One Day 2
Some things I need to record before I move on. Some other things are still too recent for me to leave behind, no matter how painful it is.
Picking up speed. The carpet pulled from below, and 3 meters between me and the floor. Emptiness? Or void? No, it’s heavily packed, dense as molasses, no longer dripping. Just quiet, low-as-low-can-be silence, on the night of attempted suicide. So dark. Thinking I would be sent in for rape. At first, scared shit. Mom/granma’s low murmuring voice. Dad saying “walk in together, or me first,” into the house. I say together. Dripping heaviness over my eyelids. Not even a sound in the distance. Surrounded by dreadful silence from top to bottom, side to side. The street. I go in my room to write a letter of suicide, only to be jolted by talks of granma and ma in the distance. Talks of cellphone, changing. "Inside all black," or "Empty case" would you like. Dad has no idea. Sent in for an unspeakable deed. I try to imagine only the good things. The chief says, “must boil her up, before the final kill, She’s still got lessons to learn."
Retrace back: her mother and father take car out to the big church, try to take her through counseling, sounds of the hollow steeple clock banging at 12, the nun and the godmom discuss, the unbearable lightness of the air as if all I had toiled away had dissipated, gone. I know I have say something, but I can't. Words escape me. I've never had to speak out about myself, in Korean, she tries to rationalize. I'd reserved the language for completely private use, not to be spoken in the presence of strangers. They are talking and there is no defense I can give, but they are already talking in Korean. Could it be that I was so vain not to feel a sense of urgency? Or was it really just the language barrier, that I never talked back to a guest, unless asked, that's the way I'd been taught to speak. But the construction workers are there at the height of the steeple ringing the bells. It signifies the order of the human world and the rhythm of our pace. And the nuns going about their business as usual. The air is so thin, and with each second, I feel I need to speak. Why can't I speak? My mom would always let me be, leaving me to makeup my own mind, but I'd never before spoken for or against her, in private or in public. The nun suddenly looks me in the eye, says “church, counseling, or both." And as I roll through the filmic reprint of my memories, flashes of myself in a psychiatric ward rises and the hospital experience before, 3 years ago. I want to shout out to myself, run away, but feel trapped inside the car, as I look out towards the church. Wind chimes from the church steeple, high above, as the car leaves, I have fallen from thin air. Why couldn’t I defend myself, let alone mom, or just go with the nun?
Midway, my parents and I have lunch, and I suddenly see what shouldn't have been seen. Suddenly it's as if my ears have been opened for the first time -- conversations, hushing and murmurings, as if it's not to be heard. I have never seen people behave this way. Mom/dad look towards me, swiftly clearing the plates, as they look towards me to say something. Delaware, say something, she tells herself. There's noise all around, and all she has to say is something -- something about the food, something about the weather. They talk to you, talk to me, she says. No use figuring who's to blame here, is it you, is it me, too much is at stake here. No use figuring. Just say something so that people can hear you, she chides herself, but no words come out. Again, she rationalizes, I've always been the middle girl, always keeping quiet during meals, only speaking when talked to. Always within the world Mom/Dad had built for us, so the thought of blurting out in English doesn't even occur to me. Also, the guys all around won't be able to undersatnd anyway, she tells herself. They are eating, but waiting too, for me to pick it up. But why is it so hard for her to say something? Is she so vain as not to feel the urgency of having to speak? People are talking, and the hushing is growing louder into a full conversation. The pace of the parents' chopstick in motion, is getting quicker, but the gap between myself and them only bigger as she tries to rationalize, but the meals have just finished.. Or is it that she naively feels she really feels that her life -- her personal life -- only belongs to herself and not even to her parents? Or is it just the language barrier that's preventing her from opening up to her parents? She had never had to defend herself in her native language, always listening politely, making an effort to talk in Korean only. Time is ticking away, and with every customer that's leaving, she knows that something terrifying is happening, yet cannot get up the courage to speak.
