A Step Stopped Before Learning

The marriage arrangements were moving quickly. But Gyu’s heart could not keep pace. The reason was clear. Education. The eldest son of the Japan family was a university-educated man. He read newspapers, spoke of the world, and seemed to have reasons behind every word. He was a person who organized his thoughts through writing, a person who understood the world through learned language. Gyu, on the other hand, had never properly attended a village school. She had never even crossed the threshold of elementary school. She could stumble through Korean letters, but writing still frightened her. She had grown up as a daughter who worked. She knew how to cook rice, carry a child on her back, tend the fields, and read the moods of others faster than anyone. But whenever she stood before letters, she felt herself become smaller. As the marriage became more real, that fact became clearer. When she sat across from him, Gyu spoke less. It was not because she had nothing to say. It was because she did not know how to say it. One day, he asked, “Which newspaper do you usually read?” Gyu understood what the question meant. But she could not find an answer. “I just listen to what people say.” After her words ended, a very brief silence passed through the air. No one pointed it out. But Gyu felt it. The difference between them had already been revealed. Ironically, the seeds of learning had always existed in her own household. Her father was a scholar of classical Chinese learning. He had studied Confucian texts and mastered the Book of Changes. He could read, interpret meaning, and explain the principles of the world through words. Her mother, too, was an intelligent woman. She was good with numbers, quick in judgment, and able to read what lay behind people’s words. It was her mother’s mind that had kept the household running. But that learning had never been passed down to the daughters. Her father’s letters remained inside his own world. Her mother’s judgment was passed on not through words, but only through action. Gyu had learned labor instead of letters. She had learned responsibility instead of books. So Gyu was not someone without intelligence. She was someone who had never even been told that learning might be necessary. And only now did that truth strike her with its full weight. One night, Gyu spoke carefully to her mother. “Mother… am I too lacking?” It was a question about the marriage. But it was also a confession about herself. Her mother looked at her for a moment. Unexpectedly, she did not become angry. “A person is not lacking just because she has no schooling.” Her mother’s voice was firm. “You can learn letters later. But life is not lived by letters alone.” The words sounded like comfort. But Gyu could also sense another calculation inside them. Education could be filled in later. What mattered now was completing the marriage. For the first time, however, Gyu could not simply nod along with that calculation. She could not imagine what place she would occupy as the wife of a university-educated man while she herself could barely read a newspaper. That difference felt deeper than money. Deeper than family status. After that day, Gyu began to hesitate. No one opposed the marriage. No one openly pushed her either. For a moment, everything seemed to pause. But in truth, it was the first time Gyu’s own heart had stepped on the brake. She knew this marriage might not make her unhappy. But it could make her feel smaller. At twenty-two, Gyu realized something for the first time. Before becoming a wife, before being the daughter of a household, she was asking herself what she possessed as a person. That question had only just begun. In the end, the marriage took place. People said it had turned out well. They said it was a necessary bond for both sides. But the meaning beneath those words was clear. Gyu’s family had given a large amount of money. The Japan family was poor, and a household with ten children was always short of breath. Even if the eldest son had gone to university, his education could not immediately put rice on the table. So the marriage was less a union between two people than a transfer between two households. Gyu’s family gave money. The Japan family gave the place of the eldest son. Her mother did not hesitate long over the decision. Her wish to send her daughter into an educated family, combined with the reality of having five daughters to marry off, pushed the choice forward. “A person must have brains,” her mother said. It was an assessment of the eldest son. For Gyu, it was both persuasion and command. Gyu married at twenty-one. She was still at an age when she did not yet know what she liked, or even clearly understand what she did not know. But married life did not allow such questions. Her husband’s family had ten siblings. Gyu entered the house as the eldest daughter-in-law. That meant that from then on, everything in that household became her responsibility. Cooking breakfast. Waking the younger children. Arranging the order of fieldwork and housework. Watching the moods of the elders. There were sisters-in-law older than Gyu, and younger siblings still almost children. But over all those relationships, one name came first. Eldest daughter-in-law. “You are the eldest daughter-in-law.” “You entered the family first.” “You should know how to take care of this house.” Gyu soon understood. Those words were not requests. They were assignments. The fact that money had moved through the marriage made her place even clearer. The