'A sad and glorious history':
One of NYC's last Chinese hand laundries closes

Robert Lee recalls success and racism. He starched the city's shirts through it all — but was forced to shut down because of Covid-19.

Robert Lee inside Sun's Laundry, his business of 61 years on the Lower East Side of New York City. (Sheldon Chau / Leap Man Productions)

Robert Lee inside Sun's Laundry, his business of 61 years on the Lower East Side of New York City. (Sheldon Chau / Leap Man Productions)

By Hanna Park
Oct. 9, 2020

For more than half a century, residents of Manhattan's East Village neighborhood would pick up their freshly starched shirts in flimsy plastic bags from Sun's Laundry. The store's red vintage sign, silver countertop bell, Chinese and Westernized calendars, bright customer tickets and over-the-counter conversations served as relics of a bygone era. 

Now, the shop sits desolate after having closed at the end of August, following decades during which the Sun family spent their days washing clothes in mixed starch and water, then taking an electric stainless steel iron to the garments to present their customers with crisp, pressed shirts. At night, they retreated to their two-bedroom apartment unit above the store. 

The Chinese hand laundry store — known for packaging the final product in traditional brown paper and twine — was one of the last in Manhattan, and it had been operating as a family business since 1959, with Robert S. Lee, 84, at the helm. He opened it with his father, Lee Dow Sun, after whom it's named. During the 1930s, Sun also owned a laundry in Boston, where Lee had first immigrated searching for opportunity. 

Robert Lee, left, sending off his cousins from Hong Kong to the U.S. in 1955. (Courtesy Robert Gee)

Robert Lee, left, sending off his cousins from Hong Kong to the U.S. in 1955. (Courtesy Robert Gee)

Robert Lee's first departure from Hong Kong to Boston in April 1957, with his brother-in-law’s mother, Gam How Gee, left, and Wai Lee Hom. (Courtesy Robert Gee)

Robert Lee's first departure from Hong Kong to Boston in April 1957, with his brother-in-law’s mother, Gam How Gee, left, and Wai Lee Hom. (Courtesy Robert Gee)

With waning clientele as the Covid-19 pandemic hit, Lee couldn't afford to put money into his business anymore. It closed Aug. 29. 

"If I had my way, I'd still be working," said Lee, whose given name in Chinese is Li Hong Sen, meaning "prosperous life."

Like many other first-generation Chinese immigrants, Lee resorted to the hand laundry business to earn a better living. Lee, born in the agricultural village of Toisan, China, had fled to Hong Kong by himself in 1951 amid the growing influence of the Chinese Communist Party before arriving in America. He says his mother, Lee Suet Fong, had been tortured by the Japanese with forced labor before she joined Lee in Hong Kong three years later, and his father, the first to arrive in the U.S., had sent thousands of dollars to build a home for the family in Toisan.

“It was a difficult trade, and I wanted to help out my parents in every way possible,” Lee said in his native Toisanese, according to his nephew Robert Gee, who provided a translation of the Chinese dialect. “In the early 1900s, the business model was to send Chinese men to the U.S. to work and support families in China. Given the uprising of the communist rule in 1949, we had no choice but to stay in the U.S. and make the best of life in a new country. Life in America was better than in China with modern facilities versus living in the farmland.” 

Lee said that in the booming days of businesswear in the early 1960s to the 1990s, he would process over 100 business shirts a day. As work clothing became more casual in the 2000s, he would sort just under 40 shirts a day.

According to the Partnership for New York City, an estimated one-third of local small businesses in the city, or about 77,000, will close permanently because of the coronavirus, with closings disproportionately harming immigrant communities. While Gov. Andrew Cuomo deemed laundromats to be essential businesses, many, like Sun's Laundry, closed temporarily to curb the spread of the virus.

Robert Lee, center, and Wai Hing Lee pose at their wedding in 1962 with his sister Wai Lee Hom, left, and brother-in-law, William Hom, and their two boys. (Courtesy Robert Gee)

Robert Lee, center, and Wai Hing Lee pose at their wedding in 1962 with his sister Wai Lee Hom, left, and brother-in-law, William Hom, and their two boys. (Courtesy Robert Gee)

Sun's Laundry, which he operated with his wife, Wai Hing Lee, 76, was the last of five laundry businesses within his extended family, and it was an emblem of the role the industry served in the U.S.

