What happened to my mom?

I waited for the number 78 bus to Itaewon for a long time, but it didn’t come. When one finally appeared, it sped past without even slowing down. It stopped far down the road, so I ran after it to catch it—but it left before I could reach it.

I walked the long way home. When I arrived, I looked for my mother, but she wasn’t there. My father said she had gone to the temple. Days passed, but she didn’t come back. I searched for her, wandering over hills and through mountains, trying to find the temple she had gone to. But I couldn’t find her. Then, far away, I saw a bus pulling away—and next to it stood my mother in white clothes, waving at me. I ran with all my strength to catch up, but the bus disappeared from sight. I collapsed on the ground, crying out for her. That’s when I woke up—from a dream.

One day, the classroom door suddenly opened. A student rushed in to deliver a message to the teacher. My heart sank.
“This is it. The news I’ve been dreading has finally come.”
I sat in fear, waiting for the teacher to speak—as if I were on death row waiting for a sentence.
When it turned out to be something else, I would breathe a long sigh of relief. That was how I lived throughout my school years.

Even when I was playing outside, I couldn’t fully enjoy it. What if something happened to Mom while I was gone? The moment I got home, I would check on her before even putting my bag down. If I saw her lying still, I’d press my ear to her chest to make sure I could hear her heart beating. Sometimes I’d hold my hand under her nose, just to feel her breath and make sure she was alive.

They said my mother got sick after giving birth to my younger sister, who’s five years younger than me. She had lost too much blood, and it affected her hormones. To this day, I still don’t know the exact name of her illness. All I remember is that she was often in the hospital or lying in bed, always sick.

I used to worry she might die at any time. So whenever she felt slightly better and went outside, I followed her everywhere. When she went to the nearby temple to pray, I would play quietly in the yard, watching her white rubber shoes from afar. When she visited relatives, I waited outside, holding onto the front gate post until she came back out. She would often scold me for following her everywhere. But even then, I could never bring myself to say, “I’m afraid you might die.” I just wanted to be near her. It felt better to wait by her side than to suffer with the fear that something might happen while I was gone.

As I got older, I knew I had to live my own life. So I left her behind and moved to America. At first, I called often and sent letters. But life got busy, and my messages became less frequent.

The image of her in white, waving behind the bus—maybe that was her final goodbye before going to a place I could never reach.

I visited her grave, tucked away in a lonely spot overlooking the distant river. I lay down and pressed my ear to the ground, hoping—just maybe—I could still hear her say goodbye. But all I could hear was the sound of the river flowing by.

“전주 이씨 효령대군 후손 납시오”

“전주이씨 온다. 영락없는 전주이씨지?” 

길 가다가 남편은 나에게 속삭인다. 

“전주이씨 나왔다.” 

TV 보다가도 그냥 지나치지 않는다.

“너는 전주 이씨 효령대군 보성군 파 18대손이다.” 

아버지는 1년에 여섯 번 조상 제사 때마다 말씀하셨다. 그러나 나는 내가 누구의 후손인가에는 관심이 없다. 살면서 나처럼 쌍꺼풀 없이 처진 눈을 가진 작은 체구의 사람들을 보고 혹시나 해서 물어보면 영락없는 전주 이씨 효령대군 후손이라는 데에 관심이 있을 뿐이다. 

유학 시절, 나는 롱아일랜드 가든 시티에 살았다. 길가 꽃밭에 한 작은 동양 할머니가 꽃을 들여다보고 계셨다. 

“안녕하세요.” 

한국말 소리에 반가워 쳐다보시는데, 영락없이 나와 비슷한 체구와 눈이었다. 

“저 혹시?”

아니나 다를까 같은 종씨라며 반가워했다. 같은 종손이라는 이유 하나로 그분 집에 여러 번 초대받아 한국 음식을 얻어먹으며 향수를 달랬다.

