The Island of Sea Women Page 32

  A week after the competition, Teacher Oh paid another visit. “A happy day!” he announced. “Joon-lee has been selected to go to Jeju City Middle School.”

  I should have been joyous, but my first thought was practical. “It’s too far for her to travel back and forth every day.”

  “No travel will be required. She will board with a family.”

  This was even worse. “She’s only twelve,” I objected. “I don’t want us to be separated.”

  Teacher Oh jutted his chin. “But all haenyeo daughters go out for leaving-home water-work. Even you—”

  “But I didn’t leave Hado until I was seventeen. And I had to go.”

  “If Joon-lee does this,” he went on, almost as though he’d practiced his response, “she might be able to go to college or university on the mainland. Or”—his eyes gleamed—“maybe even to Japan.”

  But he’d gotten ahead of himself.

  “How can she leave Jeju for the mainland, let alone leave the country?” I asked. “The authorities would never allow it.”

  “Why? Because your husband was a teacher?”

  “We’re stained by the guilt-by-association system. We—”

  “I prefer to think the authorities know you now as a haenyeo chief. Your mother and mother-in-law were also haenyeo chiefs. Maybe that will be a help. And it’s not as though she’s a boy who could cause trouble in the future. I’ve heard of many cases where sons are not admitted to school or military academies, while daughters have gone to the mainland for university and jobs.”

  “Maybe that’s true for some, but I lost three family members during the Four-Three Incident.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” he said. “The higher-ups have already decided to look the other way in Joon-lee’s case.”

  This took me aback. “How can that be?”

  He shrugged. “She’s exceptionally smart. Maybe Dr. Park put in a good word . . .”

  But now he was telling me another story. I spoke bluntly. “Which is it? The higher-ups will look the other way or Dr. Park helped? Or she’s smart enough? Or she’s not a boy?”

  “Does it matter? She’s been given an opportunity that few will ever receive.” He scrutinized my face before adding, “Best of all, you won’t have to worry about her bicycling in the olles with a boy who’s older than she is.”

  He didn’t need to say another word.

  * * *

  We packed Joon-lee’s clothes and her few books. The entire family walked her to the bus stop, where Teacher Oh waited for us. The road was busy with people walking to market. Women wore white scarves and carried baskets over their arms. Men had their pants rolled up to midcalf and horsehair hats pulled down over their ears. One farmer led a donkey, whose back was piled high with bulging burlap bags. As far down the road as I could see in either direction, there wasn’t a car, truck, or bus. Do-saeng, Min-lee, and I couldn’t stop weeping. My father, brother, and son stood off to the side, trying to camouflage their feelings. Joon-lee wasn’t sad, though. She was excited.

  “I’ll come home for every holiday and festival,” she babbled breathlessly. “I’ll ask if I can come when Dr. Park next returns. I promise to work hard.”

  I saw so much of her father in her—her love of family combined with an eagerness to learn, and her sense of responsibility combined with a desire to try new things—but when the bus came into view, her eyes finally got misty.

  “You’re a brave girl,” I said, but inside my heart was aching. “We’re all proud of you. Do well. We’ll all be here when you come home.”

  The bus ground to a stop, and the door swung open. As dust swirled around us, I brought my daughter into my arms, and we held each other tight.

  “I’m not going to wait here forever,” the bus driver shouted out the door. “I have a schedule to keep.”

  Teacher Oh picked up Joon-lee’s satchel. “I’ll make sure she gets settled.”

  Joon-lee let go of me, bowed to me and the rest of the family, and then climbed the steps. The driver pulled away before she had a chance to sit down. My last glimpse was of her walking down the aisle.

  Three days later, Mi-ja and Yo-chan departed on the morning bus. Some said they’d left because Mi-ja couldn’t stand hearing the gossip about her son. One rumor had her joining her husband in Seoul, while another had the entire family moving to America. Others said she was never coming back, using the fact that she’d sold her pigs to the butcher as proof. After all, no one could live a civilized life without the three-way cycle of latrine, pigs, and food. A few people pointed out that if she were never coming back, then she would have tried to sell her aunt and uncle’s house, sleeping mats, chests, and cooking utensils. None of the gossip made sense to me.

