Kimchi

Kimchi

Sun Hee Yoon

 When I'm tired, I eat Kimchi. When I'm sad, I eat Kimchi. Tonight I talked to my mom over the phone, and her voice brought me a reminiscence.  As a ritual, I pulled out a jar of Kimchi and had some.  

 Whenever I eat Kimchi, I eat my memories. With one bite, I go back to my mom's kitchen.
I see a girl who's waiting for a newly-made Kimchi of the year. There are more than 5 boxes of Napa cabbage which have been marinated in salt water through the night. Next, I see a bucket of freshly grounded chili pepper that has red velvet texture with yellow seed sprinkled. I smell of minced garlic, chopped spring onion, sliced radish and the essential ingredient - fish extraction. My mom mixes all these ingredients into a thick paste. She uses her bare hands. She used to tell me the best taste of food comes from bare hands and sincere heart. Her magical hands paint the plain Napa cabbage into red leaves one by one, from sturdy outer leaves into soft, tiny bud. These red cabbages remind me the red rose petals. Finally, I see a girl who’s hoping her mom would give a little piece of Kimchi into her mouth.
    “Do you want to taste it?”
    “Yes, yes! Please!”
My mom folds the tiniest and softest layer of kimchi and slided into my mouth with smile. That was the taste of my mom’s love.

  When I visited USA for 2 weeks in 1993, the first thing in my mind as soon as we arrived was having Kimchi. I desperately wanted Kimchi stew with rice for a dinner, but instead I got a fried chicken with Coke. That night, I cried for Kimchi for the first time. I realized how big its existence was in my life. It was the case of wake-up call; when a thing is absent from us, we realize we took it for granted to be there.

  In 2002, I studied abroad in Australia and New Zealand for 6 months. Among 60 members of international exchange students, I wasn’t the only one who was hungry for Kimchi. Someone told me they would go to Korean grocery to buy a jar of Kimchi. It took us more than 2 hours to get to the store, but it was all worth it in the end, especially when we laid a slice of Kimchi on top of steamy ramen noodle.
  We even attended the Korean church while we were studying in New Zealand because we could have decent meal with Kimchi at the end of service. When I didn’t have money to buy a jar of Kimchi, I was longing for Sundays.   

  Yes, I'm a Kimchi folk. I grew up with this strong scented food, and it became part of my identity. Now, I live 5000 miles away from Korean peninsula , yet whenever I smell of Kimchi, I’m home. Kimchi has been an invisible yet strong thread, which connects me with my culture, and it reminds me where I'm from.

The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein

 The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein is a recent my emotion-breaker. It blew me up like a dynamite. I've been training myself as a tough mom, emotion-sealed parent. My compressed emotions were burst out by this book.  This simple story halted me from my mundane life.

     "Once there was a tree... and she loved a little boy." So begins a story of unforgettable perception, beautifully written and illustrated by the gifted and versatile Shel Silverstein. 

     Every day the boy would come to the tree to eat her apples, swing from her branches, or slide down her trunk... and the tree was happy. But as the boy grew older he began to want more from the tree, and the tree gave and gave. 

     This is a tender story, touched with sadness, aglow with consolation. Shel Silverstein has created a moving parable for readers of all ages that offers an affecting interpretation of the gift of giving and a serene acceptance of another's capacity to love in return.  

-Excerpt from The Giving Tree

The book cover is a lime green, a color of new life.
The blank space on each pages make me to write, to fill the gap.
But I learned, long time ago, a blank space is an artist's active device to the passive readers.
Staring simple black lines in pictures and words, I can't flip the page too fast; I want to live in this space.

For a moment I put down everything in my life.
I jump in this story; I become a little boy, I become a tree.
As this little boy grow older, I mirror myself.
This boy wants more and more, the tree give him again and again.
The boy takes for granted everything the tree gave him, but it doesn't matter to the tree.
She was happy to give; she was happy when the boy was happy. 

I have to confess; I'm an extremely emotional person. The strong waves of feelings sway me from here and there, they pause me from keep moving forward. Life is already hard without emotions, and my sensitive intuition makes my perception tougher to control, to neutralize. While reading The Giving Tree, my effort being tough and resilient was in vain. I fail to numb myself from it, but I'm glad to be failed. Because The Giving Tree satisfied my heart and my soul. 

*   *   *

From Where the Sidewalks Ends by Shel Silverstein

 

Blogathon is over, and now what?

The feeling of accomplishment, this is great! No pain, no gain! Easy comes, easy goes! These are what people say. Surely a pain is not what we seek for, but it is a necessary evil. Without going it through, we can't really understand the true taste of an accomplishment. 

For a month of May, I was determined to post everyday on my blog. And I did. Although I have to admit that I wasn't fully prepared for this challenge. I didn't know how to pre-write, nor did I follow the theme. In fact, I didn't know what my theme is. I was just writing without much planning. 

By the mid-May I realized the inconsistency of my blog stories. I started to compare with other bloggers. I envied the well-developed blogs with all little cute designs. I envied the two-digits followers. I admired the skillful blogging rendering. Often I wanted to leave a comment, but I couldn't carry on my courage. Once I felt like leaving a note, I worried the critical voices about my English usage. It might sound funny because I write my stories in English in my blog, but I couldn't write on other blogger's property. I didn't want to be an intruder with a broken English. A self-criticism is my own obstacle, and I often fail to jump over.    

