A life like drama

Mom, do you know the Korean drama Autumn in My Heart? I want to watch it. A Chinese girl in my class watched Autumn in My Heart with her mom and cried a lot. She said it was so good. Let’s watch it too!”
my older child said.

My younger child, who had spent about a month in Hokkaido, Japan, said:
“Mom, do you know Yon-sama?”
“Why?”
“Well, the Japanese ladies found out I was Korean and went, ‘We love Yon-sama!’ They were going crazy. Who is he?”

We went to the Sunnyside Library in Queens. They had a lot of Korean drama DVDs. I borrowed a few to help teach the kids Korean. But after watching a couple of episodes, my head hurt so much—probably because I held back tears, too embarrassed to cry in front of the kids.

“Mom, why do people in Korea have so many side dishes on their table?”
The kids watched the dinner scenes in the drama and started drooling. It looked so different from our usual dinner at home—just soup, kimchi, and one more side dish.
“It’s because it’s a drama.”
“Can’t we eat like that too, with lots of tasty food?”
“No. Eating too much isn’t good for you.”
While the kids were sighing over the food, I was sighing for another reason. In the drama, the artist studied abroad in America, came back to Korea, and became a professor. She was successful, living in a beautiful studio. I told myself, “It’s just a drama,” but still felt down. I studied abroad too—but my life is nothing like hers.

Many Koreans say Korean dramas are really fun. At first, our family thought, “What’s the big deal?” But once we started watching… wow, they were so good. I borrowed the DVDs, saying it would help the kids with their Korean. They lost interest after a while, but my husband and I were hooked, staying up late for days, watching until dawn.

My cheekbones, which already stick out, looked even more pronounced after several nights of lost sleep. My husband looked at my exhausted face and, shocked, said:

“This is an addiction. Seriously. Don’t borrow any more.”

Then he looked at me with a dumbfounded expression when I was compared to the cool female painters in the drama.

“Stop watching and go paint something in your studio!”

7 트레인의 드라마

한인이 많이 사는 플러싱으로 가는 7트레인을 탔다. 화장을 곱게 하고, 명품 가방 든, 그리고 높은 통굽을 신고 있다면 십중팔구 한인이다. 손잡이를 잡고 하염없이 창밖을 내다보다 트레인 안 한인들의 모습을 보는 순간, 내가 한국에 있다는 착각에 빠졌다. 

'어쩌다 내가 이 먼 곳까지 와서 떠나온 고국을 못잊어 하는 것일까!'

결혼하기 전 퀸스 엘머스트에 있는 자매가 사는 아파트의 방 한 칸에서 몇 달 동안 살았다. 아침 일찍 학교에 갔다가 도서실에 들러 밤늦게 돌아오는 바쁜 생활을 하느라 그 자매와는 많은 이야기를 나누지 못했다. 동생은 성격이 활달한 싱글이다. 언니는 조용하고, 얌전한 이혼한 싱글이다는 정도만 알뿐이다.

하늘이 붉게 물드는 어느 초저녁, 그 언니와 함께 7트레인을 타고 맨해튼에 갈 기회가 있었다. 달리는 트레인 안에서 붉게 물든 하늘을 쳐다보는 언니의 모습은 몹시나 슬펐다. 금방이라도 울 것 같은 표정이었다. 
“언니 괜찮아요?” 

물었다. 언니는 고개를 숙이고 눈물을 닦았다. 

“딸 아이가 보고 싶어. 아이도 이렇게 석양이 지는 저녁엔 나를 찾을까?” 

“언니 딸 있어요?” 

몇 달을 함께 살아도 말이 없던 언니는 입을 열었다. 웨이트리스를 하며 남편 박사 학위 뒷바라지를 했다고 한다. 박사 학위를 받은 남편은 함께 공부하던 여자와 눈이 맞아 이혼을 요구했고 딸을 데려갔단다.
“내 몸에서 냄새나지?”

“무슨 냄새요?”

“식당에서 오랫동안 일하니까 몸에 냄새가 배서 아무리 목욕을 해도 빠지지 않아. 전남편이 음식 냄새 나는 내가 싫데.”
노을 지는 먼 하늘을 쳐다보는 언니의 슬픈 얼굴을 보며 나도 눈시울을 적셨다. 작고, 가냘픈 한 여자가 몸에 냄새가 배여 빠지지 않을 정도로 희생해 뒷바라지한 남편에게 배신을 당했다. 게다가 아이까지 잃고 평생을 울며 살아야 하는 세상에 내가 살고 있다는 게 싫었다. 그런 상처를 주고서도 남편은 박사학위 받은 여자와 행복하게 살 수 있는 세상이 무서웠다. 
“학교 공부 집어치우고 결혼해서 남편 뒷바라지하지 마. 나처럼 되고 싶지 않으면.” 