The wave of passersby, splitting before her eyes like the red sea. She feels something even more terrifying is about to happen. She doesn't know how or why, but they are out on a 8 lane highway, when suddenly her mom tells her to go sit in the front. She doesn't know why, but she feels that she is being told to provide sex. She feels so scared, she threatens to go off into the highway. Why she feels that she is being told to provide sex, she as no idea and when her mom/dad wrap around their arms to prevent me from throwing herself into the traffic, she resists with all her might. Something so wrong is going on. In retrospect, it's nothing, it's me being put in the front seat so I can help navigate, but I am so fearful of what that will do. In the meanwhile, mother goes straight for the cargo trucks. A motorcylce man shows up -- a nondescript 30 some year old men, who is neither a delivery boy or a groupie rider, and it is him who is solicited to drive. But upon seeing the guy in the driver's seat, the fear of having to provide sex gives in for a greater fear of death. We could be led to some strange place, in a shady neighborhood and be killed, and no one would notice. He has the keys to this car, on this highway, and with mom/dad holding me down each side, I am almost gasping for breath. But instead,with hair on my skin, this darkskinned stranger takes off at full speed. The motorcyclist's glance gleaming off the reflection mirror, mom/dad still holding me down, I don't know what to do. Guilt and fear alternating, I hunt for the cellphone.
By the time we arrived at the Pyshicarist's office, it was already dusk. The doctor asked a lot of questions, I had to fabricate a lot of answers, reveal a lot about the history of our lives in different countries. The house was 2 hours away, and after about 6-8 more attempts to escape, and each time my father pushing me on and my mom still holding me, I chose to go back home. It was getting late, and the house being in a middleclass suburbia, people trickled out one by one, and the night air was impossibly cold. A thousand knives were cutting through the air, and the howls of the ones who had been wrongfully accused echoing in the distance. But the fear of rape/death, then the two hours at the psychiatrist had completely shaken any kind of willpower in me, I could only keep calculating mechanically on what more would come, and I couldn't think on behalf of my parents, I just wanted to escape, because while I completely and frankly believed that none of these events were theirs to blame, but I knew that going back would not solve any more fundamental problems, and so while not getting up the resolve to walk away, I could barely think on behalf of anyone, let alone my parents. I don't think the words "I was scared" can do justice to the state of shock I was in.
What good is it now, to try to write down in broken phrases what has passed? It happened. I chose to come back and live. I chose to accept the financial/emotional support of my parents, whom I've been getting to know in a different light, in my home country. Life is moving ahead in such haste, I feel I need to record a few events/thoughts down, so I don't lose an important part of me, regardless of how painful it's been. It's taken so much effort/support from friends/family to move away from the memories into my current life, I hope this can be a space where I can continue to find traces of what's lost and leave behind some things while I try to move ahead.
Picking up speed. The carpet pulled from below, and 3 meters between me and the floor. Emptiness? Or void? No, it’s heavily packed, dense as molasses, no longer dripping. Just quiet, low-as-low-can-be silence, on the night of attempted suicide. So dark. Thinking I would be sent in for rape. At first, scared shit. Mom/granma’s low murmuring voice. Dad saying “walk in together, or me first,” into the house. I say together. Dripping heaviness over my eyelids. Not even a sound in the distance. Surrounded by dreadful silence from top to bottom, side to side. The street. I go in my room to write a letter of suicide, only to be jolted by talks of granma and ma in the distance. Talks of cellphone, changing. "Inside all black," or "Empty case" would you like. Dad has no idea. Sent in for an unspeakable deed. I try to imagine only the good things. The chief says, “must boil her up, before the final kill, She’s still got lessons to learn."
Retrace back: her mother and father take car out to the big church, try to take her through counseling, sounds of the hollow steeple clock banging at 12, the nun and the godmom discuss, the unbearable lightness of the air as if all I had toiled away had dissipated, gone. I know I have say something, but I can't. Words escape me. I've never had to speak out about myself, in Korean, she tries to rationalize. I'd reserved the language for completely private use, not to be spoken in the presence of strangers. They are talking and there is no defense I can give, but they are already talking in Korean. Could it be that I was so vain not to feel a sense of urgency? Or was it really just the language barrier, that I never talked back to a guest, unless asked, that's the way I'd been taught to speak. But the construction workers are there at the height of the steeple ringing the bells. It signifies the order of the human world and the rhythm of our pace. And the nuns going about their business as usual. The air is so thin, and with each second, I feel I need to speak. Why can't I speak? My mom would always let me be, leaving me to makeup my own mind, but I'd never before spoken for or against her, in private or in public. The nun suddenly looks me in the eye, says “church, counseling, or both." And as I roll through the filmic reprint of my memories, flashes of myself in a psychiatric ward rises and the hospital experience before, 3 years ago. I want to shout out to myself, run away, but feel trapped inside the car, as I look out towards the church. Wind chimes from the church steeple, high above, as the car leaves, I have fallen from thin air. Why couldn’t I defend myself, let alone mom, or just go with the nun?