"It helped make America's lifestyle convenient and made them look good," said Gee, whose grandfather had also owned a Chinese hand laundry business in Manhattan. "People would give laundrymen soiled underwear, and you'll receive the result of beautiful clothes. Nobody wanted these jobs. Yet, the Chinese folks had to make a living."

"Nobody wanted these jobs. Yet, the Chinese folks had to make a living."
Robert Gee

As an influx of Chinese immigrants escaping economic and political upheaval in the mid-1800s sought refuge in the U.S., many men scrambled for fortunes in the California Gold Rush and found work as laborers. Later, many of them started working on the Transcontinental Railroad, which would link the U.S. from east to west. 

"The Chinese man's vision of America was 'The Gold Mountain,'" Gee said, explaining what the country represented to the early Chinese immigrants during the Gold Rush of 1849. "But after there was no more gold, [white Americans] said, 'Let's make the Chinamen build the Pacific Railroad for us.'"

However, widespread unemployment after the Gold Rush led to a spike in anti-Chinese sentiments. As the U.S. enacted the Page Law of 1875, barring Chinese women from entry, followed by the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, which banned the entire Chinese population — including men — from immigrating based on their ethnic origin.

Restricted from owning property and barred from "masculine" trades in organized labor and in tobacco, shoe and woolen goods manufacturing, Chinese men were forced to take on more "feminized" jobs as cooks, laundrymen and domestic servants.

Robert Lee wrapping laundry in the classic brown butcher’s paper tied with string.  (Sheldon Chau / Leap Man Productions)

Robert Lee wrapping laundry in the classic brown butcher’s paper tied with string.  (Sheldon Chau / Leap Man Productions)

"Washing clothes was not considered men's work. No men wanted to do the laundry, so the Chinese men took over the industry," said Justin Yu, president of the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association, a representative organization.     

“[Due to] the lack of education and discrimination towards Chinese immigrants, there were not many opportunities,” Lee said. “The careers offered were mainly blue-collar opportunities. It was very seldom that a Chinese immigrant had the opportunity to become a white-collar worker.”                                 

To meet the demand for clean clothes, many white miners had paid "relatively high prices" to Native American or Mexican women to wash their clothes. However, the Chinese men began to replace those women as early as the mid-1800s because of the shortage of Chinese women.

Wu said the Chinese population was still scapegoated for stealing the jobs of white Americans. 

"They got upset that the Chinese hand laundries dominated every corner of the streets ... from the East Side, West Side, downtown, uptown, Bronx and Brooklyn. Even when we were limited in job opportunities, we still faced people's jealousy. So they decided to force us out again," he said.

Sun’s Laundry that now sits desolate on 626 East 14th Street. (Hanna Park)

Sun’s Laundry that now sits desolate on 626 East 14th Street. (Hanna Park)

In 1933, the New York City Council passed a law prompted by white laundry workers who were enraged by the lower prices their Chinese competitors charged. At a time when there were 5,000 Chinese laundry establishments in the city, the ordinance required all laundries to be run by U.S. citizens, to hire fewer than six employees and to pay $1,000 security bonds. The Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association and the Chinese Hand Laundry Alliance — a labor union — fought back and hired a Polish Jewish lawyer, Julius Bezozo, who went before an African American judge, who lowered the bond to $100.

Far from being delicate, the process of hand laundering was taxing, requiring both outside contractors to dry clean and wet wash the clothes and owners to individually starch and then smooth the cotton shirts and beddings with 6-pound irons in air conditioner-less 90-degree weather.

"When you see baseball players, they step into their batter's spot and dig out a hole. Think of a laundryman standing there eight to 10 hours a day, for an excellent number of years. If you went to Mr. Lee's laundromat, you would see holes on the floor," Gee said. "The laundryman is there for so long that they know exactly what's the best spot to stand, because that's how they're efficient to iron your shirts."

Gee said he was meticulous in his presentation. "They're all stacked on top of each other, as if you went to Bloomingdale's or Saks. He wraps it up in butcher's paper tied with twine and puts C-120's ticket on top of the bag."

"The companies then send the clothes back in a pouch, and he would make sure it's all nicely pressed, touched up, then places all the five shirts back together for say, ticket C-120," Gee said. "They're all stacked on top of each other as if you went to Bloomingdale's or Saks. He wraps it up in butcher's paper tied with twine and puts C-120's ticket on top of the bag."

By clocking in 12 hours a day, six days a week, to support his family, Lee was able to put his children, Jane and Edward, through city colleges. During the golden years in the 1980s to the 1990s, Gee said, his uncle earned roughly $2,000 to $3,000 a month.

