Saturday, June 23, 2012
집으로
Friday, June 22, 2012
To home
The streets of Jongno in Seoul are always overflowing with waves of people. To move through them, you need to step lightly and ride the flow, slipping into the small gaps between the crowds. If you lose focus for even a moment, you might get swept away, pulled somewhere you didn’t intend to go, and tossed aside without knowing how.
On a humid summer night, feeling restless and wanting to go somewhere, I walked through the Jongno crowd. Eventually, the bustling people thinned out one by one, and I realized it was time to head home. I stood at a bus stop, waiting for the bus that would take me home. But suddenly, I couldn’t remember the bus number.
I asked people which bus went to Itaewon, but no one seemed to know. After much searching, I found a public phone and called home. I dialed the first four digits—then blanked on the rest.
A sense of panic slowly crept in. In the darkness of the now-empty street, I started to wonder:
Do I even have a home to return to? I shivered in fear—and woke up from the dream.
Grandpa would be sitting there in his yellow silk robe with big orange buttons, a long pipe between his lips.
“Dinner’s ready,” I’d say.
He’d let out a deep cough and tap the pipe against a brass ashtray. The sharp, ringing sound would signal everyone to stop what they were doing and gather at the table. The table would be set with seaweed, grilled fish, and a clear radish soup. Only after Grandpa lifted his spoon to taste the soup would everyone else follow, as if by silent agreement.
I thought I was going back to that warm home, filled with the smell of radish soup and a mother who looked for me in the evenings. But it was only a dream.
I remember something a younger friend once said before leaving New York after living there for over ten years:
In my dreams, I’m a lonely teenager, maybe around sixteen, unmarried and looking for my mom.
My husband appears as a neighborhood man or a familiar traveler I can’t quite place. My children show up as neighbor kids or cousins.
My childhood memories still dominate my mind, never making room for the memories I’ve built as an adult.
Far above, a plane disappears and reappears through the clouds, getting smaller and smaller.
Could it be flying to Seoul? Every time I see a plane, I think it’s headed to Korea.
It feels like, if I got on that plane, I could return to the house where my mother waits, setting the dinner table. Even though she passed away 25 years ago, I still dream of going back—to see her again.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
이태원에서 온 여자
이태원 산기슭에 울창한 나무에 둘러싸인 음침한 사당이 있었다. 여러 차례의 전란으로 외군에게 치욕을 당한 여성들의 한 많은 사연을 품은 듯 근처만 가도 한여름에 등 줄기가 써늘해지곤 했다.
Friday, June 8, 2012
A woman who came from Itaewon
“Yes, I’m a woman from Itaewon. So what?”
The words rose up in my throat and sat on the tip of my tongue, ready to fall out. But I held them back and shot out of the place like an arrow.
It happened a long time ago at a vegetable shop in Brooklyn.
The shop owner asked,
“Are you Korean? Do you live around here? When did you come to the U.S.?”
I didn’t feel like answering, but since he was Korean, I responded politely.
Not long after, a Korean woman from the neighborhood who knew the shop owner suddenly showed up at my place—without being invited. She looked around the house with sharp, suspicious eyes, like she was searching for evidence.
“There’s no wedding photo. Did you even get married?”
She asked, casting a doubtful look, as if she’d come to confirm what the shop owner had told her.
I was born in Namsan-dong and graduated from Namsan Elementary School before moving to Itaewon. I lived there until I left for the U.S. I often saw foreigners walking around, so unlike many other Korean immigrants, I had no discomfort around foreigners. As a child, I used to go with my father to a Western-style restaurant called Western House in the heart of Itaewon. Thanks to that, I was naturally exposed to Western food and culture.
The name Itaewon (梨泰院) is said to come from the pear orchards that once filled the area during the Joseon Dynasty. But there’s another, darker version: The name Itaewon (異胎圓)—meaning “a place of different births”—comes from the time of the Imjin War, when women who were raped by invading soldiers gave birth to mixed-race children and settled in that area. Later, during the Imo Incident, Chinese troops were stationed there. Under Japanese occupation, it became a residential area for Japanese nationals. And after the Korean War, the area turned into a U.S. military base town.
