The Island of Sea Women

Born a Cow

We sat on our haunches outside the bulteok as a man bellowed at us through a bullhorn. “Today the grandmother-divers will go out two kilometers for deep-water work. I’ll have the captain drop the small-divers in a cove that’s ripe with sea urchins. We have no baby-divers today, so we don’t need to worry about them. I keep telling you we need more baby-divers. Please continue to encourage the young women in your families to join the collective.”

It was galling enough to have a man tell us what to do, but shouting at us through the bullhorn made matters worse. We may have been hard of hearing, but everyone had always been able to understand me when we sat around the fire pit and discussed the day’s plan. I was still the chief of our collective, though, and the other haenyeo looked to me to put this man straight.

“How are we supposed to bring in baby-divers when you changed the rules about who can dive?”

“I didn’t change the rules,” he yelled, indignant.

“All right. You didn’t,” I agreed. “Politicians somewhere far from here passed a law, but what do they know about our practices and our traditions?”

The man puffed his chest. It truly wasn’t his fault, but the law that said one diver per household went into effect six years ago—without asking our opinion—and had been a terrible blow to all families who relied on grandmothers, mothers, and daughters for family income.

“It’s always been the case that if a woman married out or moved away, she lost her rights to that village,” he said.

“So? Years ago, when I married and moved to another village, I was readily accepted into that collective. Now, a woman can only apply for a license after living in a new village for sixty days. And if her mother- or sister-in-law is already a diver, then—”

“The point is,” Yang-jin cut in, “if only one diver can be licensed per household, how are we supposed to bring our daughters to the sea?”

“And even if I could bring them,” I asked, adding to the point my diving partner had made, “why would I?”

“Am I to hear about Joon-lee now?” the man queried with a pronounced sigh.

Yes, because I knew it irked him. “My younger daughter attends university in Seoul.”

“I know. I know.”

“While not all daughters are as lucky or as smart as Joon-lee, every young woman now has opportunities that are far less dangerous than diving,” I went on. “Look at my older daughter. As her mother, I can say Min-lee was never the cleverest girl, but she helps provide for her family by selling postcards, soda pop, and suntan oil to tourists.”

The women around me nodded knowingly, but not one of us had heard of soda pop or suntan oil until recently.

“Why dive when you can be safe on land?” Yang-jin asked.

The man didn’t bother to answer. He wasn’t risking his life entering the sea.

“So who does that leave? You see around you women who’ve been diving together for many years.” I chuckled. “The Kang sisters, Yang-jin, and I—most of us here, actually—are getting close to retirement age. What will you do when that happens?”

He shrugged, pretending indifference, which made us laugh, which made him turn red. He brought the bullhorn back to his mouth. “I run the Village Fishery Association. I’m in charge. You’re to do as I tell you.”

We laughed even harder then, and more blood rushed to his face. He didn’t realize he’d given us another Jeju set of three: he used his line, we laughed at him, and he flushed. Every diving day, the same thing.

Jeju had always been the island of the Three Abundances. We still had plenty of wind and rocks, but we women were being forced to conform in ways we hadn’t before. I can’t say if this is a fact or not, but I believed that the Fisheries Cooperative Act came about because of the shortage of men caused by the 4.3 Incident, the 6.25 War, and the new industrialization on the mainland, which lured men away for factory jobs. We had yet another struggle between Shamanism, which was primarily for women, and Confucianism, which favored men. Confucius didn’t care much for women: When a girl, obey your father; when a wife, obey your husband; when a widow, obey your son. But when I was a girl, I obeyed my mother; when I was a wife, I had equal say to my husband; and now that I was a widow, my only son had to obey me. This was not the case in many households. I was glad I wasn’t a daughter or wife now, and that my son knew better than to test me.

The most important and startling of the changes was that men now oversaw the Village Fishery Association. We still had our own collective and met in the bulteok, but the man told us who could work and for how long. He tried to control us—as other men did with every haenyeo collective around the island—so we felt less free to be ourselves or determine our futures. He even made us pay fines if we exceeded catch limits or harvested something in the wrong season. Fines! This I had managed to prevent as chief, so the women in my collective did not have to pay penalties. If you put it all together—men telling us what to do, daughters going to school and getting dry-land jobs, and, especially, rules forbidding more than one woman in a household to work as a haenyeo—no wonder there were fewer of us. Add to that what happened after President Park came to visit. He looked around our island and decided that it wasn’t practical to build factories here, but, since the weather was good, he declared that the only way to earn a living was by growing a type of tangerine called gamgyul. So people, including many haenyeo, started growing tangerines on the other side of the island. The first time Dr. Park came, there were about twenty-six thousand haenyeo on Jeju. When he came last year—to measure our tolerance to holding our hands in ice water—we’d dropped to eleven thousand haenyeo. Eleven thousand! He made me a bet that within another five years we’d lose another half to retirement.

The only good thing about the Village Fishery Association, as far as I was concerned, was that we could keep whatever we’d harvested beyond our “required quota.” These items I took to sell on the streets of Jeju City. The income had paid for my children’s educations and Min-lee’s wedding and would help me with the banquet and other festivities attached to the forthcoming marriage of Kyung-soo and a girl he’d met on the mainland during his mandatory military service. Soon I would have four generations living within the same fence: my mother-in-law, me, my son and daughter-in-law, and the children they would have.

“Hurry up now!” the man shouted. “Gather your gear!”

We did so, and then climbed onto the back of his truck. He drove us to the dock, where a large motorboat waited for us. Once we were aboard, the captain headed to sea, first dropping the small-divers in a cove and then steering through the churning waves to the deep sea. When we arrived, I took charge.

“Mind your tewaks,” I said. “Stay close to the boat. Come in when you get cold. And please watch out for each other.”

Life on land had changed, but the sea remained the same. A breath, a breath, a breath, then down… The water here was crystal clear to a great depth. Black volcanic rocks stood in contrast to the pearly sand. To my left, a forest of seaweed swayed as if blown by a gentle wind. As always, my above-sea concerns melted away when I began to concentrate, searching the rocks for creatures to put in my net, my senses heightened to watch for dangers.

Four hours later, we arrived back at shore and were returned to Hado, where a few men waited for the truck to pull to a stop. Husbands still spent the day in the village square, minding babies and toddlers, but they helped their wives in ways once unimaginable. We haenyeo are strong, and we had always done our own hauling. Since our men were unaccustomed to physical labor, it typically took two of them to carry what a haenyeo brought ashore. “When you accept our help,” the man in charge had explained, “you become more profitable.” Of course, I didn’t have a husband, and my son was on the mainland. Today, my net was so heavy with my harvest that I had to bend over so that my face was nearly parallel to the ground to bear the weight. The burden—the tangible, physical proof of my labors—felt like money, opportunity, and love.

We still weighed our catches together, but the man in charge oversaw sales and the distribution of monies earned from our sea harvests. Once that was done, we entered the bulteok, warmed by the fire, got dressed, and shared a meal. At least that man didn’t come inside. That would have been one insult too many.

“I hear Joon-lee’s coming home today,” Gu-ja said.

“For the summer,” I answered.

“Have her thoughts turned to marriage yet?” Gu-sun asked.

I put a hand on her shoulder, knowing how hard it had to be for her to ask questions that involved a daughter and the unfolding of her life. “You know how Joon-lee is,” I answered. “Her thoughts seem to be only on books. I’m lucky Min-lee has already given me twin grandsons.”

