The Stuff of Bedtime Stories
by Melanie C.
Dear Grandfather Ju Sigyeong,
You’ve never met me, but I remember the first time I met you. I have long been fascinated with stories. I remember being three, asking my mother to read me the same stories before bed until I could recite them to her as she fell asleep, “reading” before I even knew how. I remember being six, demanding more childhood stories from my father — stories of playing soccer in the streets of Gangnam, of tying strings to dragonflies like balloons, of stray dogs that would run away as quickly as they had been adopted into the family. Eventually, I asked about my grandparents and their grandparents, as far up the family tree as I could possibly fathom.
On one of these family tree branches was you. One of the founders of modern Korean linguistics, you were a heroic scholar saving the Korean language from extinction during Japanese rule in early 20th century Korea. You were a picture book my grandparents brought back from their trip to Korea, another preservation of your immortal legacy that is celebrated every time someone says hangul, the word you called the Korean alphabet. You were my father’s grandfather’s uncle, but more importantly, you were the bane of my existence.
I am sure you’ll be ecstatic to know that this descendant of yours was born in another nation’s capital and refused to speak your beloved tongue. My parents sent me to Korean school from the ages of 3 to 13, but I barely remember the blurred Saturday mornings that nurtured my self-disdain. I cringed every time I spoke in Korean, each word laced with my American accent, a constant reminder that I will never be good, never Korean enough. I would never live up to your legacy, so I vowed to never speak Korean, making English my one and only. I remember my Korean school teachers yelling at me for not paying attention, for scribbling story ideas in my notebook during class, eager to escape to the haven of the English language.
However, I didn’t realize that cutting off one of my first languages would soon make me feel like I had cut off a part of myself. Every time I got my hair cut in Koreatown, every time my parents’ friends would make small talk, every time I saw my own grandparents, I would let my parents sheepishly explain that I don’t speak Korean before carrying on the conversation. Every time, I would wonder, how Korean am I if I don’t speak the language? And how could I possibly be related to you, you who protected the language that I refuse to speak with your life?
I thought I knew your story like the back of my hand, but my father told me more recently that in order to promote the use of purely Korean words rather than the typical Sino-Korean vocabulary, you published under Han Hin Saem, the first solely Korean name. I remember smiling, recalling that when I first started writing, I wrote under a pen name, too. We are more similar than I realized – as you dedicated yourself to hangul, I sought refuge in English.
I knew your story, but I asked my father to tell me it again, this time knowing who you really are. You aren’t a constant reminder that I, an American, will never be as Korean as you were, for you cannot judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree. You are proof that I am Korean American — your descendant displaced by 8,000 miles. Proof that I may wield the infinite power of words to tell your story as well as mine. Proof that I am worthy of my family’s pride, forging and immortalizing my own path in another child’s bedtime stories.
With all my love,
Ju Jihyun
Melanie Chuh is a first year English major at UVA who loves boba tea, New Girl, and painting her phone case. Her idea of a perfect day is coming home from a major thrift haul to her dog, Minnie.