이렇게 잠깐씩 스치는 뼈아픈 말들이 살면서 나에게 많은 도움을 주었다.

7트레인은 오늘도 힘든 이민자들의 가지가지 애환을 싣고 이리 꿈틀 저리 꿈틀 흔들리며 간다. 휘어져 가는 트레인의 뒷모습을 보면 내 가슴은 짠해지며 눈물이 고인다. 오늘도 얼마나 많은 한인의 슬프고 또 기쁜 사연을 실어나르느라고 저리도 꿈틀거리며 바삐 가나!

Drama of 7-train

I took the 7 train to Flushing, where many Koreans live. If someone has perfectly done-up makeup, carries a luxury handbag, and is wearing high platform heels, there's a good chance they’re Korean. Gazing out the window at the subway ride and seeing so many Koreans inside made me feel like I was back in Korea.

Why have I come so far—and miss my homeland so much?

Before I got married, I lived for a few months in a room in Elmhurst, Queens, in the apartment of two sisters. I spent my mornings rushing to school and my evenings studying in the library, so I didn’t talk much with them. I only knew that the younger sister was bubbly and single, and the older one was quiet and politely divorced.

One early evening, when the sky was painted red, I had a rare chance to ride the 7 train into Manhattan with the older sister. On the moving train, she stared at the fiery sky looking deeply sad—like she might start crying any second.

“Are you okay?” I gently asked.

She looked down and wiped away her tears.

“I miss my daughter. I wonder if she misses me too when she sees the sunset like this.”

“You have a daughter?” I asked.

Even after months of living together, she had hardly ever spoken. This time, she opened up. She told me she had worked as a waitress to support her husband through his PhD. But after he earned his degree, he fell in love with someone else from his program and demanded a divorce—taking their daughter with him.

“Do I smell bad?” she asked suddenly.
“What do you mean?” I replied.

“After cooking in a restaurant for so long, the food smells cling to me—no matter how much I bathe, they won’t rinse away. My ex-husband hated that I smelled like food.”

I watched her face, framed against the sunset, and tears welled in my eyes. A small, fragile woman like her had sacrificed so much, to the point where she couldn’t even wash away food smells from her body—and then was betrayed not only by her husband but also lost her child. The thought that the world allows such injustice was unbearable. It frightened me that her ex-husband could go on to find happiness with someone else after inflicting such pain.

She had once told me:

“Don’t quit studying and get married just to support your husband. If you don’t want to end up like me.”

That brief, painful exchange left a deep impact on me.

Today, the 7 train—this same line to Flushing—carries the hopes, burdens, and untold stories of countless struggling immigrants. Watching its curved form bobbing down the tracks makes my heart ache, and tears prick my eyes. How many Koreans are riding it now, with stories of sorrow and joy woven into their everyday commutes? The 7 train continues to rattle through it all—bearing their lives.

밥만 먹는 당신

어느 길로 가야 남편과 아이를 만날 수 있을까? 먼지 낀 뽀얀 길을 방황하고 있었다. 

서울에서 손님들이 찾아왔다. 남편과 여자가 한 명 그리고 남자는 세 명이 식탁에 앉아 음식을 기다린다. 음식은 나오지 않고 빈 식탁에서 이야기만 하고 있다. 화가 난 남편이 나보고 잠깐 밖으로 나오라며 먼저 획 하니 나가버린다. 아이를 데리고 남편을 뒤따라가다가 아이를 잃어버리고 남편도 찾지 못했다. 뽀얀 먼지 나는 길을 헤매다 꿈에서 깨어났다.

내가 만약 밥하기 싫어서 이혼한다면 이 꿈과 같은 상황으로 살아가겠지? 10년이면 강산이 변한다는데 결혼생활 25년이 됐는데도 나에게 변하지 않는 게 있다. 음식 솜씨가 전혀 늘지 않았다는 것이다. 늘지 않았을뿐더러 점점 하기 싫어 밥할 시간만 되면 답답하고 우울하다.

아이들이 다 떠나고 없다. 남편과 둘이서 간단히 저녁을 해결하고 싶었다. 

"뭐 해 먹을까?"  

남편의 눈치를 살피며 물었다. 

"밥." 

"밥 말고 딴 거 먹으면 안 돼?" 

"나 알잖아. 저녁에는 밥 먹어야 하는 거." 

얄밉게 말하는 남편에게 

"밥하고 뭐?" 

물어보려다가 그만 짜증이 났다. 