Lee claims to have maintained the lowest prices, starting at 19 cents to clean a shirt in 1959 and $1.20 in 2020, while competitors usually charged $1.80 to $2.50.

The brown paper and white strings resemble a packaged present, a characteristic of Chinese hand laundries. (Courtesy Robert Gee)

The brown paper and white strings resemble a packaged present, a characteristic of Chinese hand laundries. (Courtesy Robert Gee)

Stacks of laundry tickets to keep track of customers' orders. (Courtesy Robert Gee)

Stacks of laundry tickets to keep track of customers' orders. (Courtesy Robert Gee)

However, the shifts in consumer habits to automated drying machines in the 1970s to polyesters and wrinkle-free products in the 1980s to casual wear in the 20th century had slowly caused hand laundry businesses to falter. But Lee never considered automating his business model.   

Still, Lee and his family were able to buy a two-story house in Elmhurst, Queens, with their added savings from selling their laundry business in Boston. They had purchased Sun's Laundry for $4,300 and secured a 99-year lease, with rent starting at $100 a month in 1959, which steadily rose to $800 from 2008 onward.

Gee, whose family had also been in the laundry industry, said owning a house was a luxury. "Many times, your house and business were all in one. There was maybe a little room in the back where the laundry was. That was true for the case of my parents and my aunt," he said.  

Robert Lee, right, with Lee Dow Sun and Lee Suet Fong at a family gathering in Boston, in 1957. (Courtesy Robert Gee)

Robert Lee, right, with Lee Dow Sun and Lee Suet Fong at a family gathering in Boston, in 1957. (Courtesy Robert Gee)

"If you speak to the generation in front of you, they worked seven days a week, so you don't have to," Gee said. "So, you can do well, study and get into the Ivy League. Then you are the star of the family, and that's their measurement of success."

Other than one-day escapades to Boston or Toronto, Lee had taken only one major vacation in his life — a cruise through the Caribbean Sea, where he was stunned by the three-hour trip to Miami, Gee said.

His only forms of leisure were catching glimpses of the Chinese newspaper during his cramped, hourlong commutes on the No. 7 train or watching local American news in bed before waking up to open his shop at 8:30 a.m. It was open until 6:30 p.m. every day except Sundays — although some weekends and an entire village were essential for him to carry on.

“There were definitely times when business was brisk,” Lee recalled. “Me and my wife had to go to work on Sundays. ... We spent the entire day sorting and tagging outgoing clothes while ironing and packaging clothes that came back on Saturday afternoon to prepare for Monday’s pickup by customers.”

Robert Lee on his last day behind the store’s red vintage sign that he repainted after it was passed down by the previous store owner.  (Sheldon Chau / Leap Man Productions)

Robert Lee on his last day behind the store’s red vintage sign that he repainted after it was passed down by the previous store owner.  (Sheldon Chau / Leap Man Productions)

Betty Yu, a multimedia artist who chronicled the history of her grandfather — Sui Woo — in her documentary "Discovering My Grandfather Through Mao," said: "We can never forget the amount of suffering, harassment and discrimination that Chinese Americans faced in this country just to earn a living. White labor unions literally chased out these laundry workers, burning the Chinatowns down." 

Woo was one of the founding members in 1933 of the Chinese Hand Laundry Alliance, which was heavily targeted as a communist organization during the 1950s McCarthyist Red Scare. Soon after, the organization, which initially boasted 3,000 to 4,000 members, had dwindled to 500 to 600 members, she said. Currently, the union has closed its office.   

"They were all questioned by the FBI at that time. Some of the Chinese members were deported back to China. Two of them took their own lives, and some of them spent time in jail because of these anti-Chinese sentiments. My grandfather couldn't build family roots here because of the discrimination," said Yu, whose grandfather — unlike Lee — was unable to settle in the U.S. and returned to China. "I fear that the younger generations of Chinese Americans would forget that." 

Robert Lee sits behind the counters of Sun's Laundry on his last day at work. (Sheldon Chau / Leap Man Productions)

Robert Lee sits behind the counters of Sun's Laundry on his last day at work. (Sheldon Chau / Leap Man Productions)

When Lee first arrived in Boston, he took English classes from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. and then worked immediately after school until 9 p.m. With experience in family laundry stores, his two other uncles would habitually help Sun's business. But due to the size of the small laundry that could only support three employees, Lee was forced to work at a separate commercial washer, apart from his father.

