The Yellow Umbrella Options

[Ykim917]

The Yellow Umbrella
By Yihwan Kim

Dedication: Thank you for teaching me the gift of writing as a means of relieving my stress. I’ll appreciate it for years to come.

Prologue

I hate Korea. My parents constantly encourage me to assimilate into the Korean culture, but I as the days roll by, I find that impossible. About a year ago, I was wrenched away from my peaceful life in the States, and had a new, alien culture forced upon me. I tried to make the best of my deplorable situation and slowly learned to accept my fate during my painful initial months in Korea. However, I did not and will never assimilate. I am a determined American and will face up to all challenges of living in a foreign country, even if it means societal exclusion.

My parents had immigrated to Los Angeles in the late 1980s in hopes of a new future in pursuing the American dream. They settled into Burbank, a fairly small suburb on the outskirts of the city, and led what seemed to be a promising life. My father, named Hyo-Won after my grandfather, established a liquor store on Western Avenue in the middle of Los Angeles, and the store became a fairly lucrative business. My parents decided to name the store “Lucky Liquor” citing their excitement for what they hoped to be a prosperous future. However, shortly after I was born, racial tension led to massive rioting in the early 1990s, during which my parents’ race and heritage made them the ideal target for most rioters. My father lacked the aggressive attitude among other Korean store owners who resorted to drastic defense measures. While other Koreans stood on top of their stores armed with guns and took justice into their own hands, my father quietly locked the dingy store doors and drove away hoping his customers’ loyalty would spare him from destruction. Unfortunately, my parents were not that lucky. The following week, my father returned to “Lucky” to discover the burnt skeleton of the building. Not only had the rioters looted and robbed the store completely, they had also burned my father’s pride to the ground. My father was devastated.

However, my mother, perhaps conditioned from her experiences during the oppressive Japanese occupation and Korean War, was not the type to give up on our family’s dreams. Our church members called her “san,” or mountain to signify her immovable strength and determination. When a new acquaintance called her Moon-hee, her birth name, she insisted that they refer to her nickname, with which she held great pride. She rallied my father to give the business another try, with success. Our second family store relocated to Vernon Avenue in another part of Los Angeles. Using her keen insight, my mother chose a location near a local construction business. Everyday after work, construction workers poured in to purchase beer and cigarettes in enormous quantities. “Lucky II,” as my father liked to call it, was definitely a success.
Meanwhile, I was slowly growing into a unique world: a mixture of traditional Korean culture with a dominant American culture. I was as friendly as possible to just about everyone, a characteristic my father had taught me when I was young. I made friends easily, and I was extremely comfortable socially, mentally, and financially; my parents’ business was thriving.

However, just as I was about to enter high school, disaster struck home. Racial tensions were never completely smoothed over in parts of LA, and my mother had overlooked crime rates in our new store’s location. One fateful October night, as my parents prepared to close the store for the day, a pair of robbers clad in black ski masks pushed through the front doors. The crash of the falling shelf of chips and candy drowned out the faint tinkling of the bell above the door. One thief held my mother at gunpoint at the cash register while the other pinned my father against the wall. My father described the incident in vivid detail:
“Jason-ah, you had no idea how scared I was then. I stood rooted at the spot, too surprised to let out a cry. Your mother was refusing to open the cash register to the robbers; being held at gunpoint was a common experience for her during her harsh times in Korea. Only after I begged her with tears in my eyes did she relent, probably out of my sake than for the store.”

The robbers drove away with all the money in the register, which amounted to some $350 and a bag of cigarettes and liquor. The event shook my father considerably, and he took a completely different mindset toward the store. On the other hand, the robbery didn’t faze my mother in the least. She was only disgusted at the lack of response from the police. The police refused to send help immediately after hearing that the robbery had already taken place and that there were no casualties. Instead, they sent a representative dressed in a slimy grey overcoat with a lit cigarette in hand the following morning. To my mother, it seemed obvious he didn’t care about the incident at all, and his arrival was merely a formality. Whether it was fear for safety or exasperation at law enforcement, my parents toyed with the idea of returning home to Korea for months. When my uncle called to let my father know about a rare business opportunity, my mother made the final decision: we were moving back to Korea.

My parents made the decision without even considering my opinion, typical of a Korean family. They didn’t care that I had well established a group of friends, was maintaining excellent grades, or planning to run for class office. According to my mother, a family’s decisions were best made by the parents.
I was the only member of the family who violently opposed this proposal. Perhaps it was because I was the only member of the family who truly assimilated to American culture, but then again, I suppose my being born there made in inevitable.