Midway, my parents and I have lunch, and I suddenly see what shouldn't have been seen. Suddenly it's as if my ears have been opened for the first time -- conversations, hushing and murmurings, as if it's not to be heard. I have never seen people behave this way. Mom/dad look towards me, swiftly clearing the plates, as they look towards me to say something. Delaware, say something, she tells herself. There's noise all around, and all she has to say is something -- something about the food, something about the weather. They talk to you, talk to me, she says. No use figuring who's to blame here, is it you, is it me, too much is at stake here. No use figuring. Just say something so that people can hear you, she chides herself, but no words come out. Again, she rationalizes, I've always been the middle girl, always keeping quiet during meals, only speaking when talked to. Always within the world Mom/Dad had built for us, so the thought of blurting out in English doesn't even occur to me. Also, the guys all around won't be able to undersatnd anyway, she tells herself. They are eating, but waiting too, for me to pick it up. But why is it so hard for her to say something? Is she so vain as not to feel the urgency of having to speak? People are talking, and the hushing is growing louder into a full conversation. The pace of the parents' chopstick in motion, is getting quicker, but the gap between myself and them only bigger as she tries to rationalize, but the meals have just finished.. Or is it that she naively feels she really feels that her life -- her personal life -- only belongs to herself and not even to her parents? Or is it just the language barrier that's preventing her from opening up to her parents? She had never had to defend herself in her native language, always listening politely, making an effort to talk in Korean only. Time is ticking away, and with every customer that's leaving, she knows that something terrifying is happening, yet cannot get up the courage to speak.
The wave of passersby, splitting before her eyes like the red sea. She feels something even more terrifying is about to happen. She doesn't know how or why, but they are out on a 8 lane highway, when suddenly her mom tells her to go sit in the front. She doesn't know why, but she feels that she is being told to provide sex. She feels so scared, she threatens to go off into the highway. Why she feels that she is being told to provide sex, she as no idea and when her mom/dad wrap around their arms to prevent me from throwing herself into the traffic, she resists with all her might. Something so wrong is going on. In retrospect, it's nothing, it's me being put in the front seat so I can help navigate, but I am so fearful of what that will do. In the meanwhile, mother goes straight for the cargo trucks. A motorcylce man shows up -- a nondescript 30 some year old men, who is neither a delivery boy or a groupie rider, and it is him who is solicited to drive. But upon seeing the guy in the driver's seat, the fear of having to provide sex gives in for a greater fear of death. We could be led to some strange place, in a shady neighborhood and be killed, and no one would notice. He has the keys to this car, on this highway, and with mom/dad holding me down each side, I am almost gasping for breath. But instead,with hair on my skin, this darkskinned stranger takes off at full speed. The motorcyclist's glance gleaming off the reflection mirror, mom/dad still holding me down, I don't know what to do. Guilt and fear alternating, I hunt for the cellphone.
By the time we arrived at the Pyshicarist's office, it was already dusk. The doctor asked a lot of questions, I had to fabricate a lot of answers, reveal a lot about the history of our lives in different countries. The house was 2 hours away, and after about 6-8 more attempts to escape, and each time my father pushing me on and my mom still holding me, I chose to go back home. It was getting late, and the house being in a middleclass suburbia, people trickled out one by one, and the night air was impossibly cold. A thousand knives were cutting through the air, and the howls of the ones who had been wrongfully accused echoing in the distance. But the fear of rape/death, then the two hours at the psychiatrist had completely shaken any kind of willpower in me, I could only keep calculating mechanically on what more would come, and I couldn't think on behalf of my parents, I just wanted to escape, because while I completely and frankly believed that none of these events were theirs to blame, but I knew that going back would not solve any more fundamental problems, and so while not getting up the resolve to walk away, I could barely think on behalf of anyone, let alone my parents. I don't think the words "I was scared" can do justice to the state of shock I was in.
What good is it now, to try to write down in broken phrases what has passed? It happened. I chose to come back and live. I chose to accept the financial/emotional support of my parents, whom I've been getting to know in a different light, in my home country. Life is moving ahead in such haste, I feel I need to record a few events/thoughts down, so I don't lose an important part of me, regardless of how painful it's been. It's taken so much effort/support from friends/family to move away from the memories into my current life, I hope this can be a space where I can continue to find traces of what's lost and leave behind some things while I try to move ahead.
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