asian Creative Festival so we could finally meet. I regret not asking him if he wanted to meet up at Alley Pond and hit balls together. I regret not taking him out to eat 삼겹살 together.

Zach’s funeral was on Thursday.
He was buried on Friday.

I wasn’t able to go to New York to attend Zach’s funeral, but his family and the funeral home provided a livestream for loved ones to attend virtually.

I attended Zach’s funeral virtually. It was a viewing, so I could see him lying in a casket at the front of the room, which broke me. I saw his 엄마, his 동생 Danica, his 아빠. I saw Josh and JJ, and two other friends share hilarious, heartfelt stories about Zach through laughter, tears, and devastation. I saw Zach’s piano teacher who shared that, after watching Piano Practice, she asked him if she had traumatized him in their lessons (she hadn’t). Everyone laughed.

More than 200 people attended Zach’s funeral. At the end of the funeral, I saw them all walk up to Zach to say their final goodbyes, and offer their condolences to his family.

I have never seen so many people at someone’s funeral.
I have never seen so many young people at someone’s funeral.
I have never heard so much crying at someone’s funeral.
I have never heard so much laughing at someone’s funeral.

I learned so much about Zach.

He had two, very large 점s on his left arm, and he would randomly slap them, pretending they were flies. In college, he went on a brown rice and chicken diet to lose weight, which was unsuccessful. His friends would try to get him to break his diet all the time by ordering a bunch of chicken wings late at night. He had so many unofficial roommates. He had been playing piano since he was a little kid. He and his family were still very close to his piano teacher.

Zach’s best friend Danny shared a story about the time he got his wisdom teeth removed. He forgot to ask someone to pick him up after his surgery, so when he thought about who to call, the first person he called was Zach. Zach picked up the phone, picked Danny up, took him to get his prescription, hung out with him for a couple hours, made sure he was okay, and drove him home.

“They say you are the average of the five people you spend the most time with. Zach is a ginormous piece of that.”

Another one of Zach’s best friends said one of Zach’s favorite movies was Soul. It’s a movie about a middle school teacher who is an aspiring jazz musician who falls into a coma and seeks to reunite his separated soul and body. The main character of the movie is actually based on Zach’s actual middle school band teacher from MS 74, Dr. Peter Archer.

“The very last line of that movie, the main character gets a second chance at life and is asked by someone, ‘So what do you think you’ll do? How are you going to spend your life?’ He pauses and thinks about it and says, ‘I’m going to live every minute of it.’ And in that moment, I understood why that was one of Zach’s favorite movies.”

“It’s not fair that Zach’s parents have to bury their son. It’s not fair that Danica lost her older brother. And it’s not fair that all of us lost a dear friend, and I lost my best friend.”

“They don’t make them like Zach anymore.”

He was the best 오빠.

His 아빠 felt guilty about being an absent father.

His 엄마 wore a white double 상주 around her left arm and a white cloth pin in her hair. In Korean tradition, the oldest son wears a double 상주 for his deceased parents. There is no tradition for what to wear for your child’s funeral because you are supposed to die before your child.

What do you wear at your child’s funeral?
How do you bury your son?

Watching his 엄마 embrace and be embraced by everyone who attended the funeral, I could see how much love she must have poured into Zach throughout his 35 years of life. Zach was the generous, kind, courageous person that he was because he was his 엄마’s son.

I never got to ask Zach about his relationship with his name. His YouTube handle was: jeckoryhan, which I discovered after he died. His 아빠, his piano teacher, and I’m sure every Korean-Korean person he met, called him 재커리. His 엄마 and 아빠 called him 현희. “현희야, 현희야.” His friends called him Zach. How did he choose Zach? When did he choose Zach? What was his relationship with 현희? Who does he feel like as 현희? Who does he feel like as Zach?

What were his fears? What were his dreams? What were his prides? What were his regrets?

I want to ask him so many things.

I will never forget Zach’s kindness.
I will never forget Zach’s generosity.
I will never forget Zach’s humor.
I will never forget Zach’s impact on my life.

On Monday, when I was scrolling through Zach’s Instagram, I came across this hilarious video he made with his friends in college: “Exploring the Josh Lee: Part 2 (2010).” He was standing outside of Josh’s dorm room with JJ and another friend, James Choi, and they were filming a National-Geographic-style film about finding a "Josh Lee” in the wild. JJ, in his very terrible Australian accent, was pretending to be a Josh Lee explorer.

