My mother has always been a poet. Constantly scribbling, yet unable to spread her wings most of her life due to life’s obligations. I’d love to introduce you to one of her creations here. I only hope I was able to do justice in translating it.
비내리는 날의 일기 ㅡ 소귀골(牛耳洞)을 걸으며… – 수목원
옛목간통으로 가는 골목길은 멀고도 가깝다는 표현이 맞겠습니다
돌아오는 소귀골 (牛耳洞)엔 장맛비가 억수로 골목 어귀를 채우고,
비에 젖어 즐거운 듯 가지를 흔들어대던 굵은둥치 호두나무가 나를 보고 반가워 가을을 기다린다고 얘기를 나누잡니다.
나의 로망은 기다리는 작은 기쁨, 기다리고 있는 소망, 가을 기다림으로 해 여름더위를 이겨내는 작은 열매를 보는 거,
그렇게 소소해서도 마음이 충만해짐을 갖는 순간입니다..
Diary on a rainy day – Walking Soguigol street – Soo Mok Won
So close yet so far Is how I would describe the twisted backstreets that leads to the old bath house
As I walk through Soguigol street, torrential rain fills the mouth of its alley
The thick old walnut tree waves its arms with the joy of soaking summer rain It is delighted to see me And urges me to chat about the coming of the fall
My inner romance is in A tiny joy of waiting A tiny hope of longing And seeing the tiny seed of overcoming the summer heat Through waiting for the fallAlthough perhaps it might be trifling, The moment fills my heart with fullness.
As I am a totally lazy information consumer, I do information consumption via email, basically in the form of email digests of news, science, history, medicine…whatever I can subscribe to. Well, mostly you can guess that the news is about nowadays. But occasionally, I do find some snippets of interesting factoids of history, science, etc. that I have never known and sometimes it connects with my Korean background.
And that’s what I found a few days ago…
It was a story about how World War II soldiers carried hidden silk maps so they could aid in escape as scraps of cloth could be easily hidden.
So here’s a related story about my grandmother. Unfortunately now that I’m starting to tell the story, the silk map for escaping is not at all related to what I’m about to tell you, but it still reminded me of the story my grandmother told me so you’ll just have to bear with me.
After escaping Seoul, my grandmother and her children (my mother and her sisters) landed in Busan, the last stop on the train (for how they got there, read my blog entry on Last Train out of Seoul). As you can imagine, all they had were whatever it was they carried with them, some clothes, paper money (which was useless by this time), and numerous gold and silver rings that traveled with my grandmother. My maternal grandmother’s household was rather rich so she had thought to bring all jewelry she had with her. And in those days, many people collected gold and silver rings as preserving wealth.
My grandmother tells me that for a while, she literally exchanged a silver or gold ring, an item of great value for a single roll of Gim-bap (Rice with vegetable and maybe some meat wrapped with seaweed) or Jumeok-bap (Just seasoned rice shaped into a ball). She had been lucky since most people who had escaped from Seoul were not even able to get that much.
As my grandmother was quite enterprising, she soon started the business of selling whatever she could so she could support her children. One of the items that she sold happens to be women’s undergarments made out of parachute cloth. I never thought about it, but I suppose numerous soldiers during the war time were air dropped into the war zone. I assume the parachutes were discarded and the soldier went toward wherever they needed to. My grandmother harvested many of these parachutes. They were made out of extremely durable Nylon fabric that apparently made several lovely undergarments she could sell for a great profit.
I sometimes wonder how she thought to do that…considering when she first got married, she couldn’t even properly make clothes for her husband and mother-in-law, which was custom in those days. But that is another snippet for another time.
Despite all her brilliance, my grandmother initially had two daughters. Not having a son was of course a woman’s issue in those days. The science now shows it is really a man that is crucial to determination of sex, but in those days, people just assumed it was woman’s fault if she could not have a son. When my grandmother was about to have her third child, she was called to her husband’s household to have the child there. Everyone had wanted a son and thought the third child must be a son and therefore should be properly birthed at the family house. Although my grandparents lived in the capital, my grandmother traveled to my grandfather’s rural family holding.
Unfortunately, the third child also ended up being a daughter, my mother to be exact. Having birthed another daughter, my grandmother was not exactly treated well. Normally after birth, if it was the birth of a son I suppose, women are given seaweed soup (helps with blood loss, etc.) and taken care of. None of that happened for my grandmother. She was essentially ignored at my grandfather’s household out in the middle of nowhere. He was not there obviously since he was still studying in the capital. I can just imagine what my grandmother had felt. especially after growing up in a rich household with more freedom than other women and having studied medicine abroad.