A little by little, step by step, I am getting comfortable communicating with others in online. At least that's what I like to believe so. I start to twitter. I reach out to people, who's got the same interest with me. I long for an intellectual connections, and sometimes an emotional ones too. I'm learning new things everyday. I'm amazed by hundreds, thousands of talented people. I secretly wish I could be the one, too.

May is gone, June has come. I'm still writing, I'm still blogging. I'm still yearning to be connected. Still looking for the inspirations I am listening to others. And...I want my voices to be heard. The hope is still there, and I'm not going to let it go. Untiring perseverance will lead me where I need to be. Just tonight, I'm going to sit still and celebrate my own victory even if no fanfare can be heard. I did my best, and I made it through. Good job Sun Hee, you did it!

Bed time Stories

Every night I read a book to my daughter. Bedtime stories routine started since she was a toddler. Since I became a mom I had numerous wishes for my little one, but one particular thing was for her getting close to books. I wanted to install the habit of reading books in her.

My girl at age 1

When I moved to Chicago in 2007, I didn't know anyone and I didn't know where to go. For several month I stayed at home with my little baby and I noticed in me being scared of outer world. The world out of the house didn't seem so safe. Or, I was in a postpartum depression, which converted me into an introvert. All I know now is I was extremely lonely and isolated. 

When the weather got warmer in spring 2008, I started to feel better. I pulled out flower print blouse from the drawer and white pants to match with it. I decided to discover the neighborhood or simply take a walk around the block. I pushed the stroller, my daughter being sit tightly, her favorite toys and snacks on the stroller tray. I went out. Getting out the door was a big step, but once I got out I became more ambitious. I wanted to walk further. So I pushed the stroller about one mile, and I stood in front of the neighborhood library. 

My neighborhood library, Lincoln-Belmont

When I grew up, in a little town in South Korea, there wasn't a section for children's book. In my memory, the library is a place where you could find an ultimate silence and stillness. It was scary and dark, very small windows on top of the dark green painted cement wall and there wasn't any sun lights in the reading room. (The smell..the sound.. I could write those on a next story.)

*     *     *  

In May 2012, I still read books to my 4-year-old daughter at night. It's our intimate time. We lie on the bed, I lean on the piled pillow, she snuggles into my arms, and we read the title and an author and an illustrator's name. Then we flip the first page. 

Last night, we read very interesting book. 

The Journey of Oliver K. Woodman

My daughter enjoyed following Mr. Woodman's journey across the country. In fact, I learned quite a lot from it too. Speaking of bed time stories, I might start the children book's review blog. Hmm.. I'm getting excited for my next project! :)

My Little Artist

"Mom, look at this!" my little girl called me in a very proud voice. While I was doing dishes, she pinched out PlayDoh little by little and decorated on the human body template. She chose her favorite color, pink. 

My first reaction was 'wow, can we use PlayDoh on the paper?' Apparently, yes.

I started to wonder where this idea come from? How did she figure that out? I was simply amazed by her creative mind.

She is a natural story teller. Sometimes I wish to dictate whatever comes out from her little lips. Her mind is still obsessed in princesses and prince in a fairytale. These days she tends to mix up the idea of princess rivalry and their emotional tension. The clear distinction between "good" and "bad" is very interesting.

I like to ask her questions. Although I don't expect any precise answers, I have my intentions- her way of thinking and her logical development. Often her unlimited imagination and unexpected vocabulary blow my mind. I sit next to her once my chores done. I like watching her little hand choosing different pencil colors, drawing confident lines on the paper. I ask questions like "why this girl's face is bigger than others?" Then, she goes without hesitation, "because she's mad. When people gets angry, their faces get bigger and bigger like a balloon."

I love her unbiased observation. I love her pure imagination. But most of all, I admire her ability to express her own thinking without hesitation. Her innocence and boldness, I want to cherish.

My Big Artist

Art is not what you see, but what you make others see. -- Degas

My husband is an artist. He loves his career and I like he pursues his dream without losing the passion. Technically he is an employee of the biggest entertainment enterprise in U.S. He creates and supervises the game characters in the most brutal fighting game, which is famous for its "brutality". When this game was released last year and scored a huge success, I wrote something intimate as a personal essay.

My husband's creation, Sub-Zero

Compassion, understanding and patience were not my type. I was more like greedy, tricky, impatient person. I never had a desire to be a good person, nor a bad one. Since I married, however, I wanted to be a good wife, a kind of loving and caring wife in a folktale. The realistic problem was I didn't know how to be one. So, I had to learn from the beginning.

Supporting what my husband does for a living has familial complications. It requires a lot of time from him to accomplish his project. He stays late at work sometimes to meet the deadline. When he gets overly stressed, depressed, or demotivated, his emotional strings land on a family. He's not perfect, nor am I. Then we repeat same quarrels and our hurtful words. Anger, resentment, argument and the regret. I needed to learn to be happy together from zero. 

