The following is a work of fiction. It is a work in progress. All ideas and characters in this writing are my own.

Prologue

“When you are happy, make Mandu. When you are sad, make Mandu. When you celebrate new life or remember the dead, make Mandu. Mandu is for all the joy, pain, love and heartache of one’s life.”

“Did you hear me?” Mama asked as she kneaded the  dough. I looked at her strong hands work with rhythm as she  mixed water, flour, eggs and salt to create a soft clay-like  mound, folding the ends together and pressing down flat.  Fold-fold, press-press. Fold-fold, press-press. 

Mama had arthritis in her hands. They were often locked  into the position of a half-closed fist — painful to fully open  and painful to fully close. I noticed the first signs of her  arthritis when she didn’t go to her flower arrangement class  one day. She loved to arrange flowers and never missed a  class. She said that arranging flowers was her way of painting  with God. But instead of paint and canvas, she used God’s  creations, which was more rewarding. “A bit dramatic,  Mama,” I thought to myself, but the point wasn’t lost on me.  She loved flowers and when it had become too painful to  attend class, she was devastated. 

“Thinking of your next great novel, Mr. Romantic?” she  asked. She was teasing me now. She knew I wasn’t listening  and took this chance to call me out on it. “Yes, Mama. Almost  done. Just need to finish the ending.” I said. I was lying. I 

hadn’t made any progress and I hadn’t written anything. But  I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. 

“Always almost done. Always almost finished,” she said.  How about you focus your energy into finding a wife,” she  said with a half smile. But she wasn’t joking. 

“But Mama,” I said. “Why would I find a wife? You’re the  only woman for me.” She scoffed. “My boy. So talented with  words, yet doesn’t use them for anything useful.” She feigned  disapproval. 

“You were saying something, Mama?” I asked, changing  the subject. Mama remembered what she was doing before  our verbal fencing match and decided to let sleeping dogs  lay. 

“How you treat your dough is how you treat others,” she  said. “If you knead them too much, they will come out tough  and chewy. Be gentle and don’t do too much. You can’t  change people and the harder you try, the tougher they  become,” she said with proud satisfaction as if she had just  solved one of life’s mysteries. 

“Mama, are we making Mandu or are we selling  psychology books?” I asked.  

“We can do both, “ she retorted. “I will make the Mandu  and you write the books. Use your talent for something  good.” She continued to knead the dough. Fold-Fold, press press. Fold-fold, press-press. She was grunting now, feeling  the arthritis flaring up again. 

“Why don’t I take over?” I asked. She didn’t show it, but I  knew she was in pain. “The day I can’t make you Mandu is  the day I die,” she said defiantly. 

“Mama, don’t say things like that. You are much too…” “They are done,” Mama moved over to the stove to open  the lid off the pot. She lifted the cover, sending billows of  steam wafting into the air. The vapor hid the contents at  first, but when it cleared, revealed the savory treasures that  we had been waiting for. Mama took out each half-moon 

delectable and carefully laid each one on a serving dish. She  drizzled seasoning sauce on top and sprinkled finely chopped  green onions for the final garnish. I grabbed my chopsticks  and went in to claim my first victim — a plump, round  Mandu dumpling. What started as a soft mound of clay-like  dough before was now a neatly formed cushion glistening  with bright auburn sauce. The oily juices leaking out slightly,  hinting at the warm meat mixture inside. Just as I went in  for the kill, Mama stopped me. 

“Give them time, boy,” she said. “You will be rewarded for  your patience.” I didn’t listen. I grabbed the first dumpling  available and took a healthy bite and… 

“Attatatatatatata,” I exclaimed, making the sound of a  rapid machine gun firing blanks. I dropped the dumpling  from my mouth, wincing in pain. Mama laughed and gave  me a cold rag to put on my tongue. She was so quick to give  me the towel, it almost seemed like she had prepared it  beforehand. “Am I that predictable?” I wondered. I soon  forgot about it as the cooling sensation of the wet towel  soothed my scalded tongue. 

“Let them cool before you eat. You waited this long. Why  not wait a little longer?” she said. She was right and it  annoyed me. 

