Memoirs - Ain Kim

I got permission from several World Literature students to publish their memoirs here. Each memoir combines a story about an adult's influence on the student's life with a story about the adult's own experiences, based on an interview. I found them an intriguing glimpse into my students' lives and histories - I hope you enjoy them too.

Ain is a Korean senior; her parents are missionaries. Ratanakiri is about a 10-hour drive from Phnom Penh; it's one of the poorest, most rural provinces in Cambodia.

Where do I belong? 

(My Story)

The weather was getting cool. The green leaves were turning from yellow to brown and were falling slowly to the ground. On September 21, 1996, a great, loud cry come out from the hospital. Countless babies lay with their tight fists on their chests. However, there was a particular baby who grabbed everyone’s attention. She was tiny and still covered with blood. Her eyes were big and her lips were pink and small. The doctor told the mother, “Your baby has no disease or disorder, but she is weak.  Her weight is below average.” The mother was sad but thankful. I was that baby. I was born small and weak.

Both my dad and mom were busy; one was a pastor and the other was an active leader at church. I was raised by my aunt Misuk until I was four. I used to look at my parents as if they were strangers. I knew I was their daughter by looking in the mirror, but I thought that they did not care about me. They neglected me because of their work. Although I was sad in a sense, I still had an amazing time with my aunt. She was only a junior in college but she treated me as if I was her own daughter. She took me to her school, church, and many other places. I was a great pleasure to her, and she once told me, “You are the reason I live.” On weekends, she would take me to amusement parks and take pictures with me. All these peaceful moments passed by swiftly.

One day, my dad took me away from my aunt and raised me for about 10 months. My aunt was extremely sad, but she found a man who shared happiness with her. I lived miserably and low-spiritedly with him. It was funny for a four year old child to be depressed like I was. I attended one year of kindergarten near my apartment. I wore a yellow hat and uniform that made me look like a little duckling. I made lots of little yellow friends. I always enjoyed art lessons; it was when I could express my imagination. My frown turned upside down. I had many friends and I loved being with them because I felt like I belonged somewhere.

Then one Tuesday afternoon in 2001, I was told we were moving to Cambodia. “Where all the hungry black kids are,” I said to my dad after watching a documentary. I was miserable again. I had to leave my best friends, the places I visited every day, and my cozy bed. However, my dad told me, “Cambodia is not all like you think. You shouldn’t believe everything the television says. Trust me, you’ll enjoy it.” I thought he was crazy but I trusted him.

After my parents finished their language course in Phnom Penh, we then headed out to Ratanakiri. The ride was long and exhausting. I got off from the brown taxi and there I was, standing on the red dusty ground of Ratanakiri. Cars, motorbikes, houses, my father and even the driver were covered with red dirt.  I thought I was in a desert. My dad led our family to a wooden house. During this time, it was rainy season in Ratanakiri province. Rain leaked into the house everywhere and we had to run this way and that way to clean up the mess. The room I shared with my sister had a bunk bed which we always fought over to see who should sleep up or down. We had no electricity nor any access to contact people abroad. I had to take showers before sunset; otherwise, I had to wash in the dark when all the lizards, bugs and frogs came out. I lived with these creatures every day.

 When I turned eight, my dad told me that I was going to attend a Cambodian public school. I was scared. I overthought about being kidnapped and bullied. I felt like my world was falling apart when my mom took my dad’s side and forced me to attend the school. I cried and got smacked a few times before I decided to be obedient. My first day was miserable. On the second day I got nothing but a sharp stare. On the third day, a few friends asked me about my name. A week later, I was bullied for being white. Two weeks later I was hated for using Korean utilities such as color pens, pink bags and fancy shoes. I wanted to kill myself and also my dad got angry at me for not fitting in. He thought God would protect me and my sisters from this harsh environment because he was doing everything for God.

I used to hate my dad. He was busy and every time he saw me, all he did was shout or get mad. I was already tired of school and when I got home I was exhausted. I had no place to rest or anyone who understood my feelings. I felt like I was stuck in the middle of the sea, shouting “SOS” and waiting for a helicopter to come and find me. Three months passed before I really transitioned from Korean culture to Cambodian. I threw away my bag, pen, and sketchbook that were made in Korea. Four months passed, and my skin slowly got darker. Five months passed, I was wearing flip flops and tied my hair like the typical Cambodian girls. Six months slowly passed by and I had completely changed. I was playing rubber rope games, wearing my flip flops on my hand so that I could easily jump over the rope. I was appreciating their culture and accepted them for who they were. I started eating street foods with them. We shared secrets and I had a crush on a Cambodian guy.  It was funny how I made premature judgment about Cambodia and its people and now I was one of them. Embracing their culture was a big turning point for me. I learned to sacrifice who I was in order to make friends.

I started my life journey earlier than others. The transition was a real life game for me. If I survived the first round, I was taken to the next level and if I passed that level, I was taken the next. It was a game of survival. Outside I was happy and excited, but inside I was dying and choked on everything I did. I held in my pain and sorrows and projected fake joyful smiles. My heart was broken.

My kind of Love 

(My Dad's Story)

I love my daughters, but I could not express it properly. I wanted a happy family, but I did not know what happiness really was. I wanted to reconcile with my wife and daughters after fights, but I did not know how to reach out to them. I felt like I was naive about family values.

In 2003, my wife and I finished our 2 years of language course at Phnom Penh University. I brought my family to Ratanakiri province where God had called us. We rented a small taxi and an enormous truck to carry us and our belongings. On the way, my mind raced with useless thoughts. Education for my daughters bothered me the most. I knew exactly where we were going and what we were heading into. They had no Internet access, which meant that homeschooling was not available. Most of the time there wasn’t going to be electricity and this would limit the time we could use our utilities such as computer or cassette player. There were no other Koreans or any foreigners. I knew my family would be lonely. I had no choice but to take this road that no one else has gone down. I perfectly understood this would create conflicts and problems for my wife and my daughters, but I had to be obedient to God’s command. I had to sacrifice my family, but I trusted God to help me.

