Looking back on why I wasn’t a good student as a child, I realize it was because I found memorization difficult and dull. I was a bit lazy about it, too. I often doubted myself, thinking, "Why struggle to remember things that won't stick? Shouldn't something truly become mine only if it stays in my head the moment I see it?" Since I only skimmed my books before exams, my grades, predictably, were never good.
Instead, I was fully devoted to playing. I played so hard that I wouldn't even notice the white linen collar of my navy school uniform falling off. Once, while playing a game of "Cross," my friends pulled my arms so hard that a sleeve ripped right off. I still miss those evenings when I would run to a spicy rice cake (tteokbokki) shop at dusk, waving my one-sleeved arm in the air.
Because I was always distracted by play, I was often scolded by my teachers and had to write many "reflection papers." One warm May day, while writing one of those papers after school, I looked out the window. It looked like it was snowing. I jumped up and ran outside, only to find that it was acacia petals falling like snow. Enchanted by the scent, I ran around the playground like a puppy, opening my mouth to catch the petals. Of course, my teacher caught me by the ear and dragged me back, and my reflection paper ended up lasting until the next day.
I don’t know why, but amidst all that playing, I read a lot of novels. Once I started a book, I wouldn't even eat. When I had a book in my hands, my mother—worried I was too isolated—would hide it and tell me to go play at a friend's house with many siblings.
My mother had been ill and bedridden since I was five. Perhaps books became my playground because they allowed me to share the heartache of watching my sick mother with the characters in the stories.
That habit of playing followed me to college. For some reason, I loved to dance. Once, I danced so hard at a disco that I almost had to be taken away in an ambulance because of a twisted intestine. Even now, whenever I hear music on the street, my body starts to move instinctively. My husband pokes me and tells me to behave, but my childhood dream was actually to be a backup dancer. My other dream was to be a bartender. I gave up on being a dancer because of my physique, and though being a bartender was possible, life got busy. Now, I’ve "settled" for being a bartender who only serves my husband in our kitchen.
During my college years, even though I hated going to school and worried about my attendance, I managed to read two books a month. By graduation, I had reached 100 books. After that, I suppose I grew up a bit once I left my parents. I spent my life struggling to make a living, and before I knew it, I was well over fifty.
Just as I began to wonder, "What am I struggling for?" my body started to ache. A doctor told me I showed signs of depression and advised me to take time for self-care and exercise.
While raising my children, I grew distant from books. I was afraid that if I got too absorbed in reading and failed to look after them, I would regret it for the rest of my life if they got hurt. Once they grew up, I wanted to read again but didn't know where to start. I wandered through local library book clubs, but listening to elderly people ramble in English became frustrating. That’s when I joined a Korean-language book club. It jolted me like an electric shock, waking me up from the lethargy of struggling with English. I initially thought I’d just read a few books and socialize casually, but then...
The first sentence of Camus’ The Stranger—"Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure"—struck me hard. The anxiety that my mother, who was in and out of hospitals her whole life, would die soon had always weighed on my heart like a prisoner awaiting execution. During my years studying abroad, I only learned of her passing two months after it happened. I had buried that pain, afraid to remember or express it, and I found myself drawn to the protagonist, Meursault, who never felt the need to make excuses.
In Camus’ short story The Guest, the conflict of the protagonist—who must lead a murderer toward either life or death in the vast desert—unfolds in less than a day. Yet, to me, those hours of agony as they searched for their own paths felt like ages.
To avoid falling behind in the marathon of life, I stopped staring at the backs of those ahead of me. Instead, I paused and turned to books on Buddhism and philosophy to find the meaning of my life. I finally understood why my father insisted that since I didn't have the head for philosophy, I should major in art—the next best thing.
"Who am I? How do I want to live the rest of my life?" I ask myself these questions from time to time. To find the answers, I read. I gain much knowledge through books, but since it often goes in one ear and out the other, not much stays in my head. It’s frustrating when I can’t recall specific facts during conversations, but I don't feel a great need to speak them anyway. Fortunately, I can always Google what I don't remember. Still, having spent so much time reading, I feel I should gain something. I try to think deeply about what the author is saying and apply their wisdom to various parts of my life. Whenever I do, life feels quite interesting and joyful.
The "reflection papers" I wrote as a child turned into a habit of writing one or two letters a week to my father while I was studying abroad. Even after he passed away, I kept writing. When I sit down to write, painful memories often surface. By putting those hidden wounds into words, the pain vanishes, much like draining an abscess to heal a wound. As I heal, I slowly change and find freedom.
Left to my own devices, I would be lost among so many books, not knowing which to choose. But Chairperson Mi-yeon Kim of the "Su Book Club" works with guest lecturers to select wonderful books for us. It’s as if she prepares a perfect meal so I can just pick up my spoon. All I have to do is eat, digest it well, and focus on a healthy tomorrow. Behind the peaceful atmosphere of the club is her tireless effort. Like a duck that looks calm on the surface but paddles furiously underwater, she is always busy ensuring that we can focus solely on our reading.
Encounters are vital in life. Our happiness or misery is often decided by whom we meet. I was blessed with wonderful parents. My husband is not too bad, either. I’ve also been lucky with my children. I am always grateful to them. And because I am truly grateful, I shouldn't cling to them just because I’m bored or lonely. To avoid draining my family's time and energy, I must live my own creative life.
Meeting Chairperson Mi-yeon Kim, the members who grow together by pushing and pulling one another, and the lecturers of the Su Book Club is an unexpected gift. Once a month, I unwrap this gift, eyes opening to a new world. I find myself fluttering with excitement for the next month, waiting to see another new world I can apply to my life.
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