amount, a matter of twenty or thirty cents perhaps, that it appears ridiculous to me today. But that night, when no one was around, I went to my father’s toolbox, filled with his hammers and wrenches, and stole the nails I’d given him. I did so without a thought of what would happen if he found out.
When he noticed the nails were gone, he didn’t scream at me or beat me; in fact, he never beat me at all, unlike many North Korean dads. But the look on his face made me wish he had. It was one of bewilderment and deep, deep sorrow. His eyes said,
What have I done to deserve a son such as this?
My biggest mistake that year was taking a loan from one of my schoolmates who, unknown to me, was really stingy. One day, two of my good friends were going to the snack store. I was flat broke, but I wanted to go. So I found this older boy I didn’t know well and he gave me five
won.
I had no idea he was a maniac when it came to being paid back right away. I learned later that he didn’t have a father and was known for being very rude; sadly, I was to learn this the hard way.
When I didn’t give the money lender the cash back the next day, he showed up at my house, yelling, “Joseph’s father, give me ten
won.
” He had added one hundred percent interest to the loan in twenty-four hours! And he wouldn’t go away, screaming for everyone to hear that I owed him money.
I was out playing somewhere. My father went outside to shut the boy up and they got into a tussle, fighting there in our front yard. Finally the lender left without his money. But my father was humiliated by the whole experience.
When I came home that day, he said to me, “You are no longer my son.”
Those words! How they stung me! I didn’t know what to say. I retreated to my sleeping mat, where I cried until I fell asleep. The next morning on the way to school, the words spooled over and over again in my mind. “No longer my son . . . no longer my son . . . no longer . . .” It was something he could never take back. I felt like an orphan, misunderstood and unwanted.
Despite my father’s disappointment and shame, I still didn’t find the motivation to study or stop gambling. Maybe I improved for a week or two, poring over my books at night so that he would see me, but there was no lasting change. I just didn’t see the point of it, and my father’s insistence that I get good grades only made me more defiant. I was going to be a soldier fighting for North Korea—why did I need to know trigonometry? The bad grades continued.
Thank God my parents had Bong Sook. She was a good student, very organized and detail-oriented. Bong Sook never once caused my parents any trouble. Even in the worst times she was cheerful. Other teenagers were rebellious. They would say things like, “Why do I have to go to the farm instead of hanging out with my friends?” My sister was never that way. In a house filled with three headstrong people, she was the one who accepted what life gave her.
I think back and wonder about what was going on behind that kind, pretty face. What were her dreams of life? What did she want to be? (My guess is a teacher, but it’s only a guess—we never talked about it.) Did she have a crush on a certain boy in school? Whom did she like? Who liked her? It haunts me to this day that I know nothing about these things.
I didn’t even know the name of Bong Sook’s favorite book. She had very few to choose from; most of the titles in our house were about the North Korean Communist Party. Like every family we knew, we had a copy of Kim Il Sung’s memoirs. They came in an eight-volume set, and Bong Sook liked the one in which the Great Leader described fighting the Japanese in Manchuria. There were many action scenes and battles, and illustrations of Kim Il Sung and his brethren bayonetting the enemy. It’s a very good book. Whether it’s true or not is another story.
Bong Sook would read to me from one of the volumes. I spent
When he noticed the nails were gone, he didn’t scream at me or beat me; in fact, he never beat me at all, unlike many North Korean dads. But the look on his face made me wish he had. It was one of bewilderment and deep, deep sorrow. His eyes said,
What have I done to deserve a son such as this?
My biggest mistake that year was taking a loan from one of my schoolmates who, unknown to me, was really stingy. One day, two of my good friends were going to the snack store. I was flat broke, but I wanted to go. So I found this older boy I didn’t know well and he gave me five
won.
I had no idea he was a maniac when it came to being paid back right away. I learned later that he didn’t have a father and was known for being very rude; sadly, I was to learn this the hard way.
When I didn’t give the money lender the cash back the next day, he showed up at my house, yelling, “Joseph’s father, give me ten
won.
” He had added one hundred percent interest to the loan in twenty-four hours! And he wouldn’t go away, screaming for everyone to hear that I owed him money.
I was out playing somewhere. My father went outside to shut the boy up and they got into a tussle, fighting there in our front yard. Finally the lender left without his money. But my father was humiliated by the whole experience.
When I came home that day, he said to me, “You are no longer my son.”
Those words! How they stung me! I didn’t know what to say. I retreated to my sleeping mat, where I cried until I fell asleep. The next morning on the way to school, the words spooled over and over again in my mind. “No longer my son . . . no longer my son . . . no longer . . .” It was something he could never take back. I felt like an orphan, misunderstood and unwanted.
Despite my father’s disappointment and shame, I still didn’t find the motivation to study or stop gambling. Maybe I improved for a week or two, poring over my books at night so that he would see me, but there was no lasting change. I just didn’t see the point of it, and my father’s insistence that I get good grades only made me more defiant. I was going to be a soldier fighting for North Korea—why did I need to know trigonometry? The bad grades continued.
Thank God my parents had Bong Sook. She was a good student, very organized and detail-oriented. Bong Sook never once caused my parents any trouble. Even in the worst times she was cheerful. Other teenagers were rebellious. They would say things like, “Why do I have to go to the farm instead of hanging out with my friends?” My sister was never that way. In a house filled with three headstrong people, she was the one who accepted what life gave her.
I think back and wonder about what was going on behind that kind, pretty face. What were her dreams of life? What did she want to be? (My guess is a teacher, but it’s only a guess—we never talked about it.) Did she have a crush on a certain boy in school? Whom did she like? Who liked her? It haunts me to this day that I know nothing about these things.
I didn’t even know the name of Bong Sook’s favorite book. She had very few to choose from; most of the titles in our house were about the North Korean Communist Party. Like every family we knew, we had a copy of Kim Il Sung’s memoirs. They came in an eight-volume set, and Bong Sook liked the one in which the Great Leader described fighting the Japanese in Manchuria. There were many action scenes and battles, and illustrations of Kim Il Sung and his brethren bayonetting the enemy. It’s a very good book. Whether it’s true or not is another story.
Bong Sook would read to me from one of the volumes. I spent
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