Even if I walk today

“Todaaay I walk again, with nooowhere to go~, tears welled up in every step I took~”

My father, clearly in a good mood with me and my childhood friend hanging off each of his arms, cheerfully sang “Nagune Sorrow” as we strolled down the street in Insa-dong. My friend and I hummed along to match his tune, even though he had no idea of the pain the two of us had once shared as children.

At the start of sixth grade, our homeroom teacher ordered every student in class to make a spanking stick at a woodworking shop. We each had to carve our names on it and hang it on the classroom wall. It was a “motivational” stick—meant to be used when we failed to reach our goal of getting into the most prestigious middle school, K Girls’ School. If the stick broke from too much beating, our parents—mine being especially eager for me to get into K School—were responsible for having a new one made.

Our elementary school was in the heart of Seoul, and Class 6-1 had a teacher so infamous that simply surviving her beatings all year pretty much guaranteed your spot at K Girls’ School. You’d get hit if your grades dropped—but also for many other random reasons. The image of her flushed, angry face was terrifying. I lived every day in fear, anxious about when the next blow would come.

Near the end of summer vacation in sixth grade, I was lying in bed, dreading the return to school. Suddenly, my right arm started shaking uncontrollably and slipped off the bed. My body lost balance. It kept happening—my arm would twitch back and forth for about 30 seconds, then stop, only to start again. I couldn’t go to school like that. My mom, pale with worry, dragged me from one doctor to another—both Western and Eastern medicine—but none could figure out what was wrong.

I stayed home for the second half of sixth grade. And strangely, once I no longer had to face that terrifying teacher, my arm stopped shaking. Just like that. Of course, I didn’t make it into K Girls’ School, something my father had desperately hoped for.

But the friend who now walked beside me, still hanging from my father's other arm, had stronger endurance. She made it in. She told me she used to get hit on the head so often that her scalp would scab over. She still scratches her head a lot to this day. She was once incredibly smart, but the trauma she endured must have taken its toll. In the end, she couldn’t get into the prestigious S University our parents had dreamed of either. We both ended up meeting again at a second-tier college.

And now, our father is simply happy that I’m healthy and living well, even if I’m not the best. I've come to accept that I’m not someone who needs to be number one. It’s okay not to be better than others—I live each day with that in mind and enjoy life.

As I walk behind others, I take my time, slowly observing those ahead of me.
Today again, I walk this path with nowhere particular to go.