2.2
Cries and Laughters
“A tear in that smile. A tear in that kiss.”
Diary:
Ever since they realized that I could read any music accurately without practice, they had me singing in every type of choir at church. Mostly with older kids and grownups. They don’t think it strange that a little kid is singing with them. Or if they do, they don’t say it. If anything, they treat me kindly as if I really belong there. I have a decent voice and a very wide range so I can sing any part they ask, and they have me singing many different parts. If several altos are absent, for example, I’d be asked to fill in even though I’d been singing another part during practice. They know I can fill any hole at any time. Useful like gold, that’s me.
I don’t mind being used that way. Singing is sheer pleasure and I’m happy just to do it. And I go to every practice though I don’t need to go to any because practice is play. And I’d be sorry when it ends. How I’d wish it could go on and on!
It’s the same way at school. There’s an annual concert which is a contest where each class sings a song directed and accompanied by students. The winning class represents the school in the regional contest. Since I was the only one who could play piano in my class, there was no question who had to do that. I preferred to direct or sing, but you gotta do what they need you to do.
But they needed me to do more than that. Since I played piano and knew all the parts, I’d direct them in extra practice to make sure everyone knew their parts. And we won and won the latter contest too. That was unusual since schools for males have never won before. Well, useful like gold, that’s me. Even when I don’t care to be.
Useful like gold. Need a silly poem? Ask me, I could write one for you. Need a silly comic? Ask me, I could draw one for you. Need a solution to a problem? Ask me, I could probably figure it out. Useful like gold, that’s me.
But that’s not me, I don’t accept it. I know they named me thinking that I would become God’s instrument, and maybe that’s why He’s given me all these talents. But if so, that’s His problem, I didn’t ask for them. How dare they simply assume! Don’t I have any choice in the matter? My life is not just a means to something else! I refuse to accept my name.
“Sure taking your time.”
“Sorry.”
“Ah, thought you might do that.”
“And this?”
“Why, you . . . You tricked me!”
“Wanna take it back?”
“Nah, that’s alright. Think you’re a clever little boy, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you should play your uncle. He’s very good, not easy like me.”
“Grandpa?”
“Eh?”
“Will you stay with us a little longer?”
“Sorry champ, but we’ll play again next time.”
“Next time.”
But there’s no next time. If I’d known, I would’ve said something, I would’ve at least said goodbye . . .
“Check it out, an aluminum bat.”
“Wow.”
“Very light. Even you could hit with this bat.”
“Still I’d rather pitch.”
“So we playing today? Let’s round up some kids.”
“I can’t.”
“Come on.”
“I can’t, I’m moving.”
“What? Already?”
“Stayed here for almost two years. Well, a year and a half.”
“That’s right, you move every year. You must have a lot of friends by now.”
“I don’t have any.”
“I’m your friend.”
“Right now. But you won’t remember me next year.”
“Yes I will, I will always be your friend.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, we’ll do stuff . . . like on your birthdays.”
“Too cold to play baseball in December.”
“So we’ll do something else. Maybe torture your sister.”
“OK.”
“It’s settled then, we’ll get together on your birthdays.”
“Gotta go, Mother’s waiting.”
“We’ll stay in touch?”
“Yeah.”
It’s just one more move. Why make it such a big deal? Aren’t you used to it by now? You’ll meet new people, and make new friends. It’ll be all right.
But somehow I know there isn’t going to be a next time . . .
Diary:
I’ve decided I’ll go. Mother wants me to go, she doesn’t say it, but I can tell. She’s left it up to me, however, and I’ve decided, probably not for the same reason. She thinks it’ll be good for my development, that I’ll get a better education, and that I’ll exploit my talents more fully. But that’s not why I’m going. I’m going for the opposite reason. To waste all my talents and be a normal kid, for the new way of life, for choices. So I’ll never have to play piano again if I don’t want to. So I’ll never have to do something just because I’m good at it. Because there’ll be no expectations, no one to expect miracles from me, no one who knows what I’m capable of, except maybe God. And He hasn’t raised any objection. Yet.
I’m not going because the life here is so bad. I’ve had a taste of happiness here and there. Enough to know what it’s like, enough to crave it more, enough to want more control over my life. Because any happiness I have here is not really my own. It’s a loan that could be taken away at any time without notice.
I’ll be going in one week with my sister. Two kids in a plane headed for America. A little scary, but also exciting. With only one year of English at school, I’m woefully prepared to speak the language, but I’ll learn, this will be an adventure to remember. America. Land of the free. I’ll see you in one week!
One last thing I must do before I go. The Book of Memories. Once just an empty journal my teacher gave me for winning the contest. Now it’ll carry my memories of this place and the people I know. When my memories fail, I’ll look at it and remember. Friends. Teachers. Pastors. Everyone who meant something to me. They’ll write something, something personal you wouldn’t say face-to-face, something of their own. An advice, a memory, a favorite scripture, anything they feel free to share.
“I can’t.”
Quiet. Her eyes briefly pleading before looking down.
“If I write it, I’ll know it’s final, I’ll know you’re really going.”
“But I am really going.”
What are you looking for? The ground has no answers.
More silence. She doesn’t want to hear. The words are poison to her ears.
“I can’t accept it.”
“So you’d let me go without something from you? Without something to remember you by?”
“No!”
Tears.
I can’t stand it when you cry. Why does it have to be this way?
“OK.” It’s too hard for you. I won’t ask anymore.
“No, give me the book!”
“You don’t have to — “
“I’m going inside to write. Wait here for me.”
“All right.”
Soft black hair. Slim waist. Dainty feet. Weary steps disappearing behind the door. Gentle and graceful even when they don’t mean anything. That’s what I love about you, that’s who you are.
If I could take you with me, I would. But I can’t, you know I can’t, and my life is not here. I’m sorry, it’s not meant to be . . .
Stand up. Walk around. Feel the breeze, feel the earth.
This is the last time you’ll stand on this concrete. The last time you’ll touch this gate. The last time you’ll gaze on this magnificent church. Old, bleeding, small, yet majestic. No cathedral in Europe could compare because it has nobility, history, and compassion.
Take care of her. Take care of them. If anything bad happens, I’ll hold you personally responsible . . .
Taste of watermelon at early harvest. Small, irregular roads. Curious little children playing, laughing. Chaotic rivers, hills, mountains. Sudden collision of city and suburbs. Flowers in the most unlikely places. Fresh streams of life. Innocence. Chaos. Beauty. Honesty. Honor. Discipline. That’s the Korea I’ll remember. That’s the Korea I’m leaving behind. Farewell, old friend . . .
“There you are.”
“Here I am.”
Smile.
Puffy eyes. Weary lips. But a genuine smile still.
“You have to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Don’t read mine until you get on the plane.”
“All right.”
A light kiss on the cheek. Then gone.
A tear in that smile. A tear in that kiss.
A sinking feeling. Turning into a stab of pain. Helpless . . . Completely helpless.
I’ll never see her again.
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, 2.1. Next: 3.1