members of the Japan family did not say it aloud, but they all knew. This daughter-in-law had entered the house to help save it. What was expected from Gyu was not love. Not understanding. But endurance. Her husband was a quiet man. He knew on what terms his marriage had been made. Because of that, he was cautious, and because he was cautious, he remained silent. That silence neither protected Gyu nor pushed her away. It was simply the way two people carried their own burdens beside each other. Gyu soon understood that her task in this house was not to erase the difference in education. Nor was it to create love. It was simply to keep the household from collapsing. For twenty-one-year-old Gyu, this marriage was not an ending. It was a second beginning. Her first life had been as a daughter. Her second life would be as a daughter-in-law. And this second life contained far more people. Ten siblings. A poor household. The weight of the eldest son’s name. Gyu was no longer the daughter of her own house. Yet she still did not know who she herself was. That night, standing in the kitchen of an unfamiliar house, Gyu placed a pot of water over the fire. The flame caught quickly. The work was endless. At that moment, she felt it almost by instinct. This was the second round. If life after the war had been the first, then this marriage was the beginning of a second war. And this time, there was no mountain to hide in. No road back home. At twenty-one, Gyu was once again being assigned her place. The poverty of the Japan family was different from the poverty Gyu had known. It was not a household poor because there was too much work. It was a household where no matter how much one worked, money did not appear. The rural Japan family was always moving because there were so many people. Ten siblings, especially many younger brothers, meant there was never a shortage of hands. At dawn, someone drove out the cow. Someone went to the fields. Someone drew water. The house was always noisy. Children’s voices, the sound of cooking rice, laughter, footsteps. From outside, it seemed like a lively home. But that liveliness did not become money. Her father-in-law was a tenant farmer. He worked land that belonged to others. After giving the fixed share each year, there was never much left in his hands. No matter how diligently he worked, no matter how much sweat he shed, the structure did not change. Only after becoming a daughter-in-law did Gyu truly feel that reality. The phrase “things will improve if we work hard” collapsed easily in that house. Her mother-in-law was a completely different kind of person. She had music and rhythm in her. She hummed songs, beat time as she worked, and was not afraid to stand before others. Whenever there was a village gathering, she was near the front. When there was music, her body responded before her mind did. “Life is rhythm and joy,” she often said. But Gyu soon learned that such joy did not change the household’s reality. There was plenty of spirit. But the housework was always Gyu’s. To call the work mountainous was not enough. Even cooking rice meant counting how many pots were needed. Laundry could consume an entire day and still not end. There were many mouths to feed, and nothing remained. Gyu moved all day. There was no time to sit. No space to think. The only fortunate thing was that there were many working hands. The younger brothers listened well and moved when told. So Gyu did not carry every task alone. But many hands also meant more work. More people meant more rice, more problems, more relationships to coordinate. And at the center of that coordination was always Gyu, the eldest daughter-in-law. Around that time, Gyu gave birth to her first daughter. It was 1958. When she held the child in her arms, she felt joy. But also a strange fear. Because in this household, another daughter had been born. Still, no one openly showed disappointment. This house was already too poor to place expectations on the gender of a child. The baby was simply another mouth to feed. Another life to hold. Around that same time, her husband found work as a civil servant in Seoul. People said it was good news. From countryside to Seoul. From farming to salary. They were not wrong. For the first time, the family had the possibility of steady money. Her husband went up to Seoul first to settle. But Gyu could not go with him. “You should look after the parents for a while.” “The child is still young.” Those words sounded like requests. But in truth, they were the natural order of things. Gyu remained in the countryside, holding her child and serving her parents-in-law. Seoul was her husband’s place. The countryside was Gyu’s place. During the day, she moved between the house and the fields. At night, she put the baby to sleep. Letters came occasionally. Money came even less often. Gyu used that money carefully. There were too many things to save. One night, after putting the child to sleep, a thought came to her. In her own house, she had been the daughter of a wealthy family. Here, she was the eldest daughter-in-law of a poor one. Between the two, she existed only as someone who worked. But she did not cry. There was no time to cry. And she had already learned too well that crying changed nothing. Gyu prepared for the next day. The poverty of this house was not sadness. It was a structure. And inside that structure, Gyu had been placed where she could not escape. That fact was only beginning to be carved into her body. Eventually, Gyu went up to Seoul alone. She could not take her