When we first got there everything was covered with red dirt. My daughters were numb with shock when they looked around at their surroundings. It was rainy season. While my wife and daughters were resting at a guesthouse, I struggled to move our belongings from the truck with the other workers. I had to watch them carefully to see if they were stealing anything. I got wet from the rain but I continued to move things into the church. After a week of looking for a house, I met a grandma who was willing to rent her top floor to us. I felt like I accomplished something. We settled everything in, right in the correct spot. Then I heard a scream from the bathroom, “Dad, Mom, there’s this huge, enormous LIZARD and FROG! I might die right now. Like literally right now. Come now. Right now.” 

I thought something serious had happened. I thought she had been bitten by a poisonous spider. When I realized it was nothing but a lizard moving on the roof, I shouted at her to stop being a scaredy cat. She started to cry. I honestly did not understand why she cried. I said that so she could be brave and face bigger dangers. To think now, I must have been selfish. I could have given her a hug but I did not. I saw her crying in the corner but I could not reach out. My heart was aching so I continued to load everything. Suddenly, rain was pouring and we had to carry buckets and cups to catch the dripping water from the leaky roof. The rain continued and our house was filled with water. The fridge broke down, our shoe-drawer got wet, and our bed mattress stank. That night we almost had no sleep.

I was busy building relationships with the people. Every day we invited new people for dinner.  My wife prepared the best dishes for our guests. We would sit down and talk about our lifestyles and daily struggles. I loved communicating with new people. Day by day, our house was filled with numerous different people. Many came over for food and others came over for medicine. Some were curious about who Christ was and I was excited to explain to them. I finally felt like I was doing some work for God. I felt like I was on the right track.

It was a sunny morning. I got a call from my co-worker to come to the church. I quickly got dressed and came down the stairs. I couldn’t find my shoes so I looked for them everywhere. Then I saw Ain wearing them and running away with them in laughter. I was in a hurry and I warned her to bring it back. She didn’t listen so I went up with an angry face and brought a wooden rod and grabbed her shoulders and threw her near the bed. She was crying and weeping. I told her, “Shut your mouth” but she did not listen, so I kicked and smacked her head for being stubborn. Then I grabbed blue cloth hanger and hit her calves until it got bruised. Then my wife came in. Though shocked at my actions, she took my side and scolded Ain for being disobedient, then left the room. I did not know what I was doing until I saw the disappointment in her eyes. That night we got into a big argument. My wife asked to move back to Phnom Penh and I was obviously against it.

After this incident, I barely talked with Ain. But I wasn't wrong. I grew up with tough parents who disciplined me with worst punishments than I was expressing on my daughters. Although I felt bad, I could not go to her and apologize. Having daughters sometimes was frustrating because I grew up with eight brothers who never formally reconciled with another. Everything was fine after a fight. Girls do not forget or forgive right away. I always thought they would be optimistic and positive about everything but they were pretty much pessimistic.

After having no proper communication with Ain, our family became awkward. Dinner tables were silent and each member had uncomfortable faces. I knew I had to do something as a leader, but I did not know how. I got up and went to bed early because we had no lights.

When my first daughter turned eight, she somehow needed to attend school. My wife and I lacked time and quality to teach them. After much complicated thoughts, I made a hard choice. I decided to send my daughters to the Cambodian public school. It was one of the riskiest choices I made. The school had three yellow buildings with countless brown trees. They had no bathrooms or playgrounds. They had a black river nearby, the subject of many ghost rumors. Teachers were never organized. They came in when they wanted to and left anytime. It was chaotic. That night I had a conversation with my two oldest daughters. I carefully suggested about the school I was planning to send them. They obviously refused. My first child complained and resisted everything I said. She was complaining the whole time. Then my second daughter copied exactly what her sister did. My anger started to rise and once again I spanked them. I felt ashamed that when I made the best choice for them, they resisted my effort. The long night passed and both daughters decided to attend the school. I felt so sorry but in a way thankful.

A few weeks later, my first daughter came back with bruises and scars on her face and arms. I did not ask her what happened until later that night. I had already imagined what might have happened at school. My wife was frustrated while she was putting ointment on her. I saw it from the back door. My child was filled with fear and worry. I wanted to say encouraging words but again I could not. I became stricter and told her to be brave. I felt like if I showed her too much kindness, she might lose her strength. So I continued to scold her. My heart was crying. Another week passed, and she still seemed lost. I never wanted her to lose her true identity as a Korean but I believed she could embrace the Khmer community.

Six months passed and my daughters were part of the community. They were climbing trees, feeding ducklings, catching ants, and drawing on the ground using black stones. They no longer wore fancy outfits. I was happy to know that my children finally started to get use the environment. One day when I got back from church service, I heard my girls speaking Khmer in their room. It sounded like a fight. I was shocked how there were no Cambodian children but my three daughters. They were speaking Khmer to each other. This is not what I wanted but it happened. I had a long talk with my wife about education once again. We decided to force them to speak only Korean at home so that they will not forget the language. My daughters complained how my wife and I never let them do whatever they wanted. They left our house until dinner time. I knew I broke their heart but this was for their best interest.

I constantly broke my wife's and daughter's’ heart. But before breaking them, I broke mine first in order to show my love for them and God. Rather than showing my daughters the typical love most fathers show, I expressed my love through harsh words and discipline in order to help them be brave in the tough environment. I truly love my daughters and everything I did was out of love.