One day, after I came home from an uneventful day at school, a moving truck was idling in front of our tiny apartment complex. I ran inside to discover all our worldly possessions in dull, brown boxes stacked to the ceiling on the living room floor. Apparently, my father decided the element of surprise would best be put to use in the big move, which I was so opposed. Later that evening, my parents had to rip me from the small apartment and almost threw me into the back of a waiting taxi. I cried all the way to the airport.

On the airplane, I was somewhat appeased by my kind mother who insisted this was the best option. She pleaded to accept their decision, and I realized that perhaps returning to Korea would be the best option in light of my parents' failing business, which took a turn for the worse after the robbery. By the time I walked through the Korean customs gate, I had quietly accepted by fate, and my parents, overjoyed at my "maturity," bought me an ice cream to celebrate. I guess they didn't know a fifteen-year old needed more than ice cream after being completely cut off from his world. My parents encouraged me to keep in contact with my friends in the States, but a long distance relationship can only hold up so well. After months, daily phone calls became fewer and fewer, and were soon reduced to hastily written emails every two months. After a year, all communication ceased completely.

Chapter 01:

The skinny yellow line wriggled around the colorful jungle, but was quickly over taken by a larger green line that happened to cross the smaller worm’s path. As the green line zigzagged along, it was suddenly eaten by a fat black rectangle which continued onto the end of the jungle

I stared at the jumble of colored lines in front of me. South Korea prides itself in having one of the most efficient public transportation systems in the world, yet it never mentions it needs to brush up on its’ new-user friendliness. Trying hard to ignore the fact that I was already late for my school’s registration appointment, I took a deep breath and began to mutter under my breath.

“Blue line to red line, junction at yellow, no that’s not right. Red line to green light, stop at black, no that takes me the wrong way. Red line, off at 6th street, junction at purple ...”

I dropped my bag in frustration and nervously fidgeted with my bright name tag which had “Jason (Young-Jae) Lee” neatly printed beneath the plastic covering. I had reluctantly added “Young-Jae,” a completely fictitious name, after my parents relentlessly insisted I conform to Korean culture in some way. Unfortunately, my parents didn’t seem to realize a Korean name would not effective hide my pronounced language barrier.


I sighed and looked around. It was a cool October morning, yet the underground subway station’s humid air was suffocating. Apparently, the station’s architects had found gently sloping glass walls, automated ticket systems, and blinding fluorescent lights were more important than proper ventilation. I collapsed onto the nearest bench, gleaming from frequent waxing, and began to follow the Korean words which darted across the marquee. As I began to translate the meaning of each quickly moving word, it disappeared at the other end of the marquee and was followed by an endless stream of lines, circles, and squares which the people around me could read so fluently. On both sides of me, subways screeched to a stop only to lurch forward moments later after the last straggler jumped on board. From all angles, the situation appeared hopeless. I was stranded in a strange environment, unable to ask for help, and completely alone. My stomach growled loudly.

I placed my backpack on my lap and rummaged through books, folders, and pencils to try and find something to satiate my hunger. Suddenly, my fingers brushed lightly against a small book which I had packed for emergency. Before I left for Korea, my parents had bought a Korean language book for beginners in hopes that I would be able to learn the language quickly and become fluent before the school year started. I had only reached Chapter 02 before giving up, but I knew the book would be highly useful in situations like these. I opened the brand new yellow cover, barely creased from my lack of use and flipped through the pages. Finally, I found it: “Chapter 12: Asking for directions and using transportation, an introduction.”
I couldn’t hide my smile; I was saved.
Armed with my new knowledge, I walked directly to the nearest security officer and confidently tapped him on the shoulder.
“Yes?”
“How do you … reach … subway … from here?” My speech was punctured frequently by lengthy pauses as I searched through the vocabulary list.
With an amused look, the man pointed to the subway that had just arrived.
In my excitement, I had asked how to board a subway instead of asking for directions to my new school.
Slightly embarrassed, I continued “Sorry … I mean .. how do you board … subway to … Seoul High School?” I sputtered out the last words in heavily accented English hoping English with a Korean accent would be just as understandable as pure Korean itself.
“Take the red line with a cross-over to the purple line and exit on Main Street,” the man replied in broken English.
Although my pride was slightly damaged because the man obviously thought I wouldn’t be able to understand his Korean, I gladly thanked him for his help and waited in line for the next red-line subway.
A subway slowly squealed to a stop at Gate 42D and I hastily boarded, pushed by other morning commuters who smelled distinctly of green tea and kimchi. It was an unpleasant odor, and I instinctively pulled my sweatshirt over my nose. The subway doors shut suddenly, and the subway began to pick up speed through Seoul’s extensive underground transport network. It was my first time on a subway, so the generated force was completely unexpected. I lost my balance and promptly crashed into a man dressed in a crisp business suit behind me.