밥때가 되어도 거들어주지 않고 신문만 보는 남편을 노려본다. '노려보면 어찌할 건데! 아무리 네가 밥을 안 하려고 발버둥 쳐도 밥하는 게 너의 의무와 책임'이라는 표정으로 남편은 신문을 본다. 아이들은 미국식, 남편은 한국식 식단에 시달려야 했다. 아이들이 집 떠나면 밥순이로부터 어느 정도는 해방될 줄 알았다. 그런데 남편은 더욱더 한국식을 주장한다. 특별한 요리를 하는 것도 아니고 입에 맞는 음식을 해주지도 못하면서 밥까지 하기 싫다는 것이 어이없다는 표정이다.

먹는 게 뭐 그리 대단한 일이라고 밥이 없으면 빵도 먹고 라면이라도 먹어 배만 채우면 되는 게 아닌가. 그렇게 먹고 싶은 음식이 많으면 손수 해 먹으시던지. 절대로 음식은 만들지 않는다.

돛단배에 몸을 싣고 흐르는 물살에 흔들리며 어디론가 먼, 아주 먼 곳으로 떠나고 싶다. 그런데 왜 그 뽀얀 먼지가 풀풀 나는 길에서 방황하는 꿈속의 내 모습이 자꾸 생각나는 것일까?

My husband who claims to eat Korean food

Which road should I take to find my husband and child? I was wandering down a dusty, hazy path.

Guests from Seoul had come to visit. My husband, one woman, and three other men were sitting around a table, waiting for food. But no food came—only endless talking around an empty table. Suddenly, my husband stood up angrily and said, “Come outside for a second,” and stormed out. I followed him with my child, but I lost the child—and I couldn’t find my husband either. I wandered through the dust until I finally woke up from the dream.

If I ever got divorced just because I didn’t want to cook anymore, wouldn’t my life end up just like that dream?

They say even rivers and mountains change in ten years. I’ve been married for 25, but there’s still one thing that hasn’t changed: my cooking skills. They haven’t improved at all. In fact, I’ve grown to dislike cooking more and more. When it’s time to cook, I feel anxious and depressed.

The kids are all grown and gone. Now it’s just me and my husband, and I’d like to keep dinner simple.
“What should we eat?” I asked, carefully watching his reaction.
“Rice,” he replied.
“Can’t we have something else instead of rice?”

“You know me. I have to eat rice for dinner.”

He said it so annoyingly that I almost snapped.I was about to ask, “Rice and what else?” but got too irritated to continue.

I glared at my husband as he sat reading the newspaper, not even bothering to help as dinnertime approached. He didn’t say a word, but his face clearly read, “Go ahead and glare. No matter how much you resist, cooking is still your duty and responsibility.”

When the kids were younger, I had to juggle between American meals for them and Korean meals for him. I thought I’d be free from the role of a housemaid once the kids moved out. But now, my husband demands even more traditional Korean meals. He doesn’t expect gourmet cooking, nor do I cook anything he particularly likes, but the fact that I don’t even want to cook frustrates him.

But seriously—what’s so important about eating? If there’s no rice, eat bread, or instant noodles—just fill your stomach. If he wants something special, why not cook it himself? But no, he never does.

Sometimes, I want to ride a small sailboat and let it drift far, far away—wherever the current takes me. But then again, why can’t I stop thinking about that dream, where I’m lost on a dusty road, searching for my husband and child?

어항 밖의 금붕어

노란색 방바닥 여기저기에 흩어져 팔딱팔딱 뛰던 주홍색 금붕어들이 기억에 생생하다. 어린 나이에도 산다는 것은 어항을 잃고 물이 없어 헐떡이는 금붕어 같은 절박함이라고 생각했던 것일까?

중학교 삼 학년, 사월로 기억된다. 내게는 나이 차이가 크게 나는 언니가 있다. 그날은 대학을 갓 졸업한 언니의 결혼식었다. 결혼식에 참석하고 집에 돌아간 줄 알았던 이모 둘이 집 문을 부수듯이 들이닥치며 헐레벌떡 엄마와 나를 찾았다. 항상 아파 누워 있던 엄마는 아픈 몸을 일으켜 몸단장하고 맏딸 결혼식에 참석하고 돌아와 누워 있었다.
“언니 일어나 이러고 있을 때가 아니야!” 

엄마를 일으키고 나를 앞세워 어디론가 가자며 법석이었다. 나는 극성스러운 이모들 일에 관여하고 싶지 않았다. 

“이제부터는 네가 맏딸이니 앞장서야 한다”

우리 집에 일이 터지면 자기 일인 듯 흥분하는 이모들이 오늘따라 극도로 흥분했다. 엄마를 끌고, 나를 밀며 한 아파트 단지에 도착했다. 엄마와는 달리 건강하고 성질이 불같은 이모들은 우리 집에 거의 매일 출근하다시피 하며 엄마 일이라면 목숨이라도 바칠 것처럼 극성부리며 아픈 엄마를 돌봤다.