While we waited for the Mandu to cool, she told me a  story from her past. She told me of the time after she  graduated high school and worked at the local newspaper  company as a clerk. She told me of the fat, short man that  would always find a reason to visit her desk and interrupt her  accounting. He wore thick wire framed glasses that  magnified his bulging eyes behind the lenses. He always had  some food in his teeth and the loud sucking sound he made  with his tongue always announced his visits. Every day when  he came by, she would get full view of his lunch stuck  between his incisors. She would play a game with the other  girls in the office. They would each take turns guessing what 

the short, fat man had for lunch that day. The loser had to  entertain him with conversation and feign laughter at his  stupid jokes. There were no winners in this game. 

I laughed to myself thinking of that short, fat man. He  probably came by to see Mama because he liked her. This  was obvious. But more so than that, I enjoyed imagining my  mother as a young woman, graduated from high school,  unmarried with no children. I imagined that the highlight of  her work day was talking with her female coworkers as they  each guessed what treasure from lunch awaited them as the  short, fat man prepared for his visit. I’ve always known her  as Mama. But she wasn’t always Mama. She had a life prior  to having me. I liked thinking that. 

“Okay, they are ready,” she said. She did it again. She  always seemed to catch me every time I was day dreaming. I  put the wet towel down. I picked up the dumpling and this  time, I was prepared for the hot juices to scald me tongue.  Mama told me that the dumpling was okay to eat, but I  wasn’t willing to let my guard down. 

I took a bite. The soft dough gave way to my teeth as I  applied pressure to pierce the pillow. The dumpling popped  and an explosion of flavor filled my mouth. The acidity from  the vinegar sauce cuts through the oil and tingled the back of  

my jaw. I chewed. I chewed. I swallowed. A warm, soft  feeling filled me from within. I closed my eyes. I breathed in.  I breathed out. I thought of nothing else. I did not think of  my unfinished novel. I did not think of verbal fencing  matches or past regrets. I did not think of anything. It was as  if the dumpling had eliminated all space and time. The  dumpling was all there is, all that was, and all that ever will  be. 

“How is it?” Mama asked as if she already knew the  answer. 

“It’s not bad,” I was lying again. 

“Not bad?” She scoffed as she began to clear the plate.

“I mean…,” I stopped her hand to prevent her from taking  the dumplings away. “I mean my tongue was still hurting a  bit and I just got over it and I wasn’t ready and now…” I am  fumbling over my words. I paused. I took a deep breath and  said, “Let me try another one… please,” I asked sincerely  hoping to redeem myself for my flippant behavior prior. A  wry smile appeared on Mama’s face. She conceded and put  the plate back. 

“Mama, why is your Mandu so much better than what I  can buy at the market?” I asked.  

“The Mandu that comes from the market is made by a  machine. A machine has not lived a life,” she said.  I thought about Mamas’s response. “Is life experience a  prerequisite for making good Mandu? What do I really know  about Mama?” I knew her name was Sungmi though I never  addressed her as anything else but Mama. For as long as I  can remember, Mama was always at home making  something delicious. Other than a few random anecdotes,  she hardly ever talked about her past. Or perhaps I never  really asked. I put the thought aside and focus my attention  on eating.  

I pick up another dumpling, and put it in my mouth.  Something strange happened as I took another bite. Images  began to flood my mind. I saw a younger version of my  mother, making dumplings for my father for the first time.  The old arthritic hands once rigid and stiff were now soft and  smooth. Her fingers moved swiftly like a trained pianist  dancing over the keys. I marveled at the sight. As I focused  my mind to take in more of the scene, the image changed just  as suddenly as it had appeared. I saw another woman, that  looked like my grandmother. She was making dumplings for  a little girl that resembled my mother. My mother’s eyes  were just barely high enough to see over the kitchen table as  she looked on in anticipation for the afternoon treat. The  image changed again. This time I saw a group of women 

sitting together making dumplings. They were laughing and  talking as they folded and pinched soft dough around  spoonfuls of meat filling. They were talking of old memories.  They laughed as they recalled the game they played at work,  guessing the lunch of the short, fat man and how the loser  had to talk with him every time he came by. I heard them all.  It was as if they were calling out through time and space to  tell me their stories: stories of love and sadness, joy and pain,  of marriages and miscarriages, of children growing up and of  them growing old. Their stories were recorded in the flavors  and textures of the Mandu. The sweetness of romance, the  saltiness of work, the savor of love and the acidity of pain. I  felt them all telling me of the ineffable miracle of life coming  together in one bite sized package. 