“Very lucky,” Gu-sun agreed. “Now you have the security of another generation of boys to provide for you in the Afterworld.”

We left the bulteok together but parted ways almost immediately. I headed to my home perched on the shore. Do-saeng, now sixty-nine, still lived in the little house, but I found her in the kitchen of the big house preparing Joon-lee’s welcome-home meal. A wall was stacked with earthenware jars, filled with homemade pickled radishes, sauces, and pastes. To me, those jars were like stacks of gold bars, representing how far I’d brought my family.

“Joon-lee has always liked pork sausage,” Do-saeng said. “I’ve sliced this thin, so each person can have several pieces.”

After so many years, I knew my mother-in-law very well, and she wasn’t speaking a pure truth. Having Joon-lee return home from her first year at university was a big occasion, and I’d agreed to slaughter one of our pigs. We’d use every part of the animal for the celebration tonight, but the sausage wasn’t for Joon-lee. It was for the twins. Do-saeng loved to spoil her great-grandsons.

“What else have you made?” I asked. “And how can I help?”

“I used pork bones, bracken, and spring onions to start the broth for the stew. You can stir in the powdered barley to thicken it, if you’d like. Just remember to—”

“Keep stirring to keep it from getting lumpy. I know.”

“Min-lee should be here soon. She’s promised to bring tilefish for us to grill. And you brought things from the sea too, I hope.”

“I have a basket of baby abalones to grill. This I know Joon-lee loves.”

“She is our greatest hope,” Do-saeng said with a smile.

But, aigo, for the past seven years I’d never had a day when I hadn’t missed her. When she was at the all-girls middle and high schools in Jeju City, I only got to see her on special occasions. She even stayed in the city for summer school. “I want to improve my chances of getting into a better college,” she’d often repeated on those few days she visited. I thought perhaps the city had twisted her mind to have such a big dream, because to me it was miraculous enough that she was going to her special private schools. I should have known better, because whenever she came to Hado, she showed no desire to join me in the sea. Instead, she wanted to visit the new Village Fishery Association! The government on the mainland had sent books to create small libraries for each association so that a haenyeo like me could “improve her level of literacy.” But I wasn’t literate to begin with, so this gift felt like another insult. Joon-lee, however, loved those books. She systematically read every one. When the time came, she did so well on the entrance exam that she won a scholarship to Seoul National University—the top school in the country. I was stunned and very proud. Her attitude about it was different.

“During the war, half the students went missing,” she’d said when she received the acceptance letter. “They were either killed in battle or moved to the north. Just like here on Jeju, the mainland has fewer men. They need girls like me to fill the slots.”

Her older sister said what I felt. “You worked hard for this. Don’t dismiss it by acting like you didn’t earn your spot.”

I couldn’t predict what would happen in the future, but even now twice as many boys as girls went to middle and high school. Competition would become ever fiercer as those boys moved forward, but I would make sure all my grandchildren would go to high school, and maybe even college or university, even if it meant their parents and I would be separated from them for most of the year. Sometimes you must experience heartache to have a treasured result.

I heard Min-lee call, “Mother! Granny!”

Do-saeng and I ran outside.

“Look who I found in the olle,” Min-lee said. She carried her sister’s suitcase in one hand and a basket in the other. Next to her was my younger daughter, who looked completely different than when I’d waved goodbye to her on the dock nine months ago. That day Joon-lee had worn a skirt that came midcalf and a long-sleeved blouse—both made from persimmon cloth. Her hair had hung down in two braids. Now she wore a sleeveless dress with a hem many centimeters above her knees. She’d cut her hair in such a way that her new bangs hid her eyebrows. The rest of her hair had grown several inches and it swung loose and straight almost to her waist. Her twin four-year-old nephews held her hands. Her smile was big. She did not have a big butt. I’d been wrong about that, for which we were all thankful.

“No, Mother, I can’t go with you to the sea,” Joon-lee told me two weeks later, when the next diving cycle arrived.

“Don’t worry about the law—”

“I’m not worried about that. I can’t go, because I have to study.”

“Can’t I even get you into the sea to cool off?”

“Maybe later,” she said. “I need to finish this chapter.”

Maybe later. I already knew what that meant. Never. It was always the same two excuses. Either she had to study, or she needed to write letters.

This was the longest she’d been home since she was twelve, and it wasn’t going well. I loved my daughter, but she couldn’t stop complaining. She didn’t like to go in the ocean, because she didn’t have a shower to rinse the salt from her skin. She didn’t like to wash her hair in the bathing area, because her conditioner didn’t work well with salt water. She was unaccustomed to chores and didn’t get up early to help me or her grandmother haul water or gather firewood, but she would go by herself to the well to bring back a bucket or two of water to wash her hair. (I had her do it behind the little house so our neighbors wouldn’t see how wasteful she was.) She saved her worst complaints for the latrine: “It stinks! The pigs are groveling around right under me. And the bugs!”

We still had another two and a half months to go before she returned to Seoul.

“Tell me about the book,” I said, trying to find a way to connect. “Remember when you read Heidi to me. Maybe you could read this one—”

She looked at me with annoyance that turned to sadness. “Mother, you wouldn’t understand it. I’m trying to read ahead for the sociology class I’m taking next semester.”

Sociology. It wasn’t the first time I didn’t know what she was talking about.

“All right,” I said, turning away. “I’m sorry. I won’t bother you again.”

“Oh, Mother, don’t take it that way.” She put the book down, crossed the room, and put her arms around me. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

She stared into my face, and I was taken aback, as I always was, by how much her delicate features reminded me of her father. I smoothed tendrils of hair behind her ears.

“You’re a good girl,” I said. “And you make me proud. Go back to your studying.”

But inside, I hurt. I thought of her like seafoam—drifting farther and farther from me—and I couldn’t figure out how to change its course.

Gu-ja, of all people, told me what sociology was. “It’s the study of how people get along. Gu-sun and I have a second cousin who does that work in Jeju City.”

That the Kang sisters had an educated relative in the city surprised me, but this also told me that I needed to adapt better to the changing conditions around me as I did, without thinking, to those in the sea.

“Do you mean how friends or family get along?” I asked.

“I suppose,” she answered, “but I think it’s more like what happens in our bulteok.”

For days I mulled over what Gu-ja had told me. Gradually an idea began to form in my mind. When the second diving period of summer arrived, I invited Joon-lee to come to the bulteok with her grandmother and me. “Not to go in the sea,” I explained, “but to learn about haenyeo society.” I was thrilled when she said yes.

Once in the bulteok, Joon-lee sat quietly, listening to the other divers and me as we changed clothes. “Is there food on this beach?” I asked the collective. As the typical boasting answers flew at me—“More food than rocks in my fields, if I had any fields” and “More food than the liters of gasoline it would take to fill my car, if I had a car”—she jotted them down in a notebook. When Do-saeng and her friends went to the beach to collect the algae that had washed ashore, Joon-lee joined me and the other haenyeo on the back of the truck to the dock. She hadn’t tied up her hair, and it blew here, there, and everywhere. Even as she waited on the boat while we dove, she didn’t properly cover her hair. Hours later, during our return to shore, she asked questions about what we were doing, but they only made me look like a bad mother.

“Haven’t you taught her anything about diving?” Gu-ja asked me.

