A merchant and money envelope

From my parents’ house, I could see a big yard with a home where bright red persimmons hung beautifully on the tree. The man who lived there was a music teacher—gentle and pale-faced. His wife was tall and stunning, admired by everyone in the neighborhood. I often thought, How wonderful it would’ve been if my dad had been a teacher too!

Long ago, my father actually tried to become a math teacher. But life in an organization didn’t suit him, so he gave it up. He even handed over (or sold?) his teaching license to a friend and became a businessman instead. He was such a natural-born merchant that I sometimes joke he was probably counting money at the very moment I was born, crying in surprise at the bright world outside my mother’s womb.

After graduating from college, I sent out my résumé to many places, but no one called me back. I was afraid my dad would tell me to go into business, so I studied hard to take the teacher certification exam.

“Dad, I don’t think I can pass the Seoul exam. I’m thinking of trying the Gyeonggi-do one instead.”

“Everyone thinks that way, so they’ll all go for Gyeonggi-do. That’s why you should stick with Seoul.”

He was right. The competition turned out to be even tougher in Gyeonggi-do. Luckily, I passed and got hired as a music teacher at a nearby boys’ middle school.

“Ms. Lee Soo-im, may I ask your father’s name?”
Soon after I started, the head teacher asked me this.
“You know my father?”
“You don’t remember me?”
“No, I don’t think so…”
“The persimmon tree house!”
Then it clicked.
“You were just a runny-nosed kid, and now you’re a teacher. I checked your record just in case.”

Even though I wasn’t a homeroom teacher, I was often overwhelmed by “gifts” from parents.
Other subjects were graded by tests, but music and art grades were up to the teacher’s judgment. A student who was strong in academics could have their GPA dragged down by a low arts grade—so parents were desperate. When I refused cash, homeroom teachers brought me branded knit dresses, sapphire necklaces, and Lancôme cosmetics on behalf of parents. Even when I tried to decline politely, they’d insist, saying, “At least for our pride, please accept it,” and just leave it behind.

Most of the students whose parents gave me gifts were talented and really did deserve high grades. But I started to feel self-conscious around them, as if they could see right through me. I felt uncomfortable giving them feedback, and even hesitated to give them the high scores they earned. In the end, the gifts had the opposite effect on their kids. If I refused the gifts, it hurt my relationships with other teachers. But if I accepted them, I felt guilty in front of the students.

I had a stable job. I was supposed to get married and live a happy life. But I found myself dreading going to school more and more. Eventually, I couldn’t handle the structured life either—just like my father. I left the school, using studying abroad as my excuse.

Years later, while visiting Korea during my studies, I went to see the teacher from the persimmon tree house. Over tea served by his wife, we chatted about old times and the teachers we used to work with. It must’ve been near a holiday, because a parent had just delivered a gift. In the early 1980s, microwave ovens were the most popular gift. The teacher casually said, 

“The guy next door got a microwave… Don’t I get one too?”

Hearing that, I quietly put down my teacup and said I had somewhere to be, then left.

As I walked outside and looked up at the blue sky through the clusters of persimmons, I thought of something my father used to say:
“No matter what anyone says, merchants earn money the most honestly.”