“Are you okay? You’re crying,” Mama asked. This time my  mother really was concerned. No one had ever cried from  eating her dumplings before. “Are you alright?” She asked  with inquisitive eyes. 

“I am now, Mama. I am now. And thank you… for  everything.” 

“I should make Mandu more often,” Mama said with a  smile. “…if only to receive a compliment from my son.”  Mama and I did not speak as we chewed through the  delicious silence between us. I swallowed my Mandu.  “Mama?” I asked. 

“Yes?” 

“Tell me a story about your life before you met Papa.” “Where should we start?” 

“You once told me that you wanted to become a reporter  or something. How come you never did?” I asked. “Well, I thought I wanted pork Mandu, but what I really  wanted was the sweet onion,” she said with a cryptic smile.  I took the bait. “Can you be more specific, Mama?” I  asked. I knew my question was all she needed to tell the 

whole story. It was okay. I had my fill of Mandu and I was  ready for dessert.

Chapter 1

Spring Onions 

“When choosing spring onions for your filling, choose the  ones that have just learned to dream. The tips are bright  green and poke out of the soil with enthusiasm. They don’t  know what the sun is yet but they push through the soil to  greet it.”  

She was running now. The sound of her feet tapped  steadily on the ground. She avoided the patches of dirt where  the broken pavement revealed earth underneath. Shuffling to  the bus station, the stiff leather on her new pumps pinched  her feet. It was where the only bus left her farming town in  Inchon to her destination in Seoul. “Has this day finally  come? Can this be for real?” She thought to herself as  blurred images of street vendors and store windows entered  and left her peripheral vision. She pushed the thought out of  her mind. She hadn’t a moment to lose. She flipped over her  wrist to check the time on her watch. It showed 7:00 am. She  was late. She prayed that maybe her watch had been running  fast. The departing bus in front of the station showed her  that it was not. 

She saw the bus 10 meters ahead of her. Its engine  gurgled and spit a black column of smoke from the tail pipe.  “Damn,” she swore to herself, just low enough for others not  to hear. If she missed this bus, her plans were all but  finished. She quickened her pace. The cadence of her stride 

changed from light tapping to hard pounding as she dug her  heels in – her feet straining to gain purchase with every step.  She was sprinting now. Looking on with curiosity, street  vendors gawked at what seemed to them a sweaty horse in  leather pumps galloping down the road. It was not far from  the truth. 

“Mother would scold me if she saw me like this,” she  thought. But it didn’t matter. That bus was all that mattered.  It pulled further forward. Raising her arms, she frantically  yelled for the driver to stop. The warnings from her mother  to act with propriety had gone out the window. The warnings  to never run, to never yell and never raise your arms had no  sway with her now. She had to make that bus. It was the only  bus and she had to get on board. 

Thinking quickly, she looked at her surroundings and  acted in desperation. She had commandeered a nearby  cabbage on display and with all of her might, threw it at the  bus window. The old lady who sold the cabbages looked in  shock. “Damn,” she thought. “She knows Mother and will  certainly tell her while I am gone.” But the thought was  inconsequential. She had to get on that bus. With a loud  thud, the cabbage hit the glass window and the sound  reverberated throughout the street. Uniformed high school  girls froze motionless, their hands covering their open  mouths. Street vendors stopped peddling their wares on the  sidewalk. Old men, steeped in their game of chess,  momentarily broke their concentration to look up. The world  had awoken from its time warp to notice something  dissonant with their routine. It was a world caught in the  past. The school with tattered walls, the shops that always  smelled like wet wood, the hair salon with faded photos a  decade too old ago never changed.  

The bus screeched to a halt with a piercing sound. At first  Sungmi didn’t know what to do. She stood there motionless  in the street with bits of cabbage in her hand leftover from 

her vegetable shot-put. The bus door opened with a rusty  scratch and the hydraulic brakes hissed in objection to the  sudden stop. “Are you coming or not?” The bus driver yelled  from the window, visibly annoyed. He’s had passengers  chase the bus before but never had he been assaulted with  vegetables.  