친구가 만날 사람이 있다고 해서 브루클린에 있는 여호와증인 본부인 워치 타워에 간 적이 있었다. 멀리서 걸어오는 분을 보니 영락없는 전주이씨다. 

“혹시, 저…” 

"맞아요!"

어찌나 반가워하시던지. 외모만 보고도 성을 알아맞힐 수 있는 후손들이 전주 이씨 효령대군 자손들이다. 물론 쌍꺼풀도 키 큰 사람들도 있기는 하지만 아마 대대로 내려오다 전주이씨보다 더 강한 우성에 밀린듯하다.  

성형수술이 빈번한 요즈음은 전주 이씨 찾기가 어려워졌다. 특히 젊은이들은 종친이라고 반가워하지도 않거니와 관심도 없다. 그래서 종손인듯한 모습을 한 사람을 만나면 성씨만 확인하고는 ‘역시’ 하며 혼자 고개를 끄덕일 뿐이다.

전주이씨 효령대군 종친회 모임이 있다는 신문에 난 기사를 종종 보기만 하다 용기 내어 전화했다. 전화 받는 분이 말했다.

"종친회에 여자들도 나오고 노래방에 가서 친목을 다져요. 참석하세요. 직업이 뭐예요?"

“그림 그리는 데요.” 

“화가요?” 

잠깐 침묵이 이어졌다 

“정기모임이 있으면 연락할 께요."

전화를 부리나케 끊었다. 그 후로 지금까지 연락이 없다. 돈 없는 화가가 혹시나 종친회 도움을 받고자 전화한 것으로 생각한 것은 아닐는지? 난 다만 내가 관찰한 전주 이씨 효령대군 후손들의 모습을 확인해 보고 싶었을 뿐인데.

Yi clan of Jeonju, descendant of the Hyoryongdaegu

“There goes a Jeonju Yi. Definitely a Jeonju Yi, right?”
My husband whispers this to me whenever he sees someone on the street.
“There’s another Jeonju Yi!”
Even when we’re watching TV, he never misses a chance to point it out.

“You are the 18th-generation descendant of Prince Hyoryeong of the Jeonju Yi clan.”
My father would remind me of this every year—six times a year, to be exact—during ancestral memorial rites. But honestly, I’ve never cared much about who my ancestors were. The only time I’m interested is when I see someone small like me, with droopy, single-lidded eyes. If I ask out of curiosity, they almost always turn out to be descendants of Prince Hyoryeong of the Jeonju Yi clan.

While studying abroad, I lived in Garden City, Long Island. One day, I saw a little elderly Asian woman looking at flowers along the street.
“Hello.”
She looked up, surprised and pleased to hear Korean. Her face and body shape were just like mine.
“Excuse me, but by any chance...?”
Of course, she was part of the same clan. We were both so happy to meet. Because we shared the same family line, she invited me to her home many times, and I enjoyed delicious Korean food that reminded me of home.

Once, a friend had someone to meet, so I tagged along to the Jehovah’s Witness headquarters in Brooklyn, called the Watchtower. I saw someone walking toward us in the distance—and right away, I could tell:
“Definitely a Jeonju Yi.”
“Excuse me, are you...?”
“Yes!”
He was thrilled that I could tell just by looking. That’s how it is with descendants of Prince Hyoryeong from the Jeonju Yi clan—you can recognize them just by their appearance. Of course, some have double eyelids or are tall, but those traits probably come from stronger dominant genes mixing in over generations.

These days, with so many people getting cosmetic surgery, it’s harder to spot a true Jeonju Yi. Especially among the younger generation—most of them don’t care, and even if they are part of the clan, they don’t get excited when they meet a fellow member. So now, when I meet someone who looks like a Jeonju Yi, I just ask for their last name. If they say “Yi,” I nod quietly to myself and say, “I knew it.”