In the 1960s and the 1970s, customers would bark, "Hold the starch, Charlie" — a slur sourced from Hollywood films about Charlie Chan. Jane, then 10, would ask, "Why do they call you Charlie when your name is Robert?" 

Bias incidents against Asians have surged amid the pandemic, and a recent report points to a spike immediately following usage of phrases like “Kung Flu” and the “China virus.”  But Lee says he feels it’s nothing new. 

“[Racism] has always been there. ...” he said. “I’m aware of the spike in Asian hate crimes. Fortunately, I was never racially attacked [during the pandemic]. There are always racial slurs made towards Chinese, but I just kept on walking to avoid trouble.”

Lee said he always had Edward by his side to escort him to and from Sun’s Laundry, while Jane would drive him to and from Queens when she had time, prior to the government-mandated shutdown in March.

"The Chinese hand laundry industry is both a sad and glorious history for us," said Wu, of the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association. "Sad because we suffered. Glorious because we maintained our integrity. We toiled through hard labor to make legitimate earnings. We don't owe anyone anything, and we're not leaving. This country becomes our country. We're going to have our piece of the pie."

As Lee soldiered on, the neighborhood grew on him. 

"He knew people by their building and apartment number," said Deidre Moderacki, a neighbor who knew Lee since the 1980s. "People would leave their house keys and packages with him. Before we had the buzzer system, he would come out to the doorway, call you or wave you down."

"People would leave their house keys and packages with him."
Deidre Moderacki

His 700-square-foot store space would often be piled high with the neighbors' boxes, which, at times, included bicycles or mattresses. 

Lee described his customers as “very nice and genuine people,” saying, “Since the apartments in the area had no doorman, I was the concierge.” 

Yet Lee refused to charge for this service. When customers insisted on providing compensation out of gratitude, he would repay them with boxes of green tea.  

When the new management company of Lee's store was about to raise his monthly rent well above $800 in 2016, his neighbors started a GoFundMe page. Lee, reluctant to impose a burden on his neighbors, asked that all the money be returned.

By serendipity and goodwill, the company did not raise his rent, because it recognized his service to the community, Lee's niece said in a separate interview with his grandnephew. 

Lee said he grew up with three generations of customers. “I developed many long-lasting friendships with customers over my 61 years [of service],” Lee said. “In one case, I had laundered clothes for a family with three generations.” Even when neighbors moved to other cities, some would still come back to visit.

"He was always happy to chit-chat with his customers, even though he had lots of outgoing and incoming laundry, Gee said. "He always made time for them."

Robert Lee and his long-time customers Ken Luymes and Ann Marie Duross, on his left. (Courtesy Ken Luymes)

Robert Lee and his long-time customers Ken Luymes and Ann Marie Duross, on his left. (Courtesy Ken Luymes)

Robert Lee with members of his family, including Robert Gee, left, who came to pay tribute to his 61 years of service. (Sheldon Chau / Leap Man Productions)

Robert Lee with members of his family, including Robert Gee, left, who came to pay tribute to his 61 years of service. (Sheldon Chau / Leap Man Productions)

Ann Marie Duross, a longtime customer of 21 years, recalled Lee's personalized service, in which he marked her husband's name, "Ken," onto their pillowcases, which are now mementos. "My husband said he had to preserve these. It was just immaculate. You've never seen such perfectly folded towels and sheets."

On Lee's last day, a constant stream of customers and neighbors dropped by to bid him farewell, bearing murals, gifts, cards and Prosecco.

Although Sun's Laundry is now barren, it's a reminder of the trail Lee’s generation blazed for the Asian American community today.

“Words can’t describe the pain and struggles that this industry had endured for over 150 years,” Lee said. “If WWII and change in the Chinese government had not happened, thousands of Chinese laundry workers would have returned to their home village. ... History had altered their life’s destiny.”

Gee said that with only a scant number of Chinese hand laundries remaining, he was left feeling nostalgic. 

"It's like the rotary phone or TV with the dial," he said. "That trade is gone forever. Same thing here. There's not going to be this type of laundry business anymore. All those men and women who worked in this business busted their chops to help the Chinese immigrants make a living here. They did it to help all the Asians who are successful now in corporate America, and they deserve recognition."

CORRECTION: (Oct. 12, 11:55 a.m. ET): A previous version of this article misstated the last name of the president of the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association. He is Justin Yu, not Justin Wu.