His pencil drawing at Vitruvian Fine Art School

Sometimes I question about the idea of marriage. Why loving each other isn't enough? What's the "right way" to love each other? What's the secret method in the marriage? Marriage is the result of falling in love from one to another, but after few years the initial love form slowly changes. Maintaining healthy marriage is not so easy as it seems, but I still try to make it one. Last year I had an epiphany of my marriage. I realized I had been so stubborn and I almost tried to change my husband to a stereotype married man, ignoring his unique qualities. I was ashamed of myself.

Now I respect a lot more of his art work. We discuss more about his ideas and concepts of drawings. I encourage him to attend illustration and art related conventions. He comes home with full of inspirations and motivations. He is happy then I am happy too. 

Telescope and Microscope

   My mom used to lecture me the difficult life lessons in a very easy way to understand. I loved how she describe and compare things with simple objects. As I get older, these messages echo in my ears strongly than ever.

   "Sun Hee, in your life, you need to have a telescope and a microscope. If you only have a telescope, you might run after where you want to go or what you want to achieve, but you will miss small but precious things under your feet. And if you only have a microscope, you might focus on things happening right next to you but you won't be able to find where you need to go in a long run. You need to keep these two tools and use them well in the right time."

   I didn't understand fully at that point, but I thought it was very cool idea, imagining myself as an explorer and have two key equipments in my both hands. As a teenager, being ambitious and adventurous, surely needed to take a note from my mom. Since then I started to carry an imaginary telescope and a microscope in my head.

   Surely soon enough, I got to taste the true flavor of reality. High school dramas including non-stop academic exams, the unsatisfying test score, endless effort to keep up in the survival competition against my fellow friends, and being left all alone.

   In my early teenage years, I earned the important life lesson which was "life is lonely journey." No matter how hard you try to find a true friend, the real friend is, in fact, yourself. Being social and outgoing person I was, but I had to learn how to NOT to depend on friends when it comes to a major life decision. Friends are wonderful. Please don't misunderstand me. I'm longing to have friends all the time, because I believe true friendship make our lives richer and joyful. That is certain thing. However, I've found the more I depend on friends, the more I expect from them and in return I got often crushed by disappointment. And there flowed the unspoken resentment and dissatisfaction between friendship, and it never became same as it was at the beginning.

   Wanting to be someone special to someone is very basic human instinct, I believe. We are lonely no matter what we do, no matter where we are. Perhaps that's why we are hungry to get together all the time. We need to be asked how we've been doing, we need to be watched, we need to be touched, and we need to be heard our voices somewhere, somehow.

   With my telescope and microscope, I'm starting to enjoy my solitude. I have learned hard way to switch these two instruments, and I'm getting comfortable with it now. I always knew my mom knows what she's talking about. Her voices and wisdom have become my very core comfort throughout my lonely journey.

If I start my blog all over again...

What would I do if I start my blog all over again..?

Last night, I was searching pictures from my computer libraries. I was hoping some idea would pop out regarding the theme of today: what would you do if you start your blog all over again?

And I found a few pictures from my travel to Australia and New Zealand in 2002.

By the Sydney Opera House

My first encounter with Koala

By Bondai Beach in Sydney

Visit to Maori tribe in Wellington, New Zealand

Shuffling through these pictures from a trip to OZ, I thought if I start my blog all over this would be a new theme. I always wanted to write a story about my experience in English as Second Language. I studied English in Australia and New Zealand for six month from February to July in 2002. 

It's so common to hear a college student travels other country. I was easily considered being a daughter of well-off business man. At that time I thought it was better to be seen a spoiled girl who's got all the opportunity to explore the outer world. The truth is I was in the deepest personal turmoil from a dysfunctional family, financial down turn, and heartbroken.

Life carried me away since I started chatting a man from ICQ. We had been chatting over a year, because I wanted to learn English without the grammar corrections. I wanted to know what's waiting for me out there.
There were immense family pressure over my shoulder, and I was getting fed up. The high expectations from parents and family are quite common in Korean society. It's a cultural stigma in my opinion.

In 2012, now I am sitting comfortably in my living room under a central A/C. I have called this typical Chicago three story flat a home. Physically, emotionally, I've been settled for a while. But my stories from the past always come back. It almost demands me to reveal to the world. I'm still hesitating if this effort is worth it. My mind has not been determined yet.

You are a Bad Mom!

My four-year-old daughter has very strong personality. From the birth she had a serious look, and she never showed us an angelic and innocent infant's smile throughout her first year. She seemed to analyze everything around her, study things how they work, her eyes were busy to follow people around her. My husband and I called her Miss.Serious.

She developed her motor skills quite early as she started to walk by 10 month. Her language was also developed earlier than average in the language development charts. As well as her feisty attitude came along earlier than I would have expected.

One time my close friend nicknamed my daughter, Tazmanian devil from Looney tunes. I had to agree with her. My little girl wore me out just by looking at her.

Time passes in a speed of light, good times and bad times eventually turn around, and here we are now in 2012. My daughter is soon to be five. She's my only child and she's going to be only child for a while. But her extreme social character demanded me to enroll classes after classes. She wanted to play with her age group.
 
Yesterday she wanted to stay longer with her friends playing soccer in the gymnasium. I explained we need to go home, eat lunch, and get ready for her school in the afternoon. She got sulky and reluctantly followed me in the car. While she was having snack and juice on our way home, she complained why I picked her up early so that she couldn't play with other friends. She made all blame that it was my fault that she couldn't enjoy her time with her gangs. When I parked the car in front of our house, she finally yelled at me with wide open eyes, "you are a bad mom!"