  For the first time in many years, I walked to the Sut-dong part of Hado, where Mi-ja had lived. I opened her gate and entered. The courtyard was tidy, and the straw roof was well kept. A stack of empty earthenware jars filled a corner. The granary, where Mi-ja had slept when she was a girl, was empty. A vine with magenta flowers creeped along a wall. Cucumbers, carrots, and other vegetables flourished in a patch next to the kitchen. The door was unlocked, and I walked in. It was just as people had said. She’d left all her furniture in place. Mi-ja may not have been here, but her spirit infused everything. Idly, I opened a chest in the main room. Inside, I found her father’s book. I couldn’t believe she’d left it behind.

  Weeks, then months, went by. Mi-ja and Yo-chan did not return. The house remained unlocked. Nothing was stolen. Perhaps people were following the aphorism that we have no robbers on Jeju. Or maybe they were afraid they might find me, because I went there every day. I found I missed glimpsing Mi-ja from afar. I missed having her to blame. When that missing grew too strong, I walked to her house, where I touched her things and sensed her all around me. The house became the scab I could not stop picking.

  Day 4 (continued): 2008

  “I’m fine,” Young-sook confesses, although she can’t imagine why she does to Mi-ja’s great-granddaughter, of all people. “It’s just hard to be here.”

  Clara thinks that over. Then, “Have you been inside the museum yet? Don’t go.” She pauses for a moment before adding, “I mean, I just learned that our plane landed on a mass grave. A lot of the bodies have been dug up and reburied, but still. How gross is that?”

  Clara is a nuisance. No doubt about it. But Young-sook feels compelled to caution her. “You may be a foreigner, but be careful in what you say. These are still dangerous times, perhaps even the most dangerous.”

  Clara cocks her head and pulls out an earbud. “What?”

  “Never mind. I should get back to my family,” Young-sook says.

  “Why? So you can see all the names of the dead? Or what’s inside the museum? I’m telling you. Don’t do it.”

  Nevertheless.

  Young-sook gives a last glance to the statue of the mother, cradling her baby and being draped by the white cloth, and then begins to walk away. Clara follows along. “Halmang Mi-ja always said—”

  “You called her Halmang Mi-ja?” Just hearing her name that way leaves Young-sook unaccountably shaken.

  “I usually called her Granny, but she preferred Halmang. She definitely didn’t like to hear the word great. She said it made her sound old. Anyway, she always said she had a hard life. I never met my great-grandfather, but Granny Mi-ja said he was a bad man. He beat her, you know. A lot. That’s why she had the limp. Did you know that?” Clara stares at her intently, waiting for a response. When one doesn’t come, she goes on. “He terrified her. He had total control over her.”

  Young-sook gazes into the distance. Many women are beaten, but they don’t betray their closest friend. She doesn’t say this, suspecting the American girl wouldn’t understand.

  Clara continues. “When she first moved to Los Angeles . . .” She shrugs. “It’s not easy being an immigrant. I learned that in school, and it was true for Granny.”

  Young-sook stumbles, and
Clara takes her arm. “We’d better sit down. Mom will get really mad at me if something happens to you.”

  They find a bench. Young-sook tries to calm her racing heart. Clara looks worried. Young-sook needs to get her talking again.

  “So Mi-ja had a shop,” she prompts.

  “In Koreatown. A mom-and-pop grocery. Only minus the pop. You know what I mean?”

  “Of course.” Although she doesn’t really. “Did Mi-ja have more children?”

  “No.”

  “Her son and his wife—”

  “My grandparents.”

  “Yes, your grandparents. Did they have more than just your mother?”

  “My mother is an only child.”

  “Didn’t Mi-ja have her daughter-in-law make offerings and pray to Halmang Samseung?” Young-sook asks, perplexed.

  “Who’s Halmang Samseung? Is she another one of my great-grandmothers?”

