“People will forget what you said and did, but they will never forget how you made them feel.”
As if to prove this quote, Minju often thinks of Junghee. Does Junghee still carry that heavy orange backpack these days? The conversations they shared have faded, but the bleak mass of that backpack—crushing Junghee’s back—remains vivid in Minju’s mind, like the brilliant, blood-red color of poppies.
During those days, Minju was wandering in the darkness, desperately hoping for someone to reach out and hold her hand. She was a single woman in her thirties, drifting between jobs at ice cream parlors and clothing stores. To survive her precarious life, she worked as a poll worker during primaries and general elections. Though it required long hours—from 6 a.m. to 9 p.m.—she never missed those two days a year because the pay was decent.
It was a Tuesday in early November, the day of a general election. Minju recalls it being at a high school polling station near the Queens First Church. There, she met Junghee, who was also working as a poll worker. Perhaps because they were close in age, they introduced themselves and became friendly before the morning was over. At lunchtime, they went out to eat together.
The orange backpack, like a heavy boulder, hung off Junghee’s back, pulling her down and backward. Junghee hunched her shoulders and took wide strides, pulling the backpack forward as if determined not to collapse. Watching her, Minju felt a strange sense of distance.
They entered a nearby Chinese restaurant. Junghee placed the bag on the chair next to her as carefully as if it were a wounded part of her own body. Having been in the cold since dawn, they both ordered Jjamppong (spicy seafood noodles) as soon as the waitress approached. Minju couldn't even finish half because the portion was too large. Junghee, however, devoured hers in an instant, vacuuming up every last drop of broth as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Junghee stared at Minju’s leftover red soup with longing for a long time. Minju regretted not sharing some before she started eating. She couldn't tell if Junghee was looking at her with pity for her poor appetite or with regret for the wasted food.
After finishing the meal, Junghee gripped the straps of her bag tightly. Minju couldn't help but ask. “Why do you carry such a heavy bag?” “Everything important to me is inside this bag.” “If it’s that important, you should leave it at home. What if you lose it? Isn’t it heavy?” “I live with roommates, and I think they go through my things. It’s heavy, but I feel more at peace carrying it with me.” Minju wanted to say, “That backpack is going to dominate your mind and deform your body,” but she held her breath.
Junghee’s thin body and dark expression, hardened by her firm resolve to carry that backpack, were unforgettable. Minju felt sorry for Junghee being pulled toward the ground by the bag, yet she also questioned Junghee’s state of mind. They exchanged numbers but never called each other.
On a bright spring day as winter was ending, Minju received a call from Junghee. She was happy to hear from her. At the same time, she wondered, “Will she show up with that orange backpack again?” They met at Washington Square near the NYU campus. Minju sat on a bench warmed by the spring sun. From a distance, she immediately recognized Junghee, walking hunched over with a backpack that had turned brownish with age. Junghee leaned the bag against the bench and sat on the very edge of the seat in an uncomfortable posture. She looked at Minju shyly.
They shared stories of their hopeless lives, which hadn't changed much. Junghee seemed eager to get closer to Minju and talked enthusiastically. Minju, however, kept glancing at the backpack. “The backpack looks even bigger than the last time I saw you,” Minju ventured. “It’s because I put my divorce papers in it. The weight is about the same, though.” “You were married? I thought you were single.” “I just got married because I was desperate to make a living. My husband refused to give me a divorce, so it was delayed, but the paperwork finally finished recently. My life is more dramatic than a soap opera.”
Minju grew curious, but she didn’t want to force Junghee to reveal her secrets. She looked into the distance, pretending to be lost in thought. After an awkward silence, Junghee began to speak.
“I was born as the eldest daughter of a poor family in the mountains of Jeolla Province. I had five younger siblings crying for food. I dropped out of middle school to help with housework, then moved to Seoul alone after getting a letter from a friend working at a factory. The factory work was too hard, so I followed a friend to a U.S. military base in Pyeongtaek. I met a soldier there, married him, and moved to Georgia. I thought America would be glamorous, but I didn’t know I’d end up in such a rural area living with so many in-laws. At first, I was shocked by the constant bickering, but I tried to live diligently, thinking it was just my fate. But then... whenever my husband drank, he would hit me and call me names. As you can see, isn’t my face quite decent?”
Minju looked closely at Junghee. Despite a few acne scars, her skin was fair for a country girl. She had large eyes with deep double eyelids, a well-shaped nose, and thin lips that seemed to tremble as she spoke. Her hair was tied back roughly and felt coarse. If one could look past the heavy bag, it was easy to see she was beautiful. Her body was long and well-proportioned; if she had stood up straight without the backpack, she would have looked elegant. Though she had dropped out of middle school, she spoke logically. Her husky voice shifted frequently from a cheerful high tone to a hollow, low one. Her mood was just as inconsistent. She would watch passersby, huddle in an anxious posture, or look around as if searching for something. When her eyes met Minju’s, she would give a bitter smile or a dazed look, then straighten her back and resume her story. Reviewing her past was clearly not easy.