When I let the years scroll across my mind, I could see I’d tried, but it hadn’t taken. As a young girl, Joon-lee had never been interested in taking the tewak I’d given her into the sea. She’d never borrowed my big eyes, nor had she asked me to make her a set of water clothes. When she turned fifteen, she was already living in Jeju City, so I couldn’t train her for sea work as my mother had trained me. I couldn’t help but be embarrassed in front of the collective, but my daughter came to my defense.

“Don’t tease your chief,” she said lightly. “She’s worked hard to give me this life. You’ve done the same for you daughters too, right?”

They had, but of course none of those girls had done as well as Joon-lee.

Once in the bulteok, we did as we usually did: warmed ourselves by the fire, cooked a meal, and talked about problems in our families. Joon-lee blossomed in front of me, asking all sorts of questions about our matrifocal society. This was the first time any of us had heard this label—a culture focused on women—and it intrigued us.

“You make the decisions in your households,” she explained. “You make money. You have a good life—”

Gu-ja waved off the idea. “We think of ourselves as being independent and strong, but all you have to do is listen to our songs to know our days are hard. We sing about the difficulties of living under a mother-in-law, the sadness of being separated from our children, and lament how difficult this existence is.”

“My sister’s right,” Gu-sun said. “It’s better to be born a cow than a woman. No matter how stupid or lazy a man is, he has the better hand. He doesn’t have to supervise the family. He doesn’t have to wash clothes, manage the household, look after the elders, or see that the children have food to eat and mats to sleep on. He doesn’t have to do hard physical work in the wet or dry fields. His only responsibilities are to take care of babies and do a little cooking.”

“In other places, he would be called a wife,” Joon-lee said.

This made us laugh.

“So if you were a man,” she prompted, “how would your life be different?”

From my youngest days as a baby-diver, conversation in the bulteok had often centered on men, husbands, and sons. I could remember my mother leading a group as they discussed whether it was better to live as a man or a woman, but my daughter’s question sent the haenyeo in my collective in new directions.

Gu-ja answered first. “If I were a man, I wouldn’t worry about chores or responsibilities. I’d sit under the village tree, like they do, and contemplate big thoughts.”

“I’ve wondered sometimes if it would be better to be my husband,” Gu-sun admitted. “Ever since our daughter died, he drinks too much. I’ve asked him to find a little wife and share her home. His response? ‘Why should I do that when you already house and feed me?’ ”

I knew each woman’s story. Whose husband drank too much. Or gambled. Or beat her. Whenever a woman came to the bulteok with bruises, I told her the same thing I’d once told Mi-ja. Leave him! But they rarely did. They were always too afraid for their children, and maybe afraid for themselves.

“Drinking and gambling are the hardest,” one of the women commented. “Once my babies were old enough to be taken care of by their older siblings, my husband became purposeless. I felt sorry for him, but what would have happened if I’d started drinking and gambling?”

“I was a slave in my first husband’s family,” Yang-jin confessed. “My husband and father-in-law beat me. It’s true! I wouldn’t want to be a man who did something like that. I’m happier as a woman.”

“Someone will always take care of a man,” a woman said. “Ask yourself if you know a man who lives alone.”

No one could think of even one man in Hado who lived alone. He resided with his mother, his wife, his little wife, or his children.

Do-saeng finally joined the conversation. “Not many men can do without a wife, while all women can do without a husband.”

My daughter looked up from her notebook. “It seems to me that what you’re saying is you’re in charge, and yet you aren’t. When husbands die, houses and fields pass to sons. Why is it that men own all the property?”

“You know the reason,” I answered. “A daughter cannot perform the ancestral rites, so all property must go to sons. It is how we thank them for caring for us in the Afterworld.”

“It’s not fair,” Joon-lee said.

“It’s not,” I agreed. “Many of us lost sons in the war or during”—I lowered my voice—“the incident, which is why some here have adopted sons. But there are others of us, like myself, who’ve bought fields to give to our daughters one day.”

“You bought fields for me?” Joon-lee asked with a curious look on her face. Until this moment, I hadn’t considered the possibility that she might not want land on Jeju, that she might not return at all.

“I don’t know why you’re all talking about how your husbands do all the cooking and taking care of the children,” one of my neighbors said. “In my house, cooking, cleaning, and washing are women’s work. My work. I keep it simple. Barley porridge. A soup with pickled vegetables.”

“I know what you mean,” someone else agreed. “My husband longs to be the master of our family, but I do everything. I consider him only a guest in my home.”

“It’s better to have a guest in your home than have no husband at all,” I said. “I loved my husband, and I will love him forever. I would give anything to have him with me.”

“But Jun-bu was different than other men,” Gu-sun said. “We all grew up with him, and—”

“I had two wrong husbands,” Yang-jin interrupted. “My second husband did nothing for me. Now that he’s dead, I’ll never think about either of them again.”

“I lost my husband too,” one of the small-divers said, “and I also don’t miss him. He never helped our family. He couldn’t dive. Men are weak under the sea, where we face life and death every day.”

“You’re being too severe.” I paused for a moment to see how I could say this so they’d understand. “Times are changing. Look at my son. He didn’t seek permission to marry. His future wife is not a haenyeo. I love my son, and I know every single one of you loves your sons. Sons grow up to be men.”

“It’s true,” Gu-ja agreed. “I love my sons.”

“I lost Wan-soon,” her sister admitted, “but I would die if I lost one of my sons.”

“I’m teaching my great-grandsons to cook,” Do-saeng boasted.

“Already?”

“They’re never too young to start learning,” Do-saeng said. “I’m teaching them how to make porridge.”

“Me too!”

And suddenly the conversation shifted as the women began to speak of their love of their sons and grandsons. Joon-lee kept writing, but I wasn’t sure she was getting the information she’d hoped for. As for me, I was troubled. She’d made me see things in a different way. We lived on an island of goddesses. One for childbirth, one for child death, one for the hearth, one for the sea, and so on, with gods serving as their consorts. Our strongest goddess was Grandmother Seolmundae—the embodiment of our island. Our strongest real woman was Kim Mandeok, who’d saved the people during the Most Horrendous Famine, but we’d been inspired by made-up women and girls too. Every single person in the bulteok had either read or had read to her the story of Heidi. But as strong as we were and as much as we did, not one of us would ever be chosen to run the Village Fishery Association or be elected to Hado’s village council.

In August, when our sweet potato crop was ready to harvest, Joon-lee came with Do-saeng and me on the first day to help. She lasted exactly one hour before sitting in the shade of the rock wall that edged the field. She pulled out a transistor radio and a notebook from her backpack. The music she played? Eeee. It hurt my ears, but it kept away the crows. She began writing. It had to be another letter.

“Who are you writing to this time?” I asked.

“A friend. In Seoul.”

Do-saeng glanced over at me. She’d kept quiet about my daughter, but I could tell she disapproved of the way Joon-lee acted.

“Every day you write,” I said. “You take your letters to the post office, but I never see you receive anything in return.”

“That’s because everyone’s so busy,” she replied, not even looking up from her notebook. “Seoul isn’t like Jeju. The magic of Seoul is that boredom is impossible. There’s culture, history, and creativity everywhere.”

When she was a little girl, her inquisitiveness had gotten her into trouble on occasion, but it had also taken her to where she was now. I should have been exulting in her accomplishments, but all I felt was sadness.

Then too fast—although in many ways it wasn’t fast enough—it was time for Joon-lee to go back to her university. Do-saeng and I packed dried fish, sweet potatoes, and jars of kimchee for her to take to her dormitory. I prepared an envelope with money for her to spend on books and other supplies. I’d even re-dyed one of her persimmon-cloth outfits to make it stronger, although I had a feeling she’d never wear it in Seoul.