  “Halmang means granny and goddess,” Young-sook explains. “Halmang Samseung is the goddess of fertility and childbirth. Surely, Mi-ja would have taken her daughter-in-law to visit the goddess—”

  “I never met my grandmother. She died not long after she moved to the States. Breast cancer.”

  The girl doesn’t seem to notice how white Young-sook has gone, because she keeps chattering.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure no one went to visit the goddess. They wouldn’t have made offerings either. We don’t believe in things like that. Especially not Granny Mi-ja. She was the biggest Christian of them all—”

  “But your grandmother—”

  “I already told you. I never met her. After she died, Grandpa Yo-chan brought Granny Mi-ja to L.A. He needed someone to take care of my mom, who was only a baby. Later, when I was born, Granny Mi-ja took care of me. And then my brother. She lived with us.”

  Being here at the memorial opening makes these stories even more agonizing, and Young-sook can’t help being distrustful of Clara. Because why is this girl so persistent? Why do her parents keep sending her to talk to Young-sook? Why can’t they all just leave her alone?

  “I know the pain Granny Mi-ja caused you and your family,” Clara says. “But after what happened, she did everything she could to help you and your family.”

  “You don’t know anything about it!”

  But, horrifyingly, the girl seems to know all about it. “You and Granny ran through the olles. You were trapped in the schoolyard. You begged Granny to take your children. She said she could only take one. She made you choose. Then she didn’t take him. The soldiers killed your husband, your first son, and the one they called Auntie Yu-ri. Granny told me so much about her.”

  Clara regards the wizened face of the sea woman. “For as long as I can remember,” she says, covering Young-sook’s hands with her own, “I’ve had to think about the dark shadow side of friendship. This is the person who knows and loves you best, which means she knows all the ways to hurt and betray you.” A fleeting wisp of sadness crosses her face. “And surprise! I don’t have any friends. Mom and Dad worry about it. They keep wanting to put me in therapy. I’m not going to therapy!” She shakes her head, realizing she’s gone off-track. “Granny Mi-ja hurt you. Every single day, she tortured herself. You should have seen the way she cried at night. And the nightmares.”

  Young-sook stares into the girl’s eyes. The green flecks must come from her white father, but otherwise they’re Mi-ja’s eyes. What Young-sook sees in the depths of those eyes is pain.

  “Granny always asked me the same question. ‘What would Young-sook have done if our positions were reversed?’ ” Clara says. “Now I’m asking you. Would you have sacrificed your life or the lives of your children to save Sang-mun or Yo-chan? Somewhere inside, you have to know that she wasn’t aware—”

  “Of how severe the consequences would be,” Young-sook finishes for her.

  Clara releases Young-sook’s hands, removes her earbuds, and places them in Young-sook’s ears. There’s no music. Instead, someone is speaking. The voice belongs to Mi-ja. Tears have pooled in Clara’s eyes. She knows what’s on the recording, but each word hits Young-sook like sleet—icy and sharp.

  “Every day I’ve forced myself to accept what I did by not doing,” Mi-ja says. Her voice is old, soft, and quavering. It does not carry the strength or volume of a haenyeo who’s been diving for sixty or more years. “I’ve prayed to Jesus, the Virgin, and God to grant me forgiveness—”

  Young-sook yanks the wires from her ears. Clara takes her hands again and recites, “To understand everything is to forgive.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Buddha.”

  “Buddha? But you’re Catholic.”

  “My parents don’t know everything about me.” She lets that hang in the air for a moment. Then she repeats the saying. “To understand everything is to forgive. Now, put these back in your ears.”

  Young-sook sits as still as a heron. The girl puts the earbuds back in place. Again, Mi-ja speaks.

  “I tried so many ways to atone, becoming a Christian, making my entire family go to church and Sunday school, volunteering. I did what I could for Joon-lee . . .”

  On the recording, Clara asks, “If you saw your friend today, what would you say to her?”

  “Read my letters. Please, please, please, read my letters. Oh, Clara, if she would do that, then she would know what was in my heart.”

  “But I thought you said you guys didn’t know how to read—”

  “She’ll understand. I know she will. She’ll open them and know . . .”

