When My Name Was Keoko (2 page)

Omoni knew a little Japanese, but not enough to understand the broadcast. She could speak only Korean, because she'd never gone to school. Back in the days when she was growing up, most girls didn't go to school.

The rest of us knew Japanese. Tae-yul had learned in school, like Abuji and Uncle. At the time I wasn't old enough for school, but I'd learned to speak and understand it from my friend Tomo. We'd been friends since we were babies.

Because of the way Uncle translated, I was glad I could understand Japanese. The announcer described the scene, the noise of the crowd, the colors of the athletes' uniforms, and how they were lined up on the track. But Uncle would just say something like, "The hundred-meter race is beginning." He never translated the details, but Omoni didn't seem to mind.

Now Uncle listened to the announcer for a few moments, then turned to Omoni. He said, "Instead of a baton, the French relay team will be passing one of those long loaves of bread."

Of course the announcer never said any such thing; Uncle was making it up. Tae-yul snorted, and I hid a smile behind my hand. Omoni rolled her eyes doubtfully.

"No, no, it's true," Uncle insisted. "It's a national symbol for them—they obtained special permission from the Olympic Committee to use it. The committee said yes, but each time a runner receives the handoff he must take a bite of the bread." He acted it out for her—pretending to receive a bread-baton and then taking a bite of it while running.

Tae-yul and I laughed. Even Abuji smiled. Omoni covered
her face in embarrassment at being teased, but I could see that behind her hands she was smiling.

After the relay the broadcaster announced that the marathon runners would be entering the stadium soon. Uncle looked at us excitedly. "There's a Korean runner in the marathon," he said. "He's one of the best in the world—he has a very good chance at the gold medal."

We all leaned a little closer to the radio.

"
...the first runners should be entering the stadium at any moment now.... They will make their way through the entrance

tunnel and emerge onto the stadium track for a final lap.... In a
moment or two we should be able to see the leader.... There he is now! It's Kitei Son! Kitei Son of Japan—
"

Uncle reached for the dial and turned it off abruptly, then slammed his hand against the radio so hard that he knocked it over. I stared at him with my mouth open. Everybody sat there, frozen.

Uncle jumped to his feet, his fists clenched by his sides. I'd never seen him like that before.

"Kitei Son!" he said, his voice trembling with rage. He spat on the floor, as if the name tasted bad. He choked out, "That is not his name." And with that he left the room.

I looked at Abuji and Omoni. Their faces were very serious. I waited, hoping one of them would explain. But when Omoni finally spoke, it was only to tell us to get ready for bed. Abuji said nothing at all.

Nobody explained why Uncle was so angry. I went to bed feeling cross and worried.

The next morning Tae-yul waved at me to come out to the back garden. He looked solemn and important, the way he always did when he knew something I didn't.

"Uncle talked to me," he said in a low voice. "The man
who won the marathon—Kitei Son? He's the Korean runner Uncle was talking about. His real name is Sohn Kee Chung."

"So? Why did that make Uncle angry?"

Tae-yul shook his head impatiently. "Sun-hee, don't you understand? People all over the world know about the Olympics. He'll be in all the newspapers—"

"That's good, isn't it? He'll be famous!"

"He was wearing the
Japanese
flag on his uniform. The newspapers will give his
Japanese
name. No one will know he's Korean—they'll all think he's Japanese...."

This is what I was remembering the night we all chose our new names. New for
us,
but the Japanese had renamed people before.

I only meant to remember that much, the part about Sohn Kee Chung's Japanese name. But remembering isn't something you can stop doing just because you want to. My mind kept going even though I tried to turn it onto another path. I saw Uncle's face floating above me in the darkness: covered with bruises, his lip split and bleeding.

It's all right,
I told myself firmly.
He's all better now.

Kaneyama Nobuo ... Kaneyama Nobuo. No matter how many times I say it, I can't get used to it. It feels all wrong, like shoes that don't fit.

On the way to bed after we get our new names, Sun-hee whispers to me. "Sohn Kee Chung," she says, her eyes big.

I nod—I've been thinking of him, too. The Olympic champion. A world record holder in the marathon. The
newspapers call him Kitei Son. But Uncle always calls him by his Korean name.