I had often seen newspaper ads about gatherings of the Jeonju Yi clan, especially for descendants of Prince Hyoryeong. One day, I finally got the courage to call. The person who answered said,
“Women also attend the gatherings. We go to karaoke afterward to get to know each other. Please join us. What’s your job?”
“I am an artist,” I said.
“Oh, you're an artist?”
There was a brief silence.
“We’ll contact you when we have our next meeting.”
And then he quickly hung up.

They never called back. Maybe they thought I was a poor artist calling in hopes of getting help from the clan. But all I really wanted was to confirm the image I’d formed in my mind of what the descendants of Prince Hyoryeong looked like.

돌아가자! 브루클린으로

"뉴욕을 떠나고 싶어!”
뉴욕에서 산전수전 다 겪었는데도 여전히 불투명한 생활에 지친 남편의 한숨과 함께 나온 말이다. 

몇몇 동료가 벌써 몇 년 전부터 이어지는 고국의 호황에 발맞춰 잽싸게 돌아가 교수님이 되었다는데 열을 받았나? 아니면 뉴욕을 사랑하는 나를 만나 꼼짝달싹 못 하고 사는 게 싫은가? 남편은 선언했다.

“한국에 돌아가 대학 자리를 알아보겠어.”

"나도 빚을 내서라도 짙푸른 수목이 우거진 호수가 있고 사슴이 뛰노는 북부 뉴저지로 갈레."

우리는 동의했다. 나 때문에 교수가 되지 못했다는 소리를 평생 듣고 사느니 ‘한번 해보시지.’하는 투였다. 하고 싶은 것은 해서 후회의 눈물을 흘려야 한다는 것이 나의 생활 철학인지라.

1995년 1월, 결혼 10년 만에 우리 부부는 각자 원하는 삶을 찾아 당분간 떨어지기로 했다. 남편은 서울로, 나는 어린아이 둘을 데리고 뉴저지로.

뉴저지로 이사 가면서 인스펙션도 통과하지 못한 낡은 차를 미련없이 폐차시키고 아담한 새 차도 한 대 뽑았다. 클래식 음악의 볼륨을 한껏 올리고 생머리를 휘날리며 노스버겐 앤더슨 애비뉴를 멋지게 달렸다. 기분이 째졌다.

학군이 그리도 좋다는 초등학교로 아이들을 전학시키고, 방과 후 활동으로 축구팀에도 넣었다. 현란한 유니폼을 입고 푸른 들판을 달리는 아이가 대견스러웠다. 백인들 틈에 끼어 그들과 한목소리로 응원하고 있는 나 자신이 드디어 미국생활을 즐기고 있었다.

도서관의 커다란 창밖으로 보이는 정원은 너무도 한가해 보기만 해도 피로가 풀렸다. 집 뒤뜰에 불현듯 떼 지어 나타난 사슴 무리 속의 새끼 사슴이 어찌나 귀엽고 신기하던지 내 눈에 눈물이 고였다. 주말마다 쇼핑몰에 가서 끝없이 쌓인 물건들 틈을 헤집으며 시간을 보냈다. 아이들도 신이 나 생전 보지도 못한 장난감을 보며 새로운 환경을 즐겼다. 여기저기 이력서를 낸다며 만나는 친구들과 술자리를 자주 하는지 틈틈이 전화로 주고받는 남편의 목소리도 아주 신이 났다.

울긋불긋한 낙엽 지는 그해 가을, 창가에 앉아 뒤뜰을 보는 내 눈에 눈물이 고였다. 자연의 아름다움 때문만은 아닌 듯. 뭔가 가슴 깊은 곳에서 꿈틀거리는 공허함이 절절했다. 붉은 노을 뒤에 어둠이 내리깔리면 도시생활과는 달리 마치 절해고도의 갇힌 적막감이 엄습했다.
"엄마, 왜 그래? 집(브루클린)에 가자. 아빠 왜 안 와?” 

다민족과 어울리다 온 아이들이 백인과 동양인만 있는 학교생활에 적응이 안 되는지 툭하면 집에 가자고 칭얼거렸다. 