I couldn't believe what I just heard. Did she just scream I am a bad mom? I bit my lips, and stared at her straight, "let's talk in the house. Get in right now!"

There wasn't any argument. My angry voice and snappy narration hollered at the entrance in the house. "I am your mom," I shrieked, "you are only 4 years old. You never talk to your mom like that. Do you wanna know what bad mom is? You go in your room. Stay there until you realize what you have said!"  

I didn't want to hear her fake crying, her belated apology, and exaggerated tantrum. She got in her room, and I poured cold water in the glass. A deep sigh, and again, and again, I tried to change my mind but I couldn't slip this away. Mother's day was only two days ago, and she was all happy to tell me I'm the best mom in the world. I guess I'm not anymore.  

Half an hour later, her room door slowly opened. Her face peeked out from the tiny gap between the door and the wall. I heard her quiet foot step toward the kitchen table, where I sat entire time thinking and listening her movement. I felt a little stroke on my waist. On the corner of my eyes, I saw her "I-am-so-sorry" face. "Mom," she said, "I was wrong. I'm not gonna say such things again. You are my good mama."

During my contemplation, I thought a lot about my reactions toward her. Was there any other way to teach her the lesson? Was I supposed to talk differently? How should I make this issue clear so that she doesn't forget? The big problems usually start with small ones, and I had to make it clear from the beginning. My brain activity accelerated as I narrow down to the bullet point the key issues. As I clear my mind, I started feel calm and knew what to say.

"Listen very carefully." I spoke quietly but firmly, "first of all, you need to respect your parents. I'm here to guide you to make the right choice. You simply complained because you didn't get what you wanted without much consideration. The way you talked to me in the car is unacceptable. You keep forgetting although I gave you enough warning. There's always bad consequences if you don't think properly. You need to learn from your own mistake, you got it? That's life."  

Whether she understood it or not, I needed it verbalized. It was a message to myself as well. To be fair, I should watch myself to be a good example for her. My head and shoulder felt heavy. 

Housewife's Reading Dilemma

Reading books are definitely one of my favorite things to do. In the past, whenever I needed some sort of exit or escape, I went to the library and threw myself into reading.Whenever I felt anxious, lonely, even frustrated, reading book was one way that I could calm myself without much destruction.

Since I was a little girl, I was influenced by numerous resources that I needed to read. They didn't mention what kind of reading, but as long as I read it seemed to be fine. My parents bought me the complete collections of Korean ancient literature, western literature which was translated in Korean. Greek mythology, world history, Korean history were my favorite. They were drawn in cartoon characters and colorful images and vivid conversations captured in a cloud over their head. I could stay still and read all day. I didn't want to be bothered whenever I was in this mode.

Now, I'm grown up, and I have quite handful of responsibilities. Whether I like it or not, things have to be done, like dishes, laundry, vacuum, and my family's dinner. I was annoyed by all these at the beginning because getting into reading took me a good time and shortly after I was asked to close the book. Nonstop interruption and distraction made me think if reading a book is worth trying.

I realized, however, that my effort on reading books slowly pays back. My daughter started to bring her own children book sitting next to me. She even argued that she needed to have a book-stand like mine, also a bookmark which was given to me as a gift from my family. Although I have a collection of bookmark, she always need to have the same one that I carry.

I love books. To me reading book is more than a simple hobby. It shows me the path that I haven't considered, it tells me the wisdom that I'm always hungry for, ultimately it makes me write. Reading book encourages me to tell my own story to others, because someone, somewhere would be inspired by my own character. Like I'm deeply inspired by Jeannette Walls in The Glass Castle.

Mom's monologue; perhaps praise is all we need.

Somehow, somewhere we need to feel the appreciation of what we do. I'm 100% sure of this.
Receiving random compliment from my daughter's school parents such as "wow, you've done good job raising your girl!" or "You should be proud of yourself raising a child in a foreign land like this. She's brilliant," made me almost crying out burst. I had to hold up myself not to have teary eyes. I really felt like crying though. Those words penetrated my heart, somehow I can't explain how it happened.

All moms do our best to raise her own children. Working mom, home-staying-mom, single mom, even a mom who doesn't speak English in USA, they do whatever to meet her children's need. We love our children and we wish for them to be happy in their lives. We buy good food as much as we can, we spend dollars after dollars to make our kids to look decent. We want our children to be distinguished themselves in some area so that they can grow richer and happier in their lives, not necessary wealthier but RICHER.

Mom's wish is very simple. If one's wish is extravagant, that's her choice. But I believe most of moms want their kids to be content and be themselves. And that's what I wish for my daughter, too. I don't want to push around to do things that she doesn't like. I don't want to sit by and be nonchalant while she wants to play with me. Sometimes it's very hard to draw a line what's right choice for her and what's not. It's the constant rearranging our agenda, and being flexible and being able to read my child's mind is extremely crucial. But the truth being; it's painful, agonizing, clueless and literally losing our mind.