When Joon-lee entered the room, she was already dressed in her traveling outfit—a sleeveless white blouse and what I’d learned was called a miniskirt. What she said startled me more than anything else she’d said or done all summer.

“Mother, before I leave, will you take me with you to Yo-chan’s house?”

I took a breath, hoping to slow my racing heart, then asked, “Why would I take you there?”

She lifted a single shoulder. “You go every day. I thought you could take me with you.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

She looked away, avoiding my eyes. “Yo-chan asked me to get something for him.”

Beside me, Do-saeng hissed between clenched teeth. I stared hard at my daughter, but I tried to tread carefully.

“You’re in contact with Yo-chan?”

“We’ve known each other since we were kids,” she said, as if I didn’t know that.

“They moved away—”

“But we met again in Seoul.”

“That you even know him is a surprise,” I admitted, while keeping my voice as steady as possible.

“I saw him on campus one day. We recognized each other right away. He invited me to a restaurant to see his mother—”

“Mi-ja—”

“They’ve been kind to me. He’s attending the Graduate School of Business right on campus, and—”

“Joon-lee, don’t hurt me this way.”

“I’m not hurting you. We’re friends. That’s all. They take me out for dinner sometimes.”

“Please stay away from them.” That I had to beg my daughter for this seemed incomprehensible to me.

She stared at me in frustration. “You go to her house every day.”

“That’s different.”

“Deep roots remain tangled underground,” she recited. “Yo-chan’s mother says that about the two of you, and I guess she’s right.”

“I’m not tangled with Mi-ja,” I said, but I wasn’t speaking truthfully. I don’t know why I felt compelled to visit her house every day, but I was drawn there nevertheless. I watered the flowers she’d left behind. I washed her floors when they got dirty. I went to the city office every year to make sure the taxes were paid. (They were.) If Mi-ja ever came back, I’d be ready for her. For now, though, I had to convince my daughter to avoid Mi-ja and her son. “It would bring me solace to know that when you’re far from home you won’t see them. Can you please promise me that?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You said the same thing years ago when you broke your arm, and yet here we are.”

Defiance flared in her eyes, but she said, “I promise, all right? Now will you let me get the thing Yo-chan needs from his house? I said I’d bring it to him. After that—”

“What is this thing?”

“I don’t know exactly. He said it’s in a chest that sits against the wall in the main room.”

I knew everything in that house, and what was in that chest did not belong to Yo-chan. It belonged to Mi-ja. It was her father’s book.

“You know,” my daughter went on, “I could have gone over there any day this summer and picked it up. I didn’t have to ask you.”

But of course she did, because I would have noticed if anything was missing.

“I was showing you respect,” she insisted.

This I had to believe.

“The sooner this is behind us, the better,” I said. “I’ll take you.”

Joon-lee rewarded me with her father’s smile.

But I was still hurt. These past few years, I’d been obliged to accept orders from the man from the Village Fishery Association, but my consolation had come from knowing I was giving my daughter the best education possible. She was smart and ambitious. She knew things I would never know. But now I saw other realities: You can do everything for a child. You can encourage her to read and do her math homework. You can forbid her to ride a bike, giggle too much, or see a boy. I’d just asked her to promise she wouldn’t see Yo-chan or Mi-ja again. She’d done so grudgingly. Sometimes everything you do is as pointless and as ineffective as shouting into the wind.

A Guest for One Hundred Years

“Sit. Sit,” I said in heavily accented English to the American soldiers. I squatted on my haunches, surrounded by plastic tubs filled with abalone, sea cucumber, sea squirt, and sea urchin. I also had a basket stuffed with paper plates, plastic spoons, and napkins. These servicemen on leave from battles in Vietnam looked young to me, but some of them had a haunted look I easily recognized. Or they were drunk. Or using drugs.

“What are you selling today, Granny?” a local boy the servicemen had hired asked.

“Here’s sea squirt—the ginseng of the sea. It will help these men below the belt.”

The boy translated this. A couple of the soldiers laughed. One turned bright red. Two others pretended to gag. Young men. Even when they’re embarrassed they try to outdo each other. I could profit from that. I reached into a tub and pulled out a sea squirt.

“See how it looks like a rock,” I said, with the local boy quietly repeating my words in English. “Look more closely. It’s covered in sea moss. Does it look familiar yet?” My knife slit open the underside and spread the creature apart. “What does this look like now? A woman’s privates! That’s right!” I switched to English. “Eat.”

The soldier who’d blushed earlier now turned crimson, but he ate it. His companions slapped him on the back and shouted I-don’t-know-what. I poured homemade rice wine into abalone shells. The soldiers held the shells to their lips and swilled down the white liquid. I next sliced abalone, which they dipped into chili sauce. When they were done, I pointed to an octopus, still alive, and curled at the bottom of one of my tubs. I grinned, poured more rice wine into their shells, and encouraged them to drink. I watched as they egged each other on. Finally, the boy they’d hired said, “They’ll try it.”

Soon sliced suckers writhed and twitched on a plate. “Be careful,” I warned in English. Then I switched to my native tongue. “The squirming bits are still alive. Those suction cups can grab your throat. You’ve had a lot to drink. I don’t want you to choke and die.”

Hoots of daring. More rice wine. And soon the pieces of octopus were gone. These men were so different from the ones I’d met during my itinerant work. I remembered that time the chef climbed down the rope ladder to our boat and refused anything and everything except what was most recognizable to him: fish.

The tallest of the soldiers pulled out a stack of postcards. He showed them to his friends, who nodded appreciatively. Then he held one out to me, pointed, and spouted a string of English words.

“Tell us, Granny,” the Jeju boy said, translating as best he could, “where can they find girls like these?”

I examined the image, which showed young women—their legs and arms firm, wearing form-fitting water clothes with bare shoulders, their hair hanging loose about their shoulders—in provocative poses. The mainland government had decided that the haenyeo might be a good tourist attraction, so now we were being advertised as the Sirens of the Deep and the Mermaids of Asia. I had no idea who the girls in the postcard were, but I was glad none of them worked in my collective.

“You tell them I’m a haenyeo,” I said. “You tell them I’m the best haenyeo on Jeju!”

That wilted their enthusiasm. I looked good, but I was forty-nine years old and only six years away from retirement.

Every Saturday afternoon was like this. I brought my catch in from the sea, Min-lee helped me load everything onto a bus, and then I rode into Jeju City, found a street corner near the area with all the bars and girls, and sold my wares. My customers were mostly American servicemen. Here on leave, they rappelled off ocean-facing cliffs, swam in our wet fields, and raced each other up Mount Halla. I had other American customers too. They were from the Peace Corps, but rumors circulated that they actually worked for the U.S. government and were keeping tabs on “red” activity. It was hard to tell what was true or just more gossip, but all those people were so young and inexperienced that I often spooned out sea urchin roe and dropped it directly into their open mouths like they were baby birds.

I sold the last of my goods, and the soldiers wandered down the street and into a bar. I emptied my tubs, stacked them, and walked to the bus stop. Along the way, I passed women wearing tight dresses. Men in untucked T-shirts and shorts or jeans sauntered up to those young women and exchanged words. Sometimes a deal was struck, but most of the women continued on their way, ignoring the eager attentions.