“You have to be very careful! You need food, you need bait, to lure him in. Today, we don’t have any brownies unfortunately, but we do have a substitute that I think will suffice — we have a slim jim! We’re going to try and provoke the Joshua Lee and see if we can get a response. We’re going to wake him up and see if we can get him to eat something called: DINING HALL FOOD!”

Zach and JJ quietly walked into Josh’s room — it was really messy. They had neon green night vision light on in the room because it was nighttime and Josh was asleep. JJ continues narrating, unwraps the slim jim, and slowly sticks the slim jim into Josh’s mouth to wake him up. When Josh wakes up and realizes all of these people are in his room, he screams, JJ screams, and Zach and JJ run out of the room cackling. You can’t watch the video without laughing.

Zach was so damn talented. Zach was so damn funny.

One of the last things Zach said to me was, “Life comes at us fast. That’s why we have to make the most of it.” “I always try to remind myself my struggles and pains will build up my character.”

Zach is giving me the courage to create art again, to share my art again, to put myself out there again, to live again.

Zach is giving me the courage to do the things I want to do in this one, precious life I have, so I don’t have to carry as many regrets in this life.

I’m sorry we never got to meet in person.
Thank you for being my friend.
You should still be here.
I miss you.
We all miss you.

With love,
Jieun

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Hi friends,

Today marks two years without 아빠.

On Tuesday, September 26, 2023, at 2:38 am, during the earliest hours of the day, 아빠 took his final breath and departed from this world.

Two years ago, I had no idea how I would survive.
Two years later, we are still here.
We are still grieving, still living, still weeping, still yearning.
We are still here.
살면 살아진…

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Her name was Christina Yuna Lee. Her name was 이유나.

She died on Sunday, February 13, 2022. She was a Korean American woman. She was 35 years old.

She was a New Jersey native. She was a New Yorker. She was a Chinatown resident. She was a Rutgers University graduate. She was a Senior Creative Producer at Splice.

She was a daughter. She was a sister. She was a friend.

Yuna was beloved. She was bright. She was brilliant. She was artistic. She was creative. She had a way of making everyone she met feel seen and heard. She was the type of person everyone wanted to be friends with. Her friends described her as irreplaceable.

Here are a few stories that her friends from Splice shared. May we read these stories and remember the irreplaceable Christina Yuna Lee.

My sincerest thanks to Kenneth Takanami, Katie Smith, Matt Block, and Jordan Welner. Thank you for allowing me to share your stories.

Christina Yuna Lee forever. 우리 영원한 이유나. 🤍

Kenneth Takanami, Splice

“Christina and I were fast friends. On her second week or so at Splice, we met around the corner of her new apartment to get coffee at Sunday to Sunday. She was excited about having her own place to listen to vinyl records, bu longed for our (then) closed office to reopen, so she could be around people again.

Christina started at Splice around the same time as the Asian hate crime shootings in Atlanta. It was an emotional and gutting introduction. We met on a call with the other Asians in our work community to support one another. Afterwards, I reached out to her and we talked about how we could galvanize this moment to do some really important work at Splice.

We bonded over a shared mission for a more inclusive creator space, among many other things. She hoped to start conversations around diversity and opportunities for creators of all backgrounds at our company. She formed the Art Appropriation Council after many hours of discussion about the place of Asians in the music community and how we, in our small little corner of the industry, could combat racism and appropriation.

After the Atlanta attacks, we and the other Asians at Splice formed a channel to support one another. The thought of folks we didn't know being senselessly murdred struck us all deeply. We had long conversations about how we could continue to be there for our Splice community. The last and most recent message in this channel was Christina wishing us all a happy Lunar New Year.

There is not much else to say. Christina was an irreplaceable presence. Hearbroken or devastated doesn't begin to cover it. "Now what?" is the question that keeps ringing — what do we do as a community? What could we have done differently? There are no answers. Just endless questions.

Life is fragile. Amidst all the headlines and takes and posts, don't lose sight of the human loss at the center of all of this. Hold tight those you love.

Christina forever. My thoughts to her family and many loved ones.”

Katie Smith, Splice

“Christina and I met through work (Splice) in March 2021 and I knew we’d become fast friends, or should I say more accurately, I wanted to become fast friends. Sitting in front of me was a kind, smart, cool, beautiful person… who wouldn’t want to be friends with her? And luckily, we became just that, having so much in common around our interests and how we see the world and we were both single gals in the city who loved to go out on the town and all that fun stuff. We just really bonded.

