[Memoir Part 1] Ep.14 – The Reason I Kept Taking the Long Way Around

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"There were things I wanted too much, and things I did not have the courage to return. So I kept taking the long way around." Image generated by AI by Author In science class, the teacher told us to bring milk for an iodine experiment. I asked Father for the money, but he waved it off. “Go to your eldest cousin’s shop. Tell his wife, and she’ll give you a bottle.” My steps felt heavy on the way there. No matter how much I searched my pockets, I couldn’t find a single coin. At the shop in the lower village, my cousin’s wife was always there, standing behind the counter with her baby tied to her back. I lingered at the entrance for a long time before I finally stepped inside and stammered my request. She went to the back of the shop and brought out a glass bottle of milk. “Make sure you bring the empty bottle back,” she said more than once. I gave a small nod. I had to return it. One day passed, then two. I kept telling myself I would take it back soon. But by the end of a wee...
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[Memoir Part 1] Ep.11 – Even So, We Must Go

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"I followed the worn-out heels of his sneakers into the school."

Image generated by AI by Author

My older brother seemed to belong more to the streets than to home. The knees of his brown corduroy pants were always torn, and the seat was worn smooth and dark from sliding around the neighborhood.

One day, I followed him up the mountain. As we walked along the narrow trail, weeds scratched against my bare legs. My brother lifted a fallen branch like a sword and slashed at the brush. I followed close behind, stepping exactly where he stepped.

Among the weeds grew nightshades, their berries glinting like tiny black beads. My brother plucked them and tossed them into his mouth, grinning.

“These are nightshades. The darker they are, the sweeter.”

I picked one no bigger than my fingernail and bit into it. The skin popped, releasing a flood of dark, seedy sweetness across my tongue. Soon our lips were stained dark purple, and we kept eating and laughing.

He reached into the brush again and snapped off a stalk, handing it to me.

“Try this. It’s fine to eat.”

I chewed it with my front teeth. A bitter smell came first, followed by a sharp, sour taste. I kept chewing. My brother smirked.

“Got you, dummy. You really ate it just because I told you to?”

Further down the mountain, we came to Old Man Gombae’s radish field. My brother looked around, then slipped his hand through the wire fence and yanked out a young radish. He tore off the dirt-covered skin with his teeth and took a huge bite. The sharp, peppery smell filled the air.

“You brats!”

At the old man’s shout, we ran for our lives. We didn’t stop until we reached the bottom of the mountain. My brother shook his legs dramatically, pretending they were about to give out, and laughed.

“That was a close one.”

I brushed the dirt from the back of his pants.

All the way down the mountain, he made up songs and sang them. Even at night, he lay staring at the ceiling, singing whatever came to mind until the adults scolded him for being noisy. Then he would go quiet for a moment—and fall straight asleep.

By the time we returned home, the sky was bruised deep red. Inside, Father’s sewing machine rattled steadily, the sound spilling out into the yard. My brother never went straight into the room. He squatted beside the kimchi jar by the kitchen door, lifted the lid, and plunged his bare hand inside, crunching on pieces of radish kimchi. The sour smell of fermented kimchi lingered at the tip of my nose.

“You little punk!”

Father struck the back of his head several times. My brother hunched over, clutching his head as the blows fell. Then he sat beside the jar, rubbing his eyes with dirty hands and crying. Dark tear tracks carved through the dust on his cheeks.

At school, my brother was the kind of kid who shot his hand up—“Me! Me!”—bouncing in his seat. When the teacher asked what his birthday was, he shouted,

“It’s the day we eat gobongbap—an overflowing bowl of rice!”

He was always proud of showing off his test papers with bold red 100s.

But on the days we couldn’t pay the tuition, the teacher struck our palms with a thin wooden switch.

“If you don’t bring it tomorrow, I’ll hit you twice as hard.”

Her eyes hardened as she spoke. It was the same for my brother.

At home, the moment we carefully brought up the tuition, Father’s hand cut through the air.

Crack.

His palm struck my cheek like lightning. His fists fell on my brother’s shoulders again and again.

The next morning, we left the house together. My brother didn’t say a word. Only the sound of our footsteps—tap, tap—followed us.

At the school gate, we stood there for a long time, shifting our feet as children with backpacks rushed past us.

My brother watched their backs with red, bloodshot eyes. He clenched his trembling fists tightly.

“We still have to go.”

He stepped forward as if he had made up his mind. Watching the worn-out heels of his sneakers, I followed that trembling but stubborn back into the school.


Read this story in Korean (한국어 버전 읽기)

About this series:
These stories are part of my childhood memoir about growing up poor in 1970s South Korea.
Thank you for reading.

Start from the beginning:
[Memoir Part 1] Ep.1 – I Grew Up in a One-Room Factory Overlooking the Sea

Previous:
[Memoir Part 1] Ep.10 – In Our House, Nights Were Always Quiet but Never Still


Next:
[Memoir Part 1] Ep.12 – The Red Shoes I Hid in the Dark Never Shone Agai

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