2.1
Cries and Laughters
“Beat me. Beat me more. Beat me until tears are streaming down my face against my will.”
2.
Diary:
I have no name. I was given one of course, but it’s not mine. It means “to be useful like gold” or “to be used like gold.” Take either one for they are both apt. The name itself is not important.
Yes, you are typically given a name by your parents; that’s just how it is. But you accept it, you make it your own, I’ve never done that. The name, like everything else in my life, is not mine. I answer to it for convenience, that’s all. It’s merely a label; it doesn’t reflect anything of my own.
A trivial distinction perhaps, but the possibility of escape that Mother recently suggested has got me thinking. What life has been, how it’s going to be if I don’t make it my own, has made me aware of a desire I’ve always suppressed — the desire for freedom.
Peculiar. My heart pounding so fast I can’t breathe. Glorious singing throughout the room. A little more glorious this morning — no, a lot more. Because it’s forbidden?
Why couldn’t I’ve missed just one Sunday? They would’ve understood, the minister would’ve understood, and God would’ve understood. But apparently not me. Why?
To feel heroic? Some hero. Stand up for God, stand up for the sanctity of Sundays, stand up for your principles. It doesn’t change anything, doesn’t really affect anybody, but of course, you have to be true to your principles! Everyone’s a coward, except you! Congratulations!
To be different? Why? I’m already different without trying. Are others so bad I have to distinguish myself even more?
Because of the look of pride and admiration the minister keeps giving me as he preaches? Maybe. But I don’t deserve that look . . .
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He fainted. Isn’t that what you said?”
“Yes, but, what’s wrong with him? Is he sick?”
“Looks like malnutrition to me. He probably was hungry and had no strength. Sometimes you go too far; he’s a little kid.”
“I know.”
“What did he do anyway?”
“Nothing. He just sat quietly, looking dazed. I thought he was being lazy, not doing his assignment. How am I supposed to know?”
“Yeah, well . . .”
“Can’t we get him something? Some food?”
“I’ll check. Is he on the lunch program?”
“I think so.”
“Better call his parents, too.”
“Yes, and send him home . . . Damn it.”
It’s not true . . . They didn’t say that, they don’t love you, they don’t care for you. Just your stupid memory, your wishful imagination making up dialogs . Not true at all — they’d never say that — you just think you heard it . . .
Dread. My body already knows what’s going to happen; it’s already shaking in anticipation. Anticipation for what?
Ah, yes. My punishment. How dare I put my belief in front of yours, in front of the school, the whole country! Who am I to decide these things for myself?
I am me. Who else will decide it?
Is one Sunday out of a year too much to ask?
Yes, it is. Because it doesn’t belong to you, nor me.
Come on, get it over with, get to the point. Yes, my insolence must be punished. That’s what you’re driving at. I know it, you know it, the whole class knows it.
That’s right. Bring out that big stick. Wield that thing in the air like a sword. Watch me cringe in fear.
Are you satisfied? No, of course not. Get with the business at hand.
Beat me. Beat me more. Beat me until tears are streaming down my face against my will. Beat me until I collapse to the floor. Beat me until I can no longer walk. Beat me because I’ve dared to do the right thing.
But don’t beat me to teach me a lesson, you bastard. You might beat my body to a pulp, but you’ve left no scratches on my soul. I was unsure before. Now I have no doubt. You’ve taught nothing.
Diary:
I have no control over my life. There’s little or no choice in anything I do, in anything I say, everything already determined for me in advance. Justice. Fairness. Rightness. All illusory ideals made up to perpetuate order, to teach in schools, to enslave young minds, but to never to be discussed. My opinions mean nothing, my protests mean nothing, and I’ve learned to keep quiet except in my mind.
Teachers tell me and I do. Preachers tell me and I do. Mother tells me and I do. I have no will of my own. If I had one, what could I possibly do with it? It’s useless without freedom.
Even when I disobeyed the teachers and went to church instead of school, that wasn’t my will. Just one force overriding another. Preacher over teacher, religion over state, simple as that.
But wasn’t I the one who decided to obey one over the other?
What choice did I have? If anyone was born a Christian, I was. Born in a devout Christian family, my father a pastor, and my mother herself a minister for all practical purposes. If female ministers were allowed, she’d no doubt be one. It’s the only way of life I know, the only set of beliefs presented to me from infancy, with strict prohibition of doubt, or suffer the eternal torment of hell. Satan himself would be a Christian if born under these circumstances.
