that should the bleeding start again, or should pus appear, I was to return to the infirmary.
As I walked home I wondered-in an oddly detached manner I would recognize only in hindsight as shock-what to do next. My husband had forbidden me from working in the fields, but I knew he would come home tonight having once more gambled away his wages. Fortunately I had purchased enough food to last several weeks-but what then?
Worrying about food when I should have been worrying for my life, I arrived home and fell exhausted into bed. My nose still throbbed and I took two aspirin as instructed. Tomorrow was Sunday and I did not, blessedly, have to rise at four in the morning to prepare breakfast. I slept in till nearly six. When I woke my husband was in bed beside me and he made no mention of my bruised and swollen face. He even seemed rather chipper. I did my best to stay out of his way for the rest of the day, preparing his favorite meals and saying not a whisper to antagonize him. When he left in the afternoon to play something called “softball” with his friends, I went to the management office and turned in my bango.
By Monday the shock had worn off and I was again gripped by fear. The first time Mr. Noh struck me he had been drinking, but this time he had been cold sober. That meant that an attack could happen at any time, for any reason. The thought paralyzed me: What did I do, what did I say around him? How did I live with this explosive presence? I was anxious to talk with jade Moon but she was in the fields, as I should have been. In desperation I sought the counsel of other Korean housewives in the camp, but found that they held a very Confucian view of marriage. “It is a husband’s right to treat his wife as he sees fit,” one told me, while another quoted the old Korean adage, “Women and dried pollack should be beaten every three days,” and admitted that her own husband occasionally had to “discipline” her.
Only one of the women I spoke with thought that what my husband had done was wrong: “This is America, not Korea. Women are not chattel. Take the train and speak to the pastor at the Korean Methodist Church; perhaps he can help you.” When I protested that I had no money for train fare, she thrust some coins into my hand and said, “Go. ”
My family was Confucian, not Christian, and Namsanhyun Methodist Church was fifteen miles away in Kahuku-the last stop on the Oahu Railway main line. But with no better alternative, after my husband left for work the next morning, I stole away to the railway station and purchased a ticket for the 11:45 train. It took half an hour to reach Kahuku Station and from there I was able to walk to the church, where I asked to speak to the pastor.
But though the reverend was sympathetic to my plight, and made clear he did not countenance violence, he advised me, “We are far from the lands we knew, and Koreans are a small minority here in Hawai’i. If we are to preserve Korean culture and tradition, we must preserve family unity. Look into your heart, child, and forgive your husband his transgressions.”
“As he forgives me?” I asked. “With his closed fist?”
“What other choice do you have?” he asked, adding gently, “This is the life you chose, child. You must learn to make the best of it.”
I took the 2:20 P.M. train back to Waialua. As the station neared I was sorely tempted to remain sitting-to let the train take me as far from Waialua and Mokuleia Camp as I could travel. For a few moments I thought I might actually do it. But after the locomotive shrieked to a stop in Waialua Station, I lost my nerve, got up, and got off the train.
Perhaps everyone was right. Perhaps I had needlessly provoked my husband into violence by taking a job in the fields without his permission. But even if I accepted the blame for that, the problem still remained: how to survive on the few coins remaining after my husband’s gambling?
Marisol generously introduced
As I walked home I wondered-in an oddly detached manner I would recognize only in hindsight as shock-what to do next. My husband had forbidden me from working in the fields, but I knew he would come home tonight having once more gambled away his wages. Fortunately I had purchased enough food to last several weeks-but what then?
Worrying about food when I should have been worrying for my life, I arrived home and fell exhausted into bed. My nose still throbbed and I took two aspirin as instructed. Tomorrow was Sunday and I did not, blessedly, have to rise at four in the morning to prepare breakfast. I slept in till nearly six. When I woke my husband was in bed beside me and he made no mention of my bruised and swollen face. He even seemed rather chipper. I did my best to stay out of his way for the rest of the day, preparing his favorite meals and saying not a whisper to antagonize him. When he left in the afternoon to play something called “softball” with his friends, I went to the management office and turned in my bango.
By Monday the shock had worn off and I was again gripped by fear. The first time Mr. Noh struck me he had been drinking, but this time he had been cold sober. That meant that an attack could happen at any time, for any reason. The thought paralyzed me: What did I do, what did I say around him? How did I live with this explosive presence? I was anxious to talk with jade Moon but she was in the fields, as I should have been. In desperation I sought the counsel of other Korean housewives in the camp, but found that they held a very Confucian view of marriage. “It is a husband’s right to treat his wife as he sees fit,” one told me, while another quoted the old Korean adage, “Women and dried pollack should be beaten every three days,” and admitted that her own husband occasionally had to “discipline” her.
Only one of the women I spoke with thought that what my husband had done was wrong: “This is America, not Korea. Women are not chattel. Take the train and speak to the pastor at the Korean Methodist Church; perhaps he can help you.” When I protested that I had no money for train fare, she thrust some coins into my hand and said, “Go. ”
My family was Confucian, not Christian, and Namsanhyun Methodist Church was fifteen miles away in Kahuku-the last stop on the Oahu Railway main line. But with no better alternative, after my husband left for work the next morning, I stole away to the railway station and purchased a ticket for the 11:45 train. It took half an hour to reach Kahuku Station and from there I was able to walk to the church, where I asked to speak to the pastor.
But though the reverend was sympathetic to my plight, and made clear he did not countenance violence, he advised me, “We are far from the lands we knew, and Koreans are a small minority here in Hawai’i. If we are to preserve Korean culture and tradition, we must preserve family unity. Look into your heart, child, and forgive your husband his transgressions.”
“As he forgives me?” I asked. “With his closed fist?”
“What other choice do you have?” he asked, adding gently, “This is the life you chose, child. You must learn to make the best of it.”
I took the 2:20 P.M. train back to Waialua. As the station neared I was sorely tempted to remain sitting-to let the train take me as far from Waialua and Mokuleia Camp as I could travel. For a few moments I thought I might actually do it. But after the locomotive shrieked to a stop in Waialua Station, I lost my nerve, got up, and got off the train.
Perhaps everyone was right. Perhaps I had needlessly provoked my husband into violence by taking a job in the fields without his permission. But even if I accepted the blame for that, the problem still remained: how to survive on the few coins remaining after my husband’s gambling?
Marisol generously introduced
Similar Books