But the important point in all of that is I know it’s not unique to me. I know I’m one of countless people in the world who had that exact same experience with her. Maybe you’re not a single gal in the city, but you connected with her in a real way right off the bat because Christina made you feel heard and accepted and warm. What a special person, to have those abilities, to be so generous of spirit that you constantly make the people around you feel good.

Years ago a friend told me about this idea, that everyone’s personality and core has a different color light attached to it—pink, purple, blue, green, etc. and as you move through the world, you bond with certain people based on these colored lights, whether they’re the same or complementary colors, etc. and that there are a few special people out there that simply contain the whole spectrum of visible light—they bond with all the colors and brightly reflect all colors back.

I truly believe that Christina was one of those special reflective lights and all who knew her are so much brighter for it.”

Matt Block, Splice

“From the first time that we met about a year ago, the qualities that instantly stood out about Christina were how genuine, selfless and passionate she was. That is how I will always remember her.

Christina's dedication to empowering the 30+ producers on our team and the hundreds of sample creators and musicians worldwide evolved the way that we release packs on Splice. She was committed to amplifying creators' stories and fostering intentional representation for the communities with whom we work. This rang true from planning new sample labels to triple checking an email address to ensure that every creators' voice was heard as part of a pack story she was working on. No detail was too small.

When I met Christina for the first time in person last Fall, it felt like we had been friends for 10 years. When I asked her for visual artist recommendations for the album with my grandfather (with a very vague description) she hit me back in 10 minutes with a fully fledged pinterest board of ideas titled "Block Grandpa" so that she could better understand who might be a good fit. This was just the kind of person she was.

There really aren't any words to capture how unbelievably tragic, senseless and horrific this loss is. There is a saying, though, that I've held dear for over a decade: In Remembrance There is Life. I know that everyone who was fortunate enough to cross paths with Christina will continue to carry her light forward and honor her memory.

Rest in peace, Christina Yuna Lee, may your memory be a blessing.”

Jordan Welner, Splice

In fall of last year, I decided it was time to escape my apartment and give Splice’s recently opened Manhattan work space a chance. It was a Tuesday and although I didn't expect a crowd, I was surprised to find only one person tucked away in the back of the office. I was familiar with Christina but only as a friendly face on occasional zoom calls. We exchanged casual hellos and I took a seat nearby.

As I began unpacking my things Christina perked up asking "Is that On The Road!?" I was a little embarrassed to be reading Kerouac’s quintessential hipster bible but felt immediately at ease in conversation with Christina who excitedly shared that she had read it for the first time a year prior and how it sort of fueled her fascination with the city. We went on for at least 30 minutes talking about books and sharing recommendations and I knew right away that I was making a very special friend.

I was completely swept up in Christina's sincere curiosity and kindness. I was inspired by her confidence and openness especially given we'd never met in person. She then insisted on giving me a tour of the office, showing me were I could find all the snacks and other nicknacks.

After that day, we continued to text, share books and met up on a few occasions for drinks with friends. More recently, I asked her if she'd be interested in joining a small book club with some friends of mine, which she enthusiastically accepted. I was SO excited to be making friends with Christina. I got a strong feeling that this is the type of friend that will help me become a better person. I saw characteristics in Christina that I wanted to adapt myself and reflect to others. I'm so grateful for these memories and will never forget you Christina <3

---

With love,
Jieun

Note: This blog post was originally written and published on February 19, 2022.

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His name was Vicha Ratanapakdee.

He died on Saturday, January 30, 2021.

He was a Thai American man. He was an immigrant. He was 84 years old.

He was a son. He was a grandfather. He was a father. He was a husband. He was a brother. He was an uncle. He was a cousin. He was a friend.

He had a wife. He had two daughters. He had seven brothers and sisters.

His wife’s name is Jintana. His daughters’ names are Monthanus and Pasama. His two grandsons’ names are Titus and Troy. His only living brother’s name is Surachai.

Vicha was affectionately known in his neighborhood in San Francisco as "Grandpa." He is affectionately known by the world as "Grandpa Vicha."

On the morning of Thursday, January 28, 2021, at 8:28 am, 84-year-old Grandpa Vicha was tackled to the ground at full speed, by a 19-year-old man named Antoine Watson.

As Vicha left his house to go on his daily morning walk, in his quiet neighborhood of Anza Vista in San Francisco, Antoine was sitting in his car with his girlfriend. When Antoine saw Vicha walking down Anzavista Avenue, he got out of his car, sprinted across the street, and violently slammed Vicha into the ground.

