The Han River is calm tonight. I watch the river flowing silently – have I come too far? I’m somewhere along the long promenade, with no clear beginning or end. The last train back to my place would have already departed, and people have drifted into darkness. But no matter. I focus on the river, trying to see what is so alluring about it. My history teacher once told me that the Han River was a point of conquest for every state and dynasty that ever existed in Korea. Once you possess it, you possess the entirety of Korea. So many battles have been fought here, so many lives lost just for this river. Now, the river is still a contested place – the apartments surrounding the river are Korea’s most expensive; people save their entire lives to try to move in here. I know I could never live here, but I don’t feel jealous – I don’t understand what draws people to this river. A pit full of dirty black water, smelling like rotten eggs.
I might have to spend the night here. I dig into my pocket and find a ten-thousand won bill, just enough to sleep in a public sauna. I look for signs on the streets, and I find a bright red onsen symbol two blocks away – “Hanbang Jjimjilbang.” That will do. As I walk, I feel something crumple under my feet. Pieces of a handwritten letter. A sigh seems to flow in the torn paper. I pick up a piece. “I’m sorry, I miss you so much,” it reads, and I throw it back onto the ground.
Once I’m inside the bathhouse, I immediately look for the women’s nap room. There are three people inside, already asleep. I take a wooden headrest from the basket and lie down on the bamboo mat. I should take a quick nap and wake up for the first train.
It was an impulsive decision to visit the Han River today; I’ve been feeling empty recently, and I wanted a change of scenery. How far I’ve come, all the way to the Han River from Soran-ri! Before moving to Seoul to attend Yonsei University, Soran-ri was my entire world. Soran-ri is home to all things old and unfashionable.
In my senior year, my homeroom teacher told me I should apply to Yonsei, taking advantage of the new admissions scheme that gives extra points to students from rural areas, instead of going to Soran University, where I thought I’d end up. When I got accepted to Yonsei, my mother didn’t believe me for a week, even after I showed her my letter. She didn’t think they’d take someone from Soran-ri, especially a girl. I gave up trying to explain to her that more girls than boys go to college now. She’s still upset that my older brother isn’t the one going to college – he denounced studying in middle school and promised to take up the family restaurant business, but he ran off with a Vietnamese girl and only talks to us when he needs money. I don’t know why he turned out that way when he had all the support and resources I envied growing up.
My mother never told me much about Seoul, even though she had lived there for two years before she got married. Growing up, I always heard from her that everything was too much, too big, too crowded in Seoul; Soran-ri was the best place for a little girl like me. I believed her for a long time. She’d tell me the same old story of how our next-door neighbor’s daughter, Jungran, convinced her mother to let her go to a middle school in Seoul, but the kids were relentlessly mean to her and so was the rest of the city. She returned with nothing but shame. Tut, tut, my mother swayed her head. If you ever want to go to Seoul, daughter, just remember I’m not paying for it. No use in sending a girl to Seoul. Yet here I am, my back against the cold mat in this bathhouse, right next to the Han River. My mother must’ve seen the river too. Perhaps seeing the unimpressive river, supposed to be the heart of Korea, made her return to Soran-ri.
***
A woman taps on my shoulder. I wake up instantly, and my body jerks upwards. It’s only me and her in the nap room; others have already left. I eye her with suspicion. She’s a middle-aged woman with soft features, and I detect curiosity and concern on her face, not malice. She’s wearing bathhouse clothes, the pink ones they give you at the counter, the one I’m wearing too – so she’s not an employee here, just a visitor.
“Daughter, are you okay? You’ve been here for quite some time now. It’s almost 10 AM. Have you been sleeping here all night?”
Shit. I’m going to miss my morning class. I look at my phone, and Inseo, my Seoul friend, has texted me a few times, asking where I am. I stand up instantly.
“Yes, I’m okay. Thank you,” I reply, as I try to walk past her.
“Wait, daughter,” the woman says as she grabs my arm. “Did you spend the night here? It’s okay, you can tell me. Did you run away? Is someone bothering you?”
“No, I’m fine, I just… fell asleep. Thank you,” I let go of her grip and quickly walk outside before she can grab me again.