Mom's antenna has to be 24/7 ON all the time. It's exhausting. It's energy consuming. It's nothing like professional work. Maybe that is why mom's reward is PRICELESS - so unique and special.
   My child looks at my eyes, and says "Mom, whenever I behave well, I get your smile. So I will behave better tomorrow and the next day, and the next day! Your smile is my best reward."

As a young mom, I still have tons of doubts and questions if I make the right choice for my child. I don't think I'll ever be sure. Raising one person with unconditional love is nothing like anything else. There is no manual guideline. Maybe there shouldn't be any guideline. Listening to our children's heart and encouraging them with full support without any doubt will be likely what is supposed to be. I'm saying it, I'm writing it, but I don't know if I can practice without fail. Well, I will fail from time to time,- as what life is all about - but I'm not going to fail loving my child.

Manuscript Deadline vs. Princess Playdate

This is exactly what's in my mind. My advanced memoir workshop deadline is today. I've been thinking, writing, rewriting, editing for two months since last time I submitted my piece to the memoir group. I'm currently participating Advanced Memoir Workshop at StoryStudio Chicago. There are ten memoir writers in our group under the guidance of Annette Gendler.

In 2011, I was still unsure if I'm qualified to write my story in English. Lack of confidence dragged my feet so long, I needed some changes in me. In cold February weather, I stepped in my first Memoir Workshop. Since then I continued taking in part of the class, now I am under production of a lengthy project that soon I'd love to submit few literary magazine. Still I'm not sure if my time and efforts of writing my story is worth it. I hope to believe so. One day, in the future, I might be proud myself looking back these years.

My reading projects;

The Glass Castle, book discussion for next Thursday. 

The Catcher in the Rye, 1/3 of the book remained to finish.

  Meanwhile, I have a larger-than-life, 4-year-old girl. She makes my life very busy, interesting, and fun. Just like any other 4-year-old girl, she loves make-believe. She likes to live in an imaginary world, and creates all strange characters in her story. Princess make-believe is one of the favorite thing for her, along with princess dress up.

My daughter's very first makeup. She was SO happy!

Although I have tons of plans, projects, dishes and laundry, when my daughter wants to go to Princess playdate I join with her. I know she will be so happy, and I want to witness what she likes and what doesn't. I might sound like a paparazzi, but I really love to take pictures of her having fun. After all, she made me who I am now, and she makes me grow every day.

Princess loyal photo shoot

Poem of Redemption

 In my vocabulary department, I still get confused by the definition of the word and its application in real life. Being native (South) Korean, who studied English in ESL (English as a Second Language) environment, I have endless stories to tell how I ended up speaking and writing in English eventually.

 For a while I was afraid of using the word 'redeem' and 'redemption', partially because I didn't know their exact meaning. So I finally look them up in the dictionary.
 Redeem : [VERB] If you redeem yourself or your reputation, you do something that makes people have a good opinion of you again after you have behaved or performed badly.
 Redemption : [NOUN] Redemption is the act of redeeming something or of being redeemed by something.

Title : Feet are Not for Kicking

    I thought about my 4-year-old daughter's school activity, Pulitzer Ceremony.  When I explained to her about Pulitzer prize and writers and illustrators, she wanted to write her own, and she said it was about a girl who played in the garden. She kicked a boy's face by accident. She felt sorry, and apologized to him, and now she knows feet are not for kicking (even it's make-believe), and she won't do that again. 


   I had to laugh, but shortly after I fixed my facial expression to a serious mode. That girl was meant to be her, and she was describing an incident at her school few weeks back. For many days of reinforcement of her self-reflection, she finally examined her behavior by herself. I couldn't be happier! I cried within, Hurrah!!!! 

Make-believe princess protects herself from the scary dragon, by kicking his face.
Boy's endless tears flow down to the ground.

A girl feels sorry, and apologizes to him.

  This is my daughter's first poem, a poem of redemption. :)

Official Invitation of Criticism

   I think this way, I dress up this way, I talk this way and I live my life this way. What do you know about me anyway? The way you see me doesn't mean that's the truth of me. What you see is just a little particle of my whole universe. The sarcastic attitude and your twisted judgement only makes me laugh.

   How funny! But I still write about who I am. I keep inviting people to criticize me. I write a non-fiction, I write a diary on my blog, my writing is full of my own experience, the opinion and my immature understanding. I once encountered the person laughed straight at my face, "so, you are writing a memoir and your are only 30? You are a baby!"

   First I was offended, but then I could use this anger to good direction of my writing. It might sound like the counter-attack in different way, but he obviously didn't understand how this writing was important to me. If I get the second chance to talk to him, I know what I would do. I will show this mysterious smile and answer back, "every experiences count, you will see."

   Back to my sanity, I start to think.  I ask numerous questions to myself. Is this the right way to write a story? Just to prove someone else who made a sarcastic comment? Should I write a story to target a single person? or a group of haters? Then, where is the dignity on my doing? How much am I willing to take it? How much am I confident to stand against them? How strong am I? That will be the core question I need to ask to myself. Confidence will be the answer.

Janus's face

   Didn't I watch enough people's arrogance, and their hypocrisy? Didn't I hear enough their brutality? Their two side faces often make me sick, and leaves me incurable bitterness. When did I start to observe their  Janus's face? Their exuberant greetings and lively conversations, their hurtful words and gossips behind the back; are these something new? I don't think so. Such things are universal, and they grow up with us either we like it or not. Yes, I changed the first pronoun from "they" to "we", which indicates I'm also one of them. After all, I'm living in this world and I see things certain way I want to see, I reflect things through my own eyes. Sometimes my own criticism about others make me sick too. I feel disgusted myself.