Sungmi gathered her wits and sprinted towards the bus  door like it was her last chance at freedom. As the door  became larger in her view, a smile crept onto her mouth.  Maybe her luck was changing. Maybe her fortune was  turning for the better. Her wry smile turned to bubbly  laughter as she reached the door handle to pull herself from  the dusty road. Stepping up with a large grin, she greeted her  fellow adventurers embarking onto this new journey with  her.  

They were not pleased to say the least. Sungmi made her  way to the back of the bus, and was met with scowls. She  knew what they were thinking, a young woman with the  audacity to disturb their morning silence. She didn’t care.  She had made it. Nothing would damper her mood now, not  even scornful looks.  

Sungmi sat down and settled in for the 1 hour and 45  minute bus ride to her final destination – Joong-Ahn  Newspaper’s main office in Seoul. Her former high school  classmate got her a job after she had worked there for a year.  When they graduated high school five years ago, their lives  took two different paths. Her friend went to college to study  journalism. Sungmi stayed at home to live with Mother.  After her friend earned her degree, she got a job at the  newspaper company as a clerk. She’s been there for over a  year and is probably well on her way to becoming a reporter.  Sungmi thought of her with a mixed feeling of jealousy and  happiness – both happy and jealous that she was able to  escape this two bit farming village to work in Seoul. But all of  that was prelude to this moment – her chance to leave home 

and begin a new life in the big city. She surmised that fate  must have played a role for her getting this job despite no  college degree or related work experience. She had always  excelled at school and she was particularly good in English  

class. And although she didn’t go to college, she was still very  good at English grammar and composition. Her friend must  have remembered the many times that she copied Sungmi’s  English homework and as an act of good karma made a  recommendation to the manager to hire her.  

Sungmi reveled in the thought of working at the  newspaper office and one day becoming a reporter as an  international correspondent. She could use her talents and  skills to contribute to society. Given the chance, she could  prove that she was up to the challenge. She might even be  able to travel outside of her home country of Korea to file  reports from places she had only read about in the  magazines. It wouldn’t even have to be outside the country.  Anywhere but her home village would suffice. 

Sungmi suddenly woke from her thoughts and looked out  the back window, the silhouette of her lumpy village  disappearing from view. Even from a far, she could see every  shop and store window. The town never changed, never grew  and never changed its disposition. And despite the rest of the  country progressing well into 1970s modernism, the farming  village was stuck in the past. Just the same old farming  village where her mother raised her.  

She thought about Mother. She remembered the fight  they had that morning. It was the reason why she was late to  the station. A flash of anger rose within her. It was because  of her that she almost didn’t make it. “She probably delayed  me on purpose to sabotage my plans for independence,”  Sungmi thought as she became angrier. Mother just didn’t  understand why she had to work in Seoul.  

“It’s so far. Why not just work at the hair salon like your  friend?” Mother asked. 

“Like Miseon? She got married right after high school and  is already pregnant with her second child!” Sungmi retorted.  “Is that you want?” 

“It’s a perfectly nice job for a young woman and it’s close  to home. No one will judge you.” Mother said.  

“But it’s also brainless and repetitive. Half the time  Miseon isn’t even working. All she does is gossip about who  is dating who and who is gaining weight. I can’t live a life like  that. I have dreams, Mother. I can speak and write English. I  can work. I can do things,” Sungmi explained.  

“But how will you find a nice husband from the village if  you travel all the way to Seoul each day?” Mother asked  sincerely.  

“Mother! Who says I’m gonna get married? Marriage is a  death sentence for any woman who wants to be more than  just a cook and a maid for her family. I don’t want that. I  want to be free. I want to live my life, not as a servant to my  husband, but as my own person! Besides, many women these  days don’t get married and pregnant right out of high school.  They are independent and live the life they want. They aren’t  stuck at home doing mindless household chores…” Sungmi  immediately regretted what she had said. Mother was  incredulous by her daughter’s comment. Her shock quickly  turned to disbelief and disbelief turned to rage.  

