Homework
As I write all these diaries — sometimes in Korean, sometimes in English — I think of my younger self, the nine-year-old schoolgirl in Korea who once completed a summer journal project in English. I even made a cover: a photo of myself smiling, the printed pages bound with a pink ribbon.
Writing, reading, and speaking English has been my homework ever since then. Even now, after years of practice, and building a language of my own in this foreign tongue, I wonder if part of me is still that girl, the one who poured all her time and effort into doing her homework well.
Indeed, this life often feels like homework. I have a script to follow — to be a good daughter, a faithful believer, a humble student. Most of the time, I follow it well, performing the lines and suggested behaviors.
But from time to time, I sense a different desire stirring inside me. I don’t always recognize it right away. The mark of an obedient child — slow to know her wants, too busy tending to others’.
In such moments, Han emerges. The part of me I’ve long ignored, now too loud to silence.
“How long?” she asks. Her voice is harsh and teary. “For how long will you do this to me — and to your own self!”
Like the good child I’ve always been, I cannot meet her eyes. She wants out, though that isn’t possible.
I quickly search for a cafe nearby, knowing there’s only one thing I can do for her: to write about her.
Han.
I call her as I write her name in my journal. She is still upset, beating at my already bruised heart. The tea I ordered sits on the table, still hot. The cafe soon fills with cheerful voices.
But I’m still here — cold, and blue with Han. We’re together, in my words.