“이곳이 너희 집이야.” 

‘아빠, 말 잘 들을게 빨리 돌아와요.’라는 내용의 편지를 써서 주며 보내 달랬다.

강사 생활하며 전임 자리를 기웃거리며 1년 가까이 서울에서 어기적거리더니 주변인들과의 진지한 만남도 식었는지 남편도 점점 외톨박이가 되어갔다. 처음 갈 때와는 달리 축 처진 목소리로 미국 소식을 자주 물었본다.

"아무래도 미국에 너무 오래 살았나 봐. 한국 생활이 쉽지가 않네. 돌아가야 할까 봐." 

"그래, 나도 뒤뜰에 나온 사슴 몇 번 보고 나니 별로야. 아이들 움직일 때마다 운전해 주느라 피곤만 하고 그림도 못 그렸어. 그냥 브루클린으로 돌아가자.”

남편은 한 해 동안 모국에 대해 한풀이를 하고 돌아왔다. 더는 이 범선의 단편 ‘오발탄’에서 실향민인 등장인물이 무의식중에 습관적으로 내뱉듯 ‘(돌아) 가자! (돌아) 가자!’는 중얼거림이 남편 입에서 사라졌다. 그림 같은 전원생활에 대한 꿈이 내 무의식 속에서 녹아내리듯 말이다. 

잘 지내다가도 또 도질 때가 있다. 

"얘들아 엄마 아빠가 멋진 썸머 하우스 보고 왔는데 보러 가지 않을래?” 

"좋으면 엄마 아빠만 가서 사세요. 우리는 그냥 브루클린에서 살게요!”

Let's go back to Brooklyn

“I want to leave New York!”
Those words came with a sigh from my husband, tired of our still uncertain life—even after all the struggles and challenges we had faced in New York.

Was he frustrated because some of our colleagues had already returned to Korea years ago and quickly became professors during the economic boom? Or was he unhappy being stuck in New York with a wife who loved the city so much?
Then, he made a declaration:
“I’m going back to Korea to look for a university position.”
And I said,
“Then I’ll move to northern New Jersey, even if I have to borrow money. I want to live near a deep blue lake surrounded by trees, where deer roam freely.”
We agreed. Better to let him try than to hear for the rest of my life that he couldn’t become a professor because of me. My philosophy is simple: Do what you want—even if you end up crying from regret.

So, in January 1995, after 10 years of marriage, we decided to live apart for a while and follow our own paths. My husband went to Seoul. I moved to New Jersey with our two young children.

When we moved, I let go of our old, unreliable car and bought a cute new one. I turned up the classical music, let my long hair blow in the wind, and drove stylishly down Anderson Avenue in North Bergen. I felt amazing.

I transferred the kids to an elementary school known for its great academics and even signed them up for soccer. Watching them run across the green field in colorful uniforms filled me with pride. Cheering with the other parents—most of them white—I felt like I was finally enjoying life in America.

The garden outside the library’s big window was so peaceful that just looking at it eased my stress. One day, a group of deer appeared in our backyard. The baby deer were so adorable and magical that tears welled up in my eyes. On weekends, we spent hours wandering around shopping malls, exploring endless rows of goods. The kids were excited too, seeing toys they’d never seen before. My husband’s voice on the phone also sounded cheerful. He said he was meeting friends often and going out drinking as he handed out his résumé here and there.

That fall, as the leaves turned red and gold, I sat by the window and stared at the backyard—with tears in my eyes. It wasn’t just the beauty of nature. There was something deeper—an emptiness stirring inside me. When darkness followed the red sunset, a heavy, unfamiliar silence fell—unlike the city’s noise. It felt like I was trapped on a remote island.

“Mom, what’s wrong? Let’s go home—to Brooklyn. Why isn’t Dad coming?”
The kids, used to a diverse environment, were having a hard time adjusting to a school where everyone was either white or Asian. They often begged to go home.

