Fifteen

There were rumors all around the country that any unmarried woman would be taken away to the Japanese army as comfort women. 1935, when Korea was still under Japanese colonization, a young couple gave birth to a child. But here’s the twist: both of them were also children, no more than fifteen. The marriage was conducted out of familial duty and personal safety, instead of any lofty ideas that often envelop today’s marriages such as love, soul mate, compatibility, even self-actualization.

Fifteen years later, that child — now my grandmother — experienced the war and lost her parents. She was in a public bath built in a Japanese style when the siren began to ring. At first, she ignored it, thinking it was another fire drill. But it went on. And on. And on. Until she finally realized what it meant.

When I heard this story, I couldn’t stop thinking about the age fifteen. Fifteen, what did I do at fifteen?

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At fifteen, my life was also sinking. By then I had already developed the habit of staying up all night. I can still see myself sitting at my desk in a grey school uniform. The math textbook was open, but I wasn’t really studying. Instead, I’d stare out the window, listening to a late-night radio show. The DJ’s voice was calm, and the songs were slow and sentimental. It wasn’t a show people at school talked about.

Sometimes they read my letters on air. Like a good student, I waited each night at my desk for my name to be called. When they did, I felt excited, though only for a brief moment.

Midnight became my daytime. Four a.m. my  home. I was too tired to think clearly, and too ashamed to stop. My mother, who was perpetually worried that I might fail to enter privileged universities with my seemingly low grades, thought more tutoring would help. I said yes to everything — hagwons, private instructors, extra tests. She once followed me to my after school classes to make sure I didn’t run away.

But none of it worked. I stayed up as punishment; I sat through problems I didn’t understand and wrote down answers I didn’t believe. My father came home late from work. I avoided him when I could.

The only thing that felt bearable was the radio — because it didn’t ask anything from me.

In those days, I often imagined another version of myself. She was fluent in English. She lived far away. She was confident, and free. It was a way out, I knew. But I wanted to be like her. In a way, I think I still do.

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After writing, I changed my mind: no, fifteen is not a young age. If anything, it’s unprotected, untranslated.

My grandmother lost her parents in a war. I lost myself in a quiet house. She stood in a public bath, listening to the siren, a warning for people to flee before the enemy swept their village. I sat by the radio in late hours, hopelessly waiting for better days. We were both trying to understand something the world hadn’t explained yet.

Fifteen isn’t naïve at all, you see. It’s the age you begin to notice what no one says out loud, and carry it anyway. 

https://youtu.be/aoKNQF2a4xY?feature=shared