The day after the Olympics marathon, Uncle doesn't come home for dinner. After we eat, Abuji goes out. He doesn't say where he's going, and he's gone a long time.

We're in the sitting room. It's late, past bedtime, but Omoni doesn't seem to notice the time. We hear someone coming, and I run to the door.

Abuji comes in with his arm around Uncle. Holding him up, sort of dragging him. Because Uncle can hardly walk.

He's been beaten up. Really bad.

Omoni bathes Uncle's wounds and bandages them, with him groaning the whole time. Sun-hee gets in the way, so Omoni sends her to bed. I help Omoni, fetching water and rags.

Abuji talks to me afterward.

"My brother was at his shop late today because he was waiting for the newspaper delivery." I know that newspapers from Taegu, the nearest city, get delivered to Uncle's printing shop late in the day. "There was a photograph of the marathon champion on the front page."

A pause. He looks away from me. "Uncle and some of his friends changed all the newspapers. They crossed out the Japanese name and wrote his Korean name in its place. They altered the Japanese flag on his uniform, too—they drew a wavy line in the middle of the circle, so it looked like the Korean flag instead."

I gasp. So brave of Uncle! He must have known he could get into trouble. But he did it anyway. "What happened?" I ask. My voice comes out all croaky. I take a breath, steady it, speak louder. "How did he get hurt?"

"They were caught in the act by a group of soldiers and dragged off to jail. All of them were beaten. Besides his face, he has several broken ribs. They kept most of them in jail, but a few were released."

"Why? Why did they let them go?"

"I am not sure. Perhaps as a warning. They want the townspeople to see them, to see how badly they have been hurt. To discourage further acts of this sort." A pause. "Or perhaps out of respect for my position at the school."

We're quiet for a little while. Then Abuji tells me to go to bed. "Sleep by your sister tonight," he says.

Sun-hee's eyes are closed, but she isn't asleep. When someone is really asleep they look ... I don't know, heavier. Anyway, I can tell she's still awake.

And probably scared. She's only little. I get out some bedding and lie down right next to her. I whisper, "I know you're still awake, Sun-hee. Don't worry. Uncle is hurt, but he's going to be all right." I don't know that for sure, but I'm hoping hard. If he was worse, Abuji would have gone for the doctor.

Sun-hee turns toward me and touches my arm. I let her take my hand and hold it until she falls asleep.

A few days later Uncle calls Sun-hee and me into his room. It's the first time we've been allowed to see him. I've been sleeping in my parents' room to let him rest quietly.

He's still hurting a lot. It's hard for him to move or even take a deep breath. The swelling on his face has gone down, but the bruises look awful. Dark blue, purple, red, and the biggest one, on his cheekbone, is greenish yellow around the edges.

Uncle sees the way I look at him. He grins and makes a
terrible face. That makes me feel a little better. Then he tells Sun-hee to bring him the mirror. She holds it in front of him.

"Oh! Such colors!" he says. "Really, they're rather pretty, don't you think? I wonder if I could manage to stay this way."

We laugh and I feel even better. He always makes us laugh.

Then Uncle nods at me. "Paper and pencil," he says.

What for? I get them from the shelf and give them to him. He raises himself up on one elbow, wincing. Then he takes the pencil and draws a rectangle on the paper.

"I am going to draw the Korean flag for you," he whispers.

I lean closer. There have been rumors in the street, people talking about Sohn Kee Chung and the newspapers. But I hadn't seen the paper. The Japanese had burned them all. I'd never seen a Korean flag either.

Uncle draws a circle in the middle of the rectangle.

Sun-hee pouts. "That looks just like the Japanese flag," she says. I'm thinking the same thing. It's the flag on top of every public building in town: a red circle on a white ground. So familiar.

"Shh. Wait." Uncle draws a curved line in the middle of the circle. "The top half of the circle is red"—pointing with the pencil—"and the bottom is blue."

Then he draws four symbols, one in each corner. "These are black," he says. "Each has three parts, and each part represents a different cycle. The seasons: summer, autumn, winter, spring"—he points at the corners in turn. "The directions: south, west, north, east. And the universe: sky, moon, earth, sun."