“This is your home now,” I said.
They even wrote letters saying, “Dad, we promise to be good. Please come back soon,” and asked me to send them.

Meanwhile, my husband spent nearly a year in Seoul, working part-time and trying to find a permanent position. His early excitement faded, and even his social life quieted down. He began to sound lonely.

“Maybe I’ve lived in the U.S. too long,” he said. “Life in Korea isn’t easy. I think I should come back.”

“Good idea,” I said. “After seeing deer in the backyard a few times, it’s not that exciting anymore. I’m tired from driving the kids everywhere and haven’t even painted. Let’s just go back to Brooklyn.”

My husband returned after venting all his frustrations about his homeland over the year.
Just like the character in The Burning Bullet (Obaltan)—who, as a war refugee, repeatedly mumbles “Let’s go back... Let’s go back…” without even realizing it—my husband stopped muttering those words. And my dream of a peaceful country life slowly melted away, deep in my subconscious.

But still, sometimes it creeps back.
“Kids, Mom and Dad saw an amazing summer house! Want to come see it?”
“If you like it, you two can move there. We’ll just stay in Brooklyn!”

남자는 하나, 여자는 둘

왼쪽으로 누었다. 자고 나면 왼쪽 어깨가 쑤실까 봐 오른쪽으로 돌아누웠다. 오른쪽으로 자고 나면 왼쪽 엉치뼈가 아프다는 생각에 엎드렸다. 베개에 눌려 찌그러진 얼굴에 주름살이 생길 걱정에 다시 똑바로 누웠다. 잠이 확 달아났다.

화장실에 들러 물 한 잔 마시고 누웠다. 남편의 코 고는 소리에 잠을 잘 수가 없다. 남편의 머리를 벽 쪽으로 돌리고 이불을 얼굴에 덮어씌웠다. 시계 소리가 '째깍째깍'. 째깍거리는 소리가 명동거리를 울리는 '똑똑’ 하이힐 소리로 들렸다. 물속에 잠기듯 옛 생각에 빠졌다.

 
대학을 갓 졸업하고 나서였다. 

"나 오늘 그와  헤어졌어."

라는 전화를 친구에게서 받았다. 데이트 약속이 있어 나갈 준비를 하던 나는 친구가 안 됐다는 생각에 함께 가자고 했다.

세련되고 활달한 친구는 금방 내 남자 친구와 친해졌다. 셋은 즐겁게 저녁을 먹고 친구를 위로한답시고 명동에 있는 호텔 나이트클럽에 갔다. 술이 들어가자 친구가 헤어진 남자를 생각하며 울었다. 친구의 기분도 전환할 겸 함께 춤을 췄다. 그러나 블루스 타임에 남자는 하나인데 여자는 둘, 내 남자 친구는 그녀와 나하고 번갈아 추느라 바빴다.

춤을 추러 나간 둘은 내 차례가 되었는데도 돌아오지 않았다. 혼자가 된 나는 테이블보를 손가락으로 긁적거리며 멍하니 앉아 있었다. 통행 금지는 점점 다가오는데 불안했다. 집에 가자고 했다. 그러나 두 사람은 갈 생각도 않고 마시고 추고 마셨다. 나는 점점 정신이 말짱해졌다.

‘그냥 둘을 두고 혼자 집에 갈까?’ 하지만, 술에 취한 친구를 버려두고 갈 수가 없다. 더구나 내가 둘 사이를 질투한다고 생각하는 것이 싫어 마냥 기다렸다. 드디어는 셋이서 호텔 방 거실에 말없이 앉아 있는 상황까지 갔다. 남자가 피곤하다며 방으로 들어갔다. 여자 친구도 눕겠다며 뒤따라 들어가는 것이 아닌가. 난 멍하니 앉아 사방을 둘러보며 또다시 테이블보를 긁었다.