But because of this, I don’t deserve heaven, because I didn’t really have a choice. When I have doubts, I suppress them not because it’s my will but because I was trained to. And I do it constantly, my cursed mind giving me no rest. If only I was simply dumb and didn’t notice the difficulties in the doctrines . . . I may have been born a Christian, but I could easily lose my faith if I don’t watch out.
But this possibility of going to America . . . It could mean freedom, it could mean a new way of life, it could mean choices. The prospect is oddly exciting, though it means the end of all things familiar. Well, not quite all things familiar. My sister would come with me, and I would meet my father, though he’s a stranger now. And how different can Americans be from Koreans?
“Is Father coming back?”
“No, he lives in another country now.”
“Why?”
“I . . . He just couldn’t live with us anymore.”
“Is it something I did?”
“No, my little one, you didn’t do anything.”
“Her? It’s her then, isn’t it? She always cries too much.”
“No, no, it’s not your sister either. I can’t really explain this now, but promise to explain it to you when you’re old enough, OK?”
“But how will he see my drawings if he doesn’t come back?”
“I’ll look at your drawings.”
“But — “
“Maybe you’ll see him one day. Then you can show him your stuff, OK?”
“OK. Think he’ll like this one.”
Is that why you want to go? To show him who you are? No, you don’t care. He’s just another man now. Almost a decade of nothing, he doesn’t love you, doesn’t even remember you anymore . . .
“Where’s your mother, little boy?”
“I don’t know. She’s working.”
“What you got there?”
“Just a new character, haven’t named him yet.”
“Wow, that’s really good. Where’d you learn to draw?”
“Huh?”
“Who taught you?”
“Nobody. You just draw, that’s all.”
“I see.”
“Oh, you mean the magazine. Here, I’m just copying mostly.”
“You . . . you mean you can just look at this and draw like that?”
“Sure, doesn’t everybody?”
“Not me.”
“Oh . . . maybe if you practiced a little.”
“Maybe. Anyway, when does your mother get home?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, could you ask her to call me when she gets home? I’ll write down the number.”
“OK.”
“And kid, keep drawing.”
No, those days are over . . . Can’t live your whole life in your little mind, making up characters, making up stories, making up make-believe worlds. Go to America, see the world, have an adventure!
But Mother . . . Just because she wasn’t around much . . . You’re still going to miss her . . .
“She’s not here?”
“No, but she said she’ll be back soon. She said you should practice what you were playing yesterday.”
“Ah, practice, practice, practice.”
“Still playing from the same book?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll never catch up to me.”
“Hey, if I took lessons for four years and had a piano at home like you, I’d be a professional by now.”
“Pooh!”
Do that again, I love that expression.
“Go away, I need to practice.”
“See ya.”
“Bye.”
Yeah, I’d probably never catch up to her. Not just because she had a year and a half head start. My heart just isn’t in it; too much work, too hard.
One-hand reading’s hard enough for a new piece, but two hands at the same time? How am I supposed to reach that kind of competence? That could take years! Definitely not for me.
Why does Mother want me to take lessons? I don’t want to be a pianist, and missionaries don’t need to play.
She thinks I have a talent for this, that’s why. Where’d she get that idea?
Singing, that’s easy enough, no need to practice for that. Just read the music, only the melody and the words to read. Pretty simple.
And fun. Could sing all day and not get tired. I’d lose my voice before I tire of singing.
Come on, get to work! Practice! She’s going to be here any minute, and you haven’t even started!
Don’t feel like playing, this is such a chore. Why can’t I be like other kids and spend an afternoon just watching a baseball game? I’m sure there’s a game on right now. Maybe I should pretend to be inept so Mother won’t waste her money.
Uh oh, she’s here already.
“Why aren’t you practicing?”
“Don’t feel like it.”
Frown.
“Could we skip the lesson just for today? Please?”
“You know, your mother isn’t paying me to watch you clown around.”
“Please? There’s a really important game on right now, and I promise I’ll make it up in practice next time.” Come on, I won’t tell Mother. She won’t pay you any less!
“All right. But you owe me an extra hour of practice.”
Quick, turn on the TV before she changes her mind. Has to be on one of these . . . Yes!
“Baseball?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t know how you can watch that. Seems boring to me.”
“You just have to know the players. See this guy? He and his brother are both pitchers, both very good. He has a very fast fastball and a pretty good curve. And they’re both really good hitters too, hitting fourth and fifth, probably the best hitters on the team. They’re gonna win it this year, I know it.”
“Hungry? I’m just fixing noodles.”
“Sure.”
A serialized coming-of-age novel about a boy who must decide whether to live or die after surviving an abusive family and the death of his love. Read in order: 1.1, 1.2. Next: 2.2