When I was a girl going in and out of the port for leaving-home water-work, Jeju City had seemed so much more advanced than Hado. It still was. Jeju City had the largest five-day market on the island, where I could buy just about anything, but the city also had souvenir shops, photo studios, beauty parlors, and places to buy or repair toasters, fans, and lamps. Cars, motorcycles, trucks, buses, and taxis moved through traffic that also included horse- and donkey-pulled carts, as well as hand-pushed wheelbarrows piled high. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, perfume, diesel and gasoline exhaust, and dung from the dray animals. Raw sewage still ran through the gutters down to the harbor, where ships spewed oil and fish waited to be off-loaded to canneries. The alleyways were chockablock with bars serving our local rice wine, beer, barbecue, and girls. I had to be careful as I passed those places, because customers liked to throw chicken, pork, and beef bones out the door to the sidewalk, where poor kids scurried and darted to scavenge these discards and take them home to their families.

By the time I boarded the bus, the sun had set. Outside the window, lights sprawled to infinity—from cafés and houses, to the port, and then offshore to the squid and shrimp boats, which dotted the sea all the way to where the ocean met the star-filled sky. The road circling the island had been paved the previous year, and the ride was smooth and fast. I got off at Hado and walked home through the olle. Oil lamps glowed here and there, but the old quiet was gone. People were frugal, so they didn’t always use their new electricity to light their homes, preferring instead to play radios and record players.

I heard the racket from my house even before I reached it. I sighed. I was tired and didn’t want to face a crowd. I entered the gate, and the entire courtyard was filled with people, sitting with their backs to me. The new sliding doors into the big house had been pushed open. More people sat on the floor inside the house. Whether inside or outside, everyone faced the television like they were in a cinema. They’d all brought food too—buckwheat pancakes with shredded turnip and stews filled with rice cakes and fish floating in spicy red sauce and topped with fried chilies. The television picture was in black and white, and the reception was fuzzy, but I recognized the show right away. Maybe tonight Marshal Dillon would finally kiss Miss Kitty. I spotted Min-lee, her husband, the twins—now eight—and her daughters, five and two. Min-lee’s husband rubbed her back. Their fifth child was due in six weeks, and Min-lee stood on her feet all day in the gift shop in the hotel where she worked. They all lived in the big house now.

I picked my way through the crowd to the little house that Do-saeng and I—two widows—now shared. I put away my tubs and added the cash I’d earned today to the tin box where I kept my savings. When I was done, Do-saeng said reproachfully, “They’ve been peeing in the courtyard again.”

“Tell them to use the latrine next time.”

“Do you think I didn’t?”

Not only were we the first in Hado to get a television, but our compound had been among the first to be affected by Saemaul Undong—the New Village Movement—which the regime had recently inaugurated. We’d been told we couldn’t promote tourism without upgrading the island. We were to have indoor plumbing, electricity, telephones, paved roads, and commercial airlines. This meant, among other things, that thatch roofs had to be replaced with those made of corrugated tin or tile. We were told tourists wouldn’t like our three-step farming system, and that we had to get rid of our pigsty latrines. Tourists wouldn’t want to see or smell pigs, and they certainly wouldn’t want to put their rear ends above the pigs’ greedy snouts. I didn’t know one family willing to tear down its latrine, and I’d continue to keep mine for as long as possible. So much change so fast was unsettling, and it undermined our way of life, our beliefs, and our traditions.

“You spoiled your children, and now you’re spoiling your grandchildren with that television,” Do-saeng complained.

I absorbed the criticism. Yes, I gave a spoonful of sugar to Min-lee’s twins and to her two daughters whenever I saw them, which was every day. I didn’t begrudge my grandchildren their treats, but the television had clearly been a mistake.

“Look at it this way,” I said. “You get to see your great-grandchildren every day, and you’re healthy enough to enjoy them. Not every woman your age can say that.”

At seventy-three, Do-saeng was in remarkable shape. Her braids had gone gray, but her body was strong. Even though she was well past retirement age, she’d begun diving again. That broke the rule of having more than one diver per household, but the man in charge of the Village Fishery Association let her join us from time to time because we needed her, and women like her, since it was impossible to find baby-divers these days. This, more than giving sugar to children, would have been unimaginable back when my own grandmother was alive.

“Tomorrow is going to be a big day,” she reminded me. “You need to tell everyone to go home.”

“You’re right,” I agreed. “But I think I’ll join them for a while first.”

“Hyng!”

I took some tangerines from a bowl and tucked them in my pockets. Then I waded through the courtyard and into the big house.

“Granny!”

“Granny!”

I sat with my legs tucked under me, my bottom nestled between my feet. My granddaughters climbed into my lap, and my grandsons cuddled close.

“Did you bring us anything?” the oldest girl asked.

I pulled out a tangerine. I unpeeled it in one long string. Once I was done, I rolled the peel back into its tangerine shape and set it on the floor. The children loved when I did that for them. I gave them each a couple of wedges, then repeated the process three times.

How lucky I was to have such beautiful grandchildren. How fortunate I was that Min-lee had married a teacher like her father, who taught right here in Hado. I missed Kyung-soo and his family, though. When he’d sent word that he was getting married, I’d thought the wedding would happen here. But when the goddess brought him home, he was already married to his mainland wife. I’d participated in no discussions about matching birth dates or seeking help from the geomancer for a propitious day to hold the wedding. Naturally, my feelings were injured, but I let all that go when I met my daughter-in-law for the first time and saw she was big with a baby in her belly. After they returned to Seoul, she gave birth to a son, giving me another grandson. Now she was pregnant with a second child, and Kyung-soo worked at his father-in-law’s electronics company. I wished my only son didn’t live so far away, but there was nothing I could do about it.

I missed Joon-lee most of all. For the last four years, she’d also been in Seoul. In the fall, she’d attend the Graduate School of Public Health at Seoul National University. Tomorrow she’d be coming home for a short visit. The note she’d written to Min-lee had said, “I have a surprise for everyone.” My guess was she’d won another award.

“Do you have more tangerines?” the five-year-old asked. I turned out my pockets to show they were empty. She sucked her bottom lip in disappointment. I kissed her forehead.

Do-saeng was right. I did spoil these little ones. I gave them and their parents everything—fixing up our houses to meet the new standards, buying tricycles and bicycles, getting the television so they could learn more about our country and the world—and it had left them soft. Children these days wanted easy lives. They didn’t have the physical or emotional strength of their grandmother or great-grandmother. That said, I loved them and would sacrifice anything for them, even if it meant selling seafood to American soldiers on a street corner.

I’d been a widow for twenty-three years, but I considered myself to be a fortunate woman. I squeezed the twins, they squealed, but no one seemed to mind the noise. Everyone was too focused on the shoot-out happening on the screen.

The next day, our diving was good. I was the last to leave the bulteok and was just crossing the beach toward my house when a motorcycle came bumping along the shore road and pulled to a stop. A man wearing a black leather jacket and a helmet that hid his face sat in front. Joon-lee sat behind him, holding his waist. She waved and called, “Mother! It’s me! I’m home!” She jumped off the bike and ran down the steps and across the beach to me. Her long black hair flew behind her. Her short shirt fluttered in the wind. When she reached me, she bowed.

“I thought you weren’t coming until later,” I said. “The bus—”

“We rented the bike.” With that, her initial burst of enthusiasm ebbed, and she stood with such stillness that I was immediately concerned.

“We?”