'나 스스로 사라져 줘야 하는 것이 아닌가?' 하는 생각이 문득 들었다. 방 밖으로 나왔다. 호텔 직원과 마주쳤다. 우리 셋이 들어올 때부터 의아해하던 직원은 남녀가 데이트하는데 왜 호텔까지 쫓아왔냐며 눈치 없는 여자라는 표정으로 쳐다봤다. 통금이 해제될 때까지 있으라며 안내된 방에는 젊은 여자 대여섯 명이 있었다. 그중 한 여자가 나를 위아래로 훑어보며 

“신참이니?”

물었다. 무슨 영문인지 몰라 당황하는 내가 촌스러운지 더는 말을 시키지 않았다.

연락이 오면 여자들이 나가고 들어오고 쉴새 없이 들락거리는 것을 숨죽여 봤다. 겁이 덜컹 났다. 구석에 쥐 죽은 듯이 쪼그리고 앉아 있다가 통행 금지가 해제되자마자 호텔 밖으로 쏜살같이 뛰쳐나왔다.

쌀쌀한 새벽 공기에 기분이 상쾌했다. 내 하이힐 똑똑 소리는 새벽의 명동거리를 경쾌하게 울렸다. 집으로 가는 78번 버스를 스쳐지나 보내며 하염없이 걸었다. 충무로 거리를 어제와는 다른 성숙한 여자가 걸어가고 있었다.

One man, two ladies

I lay on my left side. Then I turned to my right, worried my left shoulder would ache in the morning. But when I sleep on my right side, my left hip starts to hurt—so I flipped onto my stomach. Then I worried about getting wrinkles from my face being pressed into the pillow, so I lay on my back again. Sleep completely left me.

I went to the bathroom, drank a glass of water, and lay back down. But my husband’s snoring kept me awake. I turned his head toward the wall and pulled the blanket over his face. The ticking clock went tick-tock. It began to sound like the clicking of high heels echoing through Myeongdong. I sank into old memories, as if underwater.

It was just after I had graduated from college.
“I broke up with him today,”
my friend said over the phone. I was getting ready for a date at the time, but felt sorry for her, so I invited her to come along.

She was stylish and outgoing, and quickly got along with my boyfriend. The three of us had dinner together and went to a hotel nightclub in Myeongdong to cheer her up. After some drinks, she began to cry, thinking about her ex. We danced to lighten the mood. But when the slow dance started, there was only one man and two women—my boyfriend had to switch between dancing with her and with me.

When it was my turn, they didn’t come back. I sat alone at the table, absentmindedly scratching the tablecloth with my fingers. The night curfew was approaching, and I was getting anxious. I asked them to go home, but they just kept drinking and dancing. I became more and more sober.

“Should I just leave them and go home alone?”
But I couldn’t leave my drunk friend behind. Besides, I didn’t want her thinking I was jealous. So I waited. Eventually, the three of us ended up silently sitting in the hotel room. The man said he was tired and went into the bedroom. Then my friend followed, saying she wanted to lie down too. I sat there, stunned, again tracing the tablecloth with my fingers.

I suddenly thought, Maybe I’m the one who needs to disappear. I walked out of the room and ran into a hotel staff member. He had looked puzzled from the moment we walked in. Now he looked at me like I was some clueless girl who followed a dating couple into a hotel. He led me to another room, telling me to stay until the curfew was over.

In that room were several young women. One of them looked me up and down and asked,
“Are you new here?”
I had no idea what she meant. Maybe I looked too naive, because she didn’t talk to me again.

I watched in silence as the women were called out and returned, over and over. I was terrified. I sat in the corner like a mouse, barely breathing. As soon as the curfew lifted, I ran out of the hotel.

The cold dawn air felt refreshing. My high heels made a clear click-clack as I walked through the empty streets of Myeongdong. I let the number 78 bus pass by and kept walking. Along Chungmuro Street, a woman different from yesterday—a more grown-up woman—was walking alone.