그다지 큰 아파트 단지는 아니었다. 첫 건물 1층 오른쪽 아파트부터 벨을 누르라며 내 등을 떠밀었다. 나는 울상이 되어 벨을 하나씩 누르기 시작했다. 여섯 번째 아파트 벨을 눌렀을 때 몸이 마르고 착하게 생긴 여자가 내다보며 

“너 누구니?”

물었다. 리빙룸 안을 들여다보려고 고개를 빼는 순간 

“누구야?” 

아버지 목소리였다.
나는 당황하며 머뭇거렸다. 

“여기지.” 

이모들이 문을 확 열어젖히며 들어갔다. 엉거주춤 아버지가 일어났다. 나는 뒤로 물러섰다. 엄마는 아버지를 보자 체념한 상태로 의자에 주저앉았다. 

“너 뭐야!” 

이모들이 여자를 밀쳤다. 아버지는 나를 보며 뭔가 말하려다 획 하니 나가버렸다. 비쩍 마른 여자는 

“제삼자들이 무슨 짓이에요.” 

대들었다. 

“제삼자?” 

작은이모가 여자의 머리채를 잡았다. 큰이모가 두들겨 패기 시작했다. 옆에 있던 어항이 넘어져 깨지며 파도에 쓸려나가듯 금붕어들이 어항 밖으로 한순간에 쓸려나갔다.

금붕어들이 깨진 유리 조각 틈에 흩어져 죽을힘을 다해 뛰기 시작했다. 나는 뛰는 금붕어들이 어디로 튀는가를 살피며 멍하니 서 있었다. 금붕어들은 이리저리 뛰며 싸우는 발밑에서 살겠다고 난리 쳤다. 나는 빈 그릇을 찾아 금붕어들을 하나씩 담았다. 혹시나, 가구 밑으로는 들어간 것은 없을까? 몇 마리의 금붕어가 있었는지? 궁금해하며 보이는 대로 그릇에 담아 아파트 복도에 나와 들고 서 있었다.
“어린 것이 불쌍하기도 하지” 

싸움을 구경하던 사람 중 옆집 아줌마가 나를 그녀의 아파트로 끌고 들어갔다. 나는 그릇 바닥에 깔려 펄떡이는 나와 같은 신세인 금붕어들을 ‘하나, 둘 셋…’ 세며 소리죽여 울었다.

Goldfish out of fishbowl

I still clearly remember the bright orange goldfish jumping all over the yellow floor. "Even when I was very young, did I already feel that living was like a goldfish out of water, struggling to breathe without a fishbowl?"

It was April of my third year in middle school. I have a much older sister, and that day was her wedding day. After the wedding, I thought my two aunts had gone home. But suddenly, they burst through our front door as if breaking it down, frantically calling for my mom and me. My mom, who was always sick and lying in bed, had pushed herself to attend her oldest daughter’s wedding. Now, she was lying down again, exhausted.

“Get up! You can’t just lie here!”

They pulled my mom up and told me to come with them quickly. I didn’t want to get involved in my dramatic aunts’ business.

“From now on, you’re the oldest daughter. You need to step up,” they said.

Whenever something happened in our family, my aunts always acted like it was their own problem. They visited almost every day, taking care of my sick mom as if their lives depended on it.

They dragged my mom and pushed me along to an apartment complex. It wasn’t very big. They told me to ring the doorbells of the apartments on the first floor of the first building. I didn’t know why, but I started ringing them one by one with a worried face. When I rang the sixth doorbell, a thin, kind-looking woman opened the door.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Just as I leaned my head in to look inside the living room—

“Who is it?”

It was my father’s voice.

I froze. Then suddenly, my aunts pushed the door open and barged in. My father stood up, surprised. I stepped back. When my mom saw him, she sat down in a chair as if she had given up. My aunts pushed the woman. My father looked at me as if he wanted to say something, then quickly left. The thin woman yelled,

“Who are these outsiders? What are you doing here?”

“Outsiders?”

My younger aunt grabbed her hair. The older one started hitting her. A fishbowl nearby fell over and broke, and all the goldfish were swept out like a wave crashing onto the floor.

The goldfish scattered among the broken glass, jumping and flipping as hard as they could to stay alive. I stood there, staring blankly at them, watching where each fish jumped. The goldfish jumped around wildly beneath the feet of people fighting. I found an empty bowl and began picking up the goldfish one by one. Were there any under the furniture? How many goldfish were there? I didn’t know. I picked up every one I could see and went out to the apartment hallway, holding the bowl.

“That poor child…”

One of the neighbors watching the fight said, then pulled me into her apartment. I sat her couach, counting the goldfish—struggling just like me—at the bottom of the bowl: “One, two, three…” I cried quietly so no one could hear.