“You uppity, little…!” Mother scolded as she reached for  any object she could use to punish her daughter’s insolence.  “I will not be talked to like that. Mindless chores? It’s these  mindless household chores that fed you, clothed you and  kept you dry at night. You don’t understand the sacrifice I  made…” 

“I gotta go Mother.” Sungmi knew the story of her  mother. How she raised her as a single parent after her  divorce. She didn’t have time to hear the story for the  hundredth time. She quickly grabbed her lunch and raised it  over her face, a makeshift shield against the flurry of blows 

from Mother’s kitchen utensil of choice. She bolted out the  door. She ran thirty meters before she had the courage to  look back to see if Mother was right behind her, wooden  spoon at the ready to unleash her punishment. Thankfully,  she wasn’t there. She had escaped. It wasn’t the best way to  start her day but at least she had made it. At least she did  remember to grab her lunch. 

The bus went over a pothole and sent a jolt through her  spine, awakening her from her flashback. Sungmi now  looked at that same lunch that shielded her from the initial  blows from Mother’s spoon. The plastic box wrapped in a  handkerchief was still warm from the contents inside.  Mother must have woken up before sunrise to prepare her  lunch. A guilty feeling crept up inside of her. While Mother  did not like her daughter getting a job in Seoul, she cared  enough to ensure she wouldn’t go hungry as she “threw her  life away.” 

“Hrmph. Throw my life away,” Sungmi thought to herself,  suddenly with less conviction. “And what if I am throwing  my life away as she said? It’s my life. I get to decide how to  live it!” Sungmi grinned to herself at the perfect comeback to  her Mother’s argument. But the imagined victory didn’t  make her feel any better.  

She shrugged off the thought and went back to thinking  about her new place of work. “All this will be better once I  start work. Mother will see. Once I become a successful  reporter, Mother will understand why I had to leave, why I  couldn’t work at the hair salon with its outdated hairstyles.  She will understand that a road less traveled is worth all the  risk,” She thought that sounded familiar. Maybe it was in a  book she read. Maybe she just made it up. Maybe her writing  genius was already rising to the surface after just 30 minutes  into her new journey.  

Her new journey. What new adventures were in store for  her? There was potential for a new career for sure, but 

perhaps something more. Perhaps she would find love. It  would be nice to date a worldly man from the city. They  could talk about intellectual topics or current events,  anything would be better than local gossip. “Yes,” she  thought to herself. “That would be nice.” She leaned her head  back as she gave way to all the possibilities that waited at her  final destination.  

The gentle sound of the bus rolling over the cement joints  in the highway soothed the stress from the morning and  lulled her to a calm rest. A sense of optimism welling up  inside, she felt emboldened. For the first time in her life, she  wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t afraid to run down the street in new  leather pumps or waive her arms and yell loudly in public.  She wasn’t afraid of throwing vegetables in public or what  others thought of her. She sat in that bus surrounded by 30  other passengers, yet was completely alone. She was alone  but she didn’t care. Although she didn’t know what the day  would bring, she knew from the core of her soul that it would  work out – that Fate would smile upon her. “Fate favors the  fearless.” Did she read that somewhere? Or did she just make  that up. “Good job, Sungmi,” she thought to herself. “Maybe  you can be a writer someday.”

Chapter 2

Minced and Chopped 

“Onions are sweet when you cook them. But to get to that  sweetness you have to cut the onion, which can make you  cry. But that’s life. Sweetness comes after the tears.” 

The bus rolled to a stop in front of the Joong-Ahn  Newspaper office in Seoul. Sungmi stepped off the bus onto  the paved sidewalk with lunch in hand. The bus driver closed  the door behind her and rolled away as if he couldn’t get rid  of her any sooner. Standing on the sidewalk, Sungmi looked  up at the tall office building. It was taller than any other  building she had ever seen before. Eight stories of beautiful  reinforced concrete set in a modern western style box. It was  everything her hometown of dilapidated one-story cottages  was not. She wondered if they had restrooms with western  style toilets, each enclosed within a private stall. How she  reveled in the idea of excusing herself during some work  break and going inside the restroom, entering a stall, and  locking the door. No one could then invade her stall of  private solitude.  

“Privacy,” she marveled at the thought. But it wasn’t just  the thought of pooping in peace that tickled her with delight.  It was something else. She realized that aside from her high  school classmate, Mijung, no one in this city had any idea  who she was, where she came from or where she was going. 

Unlike her hometown, there was no need to be constantly on  guard about what she was doing. There were no old Korean  women who would report her every misstep. Here in Seoul,  she would be free from scrutiny. Maybe that was the reason  for her excitement. She could be anonymous. Eight hours a  day, five days a week, she could say or do whatever she  wanted without the piety police catching wind and reporting  her to Mother.  

