get home, a nagging memory has me rummaging through the closet where we keep Mom’s things until I find the leather-bound book I think might give me some answers. Mom’s copy of
Samguk Yusa
.
It’s so old, the string binding is frayed and the edges of the soft leather cover ragged. The rice paper makes the book light and bendable. It smells aged, with hints of dust and leather. I cradle it in my hands, remembering her and her passion for knowledge.
Finally, I turn the pages with the lightest touch of my forefinger until I find the legend of Haemosu. I try to wade through it but quickly realize the language is too difficult. I need help.
The next morning I wrap the book in a padded cloth and bring it to school. I arrive at IB Korean class early; and, with
Samguk Yusa
pressed against my chest, I march up to Mrs. Song’s desk.
I lick my lips and dive in. “Mrs. Song, I know I’m failing this class, but I’m determined to improve my grade.”
Mrs. Song looks up over her glasses. “I’m pleased to hear this, Miss Lee. But remember, you only have three more weeks before the end of the quarter. I’m not sure it’s possible.”
I take a deep breath and plaster on my sweetest smile. “This book is one of my mom’s treasures.” I place it on her desk. Her eyebrows rise, and she sets down the purple pen she uses to grade with. I continue, “It’s a rare edition of
Samguk Yusa
, written in Classical Chinese.”
“I’ve never seen such a book,” she says. “This is your mother’s?”
“
Was
my mother’s. She’s, uh, dead now.” I swallow. Even though it’s been four years, it’s still hard to say the words. “But I can’t read it, obviously, since my Chinese sucks. I was wonderingif I could translate the myth of Haemosu and Princess Yuhwa for extra credit. Maybe you could give me some starting points or a reference guide.”
With delicate fingers, Mrs. Song flips through the book, every once in a while glancing up at me over her glasses.
“Fascinating,” she says. “I’m impressed at your creativity in choosing such an unusual extra credit assignment. This is exactly what the International Baccalaureate Program is seeking in their students. But why, may I ask, did you choose this particular myth?”
If she only knew
. I shrug casually. “It’s a family favorite.”
“In that case, I agree to your proposal.” Mrs. Song opens her filing cabinet and hands me a packet. It’s an instruction manual for translating Chinese into English. “This should give you a starting point. Read it tonight, make an initial attempt at the first page, and see me tomorrow.”
I practically glide to my seat, already skimming through her packet; but as I do, I realize this isn’t going to be a one-night project. This is going to take time. A
long
time.
And time has become my enemy.
Class begins, and I tuck the packet into my backpack, the elation of my small victory dissipating. I wrap up the book and gaze around the room at my classmates. With each passing day, I feel that tug, that need to stop Haemosu’s madness. I don’t know if Komo and Grandfather are right, that I’m the one who has to make this happen; but somewhere deep inside it’s as if I’ve been waiting for this all my life. Still, if Dad actually believed me about Haemosu, all this insanity could be left behind. We could move back to L.A. and then I wouldn’t have to learn Chinese,make new friends, or fall head over heels for a guy that Dad will forbid me to date.
Last night I’d mentioned the
moving
word to Dad while he was practicing his putting in the hallway.
“Moving?” He’d put one finger up to silence me and focused on the tiny white ball on his portable putting green. “I can’t deal with that right now.”
“Dad!” I’d said. “Are you listening to me? Or is that golf ball more important that I am?”
He’d gone to putt the ball, but I’d bent down and snatched it up.
“Dad, I’m serious,” I’d said, crossing
Samguk Yusa
.
It’s so old, the string binding is frayed and the edges of the soft leather cover ragged. The rice paper makes the book light and bendable. It smells aged, with hints of dust and leather. I cradle it in my hands, remembering her and her passion for knowledge.
Finally, I turn the pages with the lightest touch of my forefinger until I find the legend of Haemosu. I try to wade through it but quickly realize the language is too difficult. I need help.
The next morning I wrap the book in a padded cloth and bring it to school. I arrive at IB Korean class early; and, with
Samguk Yusa
pressed against my chest, I march up to Mrs. Song’s desk.
I lick my lips and dive in. “Mrs. Song, I know I’m failing this class, but I’m determined to improve my grade.”
Mrs. Song looks up over her glasses. “I’m pleased to hear this, Miss Lee. But remember, you only have three more weeks before the end of the quarter. I’m not sure it’s possible.”
I take a deep breath and plaster on my sweetest smile. “This book is one of my mom’s treasures.” I place it on her desk. Her eyebrows rise, and she sets down the purple pen she uses to grade with. I continue, “It’s a rare edition of
Samguk Yusa
, written in Classical Chinese.”
“I’ve never seen such a book,” she says. “This is your mother’s?”
“
Was
my mother’s. She’s, uh, dead now.” I swallow. Even though it’s been four years, it’s still hard to say the words. “But I can’t read it, obviously, since my Chinese sucks. I was wonderingif I could translate the myth of Haemosu and Princess Yuhwa for extra credit. Maybe you could give me some starting points or a reference guide.”
With delicate fingers, Mrs. Song flips through the book, every once in a while glancing up at me over her glasses.
“Fascinating,” she says. “I’m impressed at your creativity in choosing such an unusual extra credit assignment. This is exactly what the International Baccalaureate Program is seeking in their students. But why, may I ask, did you choose this particular myth?”
If she only knew
. I shrug casually. “It’s a family favorite.”
“In that case, I agree to your proposal.” Mrs. Song opens her filing cabinet and hands me a packet. It’s an instruction manual for translating Chinese into English. “This should give you a starting point. Read it tonight, make an initial attempt at the first page, and see me tomorrow.”
I practically glide to my seat, already skimming through her packet; but as I do, I realize this isn’t going to be a one-night project. This is going to take time. A
long
time.
And time has become my enemy.
Class begins, and I tuck the packet into my backpack, the elation of my small victory dissipating. I wrap up the book and gaze around the room at my classmates. With each passing day, I feel that tug, that need to stop Haemosu’s madness. I don’t know if Komo and Grandfather are right, that I’m the one who has to make this happen; but somewhere deep inside it’s as if I’ve been waiting for this all my life. Still, if Dad actually believed me about Haemosu, all this insanity could be left behind. We could move back to L.A. and then I wouldn’t have to learn Chinese,make new friends, or fall head over heels for a guy that Dad will forbid me to date.
Last night I’d mentioned the
moving
word to Dad while he was practicing his putting in the hallway.
“Moving?” He’d put one finger up to silence me and focused on the tiny white ball on his portable putting green. “I can’t deal with that right now.”
“Dad!” I’d said. “Are you listening to me? Or is that golf ball more important that I am?”
He’d gone to putt the ball, but I’d bent down and snatched it up.
“Dad, I’m serious,” I’d said, crossing
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