A Bright Name

My youngest daughter, Mi-gyeong, asked me to tell the story of my life so the family could keep it for a long time. Hearing her voice over the phone, I felt at a loss for what to say. I hesitated for a long while, thinking, what grand story could my life possibly hold? I only ever endured and lived, taking each day as it came. My life was nothing special compared to others. But the thought that my family wanted to hear my story made old pictures, buried in a very deep place, begin to rise to the surface, one by one.

My name is Kim Mi-young. My father gave me that name with the character for 'bright' (yeong), hoping I would grow up bright and radiant like my name. I suppose my life was the path I walked trying not to let that light go out. Naming the cleaners 'Sunshine' after coming to a strange land was also because I wanted to carry on that meaning. I used to think my life was insignificant, but looking back, perhaps it was because of that name that I found the strength to get back up every time I stumbled. This story begins on the day I received that shining name as a gift. For my daughter, and for my children’s children, I now slowly draw up a lifetime of stories from the well of my memory.

At fifteen, I left home and went to work at a large textile factory in Busan. The dormitory bell would ring at five-thirty in the morning, and we would rush out after just splashing our faces with cold water. It was still dark outside, but the first thing we saw was the white steam pouring from the factory chimney. The area was called ‘Jobang-ap,’ and though the savory smell of pull-bbang, a type of pastry, filled the main street, I could only smell it as I walked past, saving my money. Hundreds of girls like me walked in a silent line, only the sound of our footsteps on the dark road. Inside the factory, the roar of the machines was deafening, and cotton dust fell like snow. After half a day, our hair and eyebrows would be white. We’d look at each other and laugh, saying, ‘You look like a grandma now,’ and since we couldn't hear each other speak, we talked with hand gestures.

The day I received my first paycheck, I don't know how many times I took out the yellow envelope on the way back to the dormitory to look at my name, ‘Kim Mi-young,’ written on it. It was the first money I had ever earned with my own hands. With that money, the very first thing I bought was a pair of rubber shoes for my mother. She just looked at them for a long time without a word. I can never forget that sight. But then, saying they were too precious to wear, she wrapped them carefully in newspaper and stored them in the bottom of the wardrobe in the warmest part of the room. She only took them out to wear to the temple on the first day of the month or on holidays; for walking around the neighborhood, she wore her old shoes. Even when I said, “Mother, I bought them for you to wear,” she would only reply, “Oh, how can I wear something so precious?”

At some point, Jeong-mi developed a constant cough. Everyone said it was because of the cotton dust. Finally, one autumn day, she packed her things to go back to her hometown of Gimhae. In the dormitory courtyard, she held my hand tightly and said, “Mi-young-ah, make sure you eat well.” Her hand felt so light. A few letters went back and forth. I would send a reply, and another would come, and then one day, they just stopped. There was no way to find out what happened. I have decided to believe, even now, that Jeong-mi went home, got married, had sons and daughters, and lived a good life.

It must have been our second year running the market. It was near closing time when a young man came in and shoved a gun over the counter. He couldn't have been more than twenty, and the hand holding the gun was trembling. Before I could feel scared, I saw my children’s faces. My own hands were trembling more, so I had trouble opening the register. That night, my husband said nothing. He just picked his spoon up and put it down at the dinner table. After we turned out the lights and lay down, he took my hand in the darkness. He held it tight all night with his rough, oil-stained hands and didn't let go. The tears I hadn't shed in front of the gun finally came then. A quiet man speaks that way, with his hands. In the morning, he said just one thing: “I’ll go with you today.” And for a whole month after that, he came and sat in the store every evening.

He collapsed suddenly and left first, in 2015. I had to send him off without even getting to properly hold his hand. The day of the funeral is strangely hazy. They say many people came, but it’s all a blur. I only remember a few things. My composed son, Seong-ho, his shoulders shaking in front of the casket. My sister-in-law, Soon-hee, clutching my hand and calling only her brother’s name, “Dae-su, Dae-su.” And my fifteen-year-old grandson, Jun, the sleeves of the first black suit he’d ever worn too short, exposing his bare wrists. For some reason, I couldn’t get that image out of my mind. Mi-gyeong stayed and slept beside me for a few nights. The first night after she went back to her own home, that was the real beginning.

The church held me up. I endured one year, then two, by attending early morning prayer. Deaconess Lee would call from downstairs at five in the morning. “Deaconess, come on down,” she’d say in her Busan accent. We didn’t say much in the car, driving on the dark, early morning roads. There was only the sound of the heater fan. But those silent fifteen minutes saved me. For the first three months, no prayers would come, so I would just go and sit, with the sound of others’ prayers like a screen around me. Then one day, words finally came from my own mouth. “God, I am here.” With that one sentence, I could breathe again.

Just the sound of my grandchildren calling 'Halmeoni' over the phone is enough to brighten my entire day. Seong-ho's daughter, Lily, lives in San Jose. Last week, she video-called, and the moment the screen turned on, she shouted 'Halmeoni!' so loudly I almost dropped the phone. It's the only Korean she knows, but I think she says it with more warmth than anyone in the world. Eun-ju's son, James, now asks in Korean when he calls, 'Halmeoni, jinji japsusyeosseoyo? (Grandma, have you had your meal?)' Thanks to him, I'm finally playing the part of a teacher. He's taking a Korean class at his university and calls with his homework, asking about one word after another. My elementary school teacher told me I should study more, but I couldn't. Now, my grandson calls to learn Korean from me. Once, he called me first thing to tell me he did well on a test.

On Thanksgiving, my granddaughter Sofia came and took the eungarakji, a silver ring, from my drawer to try it on. It's the very ring my mother pressed into my hand at Gimpo Airport as I was leaving for America. 'Grandma, this is so pretty,' she said, slipping it on her finger. As I looked at her young hand, my own mother's rough hand seemed to overlap it. So I told her, 'I'll give it to you when you get married.' She laughed and said she wanted it even if she doesn't get married. I feel at peace, knowing the ring has a place to go. The song 'Hometown Spring,' which my husband hummed his whole life, also has a place to go now. James asked me to teach him a Korean song, so I sang it to him over the phone. His clumsy voice following along, saying 'Kkochi pineun sankkol,' sounded so beautiful.

After unwrapping my story for my daughter over eleven sittings, the memories that had settled like stones at the bottom of a deep well inside my heart seem to be rising up, clear. If not for Mi-gyeong, they were faces and moments that would have stayed buried just as they were. When her voice saying, “Eomma, just tell us comfortably,” stirred the waters of the well, forgotten scenes rose up quietly. There are things I see clearly only now that I have spoken them.

Because of Mi-gyeong, I was able to look back on my life with such a calm heart. I am grateful for that, and I will be for a long time. Tracing back the days I endured under the ‘Sunshine’ sign, trying to live brightly like the name my father gave me, I see that not a single step was in vain. The hard days and the joyful days all made me who I am today. Now that I think about it, that was enough. I feel like, I made it.