I change into the clothes I wore yesterday, check out of the bathhouse, and run to the nearest subway station. Shit, shit, shit. The professor checks attendance, and I have no friends in the class who can cover for me. It’s only week two, and I’m already slacking off.
When I get back to my room – a small rented studio next to the university – I realize that I’ve left the window open, and the winter air has already taken over. I close the window, but I don’t dial up the heater, mindful of the electricity bill. Wincing from the cold, I undress and change into a new sweater, but I keep my pants from yesterday – too lazy to change them. I splash water on my face. Slinging my backpack onto my shoulder, I head outside again.
The wind blows into my face, but I welcome it, as it awakens my mind and I can think clearly. I think about the Han River I saw yesterday, the sense of disillusionment I felt. I think about the woman in the bathhouse who probably thought I was a runaway teenager. Perhaps I am a runaway, the way I escaped Soran-ri.
I find the backdoor of the lecture hall and slide silently into a seat in the back. Nobody notices me. The professor is mid-way into the lecture, saying something dull about debugging a particularly complicated program. I have no interest in computers, but I study electrical engineering; in high school, all my teachers would say “Choose ECM, and you’ll surely get a job” – electrical, chemical, and mechanical engineering. I still don’t know how I’ll find a job, but a lot of our major’s graduates ended up getting decent jobs, so I’m hoping the same will happen for me.
After the lecture, I go to the cafeteria. I order a cheap burger from Burger King, and I find an empty seat at an empty table.
“Minkyung-ah!” Someone calls my name. I look up and Inseo is there, sliding into a seat across from me. She’s stylish as always, possibly wearing designer, and her face is thoroughly made up with bright highlights. She even smells nice today. I feel conscious of my bland outfit; honestly, I don’t know why she likes me, despite my unstylishness.
“Minkyung-ah, don’t eat alone! Didn’t you see my text? How was your day? You look a bit tired,” she says, elegantly flipping her hair back.
“It was okay, I guess. Ah, you know, I always look like this,” I reply, smiling weakly.
“That’s the only thing you’re eating? Come on, have some of my food. I got some really good sushi from the new Japanese place.” She puts a piece on my tray. I can’t refuse.
“Thanks. How are your classes going? You said you’re taking three English literature classes?” I ask. I try to mimic the way she talks. But even after a year of talking to her and adapting to her Seoul accent, I still have traces of Soran-ri in my speech.
“Yeah, major requirements. But they’re easy, it seems like they’re teaching us basic English. Totally unnecessary, because about half of the class – including me – have lived in America or other places. Ah, speaking of America, have you applied to the exchange student program? The application closes soon. You should apply! You’ve never been to America, right?”
“No, I haven’t,” I say, leaving out the fact that I’ve never left the country. “Isn’t that expensive?”
“No, silly,” she laughs. “You only pay Yonsei’s tuition. If you’re on a government scholarship, that covers it as well.”
I try to laugh as well. “Seoul already feels like studying abroad, why would I go to America?”
“Oh, you’re right. But who knows? Maybe we’ll both be accepted, and we can be in California together! That’s where I applied – you should apply to the University of California too. Oh, I miss Cali. I only lived there for four years.”
“I’ll consider it.” I won’t, but I don’t want to let her down. I bite into my burger, realizing how shitty it tastes compared to her sushi.
“I just want my best friend to come to California with me,” she says, pouting her lips prettily. “What’s holding you back? Your parents?”
“No, it’s not that. I mean, I can barely talk in English. I’m not like you.”
“Oh, don’t you worry! I’ll teach you. I just think it’d be great for you to experience what’s out there – the food, the people, the places! And I can show you where I lived.”
“That’s very kind of you. I’ll really think about it.”
“Anyway, I have to go, but… Are you free this weekend? Do you want to go to Gangnam together? It’ll be a change from the usual Myeong-dong we go to. Oh, tell me you’ve been to Gangnam! No? Then you have to come. I’ll see you this Saturday. Bye!”