She took my hand. “Come, Mother. I couldn’t wait to tell you. I’m just so happy.” Her hand was soft and warm in mine, but her voice was far too somber to be expressing anything close to joy.

I kept my eyes on the man with the motorcycle. He didn’t have to take off the helmet for me to know who he was, because he was in nearly the same spot where he’d been perched on his new bicycle many years ago to see what was happening on the beach with Dr. Park and his team. When I said his name in my mind—Yo-chan—my stomach fell so hard and fast that for a second the world went black. I blinked a few times, trying to bring back light. Up on the roadway, Yo-chan set the kickstand, took off his helmet and hung it on one of the handlebars, and watched us approach. He put his palms on his thighs and bowed deeply when we reached him. As he rose, he offered no greetings or small talk. Instead, he said, “We’ve come to tell you that we’re going to get married.”

The inevitability of this moment seemed obvious and predictable, and yet it was still agonizing. I hesitated awhile, too long, really, before I asked, “What does your mother say?”

“You can ask her yourself,” he answered. “She’s coming in a taxi.”

I felt as though I were suspended in gelatin, watching as he turned to the bike and pushed it the last few meters to my house, with Joon-lee following behind him.

We aligned in two pairs: my daughter next to me facing Yo-chan, who sat next to his mother, who faced me. Teacups sat on a small tray on the floor between us. I could hear my granddaughters crying across the courtyard in the little house, where Min-lee had taken them so I could have this meeting in the big house. I hadn’t seen Mi-ja in eleven years. When she’d entered, I saw that her limp was much worse, and she used a cane. She looked far older than I did, even though her life had to be easier than mine. Her clothes were loose. Her hair had gone completely gray. Looking into her eyes, I sensed a deep well of unhappiness. That was not my problem, however.

“We have not consulted a geomancer to determine if this is a good match,” I said, keeping my sentences and attitude as formal as possible. “We haven’t brought in an intermediary. No one has asked if our family gives permission—”

“Oh, Mother, no one does those things anymore—”

I spoke right over my daughter. “No one has set an engagement meeting or—”

“Let us consider this the engagement meeting,” Mi-ja said.

I addressed my daughter. “I did not know your thoughts had turned to marriage.”

“Yo-chan and I are in love.”

I barely knew where to start. “Four years ago, I asked you to promise you wouldn’t see him again. Then you kept this”—I searched for the right word and settled on—“affiliation a secret from me, your mother.”

“I knew how you’d react,” Joon-lee admitted. “But I also wanted to make sure in my own heart. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“This cannot happen.”

“We’re happy,” she said. “We love each other.”

She could be stubborn, but I would never back down. I could have dredged up the nasty gossip about Yo-chan and Wan-soon, but even I didn’t believe it, so I went straight to my deepest argument. “For you to show such disrespect to the memory of your father—”

“I’m sorry, but I have no memory of my father.”

This was too painful. I closed my eyes as the horrifying images came flooding back. No matter how much I fought against them, the details were as vivid and brutal as in the moments they’d happened: Mi-ja touching her husband’s arm… Yo-chan in his little uniform… My husband when the bullet hit his head… Yu-ri’s screams… My little boy being snatched away… I would never heal or forget.

Mi-ja quietly cleared her throat, and I opened my eyes. “There was a time when you and I wished for this day.” She allowed herself a small smile. “Although we thought it would be Min-lee and Yo-chan. Still, this day has come. A son-in-law is a guest for one hundred years, meaning forever. It is time for you to put aside your anger, so these two, who have no responsibility for the past, can be wed. May you accept my son as part of your family for one hundred years.”

“I—”

She held up a hand to keep me from speaking. “As your daughter said, they do not need our permission any longer. We can only give them what they want. I had no desire to return to Jeju, but I did because Joon-lee wants to be surrounded by her family on her wedding day. I’ve made arrangements for them to be married in the Catholic church in Jeju City.”

I gasped. Christianity had grown on the island, and those people were even more fanatical than our government when it came to Shamanism. Joon-lee lowered her head as her hand went to finger the small cross hanging from her neck, which I’d been too stunned by Yo-chan’s presence and Mi-ja’s arrival to notice until now. That she was not just hurting me but also abandoning the traditions of our haenyeo family was more than I could absorb.

Mi-ja went on, unfazed. “The ceremony will be followed by a banquet and party here in Hado.”

Resentment bubbled to the surface. “You’ve taken so much from me,” I said to her. “Why do you have to take Joon-lee too?”

“Mother!”

In response to my daughter’s outburst, Mi-ja said, “Perhaps it would be best if the two mothers speak alone.”

“We want to stay,” Yo-chan said. “I want to make her understand.”

“Believe me,” Mi-ja said mildly. “This will be best.”

Yo-chan and Joon-lee were barely out the door before Mi-ja said, “You’ve never understood a single thing. You’ve carried your blame and hatred without ever asking me what really happened.”

“I didn’t have to ask you. I saw with my own eyes. That soldier picked up my son—”

“Do you think I don’t see that in my mind every single day? That moment is burned in my memory.”

She looked tortured, but what did that mean? I waited to see what she would say next.

“After my cowardice, I needed to atone,” she said at last. “When my husband began to travel and I knew he wouldn’t miss me”—an emotion flitted across her face, but she buried it before I could read it—“I moved back to Hado. I wanted to see if I could help you.”

“I saw no help from you.”

“I had to wait a long time. I thought there was no hope for me. Then Wan-soon died.”

“You came to the ritual rite. No one wanted you there.”

“You may not have wanted me, but the spirits of those you lost did. They spoke to me—”

“They spoke to me,” I corrected her.

“You change what happened, because you only see evil when you look at me.” Her quiet calm was having the opposite effect on me. She must have sensed this, because she kept her voice low and steady, like she was trying to lull me into believing her. “Consider what actually happened: Shaman Kim went into her trance. Yu-ri spoke first—”

“Yes, she spoke to me. I’d been waiting so long to hear from her. From any of them.”

“But they only spoke when I was there.” Mi-ja, perhaps sensing my doubt, went on. “They never came to you again, did they?”

My head throbbed as I thought about what she’d said. This couldn’t be right.

“Each of them said the same thing,” Mi-ja continued softly. “They had found forgiveness. Who was that message for, if not for me?”

I was innocent, they killed me, but I have found forgiveness.

I began to tremble. Maybe they had come for her.

“If the dead can forgive me, then why can’t you?” she asked.

“You could never understand, because you haven’t suffered the losses I have.”

“I’ve suffered in my own ways.”

I suspected she wanted me to question her, but I didn’t.

The moment lengthened until she finally said, “Even though you refuse to accept it, I’ve tried to make amends to you in every way I can. When Joon-lee won the competition, Teacher Oh came to me—”

“No, he didn’t—”

“Yes, he did. He explained that she’d been offered a place at a fine school in Jeju City but that the guilt-by-association system had tainted her. I took a ferry to the mainland and met with my husband. I told him I was willing to do whatever he wanted if he would see that she got her place. I reminded him how you and your family had helped bring him back to health after he escaped from the north. He still had those scars, you know, inside and out.”