On the hillside near Itaewon, there was a dark, eerie shrine surrounded by thick trees.
It was said to hold the sorrow of women who had suffered dishonor at the hands of foreign soldiers during times of war. Even in midsummer, walking near it gave me chills down my spine.
There’s even a joke that goes:
“Have you ever traveled abroad?”
“No, I’ve never even been to Itaewon.”
That’s how foreign Itaewon felt to the rest of Korea—like another country within the country.
Coming from such a complicated and stigmatized place, I avoided Korean-run stores where the owner might start asking personal questions. Sometimes I’d peek inside from the street to see if there was a Korean owner or cashier—and if there was, I’d quietly turn around and leave. Those were uncomfortable times.
But these days, things have changed. Korean-American life has matured. Many stores now have non-Korean staff, or they’re run by 1.5-generation Korean Americans. Now I can go in and out of stores freely—no one asks me anything anymore.
The woman from Itaewon is finally free. But why does that freedom still feel so… empty?
Saturday, June 2, 2012
워째 그려?
강아지라도 키울 걸 그랬나. 저녁때가 되면 고픈 배를 움켜쥐고 돌아오던 아이들을 위해 조급해진 마음으로 부엌에 들어가곤 했는데.
멀리 간 아들에게 전화가 왔다.
Friday, June 1, 2012
What's wrong?
I sat in the dark without turning on the lights. The house felt completely silent now that both of our children had left. It was like living in a desert of silence.
Maybe I should’ve gotten a dog. I used to rush into the kitchen with a sense of urgency in the evenings, trying to get dinner ready before the kids came home, hungry and tired.
Even if I didn’t feel like cooking, I had to. So I picked up my laptop and went into the kitchen.
I played the music my husband loved when he was younger on YouTube and lit a candle.
I set the table with wine and made a nice dinner. He seemed to be in a good mood and started chatting more than usual.
But that only lasted a few days. Soon, my husband asked me to turn down the music.
Eventually, he asked me to turn it off altogether and stood up from the table first. Watching his hunched back as he walked out of the kitchen, I thought to myself: If we hadn’t had kids, would we still be living together?
Dinner ended early, and I picked up Gwancheon Essays by Lee Moon-goo. Set in Daecheon, Chungcheong Province, the book is full of that mellow and teasing Chungcheong dialect that grows on you the more you read.
Thanks to my friends, I was already familiar with the Gyeongsang and Jeolla dialects.
But I used to think Chungcheong dialect was just about dragging out words like “I can’t remember~.”
Turns out it’s a lot more subtle and harder to understand than I thought. The book was written in such strong dialect that I had to read sentences multiple times to get the meaning.
At dinner, seeing my husband frowning at the table, I almost snapped at him in my sharp Seoul accent:
“What’s your problem now?”
But instead, I softened my tone and tried the dialect:
“So then, what’s up? Did something bother ya? What’s wrong, huh?”
He answered in dialect too:
“Life’s just a bit tiring these days, that’s all.”
I replied,
“Yeah, I get it.”
We looked at each other and burst out laughing.
Back when I used my sharp Seoul accent, he wouldn’t even want to talk and would just walk away. But ever since reading Gwancheon Essays, I found that if I whine in dialect, he responds with a chuckle:
“Wife, you’re hilarious. Yeah, yeah, it’ll get better, you’ll see.”
Sometimes, I get too carried away and throw in some Jeolla dialect for fun. Now I spend my days bouncing between Chungcheong and Jeolla speech, trying to keep my husband’s mood up. I wonder how long I’ll have to keep doing this—keeping the peace, managing his feelings.
Some days I want to flip the whole table and walk away. But then I think,
“Fine. I’ll keep going, sweet-talking him in dialect until our black hair turns gray together.”
Then I got a call from my son, who lives far away.
“Hey, son! How’s it going? You doing alright?”
There was a short silence before he replied,
“Mom… is your mouth hurting or something?”