Gangnam, a nightlife district south of the Han River, is also home to the rich. According to the Internet, it’s not where the richest people live; that’s Hannam, closer to the river. I never knew there were all these fine distinctions among rich people – in my eyes, they’re all the same. I wonder if Inseo can tell them apart; probably. When I finish my burger and leave, I can still smell Inseo’s lingering perfume, a sweet floral scent.
***
I try on some clothes to wear for the night. Inseo said she’ll be meeting me at 8 PM in front of Gangnam station, exit 11. I don’t want to show up in my usual outfit, embarrassing myself and her, but I don’t have many clothes. I find the only skirt I own, and although it comes down to my knees, my mother once said it was too provocative. I decide to wear some leggings underneath the skirt. It’ll be warmer anyway. As for the top, I put on a brown sweater full of little hearts. I know I’m not as stylish as Inseo, but I tell myself this is at least better than what I usually wear. Maybe I’ll be able to impress her today.
I ride the subway. It’s always full of sad-faced people looking into their phones, almost afraid to look anywhere else. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see a middle-aged man immersed in one of those far-right Youtube videos, with uncomfortably large subtitles that read “Men in their 20s are our new heroes – they fight the feminazis!” Surprisingly, I know what feminazis are. These buzzwords cross rivers and mountains and reach even Soran-ri. A boy in school once called me that, after I said it wasn’t fair that girls were always numbered after the boys, resulting in some girls being unable to get textbooks or school supplies because they’d run out. I went back home that day and looked up the word, realizing it was a grave insult.
“The next station is Gangnam, Gangnam station.”
I step on the platform, and I’m immediately lost. There are twelve – maybe more – exits in this station, and the station itself is maze-like, full of little shops and people, so many people! I even hear Chinese, and I become self-conscious that I must also look like those foreigners, confused and overstimulated. I try to find some signs, but it’s impossible to know where I am. Despite the flowers and the perfume shops, the station still smells like sweat. People chatter and rush to one place or the other, and a man pushes me aside as he runs towards the platform.
When I finally reach my exit, I see Inseo, no doubt having waited for me for a long time. She’s wearing a classy black miniskirt and thigh-high boots, looking as polished and pretty as ever. She runs over and hugs me, and my chest tightens as a burst of warmth floods my face. Whenever she touches me, I feel shy.
“Sorry,” I say, panting. “It’s so busy here.”
“Don’t worry. I’m more concerned about you. Why are you wearing leggings under your skirt?” She asks, laughing a little, but she’s just teasing me. “It’s okay. Let’s head out, I know a perfect bar to go to!”
Gangnam is busy, and people are flowing like waves – accumulating, clashing, diverging. The streets are so wide, twice as wide as the streets in Soran-ri. Neon lights flash everywhere, overpowering the nighttime darkness. Right in front of me, there’s a huge advertisement – JJ Plastic Surgeons: Pretty is Everything! – and a picture of a young woman, smiling a bit too wide, with large, double-lidded eyes, a well-defined nose bridge, and V-shaped jawline. I become conscious of my dull face, my plain features, and my unsightly skirt-leggings. It’s not as cold as I thought it’d be, probably because of the sheer number of people surrounding me. Inseo is holding my arms tightly, guiding me to wherever she’s going. Thankfully, the bar is near; I follow Inseo into the bar, trying to adjust my eyes to the sudden dimness.
“Table for two, please,” Inseo says, and we are guided to a table. “So, how do you like Gangnam? I can’t believe this is your first time here.”
“It’s alright, just so many people, so many things.”
“Remember when I took you to Myeong-dong for the first time? You said the same thing afterward. Oh, that was such a cute trip,” she exclaims, grabbing my hands. I blush.
“Yeah. Where I’m from, there’s just not a lot going on like that…”
“Soran-ri? Tell me more. How’s the – I’ll have a Manhattan, please, thank you,” she tells the waiter. He turns to me.
“Uh, I’ll have some soju.”
“What kind?” He asks. I have no idea what I’m supposed to say – isn’t soju just soju? I stare at him and then look at Inseo, confused.
“Go with Jinro, it’s my favorite. She’ll have Jinro,” Inseo says on my behalf. The waiter walks away, and I fix my eyes on his back, embarrassed to look at Inseo.
“Go on, tell me more about Soran-ri, something you haven’t told me before.”