When Vicha's frail body hit the pavement, his head jerked upwards, and his head and body slammed into a garage door. A police officer eventually found Vicha lying in the street and rushed him to the hospital.

Vicha never regained consciousness. Two days after the brutal attack, he died from a brain hemorrhage.

Vicha died at 6:07 am at San Francisco General Hospital.

Vicha was short, thin, and nearly blind. He stood at 5 feet 6 inches and weighed 113 pounds. Nine months prior to the attack, Vicha had successfully undergone heart surgery. His doctor told him to walk every day for exercise.

Once it was safe for him to travel again, Vicha was planning on returning to Thailand — to eat his favorite southern Thai foods, and to see his youngest daughter, extended family, and friends.

---

Vicha was born on Saturday, December 5, 1936, in Thailand. He was one of eight children.

As a child, Vicha was very studious. He was one of the only people in his village who could speak English fluently. He was always curious about the world outside of his family's farm in Thailand.

Vicha studied at Thammasat University in Bangkok, one of Thailand’s most prestigious institutions. He went on to work as an auditor at Kasikornbank, one of Thailand’s largest financial institutions.

Vicha got married to his wife Jintana in 1970. He retired in 1996.

Five years ago, in 2017, Vicha and his wife traveled to San Francisco to live with their eldest daughter, Monthanus Ratanapakdee, and their son-in-law, Eric Lawson, to help take care of their two grandsons, Titus and Troy. During that time, he became known as "Grandpa" throughout their neighborhood, where he made it his daily practice to go on morning walks every day.

Vicha was a devoted Buddhist. He loved tennis, golf, and music. He loved to travel the world.

Vicha's daughter said she will always remember her father as a gentle soul.

Vicha was his daughter's everything. He was her closest confidante. If she had something on her mind, she could always ask him for advice. He was the stable and calming presence in their family.

He was the nicest and kindest man.

Following Vicha's death, his daughter said: “My mother is suffering so much. She speaks to him, holding his picture, while praying. She suffers deeply from losing my father. It has also affected her health."

Vicha's family scattered his ashes in the Pacific Ocean near the Golden Gate Bridge. Vicha’s funeral was conducted by Thai monks at a Buddhist temple.

Remember Grandpa Vicha.

With love,
Jieun

Note: This blog post was originally written and published on January 30, 2022.

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Her name was Michelle Alyssa Go.

She died on Saturday, January 15, 2022.

She was a Chinese American woman. She was 40 years old.

She was a Californian. She was a New Yorker. She was a neighbor. She was a sister. She was a daughter. She was a friend.

On December 29, 2021, she celebrated her 40th birthday and rang in the new year with her friends in the Maldives.

On the morning of Saturday, January 15, 2022, at 9:40 am, Michelle Alyssa Go was pushed in front of an oncoming subway train at Times Square while she was waiting for her train to arrive. As a southbound R train was approaching the subway station, a 61-year-old man ran towards her on the platform, with his arms outstretched in front of him, and tackled her onto the tracks. She died at the scene.

Michelle was born on Tuesday, December 29, 1981, to Justin and Marjorie Go, in Berkeley, California. She grew up with her parents and her brother Jefferey in Fremont, California, in the East Bay area, southeast of San Francisco.

In 1998, Michelle graduated from American High School, where she was a cheerleader and a member of the Honor Society. In 2002, she graduated from UCLA with a degree in Economics and Public Policy. During her years at UCLA, she was a member of the Alpha Iota chapter of the Gamma Phi Beta sorority. A few years after graduating from UCLA, she moved to New York and attended the NYU Stern School of Business. In 2010, she graduated and received her MBA in Finance. For the last four years, she worked as a Senior Manager in mergers and acquisitions at Deloitte Consulting. Prior to her time at Deloitte, she worked at several other companies, including Citibank and Barclays Capital.

Michelle volunteered for the New York Junior League for 10 years — an organization committed to promoting volunteerism, developing the potential of women, and improving communities through the effective action and leadership of trained volunteers. She coached women and children on nutrition with the goal of stabilizing at-risk families struggling with homelessness. She helped prepare job candidates for interviews, helped them fine-tune their résumés, and offered them advice on their personal finances.

Michelle lived on the Upper West Side. She renewed her lease during the pandemic instead of leaving the city. She was committed to the city that she considered home.

She rode the subway regularly to meet up with friends and take spin classes in Tribeca. She had two neighbors named Olivia Henderson and Hannah Epstein. She regularly took care of Olivia's cat, Mimi. She loved to travel, and in different circumstances, she might have left the city over a three-day holiday weekend.