“Watch your step, young man!” he angrily exclaimed as he brushed off his overcoat. “Clumsy fool …” he muttered under his breath.

Thankfully, the rest of the subway trip was uneventful. I mimicked the other commuters and placed my legs parallel to the track and adjusted my weight accordingly with each stop and acceleration. It was actually quite fun; time flew. When a dull voice announced the Seoul High School exit was the next stop, I quickly gathered my belongings, which had rolled about the subway car during the tumultuous ride, and prepared to exit. Before leaving the subway, I turned to the man I had accidentally knocked into earlier on my journey and let him know what I thought of him rather bluntly, in English of course. A rebuttal in Korean would have been a dead wish. After I was done venting my anger, I ran out of the crowded subway car; the man had probably understood some of what I had said and was most likely more than displeased.

The air outside the stuffy underground subway station was completely rejuvenating. As soon as the escalator brought me above ground-level, the cool October breeze bit my face, and I immediately regretted leaving my jacket at home. It was never this cold in September in Los Angeles, and my parochial American attitude had convinced me Korea would be the same. I lifted the hood on my sweatshirt and hunched over against the wind. It was going to be a long trip.

On my way to the school, I passed by numerous shop windows, lit by dancing lights on the window frame. The Seoul shopping district was busy as ever with customers milling in and around stores searching for the latest trends and best discounts. Women chatted happily in Korean as they tried on extravagant and rather distasteful eyeliner at Kim’s. A group of men pushed past me, laughing about the recent soccer game against Japan. For a second, I felt as if I was once again walking on the sunny streets of Santa Monica. Everyday after school, I would have strolled down Promenade, watching the various street performers while making daily trips to the arcade.

But before I could fully enjoy the feeling, I spotted a row of blue tented street carts selling what appeared to be fat worms in red sauce and two women arguing over the price of an ugly dress which was already at a triple sale price. Everywhere, people wore strange clothing and at least half of the young mens’ hair was bright orange, the disgusting effects of hydrogen peroxide. A shop across the street was selling cell phones which had three fold-out screens, a fully operational television, and unlimited access to the Internet. This was definitely Korea.

I felt rather amused and disgusted at the same time, and decided to block out the surroundings and push on to my school, which was still two blocks away.

***

Seoul High School prides itself in being one of the most modern high schools in the world. Its newly renovated campus sprawls over 11 acres of carefully manicured grass and modern glass and concrete buildings. Like other schools in Korea, it imposes a strict dress code which consists of ties for both male and female students, a dark blue jacket, and khaki pants or skits. The new student orientation was to be held in the school’s auditorium, which holds performances by internationally renowned artists and performers, according to a school brochure which had been mailed to me two weeks prior.

Parents were dropping off students at the school’s rotunda, while traffic officers blew their whistles insistently as if they thought sound waves would magically push the cars forward. As I crossed the vast front field, I noticed the South Korean flag waving proudly from the flagpole in front of the main office. Even after a year, I was yet to be comfortable with the absence of old Red, White, and Blue. My parents briefly considered sending me to the local foreign school, where children of American military officers and soldiers attended, but the astronomical tuition was a major discouragement. My mother, always the one to be positive, viewed this financial inconvenience as a gift: “You will be able to learn Korean so much faster!” she had exclaimed after seeing my disappointment.

The auditorium foyer was packed with students greeting each other after a long summer vacation and parents bragging about their child’s accomplishments during the break. The glass ceiling was some 60 feet above the ground, and long lights ran along the glass walls to reach countless school banners hanging above. Interestingly, some of the banners’ mantras were written in English, and I entertained myself by reading some of the cheesier ones: “Pride Will Survive!” cried one banner, while another screamed “Study or be failure!” delicately.

After I had signed in at the front desk, a nasally voice blared from the PA speakers above: “Attention, the orientation will begin in 5 minutes.” Thankfully, the announcement ran twice, once quickly in Korean and once in broken English. The mob of parents, students, and teachers slowly moved toward the open auditorium doors, leaving me alone at the front desk. Even the haughty woman who had signed me in rose and left for the auditorium without a word. Not wanting to be left alone from the crowd, I quickly followed.

[helloashley]

I think you did a wonderful job. Excellent detail and you seem to know your stuff :)

[Chicago]

i agree with Ashley, great job!

[Joss-eh-lime]

nice job. i enjoyed it

[Ekay]

Captivating. I don't say that a lot. Is this unfinished by any chance?