I guess I never told you about my childhood home. I lived in a small, one-story house, with a tiny garden I maintained. I liked to grow tomatoes and lettuce. The garden was my safe space, away from the rest of the family. My favorite part was weeding – something about plucking them out of the ground brought me an immense sense of relief, especially whenever my parents scolded me. They own a gukbap restaurant, and I used to work there for a couple of hours every day after school. My father is proud of it: his parents handed it down to him, so it has a bit of history. Our customers are usually middle-aged men, coming for work dinners, and some of them would try to talk to me, sometimes reaching for my butt, sometimes drunk and hollering that the soup wasn’t right.
My father used to say that sleeping on the floor is good for you, so I never owned a bed until I came to Seoul. Well, it wasn’t too bad. It was just a nuisance to have to put out the sleeping mats every night and fold them up every morning. When my brother was still around, I had to clean up after him, too. And he was such a mess! I cooked for him, despite him being older, and he was always so particular about his food, complaining that the soup was too salty, too bland, too vegetarian… We didn’t have running hot water, so it was my responsibility to boil the bath water every day. Well, at least I didn’t have to reuse the water others used – now that’s something from the Joseon era, we’re not that ancient.
“I don’t know how you lived with so many responsibilities,” Inseo says, sipping her Manhattan. “I’d love to visit Soran-ri someday with you. We can plant more tomatoes in your garden, and have gukbap together.”
“I’m not sure when – if – I’ll go back,” I point out. I pour more soju into my shot glass. “I don’t really miss it, if I’m being honest. I feel like my mother would trap me if I went back; she always insisted that I should stay in Soran-ri, find a good husband, and live just like her.”
“I understand. I feel trapped in Seoul, too. My mom is going to enroll me in a fancy matchmaking service before I turn 30, even though I told her I’m not getting married. She’s been controlling my every move since I was born – all the private tutors, all the classes, even all the friends; going to Yonsei was also her idea. Sometimes I feel like running away. At least you have your own room. My mom would never let me live by myself.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I heard how competitive mothers can be in Seoul. On the other hand, Soran-ri mothers don’t really care that much about education; actually, my mother would’ve preferred me to not go to college. Do you think that you’re able to have a life of your own, now that you’re in college?”
“I mean, I’ve developed some vices since coming here. I’ve been quite bad lately, ignoring my curfews, drinking, clubbing, meeting up with new people, and whatnot… My mom would kill me if she knew what I was doing,” she says, chuckling to herself.
***
When we exit the bar, it’s almost midnight. I worry about missing the train. Gangnam is still bustling, and the waves of people have not waned. My head whirls, especially from all the soju I’ve drunk, and the neon lights seem brighter than before. Inseo holds my arm and tells me she’ll walk me back to the station, after I refuse her offer to order me a cab.
“Inseo, what are all those red shops?” I ask, pointing to the array of large glass windows with young women sitting under red lights. They’re wearing tight bodycon dresses and waving at the passersby. I see a few men looking at them, their faces red from drinks and excitement.
“Those are room-salons. You know, where the working-girls work. A bit disgusting, right? Don’t look at them,” she says, frowning and pulling me away. “Anyway, don’t forget to apply to the exchange program! Actually, I’ll make you do it right now. Give me your phone and pull up your resume.”
Unable to refuse her, I open the file on my phone and hand it to her. She sits down on a bench and pulls me to sit down with her. A look of concentration falls on her face, and she quickly types into my phone, her manicured nails clicking against the screen. Later, she looks up at me, smiling.
“See? It was as simple as that. I wrote the responses in English for you too. I put down the University of California, Los Angeles as your top choice. It has Koreatown, so you don’t even have to miss Korean food!”
“Wait, you wrote the essays for me? How did you do it that quickly? What if they find out? What if…”
“Oh, there are no essays. The short responses are just there to check your English. And it’s already submitted! Worry about that after you get accepted.”
“Fine,” I submit to her. “So, what is California like?”