"That's good, Uncle," Sun-hee says, bobbing her head and smiling. "It's a lot fancier than the Japanese flag."

Uncle smiles back at her. Then he looks serious. He glances around cautiously, so I do, too. Only the three of us there, but I still get a funny feeling, like someone might be watching us. "Bow," he whispers. "Bow to the Korean flag."

We stay as we are, squatting on our haunches, but we bow our heads.

"Never forget," he says. "Keep it in your minds always—what the flag looks like and what it means."

His voice is quiet, but strong at the same time. I stare hard at the paper, trying to memorize the flag.

As usual, Sun-hee has a question. "Why, Uncle? Why do we have to remember it? Why can't we just put the picture up on the wall? That way we'll see it every day and we'll always know what it looks like."

Uncle reaches out and pulls gently on one of her braids. "We can't, little cricket. It is against the law to fly this flag—even to put up a picture of it. Korea is part of the Japanese Empire now. But someday this will be our own country once more.
Your
own country."

He looks at us again. "You have it now? In a safe place in your minds?"

Sun-hee nods so hard her head is like a bouncing ball. I just look at Uncle and nod once.

Uncle lies back down. "Burn it," he says.

Sun-hee looks scared. She follows me to the kitchen. Omoni is out doing the marketing. I wonder what she'd think if she were here.

We watch the drawing blacken and then disappear in flames. Sun-hee looks a little less scared then.

When we get back to his room, Uncle raises his head and stares at both of us. "Never forget," he says again. "I swear
there will come a time when you, little Sun-hee, will sew that flag. And Tae-yul, you will help put it up over every building in the land."

His words put a picture in my head. Me, on the roof of a building, raising a big Korean flag. Uncle down below, signaling to me that the flag was straight. It'd be fun, climbing on all the roofs.

There will come a time...
he'd said.

But when?

When we chose our new names, I pointed to the letter
K.
I went around whispering over and over, "Keoko. Kaneyama Keoko. Keoko."

Kaneyama: Japanese family names were usually long.

Kim: Korean ones were short.

Keoko: Japanese first names could be long or short.

Sun-hee: Korean first names were almost always two syllables.

I'd always liked the sound of Japanese first names. "Tomo" meant "friend." I remembered learning that when I was little. It had pleased me so much that my best friend's name was "friend"! His sisters were Sachiko and Hiroko. Girls' names often ended in "ko," which means "girl" in Japanese.

I liked how Abuji had hidden our real last name in the new one he'd chosen for us. And he'd done the same for my first name as well. "Ko" meant girl, but it could also mean "the sun's rays." Rays of brightness, the same meaning as my real name.

I could think about "Kaneyama Keoko" as a name but not as
my
name.

For the next few days, there was terrible confusion at school. We had to learn our classmates' Japanese names and call them by those names. Suddenly, the girl across the aisle from me was Megumi, not Myung-gin. And the boy who sat behind me was Masado instead of Young-won. In school, when I spoke of my brother, I had to call him Nobuo!

Our teacher tried to be patient with us. If we forgot and used our classmates'
real
names, she prompted us—gently at first, but more sternly as time went on.

I was a good student; I'd never once given the teacher cause to beat me. I was very careful to use everyone's Japanese name and to respond when anyone said "Keoko," even though it felt as if they were talking to someone else. But on the second day of the name change my brain grew tired of being careful every single minute, and I called a classmate by her Korean name.

I chose the worst possible moment to make this mistake. Onishi-san was in the room. He was the man who served as the military attaché for our school. Our teachers were Korean, but their bosses were Japanese. Onishi-san's job was to make sure all the students were learning to be good citizens of the Empire.

He came into our classroom several times a week, often in the middle of a lesson. We always stopped what we were doing and bowed to him. Then he'd stand at the back of the room and observe us for a while. I could tell he made the teacher nervous. I tried especially hard to give the right answers when he was around.

That day, I
knew
he was in the room. I knew I had to be extra careful not to make a mistake. And somehow I did the very thing I was trying so hard not to do—I said "Myung-gin" instead of "Megumi."