   I dance with them, I sing with them, and I confuse myself of being the worst Janus in the world. Scared, stunned, I stop dancing and singing. I step back and retreat from them. I sit in the corner and observe them. I don't want to be like them. I want to find the truth in myself, either I like it or not. There must be something doesn't change in this world. What would that be?

    

Words, its lightness and its heaviness

   People say the words all the time. I listen to them all the time. People with more words with exaggerated expressions get more attentions. I guess getting attention is better form than being ignored. What a pity! What an unfortunate!
I've been wondering why I am unconsciously depended on others' reactions most of the time. Even if I try to convince myself that other's opinions are not worth considering, I still hear their echoes. Those unwelcome voices, their invisible existence occupies my mind, drains my energy.

   The complexity of the life, yet I'm searching for the simplicity of it.
   The invisibility of the words, yet I'm getting hurt by its enormous power.
   What's the truth? What's behind the curtain? What lies underneath the surface?
 
   Easy to make comments, easy to spit them out, easy to judge by the appearance, so easy to criticize on everybody, on everything. Getting tired of listening fluttering comments, there isn't any core, any axis. If the wind blows from the west, they will fly to the east, if the thunder booms in the air, they will disappear as if it never existed. The lightness of being, the fickleness of its commitment, the shallowness, the brutality, the immorality, its inhumane character sickens me.

   The faceless being, the evil voices with greed and ugly jealousy, they only leave me with indescribable bitterness and hatred for the whole world.

   But I also know the genuine quality and the true beauty needs to come out from the opposite disposition. The harder the situation it is, the stronger oppression I've got, I become invincible. Freedom isn't free, I need to fight for it. Nothing comes easily, but if it is easy, would that be the same worth?

   The strength and the weakness, I need to access.
   The reality and the dream, I need to balance.
   What to listen, what to ignore, I need to put the priority.
   Longing for the truth, searching for the eternity,
   No pain, no gain. Perhaps that's the truth.

In search of Self and Happiness

In Search of Self and Happiness

Sun Hee Yoon

 "Hi, I'm Sun Hee. You can call me 'Sunny.' " 

   I speak with medium tone of voice with smile. This is how I start the conversation whenever I encounter new acquaintance. Introducing my original name would be the little hint for others that I'm non-native English speaker. If anybody notices my two syllable name is common for Koreans, I'm very glad. But of course, I don't mind if anybody, who is not certain about my name or curious about it, asks my origin or nationality. I prefer when people asks questions, and verifies the truth with me rather than assuming from my appearance or predicting from their personal background.

  Less than a minute, I hesitate how I should continue going on the conversations. No one likes the uncomfortable silence after introducing each other. I try to render many sentences in my head, but the safest and easiest questions seem to be a weather recognition. As long as I stay in the boundaries of the mutual communication ground, I don't feel so awkward. 

 
  However, I have a desire to be asked certain questions in order to deepen the overall conversations. Among many others, my favorites are; 'How long have you been in Chicago?', 'How did you meet your husband?', 'What do you like to do when you have a free time?', and 'Is there any meaning behind your name?' 

 
  With eight years of practicing my English in total immersing situation, I've had enough experience to answer those questions without hesitation. Finally I'm willing to share these stories with others. 

*   *   * 

  It's been four years living in Chicago. I can't say it was an easy road from the beginning, but now I can say I'm truly enjoy living in Chicago. What a journey! What an agony! What a drama! What a roller-coaster ride of life! If there's a God, s/he knows how I survived during these four years. No matter how well trying to explain these time, I still don't think it's illustrated enough. 

 
  In 2007, late September I arrived at O'hare airport with new-born baby in my arm. My husband's recent job then was very promising and considered a great opportunity for the long run. Previous four years of living in Montreal, Canada was just about to settle, now my life seemed to have other plans for me. Having delivered a new-born in Lasalle Hospital in Montreal was just a month and half ago. Leaving family and friends behind who were my primary support was torture. Not being able to drive while my work-devoted husband's staying late in his office was surely a life obstacle. All the stores, all the products, even language that commonly people speak seemed real foreign, although I spoke English good enough to communicate in general life. From A to Z, nothing comforted me in this time. It's said once we experience the time of difficulty, we finally get comfortable in ourselves. I guess that was the reason why I suffered the ultimate isolation, depression and desperation. It's always hard to imagine to put ourselves unless we went through same situation, but I'm in a mission to describe what it was like, being a mom in a foreign land without any comfort or support, building something from nothing. 

 
  During my little one’s first year, I was like a hostage in my own home. Not to mention that I'm much of outgoing person, very social, a magnet to people, but no one was available. No one visited me, no one reached out their hands. The only person that I could interact was my fast growing child. She was the only human being that I shared my feelings, my life at that moment. In a retrospect, maybe this extreme isolation for a long period made me strong at the same time, made me being able to be flexible regardless the situation.  