“California? It’s everything you imagine – warm, bright, fast. I lived there for middle school, and believe it or not, I hated the idea before I went – my parents forced me to go to improve my English. Well, my parents forced me to do a lot of things,” she says, chuckling a little, with large, sad eyes. I want to hug her. “But I loved it there. In Seoul, I feel like I’m constantly being judged, especially with my parents around, but out there, nobody really cares about where you’re from or what you wear. Look, I used to wear these crazy eyeliners that went up to my eyebrows, but nobody ever complained about it.”
She shows me a picture of a young Inseo with crazy eyeliners, carefree and happy.
“You know, I just really miss that,” she continues. “Being an absolute foreigner. There’s something so freeing about it – don’t you sometimes feel like you’re never really centered in Seoul, in Korea? We’re always just passing by, always a stranger in our own homes. But when you’re in a foreign country, you’re meant to feel that way, like a stranger – so that alignment brings you peace and comfort.”
I’m surprised that someone as polished and put-together as Inseo would feel like that too. I always feel like a stranger in Seoul. Among all the well-dressed people, hurriedly going about their ways, I feel singled out, like the world is calling me out for being unfashionable and ancient. I’d feel like a stranger in Soran-ri, too, considering how much I’ve changed – my half-formed Seoul accent and the nonchalant mannerisms I’ve adopted since coming here.
“When we go to California, we’ll be strangers together,” she says, holding my hands and looking intensely into my eyes. I shy away from her gaze, blushing. “It won’t matter if you’re from Seoul or Soran-ri. We’ll reinvent ourselves. We can even make new names! Come on, doesn’t that sound wonderful?”
She leans into me and rests her head on my shoulder. The smell of her elegant shampoo rushes into me. I want to hold her fully in my arms. I don’t care that I’ll have missed my train; I want to stay here longer with her, spend the entire night together.
***
A couple of weeks later, I’m sitting in the lecture hall again, and the professor is talking about debugging a more complicated program. For some reason, it’s difficult to focus today. Inseo and I have been getting meals every day, so I text her – see you again after class! I check my phone as if waiting for something to come. Inseo doesn’t reply. I go on Everytime, an anonymous app used by Yonsei students, where people post controversial opinions, interesting life episodes, and memes. One “hot” headline instantly grabs my attention – “Did you all see this video?” I click on the post.
“Isn’t this girl in Yonsei? Watch her get railed here –” Then there is a link to the video. A molka video on Everytime? I know it can’t be me, but I still click on the link with trembling hands, making sure my phone is muted and nobody can see my screen. The video shows a dark, dingy motel room with reddish lighting. A guy, face blurred, sets up the camera in a corner of the room. He sits on the bed, only wearing underwear, waiting for someone, and anxiously turns to the camera from time to time. A girl emerges from the shower and approaches the bed. She’s completely naked, and her face isn’t blurred. I zoom into the video.
Inseo! I panic, and leave the lecture hall immediately. I lock myself in a bathroom stall and skip to the middle of the video. It’s unmistakably her, her cheerful face, and she seems to be having fun on top of the man. I’ve never seen her like this before. My gut twists with a mix of jealousy and disgust. Who is this man? A boyfriend, an ex, a stranger? We never talked about men. In any case, the video was not meant to be shared, or taken in the first place. As I leave the video, I notice that it has already attracted tens of thousands of viewers.
So many thoughts swirl in my head. Should I call Inseo, check if she’s okay? But then, she’d know I’ve seen the video. Should I call the police? Am I even allowed to do that on her behalf? I quickly check the original post on Everytime. There are about a hundred comments, and some have already figured out it’s her – “English lit major, class of ‘19, I never saw her that way but wow, she is freaky,” one comment read. Other comments describe her body, her face, and one rates her moans 8 out of 10. I quickly report the comments and the post, hoping it’ll be taken down. But I see that tens of other similar posts have already emerged.
I run across the hallway and rush out of the engineering building. Some students are huddled together, looking into their phones – I already know what they’re watching. I sprint to the Foreign Languages department. Inseo, I text, finally mustering the courage, are you okay? Please tell me where you are. The Foreign Languages building is more crowded; more students are clamoring, looking at their phones with horror and excitement – one of their own has been exposed, naked and vulnerable. Please, please answer me, I type, could you please talk to me?