Thankfully, my great grandmother came to the rescue. My great grandmother (everyone called her 진진 할머니) bought a very expensive dried seaweed, a package that was about half her body size, and other food items. Then she literally hired a motorcycle man out of nowhere to motorcycle her way into the mountain top household. Entering her daughter’s husband’s household, she took over the kitchen, made the seaweed soup and proceeded to feed her daughter. Normally this would be unthinkable. Usually the mother of the married daughter should act humble so that her daughter does not get mistreated. My great grandmother, although she is the most womanly and motherly person, defied such custom. Needless to say, no one dared oppose her as she stayed with her daughter for a while to take care of her after the childbirth.
Go great grandmother! Maybe I take after both of these great ladies…one can only hope.
My mother is a poet and an intellectual, but she spent many years not actively writing because as a married woman in Korea, she did not have as much freedom to do so. As a person who feels the urge to write constantly, I can imagine how it feels to have to block out that feeling. Living in the U.S., I am not as limited by the role of a woman, but the reality regardless intrudes and I am forever pushing my writing behind the day-to-day life. Writing poetry only feeds one’s soul, no? And the reality wins out…
I initially started writing poetry when I was a teenager, but abandoned it because…I am not sure why. Perhaps I felt poetry came too easily to me, which meant I was not good? My reasoning for stopping is very convoluted. Instead of poetry, I spent most of what little writing time I had on writing stories. The result is that I have not written a single poem for many years. Now full of nostalgia, I start again…like my mother who picked up her pen again as she got older.
Below is a short poem written in English, translated to Korean as best as I could.
When I close my eyes, What do I see? Faded memories, Grey and melancholic. And I hear a song that I had forgotten. My heart sings to me, Of love and sadness. When I open my eyes, That song fades away, And my heart is forgotten.
눈을 감 으면 저에게 무엇이 보일까요? 색이 바랜 추억들, 회색의 향수. 그리고 내가 잊었던 노래가 들려 옵니다. 내 마음이 제게 사랑과 슬픔에 대한 노래를 한답니다. 하지만 눈을 뜨면 그 노래는 사라져 버리고 내 마음은 잊혀집니다.
In noble families, 족보 (Jokbo, family tree) that recorded the family tree was passed down. Essentially, the first son of the noble family would inherit this. I suppose in the olden days, it was probably an actual book, like family bible in the west. With Korean war and change in society, I am not sure that families still have some sort of old book they keep. However, the heritage, the noble class…all of that still exists today even though Korea is supposedly a democratic society with no class distinctions. All you have to say is which Gim (Kim) or Yi (Lee) you are and well, people know your family history.
That is, at least up to my generation. I grew up in Korea during the modernization so it is likely that much of this has changed now, but considering that only a few years ago, there was a startling news of “now daughters can inherit Jokbo (family tree)”, I don’t think the society has changed so much. Other than, now it is not only the sons who can inherit the family tree and Korea has finally realized that gender equality is a thing to consider. It used to be that as a daughter, you got literally crossed off (like a red x mark) from your family tree if you got married.
I know some American genealogy enthusiasts might be overjoyed by the concept of Jokbo and I do agree it is nice that you can trace your lineage far (well, if you have a certain family background). But Jokbo is not just so that you can trace your family history. The matchmakers (and yes, they still do exist at least up until a few years ago) used it to weed out certain health issues, or to make sure the match had this and that features. As a matchmaker, you wouldn’t recommend a woman for a marriage if she had too strong an astrological sign,had family history of not being able to birth a child (especially not able to birth a male child), or other issues in mental and physical health of the family. Essentially, Jokbo enabled what I would call eugenics. Feeling as though I’m a product of eugenics in my history sometimes makes me feel a little strange.
Some people ask me how it is possible for Koreans to marry each other as the majority of Koreans have the same last name. Obviously that must mean they are all related. I sometimes only smile at that. It is not sad enough that most Korean names have been badly anglicized, but well, now they are all the same just because they happen to sound the same?
It is true most Koreans have last name Kim (actually pronounced Gim – 김) or Lee (actually pronounced Yi – 이), but hidden behind those single syllable last name is an origin of where that Kim or Lee came from. Most Koreans (well, at least my generation) know what kind of 이 or 김 they are. And yes, some of them are related if they come from a family tree, but most of them are not.
For example, my last name is 이, but I know I am 평창 이씨 (Yi from Pyong Chang). Just by knowing that, you can trace your family tree (your ancestry) back hundreds of years. My mom’s last name is 김, but she is 경주 김씨 (Gim from Gyungju). She has an illustrious family tree that goes back to the era of three kingdoms (roughly 1st century B.C.E.). Well, actually there was a fourth kingdom of sorts, but the history labels this era as three kingdoms. Gyungju Gim line comes down from the king of Shilla (one of the three kingdoms) that unified Korea.
Since I have always been told of my ancestry that goes back hundreds/thousands of years, genealogy really has not been much of an interest to me like it is to many Americans I met. I had completely taken it for granted. Yet as I see my family history disappearing with my parents, I now feel I should record something of a recent past. It is one thing to know that I can trace my ancestry far back into the past, but another to actually know who my grandparents or great grandparents were.