“Mother,” Sungmi thought of her again. She didn’t like  how their conversation ended in the morning. She clenched  her lunch box tighter now and wondered how Mother would  receive her when she went back home tonight. She winced at  the future beating she would get the moment she opened the  

door. She pictured Mother squatting behind the console  table, wooden soup spoon at the ready. She could see the  obituary appear in the town newspaper now.  

“Sungmi Kim, aspiring reporter, deceased, 5th January  1979. Death by wooden spoon. She is survived by her  mother, Mi Ja Kim, loving parent who sacrificed her entire  life to teach her daughter right from wrong, only to be  betrayed by her daughter’s insolence. Unmarried. No  children. No legacy to carry on her memory. Funeral  service unscheduled at this time.” 

That last part stung. One might think that a funeral would  not be held at all. “At least pretend that you cared, Mother!”  She thought to herself. Sungmi once again felt anger but then  reminded herself to give Mother a pass for not having the  funeral arrangements already planned for her own imagined  death.  

“Sungmi!” A strangely familiar voice called out from the  entrance of the building. Sungmi blinked twice and when her  vision cleared, she saw a woman both familiar and  completely foreign at the same time. The woman had the 

same facial features as her old classmate Mijung – a pair of  dark almond eyes beset over a button nose, thin lips outlined  in lipstick. Try as she might, the lip color could not  completely conceal the scar on her upper lip, earned from  crashing into a bramble bush when they were both younger.  She saved her from injury when she had turned her bike into  the brambles so Sungmi wouldn’t. Yes, it was definitely her  brave classmate and friend that greeted her in front of the  office that morning. But it also wasn’t her. She looked  different. Thin lines burrowed between her eyebrows as if  from the strain of holding onto something very heavy for  hours at a time. Sungmi never cared about physical  appearances, but thought it strange for her once wild and  carefree friend to have wrinkles at the age of 24. Sungmi put  the thought away for the moment and decided to not think  about it until later.  

“Mijung!” Sungmi called back to her friend. “I’m finally  here. How are you? It’s been a year since you joined. Have  you made reporter yet?” Mijung had a strained look in her  eyes, the kind of look people have when a death had  

occurred. Did Mijung’s family recently pass? She would have  heard the news in the village if someone died. There are no  secrets in the village,” she thought to herself. She decided to  not bring it up.  

“Let’s hurry. We need to get inside. I will lead and we’ll  talk along the way,” Mijung said as she grabbed Sungmi’s  hand. The two entered the office building and greeted the  security guard reading the front page newspaper. He wore a  security uniform with decorated shoulder epaulettes. He  would have looked more official if he wasn’t reading the  betting odds on that day’s schedule of horse races. But his  old age signified that his role was more administrative than  security, so it didn’t matter. 

As Mijung led Sungmi up the first flight of stairs and  opened the door to the main office, Sungmi got a clear view 

of the newspaper’s main administrative offices, the place  where she would be working. To her surprise, it wasn’t much  different than the office spaces back home. The closest  comparison was the township hall where many of the town’s  services were administered. Three columns of office desks  were positioned like median dividers in the room to form  carpeted walkways from the office entrance to the back  where a much larger desk sat. The desk was positioned  facing the door to keep view of all the smaller desks. The  owner of this desk hadn’t arrived, but the presence of the  empty chair felt like someone was watching.  

There was activity all around. Some men were answering  ringing telephones, while others were quickly jogging with  documents in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. Sungmi  noticed a short, fat man carefully filing documents into a  drawer. Sungmi didn’t know why she noticed him out of all  the other people in the office. Maybe it was because while  others were running around, he was quiet, methodical, and  intentional in his work. The sound of a whistling tea kettle  diverted Sungmi’s attention towards the kitchen while office  ladies placed empty tea cups on trays. Haggard looking men  smoked cigarettes in the hallway, engrossed in discussion  about some baseball team’s game last night on the television.  She thought of the old men that played chess on the street  corner back home. “Old men seem to preoccupy themselves  with games wherever they are,” Sungmi thought to herself. 

“She’s coming.” Mijung said as she quickly put her bag on  her chair and stood by her desk at attention.  

“Who’s coming, Mijung?” Sungmi asked.  