The entire afternoon, I run around the building trying to look for her. I go inside every bathroom. I wait for every lecture to end and scan through all the students leaving the classroom. I even go on Everytime, though it makes me flinch, in case there are updates on her whereabouts. But there’s no clue, only more people commenting on the video. All my calls go unanswered.
As a desperate last measure, I decide to go to the Han River.
***
I remember that the Mapo Bridge, one of the bridges that cross the Han River, was frequently on the news for being a suicide hub. When I arrive at the bridge, the sun is already beginning to set, and the wind slashes my face, violently, too hard for me to think. I only see cars passing by, and occasional pedestrians taking a leisurely stroll. I desperately try to look for signs of Inseo while keeping an eye on my phone. I run to the middle of the bridge. No Inseo.
Instead, I see suicide prevention slogans that dress the railing – “Tomorrow will be a happier day!” Some are taunting, like “Can you even swim well?” and “Laugh out loud, ha ha ha!” Appalled by the slogans, I run away from them – to the other end of the bridge. Panting, sighing, I look around – still no Inseo. I try to think optimistically. Why did I assume she’d die? She could be recovering in her home, maybe in a police station to file a report. Yes, that’s what Inseo would do. She’s not like me – she’ll always find a way to fight. I recall her face – her pretty, dolled-up, smiling face – and I tell myself there’s no way she’d be here, she’s not weak like me. I look at the river, turbulent in the wind, rushing away from me. It’ll be alright. Running away – that’s something I would do, not her.
My phone rings, a text.
Minkyung-ah, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry we can’t go to California together. But please tell me, you’ll go, won’t you? Have fun, make friends, read English books for me. My parents found out about the video. I had to confess I had arrangements with older men for pocket money. I’ll never be able to look them in the eyes. Minkyung-ah, if you ever go back to Soran-ri, would you plant a flower for me in your garden?
Inseo-ya, where are you? Please don’t do this. I won’t go to California alone. I need you, I text, but I know from instinct that it’s too late. I imagine her slitting her wrists, hanging her neck, jumping from a tall building. A storm of violent thoughts slashes through my body. My phone slips from my hands, and my legs fail me. I sink to my knees, and tears start flowing down my cheeks, helpless, and they almost freeze in the cold.
***
Inseo died on the Hannam Bridge. If I had only gone to the right bridge, I might’ve been able to save her, or at least talk to her one last time. This thought continues to haunt me, even now, a month after her passing.
The bus ride back to Soran-ri is quiet. It’s mid-afternoon, but most passengers are asleep. I carry a box of poppy seeds in my lap. Looking out the window, I notice that high-rise apartments and skyscrapers are nowhere to be seen. We pass by bare trees, swaying in the cold, standing atop several inches of piled snow. There is nothing in front of us other than mountains and trees. I think about my acceptance to the exchange program. How did Inseo know I’d get accepted? But then again, she had crafted those brilliant essays for me in the blink of an eye. I got our first choice – University of California, Los Angeles. I don’t want to go, but she’d be so disappointed. I try to imagine her face full of disappointment, but I can’t; she’s never shown that face to me.
When I arrive, the house is empty and quiet; my parents must be working at the restaurant. I didn’t come to see them, and I’ll leave without saying hello and going through all the unnecessary conversations that would ensue. I visit my small garden, now a bare pit of dirt. One by one, I plant the poppy seeds.
***
The Han River is dark and cold again. From the promenade, I see the Hannam Bridge far ahead, glittering with all its lights, but I dare not approach it. Inseo’s fancy apartment must be somewhere out there, across the river. I wonder what her parents are doing – are they mourning her or the idea of her? Inseo, how brilliant and strange you were. Fine, then, I’ll go to California as you wish. I could never refuse you. But how would I fare alone, with my broken English, with nobody to chuckle at my unstylishness? A stranger again, in California. I think about the way she’d hold my hands, how much I wanted to caress her sleek hair, how I should’ve held her face and told her she was so, so worthy. I take my farewell letter to her out of my pocket, tear it apart, and throw it into the river. The river flows, speechless, along with the westward wind.
Jessie Hwang's Prose and Pictures 