 
  It also came down to a confidence issue. First, I was afraid of talking in English, because I didn't want to make mistakes in front of others. Majoring English Literature in Chosun University in Korea was not helpful when it came to the real conversation in the Jewel-Osco or in the neighborhood playground. I had hard time to understand what the grocery clerk was telling me, so instead of asking him to repeat the questions, I just nodded and pretended to understand. I wanted to avoid further embarrassment. With thousands of times practicing, trying, promising myself not to get embarrassed even if the others don't understand me, finally now I can go to any stores without worries. Furthermore I have an abundance to make jokes with clerks. 

 
  The other part of overcoming lack of confidence was learning how to drive. I don't know how many times I cursed myself not learning driving earlier. I never knew not being able to drive was the greatest drawback in Chicago life. Whenever I saw a mom who was entering in my daughter's music class with a dangling car key in her finger, there was a loud voice echoed in my head. 'I wish I could dangle my car key just like her..', 'I wish I could take my daughter in a warm car, instead of waiting for a bus in a cold weather and riding with crowds.'

 
  I tolerated all the inconvenience without complaining, I hesitated enough, but it was time to change. At the beginning of 2010, I decided to take driving lessons. But, I needed to find the confidence in me before driving in the city. I never had any experience in driving what-so-ever, besides I never had any interest or desire to drive a car. But it was time to act, I needed to brainwash myself with this simple sentence, 'I can do it! I can do it!'
  After five months of practicing driving a car with a compassionate driving instructor from the driving school, I finally got the driver license. The day I got the rectangle shape of plastic driver license with my shy smile on was the best triumphal moment of my life. However, life was never easy on me. Since our car was stick shift, I needed to practice few more months to drive on my own. By mid-September 2010, I was finally able to drive alone.

 Now, the year of 2011, mid-November, I'm sitting on the driver seat, shifting engine gears smoothly, taking my daughter to her preschool comfortably. While she's in her school, I often do the errands such as grocery shopping, picking up books from the local library, and if I still have a time I go to the neighborhood cafe. I like to sit next to the big window. I bring my homework from Memoir workshop or sometimes I just take out my small purple notebook to scribble. Often I get teary eyes because I'm writing my memories from the past mainly. Sometimes my words can't describe all of my feelings so I choose certain phrases and forms them into an impromptu verse. I drink alternately Mocha coffee and Hot chocolate. These aroma and the heat warm me up to create a certain mood to write. I often watch people walking by on the Roscoe street. I often gaze long time to the fallen leaves and dried flowers. I look up the sky and look for clearing spot between grey, dark clouds. Then, my alarm says it's time to pick up my daughter. While waiting in the hall way for my daughter comes out from her classroom, I often get to talk with other parents. Luckily I already developed good relationship with few moms and had joyful play dates with kids together. Building a new social network is something I put into priority after learning a hard lesson. But also I'm constantly reminding myself that the relationship always changes so I shouldn't expect too much from others, just let it be. There are things that we can't control, people are unpredictable, situations are tricky but good friends will stay until the end; I believe in this.    

 
  On my way home, driving my stick shift car in the city of Chicago, listening to my 4-year-old daughter's preschool adventures are like my dream come true. Whenever people talk about their dream, it's mostly extravagant. But I've learned the real dream or paradise of his/her own doesn't have to be far away. It's only a matter of finding it in a mundane life.

The contest between the Sun and the Wind.

When I was a little girl, I loved reading picture books. Some of books became pretty bad shape because I carried it everywhere and as a result, the edges got worn out, few pages torn apart. Specifically I remember when my favorite book, 백설공주와 일곱 난장이/ Snow White and seven dwarfs got destroyed, I burst out into tears. My favorite page was worn out and I couldn't see the face of Snow White any more. I could imagine it anyway but the book wasn't the same any more.

Since my daughter was born, I decided to read to her everyday and take her to library every week so that naturally she could learn the importance of reading books. As I grew up in a book friendly environment, I strongly believed she also deserves to be surrounded in same ambiance.

Reading books is the best way to introduce the world to the little ones in my opinion. I still remember the lines from the text book in the middle school, which was there are two major experiences in life; direct and indirect. Direct experiences might seem to be effective to learn the lesson but there are potential dangers and obstacles might be waiting for you. If you weren't notified these similar issues beforehand, you might be puzzled and confused, frustrated and depressed, you might declare giving up.
  
Indirect experiences, however, such as reading books will offer the opportunity to simulate the same situation and make us realize what it would be like. Readers will have better understanding of the situation, possibly able to see the bigger picture and empathize the characters in the story, by using our imagination.
Our imagination is such a gift. Often we don't value much of this huge gift, and sadly we have tendency of taking it for granted.

In my childhood, I used to read lots of fables. Among millions, I always loved reading Aesop's fable. The story was very easy to understand, the character was clearly contrasted, and there were moral lessons underneath. Luckily, my daughter's school topic of the month has been a fairy tale. And I wanted to use this opportunity to enhance her background knowledge. We went to the neighborhood library and filled tons of fairy tale books tightly in the grocery bag. Even librarian was surprised by our one angled selection choice.
I started to read one episode every night to my 4-year-old daughter. Reading a book before going to bed is our ritual. Sometimes when she doesn't behave during the day, I give her serious warning, " If you don't listen to mommy, I'm not going to read a book tonight." Then, she understands.