  Young-sook pulls out the earbuds. “I can’t. I just can’t.” She stands, steadies herself, and then, drawing on the strength that’s seen her through so much, she puts one foot in front of the other, leaving the girl on the bench.

  PART V

  Forgiveness

  1968–1975

  Born a Cow

  Summer 1968

  We sat on our haunches outside the bulteok as a man bellowed at us through a bullhorn. “Today the grandmother-divers will go out two kilometers for deep-water work. I’ll have the captain drop the small-divers in a cove that’s ripe with sea urchins. We have no baby-divers today, so we don’t need to worry about them. I keep telling you we need more baby-divers. Please continue to encourage the young women in your families to join the collective.”

  It was galling enough to have a man tell us what to do, but shouting at us through the bullhorn made matters worse. We may have been hard of hearing, but everyone had always been able to understand me when we sat around the fire pit and discussed the day’s plan. I was still the chief of our collective, though, and the other haenyeo looked to me to put this man straight.

  “How are we supposed to bring in baby-divers when you changed the rules about who can dive?”

  “I didn’t change the rules,” he yelled, indignant.

  “All right. You didn’t,” I agreed. “Politicians somewhere far from here passed a law, but what do they know about our practices and our traditions?”

  The man puffed his chest. It truly wasn’t his fault, but the law that said one diver per household went into effect six years ago—without asking our opinion—and had been a terrible blow to all families who relied on grandmothers, mothers, and daughters for family income.

  “It’s always been the case that if a woman married out or moved away, she lost her rights to that village,” he said.

  “So? Years ago, when I married and moved to another village, I was readily accepted into that collective. Now, a woman can only apply for a license after living in a new village for sixty days. And if her mother- or sister-in-law is already a diver, then—”

  “The point is,” Yang-jin cut in, “if only one diver can be licensed per household, how are we supposed to bring our daughters to the sea?”

  “And even if I could bring them,” I asked, adding to the point my diving partner had made, “why would I?”

  “Am I to hear about Joon-lee now?” the man queried with a pronounced
sigh.

  Yes, because I knew it irked him. “My younger daughter attends university in Seoul.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “While not all daughters are as lucky or as smart as Joon-lee, every young woman now has opportunities that are far less dangerous than diving,” I went on. “Look at my older daughter. As her mother, I can say Min-lee was never the cleverest girl, but she helps provide for her family by selling postcards, soda pop, and suntan oil to tourists.”

  The women around me nodded knowingly, but not one of us had heard of soda pop or suntan oil until recently.

  “Why dive when you can be safe on land?” Yang-jin asked.

  The man didn’t bother to answer. He wasn’t risking his life entering the sea.

  “So who does that leave? You see around you women who’ve been diving together for many years.” I chuckled. “The Kang sisters, Yang-jin, and I—most of us here, actually—are getting close to retirement age. What will you do when that happens?”

  He shrugged, pretending indifference, which made us laugh, which made him turn red. He brought the bullhorn back to his mouth. “I run the Village Fishery Association. I’m in charge. You’re to do as I tell you.”

  We laughed even harder then, and more blood rushed to his face. He didn’t realize he’d given us another Jeju set of three: he used his line, we laughed at him, and he flushed. Every diving day, the same thing.

  Jeju had always been the island of the Three Abundances. We still had plenty of wind and rocks, but we women were being forced to conform in ways we hadn’t before. I can’t say if this is a fact or not, but I believed that the Fisheries Cooperative Act came about because of the shortage of men caused by the 4.3 Incident, the 6.25 War, and the new industrialization on the mainland, which lured men away for factory jobs. We had yet another struggle between Shamanism, which was primarily for women, and Confucianism, which favored men. Confucius didn’t care much for women: When a girl, obey your father; when a wife, obey your husband; when a widow, obey your son. But when I was a girl, I obeyed my mother; when I was a wife, I had equal say to my husband; and now that I was a widow, my only son had to obey me. This was not the case in many households. I was glad I wasn’t a daughter or wife now, and that my son knew better than to test me.