3.1
Cries and Laughters
“She will kill you one day, but it’s only an illness, you must understand!”
3.
Book of Memories:
I don’t remember who once said that anyone you meet will someday leave, but I believe we will meet again. No matter what happens, no matter what anybody says, our friendship can’t be erased. I want so much to write our stories someday.
Till the end I wished you wouldn’t leave. I know you’ll meet your father, but I’m afraid your mother will miss you too much. I know I will. But I won’t . . . no I refuse to think of this farewell with sadness.
I will always be your friend.
I will never forget you.
I will wait till the day we meet again.
Farewell.
Why do you torture me? Why do you shout my name with distaste? Why do you misunderstand everything I do, everything I say? Do I not show you respect? Do I not show you obedience? Do I not show you understanding? Why do you play games? Why do you throw tantrums? Why is it always my fault? Why am I always the bad guy? Did I do that? Did I say that? Did I ask for this? Why do you torture me?
“I know you miss your mother and your friends back home, but don’t write to them until you go to college. It’ll make your stepmother uncomfortable.”
You mean don’t write, period. If I wait five years, I might as well forget it. They would’ve forgotten me by then, they’d be different people altogether, and I’d be a different person altogether. We’d have nothing to say.
Do you understand what you’re asking? You’re asking me to give up my past. Completely. For no better reason than she’d feel uncomfortable. What next? My future? Myself? Will you ask me to give up my eyes if they make her uncomfortable? Do you care about me even a little bit? Or was this invite merely an obligation?
“You see, sometimes she gets insanely jealous and throws tantrums. It’s not that she hates you, she’s just being protective of your stepsister, you understand. It’s an illness. You have to understand.”
An illness. That’s what you call it. Well if it’s an illness, guess it’s all right. She will kill you one day, but it’s only an illness, you must understand!
She’s an adult. I’m a child. And yet I’m supposed to be the one who understands, I’m supposed to be the one who sacrifices . . .
The harsh glare of the white wallpapers. Stainless utensils sticking out from the dish tray, pointing accusing fingers at me. Kitchen. No, an interrogation room. What is it this time? What did I do now?
“She says you don’t treat her with respect.”
What? How do I answer such a preposterous charge? No, she’s wrong, I treat her with plenty of respect!
“She says you don’t listen to her, don’t do things she’s asked you to do.”
I listen to her. I do all the chores she asks me to do. Will you take my word over hers? No, of course not.
“She tells you to clean the kitchen, and you don’t do it.”
She never told me that, I’d remember if she did, my memory isn’t that poor.
“She tells you to put away the dishes, and you don’t do it.”
Oh, I forget one small thing and she turns it into an issue of respect. That’s fair.
“She shouldn’t even have to tell you these things. You should be doing them on your own.”
Yeah, that’s right, I’m a bad son, never occurred to me that I’m responsible for all the chores. Since I had no practice being a good son, you’ll have to cover the basics at least once, so I’ll know what’s expected.
“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”
Diary:
America. I didn’t realize how big it was until Father drove us home from the Chicago airport. Long stretches of highways and trees and often not a single house in sight! What luxury of space. Too big, too lonely.
Two days. Just to go from one state to the next. I wouldn’t be surprised if the state of Missouri is bigger than Korea itself. We took in some sights along the way, of course, including a skyscraper in Chicago. What was it called? I don’t remember, I’m so bad with names. But it’s supposed to be the tallest building (or is it the second tallest?) in the country (world?). Supposedly there’s another really tall building in New York. Well, first or second, it was tall enough. A nice contrast to the long, empty plains. There’s an orderly beauty to this country.
Home is some small town in Missouri, near Kansas City, some weird name I can’t recall at the moment. A two-story house, complete with a garage and a basement, a deck with a small garden below, and grass all around. It must be typical of houses here, but I’ve never lived in such luxury.
Father. What can I say about him? A handsome man, but a stranger. I know virtually nothing about him, and that’s fine. I don’t judge him and couldn’t care less if he judges me, his approval or disapproval means nothing to me. I feel neither hostility nor affection for the man. If I never saw him again, it would make no difference. What a terrible thing for a son to feel about his father. But he hasn’t been a father to me for years. I have some excuse for feeling this way, however small.
But my feelings for Mother, there’s no excuse. Though I rarely saw her because she was always working, still she’s no stranger. And yet I feel no loss in leaving her; doesn’t bother me that I might never see her again. It’s not that I resent her. I might’ve resented that she made us move every year as if it were her personal responsibility to save every soul in Korea. Or that she made me take piano lessons. That’s all in the past, however, and I feel no hostility towards her, but no love either. How can this be? Am I such a terrible son? Am I such a terrible human being? Am I so heartless?
Now I realize the same is true of my sister. I’d hate her sometimes, the way she can be so annoying. I’d pity her if she was having trouble. And I’d be outraged if someone wronged her. But that’s not love, how can I be so heartless?
No, I’m not heartless. I feel the loss of my friends, some so painful I can’t help but cry. But I look at it like a movie, a good tragic movie, its beauty soothing me somehow.
I’m not heartless. I’m just a bad son, a bad brother, a bad human being perhaps. And beyond redemption because I don’t feel that bad about it.
Don’t you know that I have no malice toward you? That I don’t blame you for Father? That I’ll treat your daughter as my own sister? That I’ll do my best to fit into this family?
“Hey, throw the ball.”
“What?”
“The ball.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t speak English?”
“A little.”
“That’s all right, let’s play catch. Here, use this glove.”
“OK.”
“Just moved in? Haven’t seen you before.”
“Last week.”
“Who’s the new kid?”
“What do you care? Hey, give it back!”
“Who’s that?”
“My brother. Just ignore him, he’s a jerk.”
“Yeah.”
“Come on, let’s go inside.”
“OK.”
Polite, trimmed lawns, frugal driveways with occasional oil stains, rows of orderly houses with generous spaces, boys playing ball outside, outdoor barbecues: So this is suburbia. Sweet. Enchanting. Like the giggle of a little girl. I could really like this place if only . . .
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, 2.2. Next: 3.2