“But he did nothing that terrible day to stop—”

“He didn’t know you were there, and then it was too late. When he found out… He’d beaten me before, but not like that. I ended up in the hospital. I stayed there for weeks, which is why I couldn’t come to you right away. Most of my injuries healed, but my hip has never been the same.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

The corners of her mouth turned up into the barest smile. “All that matters is that Sang-mun said he’d have Joon-lee erased from the guilt-by-association records so she could go to school. In exchange, I’d have to move to Seoul and live with him again. He told me that this was the only way he could remove the stain of my actions from his face. I accepted Sang-mun’s terms, which meant I would also have to accept the way he’d treated me from the day we met on the dock. Of course, I didn’t trust him, so I stayed in Hado until Teacher Oh confirmed Joon-lee was settled at her school.”

I wasn’t sure what she wanted me to feel. Pity? Maybe I did pity her in my own way, but what she’d told me made her sound even worse than I’d thought. For her own husband to blame her…

“So,” she said, breaking another long silence, “I did what I could for Joon-lee. Yo-chan and I visited her in Jeju City when we came to the island to see Sang-mun’s parents. When she arrived in Seoul—”

“You had Yo-chan hunt her down.”

“Hyng! It was far from that! They bumped into each other on the campus. I never expected them to fall in love, but they did. I saw it on their faces the first time he brought her to the apartment. It was fate, don’t you see?”

“Do Catholics believe in fate?” I asked.

She blinked rapidly. She could accept my hatred, but she wouldn’t allow me to mock her faith. Interesting.

“Joon-lee’s been on her own a very long time,” she said. “I’ve tried, when possible, to be a second mother to her. I love Joon-lee, and I’ve done my best to help her.”

“You mean you tried to steal her from me.”

Mi-ja’s cheeks colored, and she shook a finger in front of my face. “No, no, no.”

Good, I’d finally gotten to her. Maybe now she’d speak truthfully. But then she took a breath, her cheeks paled, and she returned to the unnerving calm she seemed to have perfected.

“There’s no point in trying to share my heart with you,” she said. “Your anger has poisoned you. You’ve become like Halmang Juseung. You touch everything with the flower of demolition. You’re killing all that is beautiful—our friendship, your love for Joon-lee, the happiness of a young couple.” She rose and padded across the floor. When she reached the door, she turned back to me. “Joon-lee told me that you’ve been taking care of my house. Why?”

“I thought… I don’t know what I thought,” I confessed, because my years of believing that I’d be ready when she came back had turned out to be false. I hadn’t been prepared for any of this.

“I thank you anyway.” She lifted her chin as she added, “The ceremony will be tomorrow at the church, as I told you earlier. The banquet will be at my aunt and uncle’s home. You are welcome to attend. The children would love to have you with them on their joyous day.”

But as much as I loved my daughter, I couldn’t go to her wedding. First and foremost, it would have been disrespectful to her father, brother, and aunt. On another level, I was too hurt by Joon-lee’s years of lies and broken promises even to want to see her face. I would have to overcome a lot within myself to break through the barriers that now separated us. So, the next day, I stayed with Min-lee—who also refused to attend the wedding—and her family through the long, hot hours until night finally fell. They rolled out sleeping mats in the main room, so we could all be together. The children fell asleep. Min-lee’s husband snored lightly. But Min-lee and I went outside, sat on the step, held hands, and listened to the music, songs, and laughter that wafted from the other side of the village.

“So many bad memories,” Min-lee whispered. “So much pain.”

I patted her back as she quietly wept. She and I would never be the same after what we’d seen and lost twenty-three years ago, but that could also be said for most people on the island. On this night, I couldn’t take my mind from Jun-bu, what he’d wished for our children, and what he’d feared for them. For a tree that has many branches, even a small breeze will shake some loose. We had grown a tree with many branches. One son had died too soon, but we now had grandchildren who would ensure our family’s line. But wherever Jun-bu was, could he be disappointed in Joon-lee and even more disappointed in me for how I’d raised her? For me, the pride of my life, my youngest daughter, was the branch who’d broken off in a way I never expected. By joining Mi-ja’s family, she had shattered my heart.

Fourteen months later, on a sultry fall morning, I walked my twin grandsons to school. They usually went with their father, but he’d needed to leave the house early to attend a meeting. We saw other children in the olles. The girls wore school uniforms: a dark blue skirt, white blouse, and wide-brimmed sunhat. The boys wore blue pants and white shirts. We met a teacher as we neared the school. Jun-bu had always worn traditional clothes made of persimmon-dyed fabric to teach, but these days the instructors wore their own version of a uniform: slacks, white shirts, and ties. We bowed to show our respect. The teacher nodded to us and continued purposefully in the direction of the high school. When we reached the elementary school, I gave each grandchild a tangerine. These days, teachers in Hado expected to find tangerines placed in a neat stack on their desks every morning, and I was proud that my grandchildren could participate in that. I watched them run inside, and then I went back home. Min-lee waited for me much as I’d left her, sitting on a low stone wall, holding an envelope in her hand. This was the first letter Joon-lee had sent since her wedding.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Open it.”

Min-lee slit open the envelope. Money fluttered out of it, which we quickly gathered. Then she began to read: “ ‘Dear Mother and Sister, I’ve given birth to a baby girl. She’s healthy, and I’m fine. We’ve named her Ji-young. I’m hoping you’ve softened toward me and my husband these past months and will come to Seoul to meet her. I’ve enclosed money for your travel expenses. We’ll be moving to America in December. Yo-chan will be working at Samsung’s office in Los Angeles. I’m hoping to become a student at UCLA, so I can finish my degree. I’m not sure when we’ll be back, so you must come see us. Mother, you’ve always said that children are hope and joy. Ji-young is hope and joy to us. I hope she will be to you too. With love and respect, Joon-lee.’ ”

Min-lee’s voice trailed off. She studied me, trying to get a sense of my feelings. I was ripped up inside. I had a new grandchild. Such a blessing. But that child was also the grandchild of the woman who’d nearly destroyed my life.

“If you want to go,” Min-lee said tentatively, “I’ll take time off from work and come with you. Would you like that?”

“You’re a good daughter,” I said, “but let me think about it.”

A flash of hurt crossed Min-lee’s face.

“Don’t misunderstand,” I said. “If I go, I’d love for you to come with me. You’ve always been a perfect daughter, and I’d need you. But I’m not sure if I’ll go.”

“But, Mother, it’s Joon-lee. The baby…”

I slowly rose. “Just let me think for a bit.”

All that day and all that night I tortured myself with what I should do. In the deepest hours of darkness, I realized I needed advice from Shaman Kim. I followed the proper customs to prepare myself. I gave myself a sponge bath and dressed in clean clothes. I searched my mind for any contaminating activities I might have participated in and found none. I hadn’t drunk rice liquor recently, nor had I argued with friends, family members, or women in the bulteok. I no longer had my monthly bleeding. I wasn’t sharing love with anyone. I hadn’t butchered a pig, chicken, or duck, nor had I harvested any marine creatures in the past week.

The sun had not yet risen when I put on my white kerchief and left the house with a basket filled with rice cakes and other offerings over my arm. I found Shaman Kim and her daughter at a makeshift shrine for Halmang Yeongdeung—the goddess of the wind. Shaman Kim was quite old now, and her daughter was training to take her place.

“Visiting the goddess is like visiting one’s grandmother,” Shaman Kim recited when she saw me. “It’s always best to arrive at a goddess’s shrine close to dawn, when she is sure to be in residence. You can say anything, and she will listen. You can cry, and she will console you. You can complain, and she will be patient.” Shaman Kim motioned for me to sit. “How can we help you?”

I gave her the news of the birth of my newest granddaughter and told her of my conflicted emotions.