first daughter with her. The child remained in the countryside, beside her grandparents, on the familiar wooden floor and the dirt road outside the house, just as she was beginning to attend the small country elementary school. Gyu had no means to bring her. The household in Seoul was too cramped. There were already too many mouths to feed. “I will come back for you soon.” It was a promise. But even Gyu herself did not know whether she could keep it. Leaving her child behind was another war. But in that family, the separation of mother and child was not considered strange. Need came first. Gyu was not the only one who went to Seoul. Two of her husband’s younger brothers came with her. Among the ten siblings, these two had especially different eyes. The fourth younger brother and the youngest brother. Both carried ambition rather than defeat. “There must be something in Seoul.” “There is no future in the countryside.” Their words had little foundation, but their certainty was clear. Her husband could not stop them. As the eldest son, he could not crush his younger brothers’ possibilities. The result of that decision naturally became Gyu’s burden. Life in Seoul was already tight. A small room. A low ceiling. A house where winter cold seeped directly through the walls. And now more people were added. The two younger brothers left each morning. They looked for work, wandered near places where one might study, and spoke of plans. Their words were big. Their plans were many. But what they brought home immediately was almost nothing. Once again, Gyu managed the days of many people. She cooked rice. Measured grain. Calculated in her head how much could be spent and on whom. The younger brothers called her sister-in-law. Inside that title were gratitude, expectation, and entitlement, all mixed together. Gyu did not bother separating them. Separating them would change nothing. At night, she thought of the daughter she had left in the countryside. By then, the child would have returned from school. She would have taken off her dirt-stained shoes and sat on the wooden floor. Gyu wanted to write a letter, but she did not know what to write. Seoul was too difficult to explain to a child. And her choice felt too much like an excuse. The two younger brothers were different from each other. The fourth was quiet but always looked at newspapers. He listened carefully to stories of successful people. The youngest was good with people. He smiled easily and reached out first when he sensed opportunity. Both saw Seoul not as a place to pass through, but as a place to climb. Their ambition was a burden to Gyu. In that house, ambition meant one more reason to feed someone. One night, Gyu sat alone in the kitchen. The pot was empty. She was calculating the rice for the next day. Then a thought came to her. She was always the one who left someone behind. And always the one who took someone in. She had left her daughter in the countryside. She had received her brothers-in-law in Seoul. The weight of choice always leaned in the same direction. But Gyu did not cry. There was too much to do. And she had learned how to endure long ago. Seoul life was not a dream. It was simply another form of survival. And Gyu stood quietly in the middle of it. In 1958, her first daughter had been born. The baby’s cry briefly brought life into the household, but reality soon returned Gyu to her place. In a time when traces of war still remained in every alley, making a living was still a daily problem. Bringing the child to Seoul was not an option. In 1960, Gyu left her first daughter in the countryside and followed her husband to Seoul. Leaving behind a child barely two years old was not as simple as the words made it sound. After placing the child in the arms of her grandfather and grandmother, Gyu turned away, only to look back again and again. The child did not cry. That silence pierced Gyu’s chest more deeply than tears would have. Seoul was not so different. A single room was still a single room. Inside it, the smell of rice, sweat, hope, and resignation all mixed together. Gyu woke before everyone else at dawn. She cooked rice and prepared the day for her husband and his younger brothers. The fourth younger brother entered a new path to learn a technical trade. Through connections, her husband helped him find work as an electrician at a company called Gippeun Sori-sa. By day, he connected wires, handled machines, and learned the craft on site. At night, he washed the smell of oil from his hands and calculated tomorrow. The belief that a man could stand on his own if he had a skill helped him endure each day. The youngest, the fifth younger brother, carried a completely different dream. He decided to become a judge and began studying for the state examination. In a boarding room like a wooden shack, surrounded only by books and pencils, he prepared for a future no one could guarantee. He earned no money. There was no promise of success. Yet he already seemed to believe he belonged to another world. Their choices were different. But the burden fell entirely on Gyu. The food and laundry for the fourth brother learning a trade, the living costs of the youngest brother who only studied—everything had to be solved inside that one small room. For her, Seoul was not a city of dreams. It was a place to endure, a time to survive, and responsibility itself carried under the name of family. On May 16, 1961, a military revolution took place. People whispered in the streets. Guns and uniforms appeared again, but this time the words