Tomorrow, I decided to act out the story of The Contest between the Sun and the Wind during her class. Fortunately, one of my daughter's class mom could participate in acting out in front of kids and we planned out for the little entertainment for the little ones. Will they guess that I also acted out a Lady Macbeth in my freshman year? I chose the Wind. I like to play the bad ones, I don't know why. They are interesting characters in a story, in regular life too.

I just finished preparation; a wig, a fan, a wind drawing on a hardboard and my mean looking. I practiced in front of the mirror, reciting my lines in a story. I feel like becoming a child! This feels GREAT! I'll write about the follow-up story tomorrow. I am so excited!
  

Maybe I'm really CRAZY.

   "So.. do you work?"
   "Umm.. no, I'm staying home mom."

   And there comes an unsatisfied, yet shy to reveal her voice swirls around my tongue. I constantly look for the right timing to say this sentence; "I also write."
   When I finally made the chance, my surprised opponent shows her fresh interest. And then she goes, "Oh, so are you a journalist?"

   "Umm.. no, I'm not. I'm on the process of writing a memoir and hoping to publish a book in the future." There, I said it! I said it!! My words left from my mouth, and it's in the air. Should I gather them up and put them back in my heart? Well, it's too late anyway. No matter how others will take this, I know I don't want to fool around with it. I said it because I meant it.

   Everybody knows by now that I'm not a native English speaker. They know I have different accents in my English, I have strange expression that it doesn't fit in English usage. Whenever my conversational partner is leaning toward me and approaching her/his ear close to me or raising her/his eyebrow, I know she/he didn't get what I just said.
   I used to have a red face whenever I didn't succeed continuing conversations. I felt like stopping everything and go home and cry. It was already hard effort to speak and start a conversation, and then I ended up being blocked by their puzzled reaction, possibly it must be my wrong English.
   (Wait a minute! Did I take it too serious? Then why did I take it too serious? Why didn't I just let it go? Why did I have to put so much pressure on my shoulder? Hmm.. I'm still figuring out. I know I will find the answer one day.)

   I love talking to people. I love knowing about people; their interest, their personalities, and their visions and dreams. I just love sharing words with people. Sometimes it's hard to explain how I feel about having conversation with people. I feel excited, happy, joyful, content. As much they share their stories with me, I share mine. When they get interested in my story, I share some more. I share my experiences and my thoughts. I try to be subtle and neutral because there's no point of making others uncomfortable by expressing my intense ideas and feelings. Anyway, people have their own way of seeing the world, and it doesn't have to be same as mine. In the end, having diversity of ideas and thoughts will prosper this world. This is my bottom line in terms of having conversations and I believe this is the mutual respect; 'I respect you as much as you respect me.'

   "Wow.. So, you are writing in English?"
   "Yes. I am." I answer firmly but still hesitating how to add it up,
   "I think being able to express ideas with two languages are great advantages for me. There are some expressions don't exist in English when I want to translate from Korean. Then I create my own and invent it. It's actually quite fun." I answer with smile and hoping that she understood how sincere I was.
 
  On my way home, I replay the previous conversations. Couldn't I explain better? Or did I explain too much? It doesn't matter now. I already said it, and it's out there. Some might think I'm really crazy doing this, writing a book in English. But that's what I like to do. Maybe I am really crazy.





  

Artists

  I'm very far from being an artist as far as I'm concerned. But one day I would like to be called "Yoon Sun Hee is the greatest artist of all time." Being called an artist must be a such an honor. I'm glad to smash up my long time prejudice finally.

  To tell the truth, I didn't respect their profession correctly, until recently. Somehow in my head, it was registered ; artists = financially troubled, highly frustrated in general life, socially awkward, in a nutshell they're not welcomed genius. For a long time, I didn't perceive them as they should be deserved.
  Partially because the people whose from my own background didn't appreciate the true value of art and influenced on me their crooked point of view. People openly mocked and ridiculed artist's passion, just because the most self-proclaimed artists were not wealthy. Generally, it was considered if you are an artist, you will die from hunger.

  Now I'm questioning if they even understood the word of "art." If they didn't know the real meaning of art, then why would they judge things so wrongly. How come they thought they knew better and believed they were better than these purely creative people. I'm really confused by all. It seems like I need to educate myself all over from the beginning.

  Here, sitting on the corner of State st. and 16 st., a cafe called "overflow", surrounded by full of imaginative artists and musicians, I truly feel indescribable comfort. I don't know why. Is it because of the creative vibe? Is it because they know what they're doing instead of looking around, wandering, wondering? Is it because I feel they have their own motivation and destination? But how would I know? Would it be my own narrow-minded interpretation? One way or another, I love sitting on the corner of the cafe, hearing all these minor chatter noises, which they blend lovely with live music.

  Every humans are born with two hands. With two hands, some can play beautiful acoustic music, some can create an incredible drawings, or some can write an insightful prose.
  In the end, it's all matter of how they express their feelings, passion, ideas, and their unique view of the world. I guess I love their strong will, not being afraid of being criticized by others and willing to share despite of possible further harsh judgements.
  In a way, they are true leaders. They suggest the different way of lives, and sometimes they explore and develop the world that hasn't arrived yet.
  I believe that's why I want to be called an "artist."