“You should go to Seoul, of course,” she said when I was done.

But my mind was too divided to accept this simple direction. “How can I? I’ll look at the baby and see—”

“Everyone lost people, Young-sook,” Shaman Kim said, not unkindly. “And you know you want to forgive. If you didn’t, well, then, explain to me why you’ve never taken the opportunity to retaliate against Mi-ja. You cared for her house all these years when you could very easily have set fire to the roof.”

“I stopped visiting it after she came last year,” I pointed out. “It’s scheduled to be demolished.”

“Ah, but how do you know that information? It’s because you make it your business to know everything about her.”

I veered toward the subject that had been eating at me since the last time I saw Mi-ja. “She said that Jun-bu, Yu-ri, and Sung-soo spoke only when she appeared. She said their messages were for her. She said they’d forgiven her. But how can any of that be?”

Shaman Kim’s eyes narrowed. “Are you questioning my abilities to let the dead speak through me?”

“I’m not doubting you or what they said. I just need to know if they were speaking to her or to me.”

“Maybe they were speaking to you and Mi-ja. Have you considered that?”

“But—”

“You waited a long time for them to come to you, but did you actually hear what they said? You should be grateful. They’ve found forgiveness. Why can’t you?”

“But how can I forgive Mi-ja after what happened to them? I live with that every day.”

“We all see that in you, and we all feel sorry for you, but everyone on the island was hurt in those terrible years. You more than some but also less than others. They did this to me. They did that to me. A woman who thinks that way will never overcome her anger. You are not being punished for your anger. You’re being punished by your anger.”

I listened, but Shaman Kim wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know, because of course I was being punished by my anger. I lived with that every day as well.

I left my offerings and, dissatisfied, walked to Gu-sun’s house. It was still early, but she had already built a fire and heated hot water. We sat together, drinking tea. I felt I could be direct, so I got straight to the point.

“How did you forgive Gu-ja for Wan-soon’s death?”

“What else could I do?” she asked me right back. “Gu-ja is my sister. We share our mother’s and father’s blood. Gu-ja may have been at fault, but maybe it was Wan-soon’s fate to be carried away. Maybe it was even her choice. I’ve heard the rumors.”

“Not that it matters, but I don’t think they were true.”

“Do you say that because Yo-chan is now your son-in-law?”

“Hardly. I say it because I believed what my daughters told me.”

“Min-lee I might trust,” Gu-sun said. “But Joon-lee? She married Yo-chan.”

All these years, I’d never had a sense of Gu-sun’s feelings about Yo-chan. She’d kept them very well hidden.

I surprised myself by saying, “I still believe my daughters. Whatever happened had nothing to do with Yo-chan.”

A faraway look came to her eyes. “I guess you know I was full with child before I was married.”

“People gossiped.”

“Before my husband agreed to marry me, I wanted to die, so I understand if that’s what happened to Wan-soon.”

“Maybe it was just an accident. That day the current was too strong for a baby-diver—”

“Maybe. But if she was pregnant, I wish she would have come to me. I would have told her that once her father and I were married and I gave him our first son, we were both happy. I would have wished that for her. But I understand it’s my destiny never to know what happened to Wan-soon, or why.”

The sadness of that lay in the silence between us.

Finally, I said, “About Gu-ja…”

“I will tell you this,” she said. “There are days when I think my sister has suffered more than I have. She will never forgive herself. How can I not love her for that?”

“Mi-ja blames herself too,” I admitted, but I didn’t go into all the ways she’d tried to help Joon-lee. “But that’s not enough. I must know why. How could she have turned on me that way? How could she have been willing to let all of us die? I begged her to take my children, and she did nothing.”

“Then accept that, and go and meet your granddaughter. She is the baby of your most beloved child. Once you hold her, you will love her. You know that as a halmang.”

I let out a long breath. She was right, but I just couldn’t do it.

“I can’t see that baby, let alone touch her,” I confessed. “If I looked at her, all I would see is the grandchild of a collaborator and perpetrator.”

Gu-sun’s face filled with compassion as she stared at me. It pained me to know I couldn’t change and I couldn’t forgive, but I had to hold on to my anger and bitterness as a way of honoring those I’d lost.

About six months later, the mailman delivered the first letter from America, unsealed, with the stamp torn off.

“It looks like Joon-lee’s handwriting,” Min-lee said when she brought it to me.

“It has to be.” I shrugged, pretending I didn’t care. “Who else would be writing to us from there?”

Min-lee pulled the letter from the envelope. I peered over her shoulder when she unfolded it. Most of the written characters had been blacked out.

“The censors,” Min-lee said, stating the obvious.

“Is there anything you can read?”

“Let’s see. ‘Dear Mother and Sister…’ ” My daughter’s finger traced each row, allowing me to follow along. “ ‘We’ve been here for… Yo-chan’s job is… The air is brown… The food is greasy… The sea is right here, but they get nothing from it… No sea urchin… No top shell… Their abalone is fished out…’ ” Then several lines were completely crossed out. The next paragraph began “ ‘I went to the doctor and… Wish it was slow… Fast… Time… This foreign land is not home…’ ” Min-lee stopped reading to say, “It’s like they only want negative things about America to come through.”

“I was thinking the same thing. What about this part?” I put my finger on the last paragraph, which seemed to have the fewest characters inked out.

“It says, ‘All mothers worry. I worry about what will happen and how Yo-chan will get by. I wish you… Please… If I could be home on Jeju… You would… Always remember I love you, Joon-lee.’ ” Min-lee looked at me. “What do you think it means?”

“She sounds homesick.” But the letter was more troubling than that.

“What should I write back?”

“What does it matter what you write back, if the censors are only going to black it out?”

My daughter set her jaw. “I’m going to write to her anyway.”

I nodded. “Do what you must.”

The next month, we received another letter. Again, the envelope had been opened, the stamp taken, and most of the letter inked out, but the handwriting was different. Min-lee read, “ ‘Dear Mother Young-sook, This is Yo-chan. I write for my mother.’ ” That’s as far as she got before I rose and walked away. Later, Min-lee told me that there was no real news. Just a word or phrase here and there. “It’s like trying to understand the ocean floor by seeing only ten grains of sand,” she said. This time, Min-lee did not write back.

After that, a letter came around the first of every month. In those days, they always arrived unsealed, but I didn’t pull them from their envelopes. I hid them in a small wooden box. It comforted me to know that whatever lies Mi-ja and her son wished to send me were hidden in the dark, where I wouldn’t have to hear them. It made me feel that I’d won.

In spring, the rapeseed fields bloomed yellow, stretching from the mid-mountain area all the way to the gnarled coastline. The ocean kept its relentless movement. The deep blue waters frothed one moment and became almost serene the next. I did my farming work and went to the sea. When I dove I was able to push my daughter and granddaughter from my mind. Often I was reminded of Dr. Park and his search for the mystery of why the haenyeo could withstand cold better than any other humans on earth. I think I now knew the answer. Not only did I have a coldness at my core that would not thaw but it had become as hard as ice. I could not do what Shaman Kim, Gu-sun, and so many others had told me to do. If I could not forgive, then at least I could wrap my anger and bitterness in an icy shell. Each time I sank into the sea, I stretched my mind outward, away from that shell. Where’s my abalone? Where’s my octopus? I need to make money! I need to make a living! I would continue to strive to be the best haenyeo, even if I knew it wouldn’t last.