attached to them were not war, but order and reconstruction. On the radio, voices repeated that the nation would be rebuilt. In the newspapers, unfamiliar words such as modernization and economic development began to appear. Gyu did not fully understand those words. But around that time, she sensed a very faint yet definite change in people’s faces. The possibility that tomorrow might be a little better than today. No one said it too loudly. They hid it carefully deep inside. In 1962, Gyu gave birth to a second daughter. But joy did not last long. As the wife of the eldest son, having two daughters weighed heavily over the entire household, even if no one said it aloud. Gyu knew. This child, too, would be difficult to keep beside her. Eventually, the second daughter was also sent to the countryside. Into the arms of her grandparents. On the day the child was taken away, Gyu said nothing. She swallowed her tears inward. She breathed in her guilt like air. Raising the child in Seoul was not a choice given to her. Perhaps the nation was beginning to find hope. But Gyu’s days were still filled with worrying about rice, calculating rent, and carrying at once the futures of a brother-in-law who wanted to become a technician and another who dreamed of becoming a judge. Between the slogans of a nation and the life of one woman, there was always a long distance. Still, she endured. War, poverty, her husband’s silence, the unspoken pressure of the eldest son’s household—enduring all of it became her duty. Thus Gyu’s life in Seoul continued. In a time when the word hope was still difficult to say aloud, she lived quietly yet firmly at the lowest place of the era. After days of such life piling one upon another, in 1964, Gyu finally gave birth to her first son. On that day, even her own family first released a deep sigh. Then came the joy they had been holding back. The weight of having borne only daughters seemed at last to settle down. A grandson had been born into the household of the eldest son. It was more than one family’s happiness. It was an event for the entire lineage. No one celebrated loudly. But on the faces of the elders, long-suppressed worries began to loosen. Only after holding the baby in her arms did Gyu realize how tightly she had been living. The fact that this one child could change everything came to her as both joy and another responsibility. Her husband was still working as a civil servant. His salary was fixed, and life was always tight. The price of rice and coal rose often, and with one more child, every calculation became more precise. Sometimes, the family supplemented their shortages with goods from the American military base. Canned food, sugar, chocolate, and powdered milk from the base were precious things in the household of a single room. On days when she could place a small sweet in a child’s hand, Gyu felt for a moment that the world had become a little less harsh. Seoul in the mid-1960s was changing quickly. Construction continued around City Hall, and the winds of development began to blow through the Gwanghwamun area. Old buildings were torn down while new structures rose. The city was always unsettled. Roads widened. People became busier. Amid the dust of construction sites, the phrase economic development began to sound real. The radio spoke every day of growth and plans. Five-year plans, exports, modernization—words like these flowed out endlessly. Gyu did not understand them exactly, but she could feel that the atmosphere of the streets was changing. People were busier than before. Poverty remained, but here and there appeared the hope that perhaps poverty could be escaped. Yet that change was always one step ahead of Gyu’s own life. The single room was still a single room. The kitchen was still narrow. The faces of the two daughters left in the countryside came to her suddenly from time to time. Whenever that happened, she held the baby boy in her arms more tightly. A quiet but definite wish settled inside her. This child, at least, she wanted to raise beside her. Around 1964, news of Vietnam began to appear more often on the radio. At first, it sounded like a conflict in a faraway country. But in 1965, when news spread that Korea had decided to send troops to the Vietnam War, war once again entered people’s conversations. Young men in military uniforms became more visible. Some called it a chance to earn money. Others whispered that it was the beginning of another tragedy. Gyu was familiar with the word war. She had already lived through one war and built her present life on its wreckage. Perhaps that was why news of Vietnam did not feel entirely distant to her. War always changed people’s lives quietly. And the price was always paid by those in the lowest places. Even amid the joy of having a first son, life remained tense. The child’s crying was hope. It was also responsibility. Even as the roads in front of City Hall widened and new buildings rose in Gwanghwamun, Gyu’s day was still filled with cooking rice, washing diapers, and calculating coal. The nation was entering the road of growth. The city was changing quickly. But Gyu’s life always followed one step behind that change. Only one thing had changed. In her arms was a child called the eldest grandson. And that child pushed her once again toward tomorrow. So Gyu crossed into another era. Standing on the memory of war, hearing news of another war in a foreign land, holding her child in the middle of a Seoul where development was becoming reality— quietly, steadfastly, and without complaint.