My maternal grandfather was apparently a romantic soul. Having grown up as a second son to a very prominent family, he was not at all realistic, but loved poetry and knew nothing about earning a living. My grandmother was always perplexed why he would send her love letters as she was more like a man than a woman in that sense. In early 20th century, she was a woman who went to study at a medical university in Japan during the age of Japanese occupation in Korea, despite the discrimination. Unfortunately, her family lied to her about her grandfather being sick so that they could bring her home to marry her off.
That was the life of a woman then.
My grandmother halted her medical study after a year and the only way for her to succeed was through her husband whom she thought was smart, but terribly unrealistic. While raising two daughters and working as a teacher, my grandmother pushed my grandfather to become a lawyer. Then, as he was somewhat useless as one (accepting chicken and whatnot as a fee for representation rather than money), she pushed him to become an interpreter, using her own large dowry to pay for the exams. That is how my grandfather came to be an interpreter to general Hodge, who was the military governor of South Korea under the United States Army Military Government in Korea (USAMGIK).
I have mentioned before, the Korean tradition of putting importance in having a male child since a female child could not inherit the family tree. That was changed only a few years ago. Now I suppose I could carry on my family tree (족보) if I feel inclined, except the honor would then fall to the first child and I am certainly not the first child of my family. I would like to blame this sexism on the acceptance of Confucianism into Korea, but the importance of men in the society started much before Confucianism. Things just got worse for women after the Confucianism.
My grandmother was a second daughter of a prominent rich family in the North. Her younger brother had died and she only had an older sister. Having no son from the legitimate wife in the family, my great grandfather’s son from his concubine had to be brought into the legitimate family tree. As my grandmother was quite an independent character even in those days, I can only imagine how she had felt about that when she had single-handedly fed her entire family after the war even though all of the lands and possessions became the adopted son’s possession.
On 25th of June 1950, Korean war started with the invasion from the North. After the temporary American military government left several months before, Seoul had already been full of northern sympathizers. My mom was only about five years old, but she remembers the invasion. She recalls seeing tanks, but I am not sure whether that is a real memory or the memory of what she thought she had seen. My grandfather had already been taken by then, a story for another post. There was my grandmother and her three daughters, my mom being the last child.
My grandmother knew they had to flee the city as the North Korean army was very close to the capital where they lived. Before 28th of June, my grandmother was contacted by her cousin who worked at the Seoul train station. My grandmother’s family had been quite rich and influential then so she was able to secure a place for her family on the train leaving Seoul.
My mom remembers packing her small rectangular suitcase, a foreign import that not many people could afford then. Once at the station, my grandmother’s cousin provided them with sitting spots inside the train. My mother remembers sitting on the train seat with her suitcase under her feet. So many others had piled in standing up or on top of the train. Even those people on top of the train or holding onto the side were lucky as everyone else had to flee the capital on foot.
So one of the last trains from Seoul left with my mom and her family, crossing the river on one of the few bridges across Han river.
And on the 28th of June, at 2:30 am, Korean army blew up the bridges across Han river in a desperate attempt to slow the invasion. Only, no Seoul residents were told that there would be no escape for them afterwards…
I don’t have many stories of my dad’s younger years as he has never been a talkative man. The only stories I have heard repeatedly are mostly stories from the three mandatory years he served in the military. Korea had and still has a compulsory military system. In my father’s days, they had to serve three years. Now I believe it is closer to two. So there are just a few stories that I know about my father besides the ones about his military years; one of which is the story about the pigeons.
My father hates pigeons. He generally likes animals and I thought he had a fairly fond spot for birds. I mean I had a veritable zoo of birds when I was young which I had to feed and maintain so I assume he liked birds. I figured he just didn’t like pigeons for some reason. I don’t like them either since they are a bit like rats with wings. So I didn’t really think much of my father’s reason for disliking them. Then one day out of the blue he told me the reason why he hates pigeons.
My father was around nine when the Korean war started and he had to flee his home with his family. I am not totally sure where exactly his home had been nor where they had to flee to. I think his home was somewhere near Daejeon (mid-ish part of South Korea) and he had to flee to somewhere near Pusan (only area not at one point taken by the North). As there was not many places to put so many refugees, he and his family had to spend their “refugee period” at a temporary shelter, which was a public school. That made sense since public schools tend to have lots of rooms and bathrooms.
He told me that there were so many corpses from the war that they could not bury them fast enough, which meant they had to be put somewhere until the burial. Unlike now, there were really no morgues or cold houses so the place people piled up corpses ended up being the bathrooms (coldest place I guess) of these temporary shelters. My father remembers having to go to the bathroom at night, alongside these piles of corpses and the only sounds he had heard had been the sounds of pigeons. So to this day, the sound of pigeons gives him the creeps (literal translation). Some experiences stays with us forever it seems.