She was known in her apartment building for her big smile and her generosity. She was a natural leader. She was friendly. She was reliable, dependable, and fun. She was vibrant and full of energy. She was gentle and mild-mannered. She was kind and intelligent. She was remembered by her doorman for her kindness.

She was wonderful.

These were the words that were used to describe Michelle, by the many people who had the privilege of knowing her.

The Vigil of Michelle Alyssa Go

On Tuesday, January 18, three days after her tragic death, a candlelight vigil was held in honor of Michelle Alyssa Go, at the Red Steps of Times Square. The organization that put Michelle’s vigil together was Asians Fighting Injustice, a grassroots nonprofit dedicated to uniting the AAPI community in fighting against systemic injustice and hate, and reducing Asian hate crimes in our local communities. In frigid January temperatures, hundreds of people gathered in the middle of Times Square to honor Michelle’s life, grieve her death, and call upon our political leaders to take action.

Michelle’s face was displayed in bright lights on a giant billboard in the middle of Times Square. Along with her face, were the faces of numerous Asian Americans who had also been the victims of anti-Asian hate over the last two years — 84-year-old Vicha Ratanapakdee, 75-year-old Pak Ho, 61-year-old Noel Quintana, 75-year-old Younghee Choe, and 74-year-old Juanito Falcon. These illustrations were all done by artist and activist, Jonathan Chang, who has been illustrating the faces of anti-Asian hate victims throughout the pandemic.

There were many speakers throughout Michelle’s vigil, but the best ones, by far, were Michelle's friends: Kim Garnett, Jae McGuire, Rakesh Duggal, and Urja Ohja (through Perry Yung).

Michelle’s friends choked back tears as they recounted memories of their beautiful, vibrant friend. Kim talked about how Michelle would have been mortified to know that she was getting all of this attention, with a massive billboard of her face in the middle of Times Square. She said Michelle was incredibly dedicated to her family. Rakesh said Michelle was a glass-ceiling breaker — nothing was too big for her. She always wanted to do the most challenging things. He said they had gone on at least 12 trips together. Urja said Michelle made sure she was okay on a work flight they took together because Michelle knew she was afraid of flying. She thinks of Michelle almost every time she’s on a flight. They all said she was incredibly brilliant, and the greatest friend that anyone could ever have.

Kim said she can't bring herself to refer to Michelle in the past tense yet. They were pandemic buddies. They went on walks around the neighborhood together. They ate dinner outside in the freezing cold together. They took SoulCycle classes together. She said Michelle loved New York, and they had both agreed that there was no place they'd rather be during the pandemic than New York City. The two of them had recently gotten season passes to Disney World together, but they had only used them once. She said Michelle would've been extremely disappointed to know that she wasn't able to use her season pass as much as she had planned.

Kim said she had just talked to Michelle the day before she died, on Friday, about something totally normal and mundane — New York weather.

It was a beautiful vigil. Volunteers passed out white roses and candles. Attendees held up signs. Broadway performer and songwriter Janet Noh performed her original song, “There’s a Place,” from her new musical, “Off the Boat.” Poet and music teacher Alice Tsui performed an incredibly powerful poem called, “We Are Golden” — reminding us to shine bright, because we are golden.

Last year, I received a letter in the mail from Korean American writer and poet E.J. Koh. It read, “It’s a joy to meet you. My grandmother told me all Kohs, ever distantly, are related. I hope you feel a bit of home in this letter.” Go is another transliteration of the family name Ko, Koh, or Goh.

While I never knew Michelle, she feels as familiar as a friend. We’re both Asian American women. We both live in New York City. We were both members of the Gamma Phi Beta sorority. And we share a family name. We are, ever distantly, related.

We are Asian American sisters. We are New York City sisters. We are sorority sisters. We are family name sisters.

We are sisters.

I wonder where she was going that morning. I wish she could’ve somehow, miraculously survived. I wish she had left the city for the weekend. I wish she had been running late that morning and skipped whatever plans she had made. I wish she had decided to take a taxi instead. This was not supposed to happen to her.

It would have been a joy to meet her.

As the days, weeks, and months pass, do not forget Michelle.

Remember Michelle Alyssa Go. Remember her face. Remember her name. Remember her story.

Michelle — I am so sorry. May you rest, in all your golden power and glory.

With love,
Jieun

Note: This blog post was originally written and published on January 17, 2022.

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