“In that rural town, everyone had dark skin. But there was one man with the same skin color as mine—a Korean man who ran a Taekwondo studio about 20 minutes away. He was short but had a sturdy body from years of exercise. Whenever I was lonely or beaten, my only joy was watching him teach children through the window. I lingered there, hoping to exchange just one word in Korean. I would leave only when the sky turned red with the sunset, walking back through the cornfields to my house. And then, the cycle of abuse would repeat. I think he noticed me too—wandering with a bruised face and longing in my eyes. One day, I became exactly what my husband accused me of being. I felt I would die if I stayed there any longer, so I fled to New York. I don't know why I chose to run away in the winter. When I arrived, the whole world was covered in white snow. I sobbed, thinking, ‘Among all these tall buildings, there isn’t a single spot for me to lie down.’
I rented a tiny room in an apartment shared by two sisters in Jackson Heights—the neighborhood where we first met. What else could I do in New York? I worked at a bar. The men I served seemed like tyrants, but I had no other choice. Looking at men’s hands made me shiver, reminding me of my husband’s blows. I was terrified they would hit me too. I used to think every other woman in the world was happy and I was the only miserable one. But moving from one roommate to another, I realized their lives weren't much different from mine. That brought me some comfort.
One chilly early winter night, I came home from work and was quietly chewing on some pickled radish with rice soaked in water. Suddenly, the door flew open. It was the younger of the two sisters. ‘Why are you chewing so loudly? Can’t you eat quietly? My boyfriend asked what that noise was—it’s so embarrassing!’ She screamed and slammed the door. I was stunned. I quietly threw the food in the trash and stayed in my room, holding my breath. Later, I peeked through the door and saw a large man leaving the apartment. Eventually, that girl—who used to pick on me—got her hair pulled by the man’s actual wife, and the drama lasted for days.
Another time, I was taking the 7 train to work with the older sister. She worked as a server at a restaurant. As the train moved through the early evening, she stared at the red sky and looked like she was about to cry. ‘Are you okay?’ I asked. She looked down, wiped her tears, and said, ‘I miss my daughter. I wonder if she looks for me at sunset too.’ ‘You have a daughter?’ ‘I worked as a waitress to support my husband through his Ph.D. Once he got his degree, he fell for a woman he studied with and demanded a divorce. He took our daughter. Can you smell it on me?’ ‘Smell what?’ ‘The smell of the restaurant. I’ve worked there so long that the food smell is soaked into my body. No matter how much I bathe, it won't go away. My husband said he hated the way I smelled like food.’ We held hands and cried together. She was kind to me, unlike her sister.
Once I saved some money, I got my own apartment nearby. I worked at night and attended language school part-time during the day. I can speak okay, but I struggle with reading and writing. I rent out the rooms and live in the living room to save money. I used to lament my fate, but every roommate who comes through has such a story. Living with them, I learned that I’m not the only one struggling. I learned to empathize and compromise.
There was one roommate who had left her husband. she would sit in front of the mirror for hours, tilting her elegant face. She looked like she was in love with her own reflection. I used to wait for her to leave the mirror so I could check if the freckles on my face had faded. Men visited her every evening. I can't quite remember if her husband took her back or if her lover took her away.
After she left, a woman who worked at a vegetable stand moved in. Every time she came home, she brought piles of lettuce. She would wrap rice in the lettuce and chew loudly. When I looked into the kitchen, she would smile apologetically and say, ‘Sister, lettuce is the most delicious thing in the world to me.’ ‘It’s okay to make noise,’ I’d tell her. The sound of her chewing lettuce sounded so sad, like a plea for help against her loneliness and exhaustion. My backpack holds all these memories. That’s why it doesn’t feel heavy. It’s a habit now, so it’s not uncomfortable. If I lose this backpack, it’s like losing myself. That’s why I carry it everywhere.”
Before Junghee received her citizenship, she invited Minju to her house to help her choose an American name. “How about Noah?” Junghee asked. “It reminds me of Noah’s Ark,” Minju replied. “It has a strong religious feel. Do you go to church?” “No. Then, how about Norma?” “I think Norma is better than Noah. Did you look up the meaning?” “I’m not sure, but I heard it means ‘standard, pattern, or rule’ in English. I want to forget my past, be reborn with an American name, and live a normal life.” The moment Minju heard the word “normal,” she looked around for the orange backpack. It was lying comfortably by the bed.
On the day Junghee changed her name to Norma and received her citizenship, she invited Minju to the place where she worked to celebrate. It was a bar near Chinatown. Minju hesitated at the door. Through the window, in a room thick with cigarette smoke, she saw Norma moving busily, wearing a short black skirt and a lace crop top that revealed her midriff. She looked like a complete stranger.
Norma’s dark silhouette overlapped with the image of the orange backpack. The faded, exhausted object seemed to take on a life of its own, pleading with Minju with a heavy, serious expression: “I want to get off her back and rest now.”
Minju felt a dull thud in her head, followed by a hollow sensation. She wanted to run away—from that heavy orange backpack, and from Norma. After lingering by the door for a long time, she turned away from the bar and disappeared like a shadow into the dark alley.
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