“The mole,” Mijung said with a hushed and strained  whisper.  

“The what?” As soon as Sungmi opened her mouth, she  regretted asking the question. She immediately knew the  answer. A tall middle aged woman with a large round face  walked through the door. On her big round face was the 

darkest, largest mole she had ever seen. It was perched atop  her pale white nose like a disgusting cherry on a scoop of  vanilla ice cream. The mole sat like a parade marshal,  commanding the room. It barked orders to all the female  clerks who were standing at attention awaiting inspection.  

The mole was not pleased. “Hair not pinned back. Half  day’s pay,” the mole barked. “Skirt too short. Half day’s pay.”  Again and again, the dark lesion criticized something for  each girl and with each demerit, a half day’s pay was  deducted from the already modest paycheck of each female  clerk. “And you,” the mole was staring directly at Sungmi  now. She tried to avert her eyes and not look at it. But the  harder she had tried, the more the mole beckoned her. It had  two distinct hairs growing out of it and with every word the  mole spoke, the hairs would vibrate with energy like tiny  arms waving to emphasize every command. “Who are you?!”  The mole demanded to know.  

“I am uhh. My name is uh,” Sungmi couldn’t say anything.  She was hypnotized by it. The color, the shape, the way it  seemed to move independent of its owner. She couldn’t  think.  

“You’re that new girl from Inchon, isn’t that right? Is that  what you are? Another country bumpkin?” The mole was  chiding her now. She didn’t know if she should feel offended  or impressed that it knew where Inchon was. “Well, are  you?” The mole asked again.  

“Yes, Ms. Mole,” Sungmi responded. She knew she had  made a grave mistake as soon as it came out of her mouth.  But it was too late. Now the owner was the one that became  angry.  

“Insubordination. A full day’s pay. I know who you are,  country bumpkin. Your kind is lazy and slow. Probably didn’t  even go to college. Am I right?” Sungmi stood motionless.  “What’s the matter? Too slow to respond? Hmph. I thought  so. I have my eye on you, country bumpkin…mother is 

probably an unmarried whore.” The mole whispered that last  part just loud enough for Sungmi to hear.  

Sungmi was furious inside. Her fists clenched, she dug  her two middle fingernails into her palm so hard that she  almost pierced the skin. It was all she could do to keep  herself from attacking the mole. Sungmi desperately wished  for a cabbage nearby to chuck at the back of her head. She  futilely looked around, but to no avail. The mole walked away  with a little spring in her step, satisfied with the cleanliness  of her cutting insult. She sensed the effect that last comment  had and made a mental note to use it again in the future. She  smiled deviously.  

After the mole left the main room, all the other girls  giggled at the fact that the office tyrant had a new victim.  “Yes, Ms. Mole,” mocked one clerk. “Right away Ms. Mole,”  said another. If it were anyone else but Sungmi, one would  think they were mocking the tyrant. But to Sungmi, it was  obvious they were making fun of her. “I guess they don’t  make them that smart in the country,” said one of the girls as  she walked over to one of the tea trays. She looked Sungmi  straight in the eyes and tipped it over, spilling eight cups of  tea on the floor. “Oops. Guess you had better clean it up. No  telling what might happen if Ms. Mole found out.” Like a  gaggle of geese, the girls giggled in unison as they left the  room together.  

“You will get used to it,” Mijung said, consoling her  friend.  

“Mijung, do they do this to you?” Sungmi asked.  “Well, it looks like they won’t anymore. They have moved  on from me and onto you,” Mijung tried to bring levity to the  already dire situation. But Sungmi didn’t find the humor in it  at all.  

Sungmi was angry. She was angry at those uppity girls.  She was angry at the mole for calling her a country bumpkin.  But most of all, she was angry at Mijung for not standing up 

for her. As the others berated Sungmi, Mijung just stood  there and did nothing. Where was that brave soul who went  face first into bramble bushes to save her all those years ago?  Where was that carefree girl who yelled at boys for being  rude to Sungmi at school? Where was her friend? Sungmi  grew angry and was about to take it out on her “friend.” But  she caught herself. Instead of anger, Sungmi felt compassion.  The cause of Mijung’s premature wrinkles, her strained look  earlier in the morning, was caused by Mijung carrying a  heavy weight alright. It just wasn’t a physical one.  

“Mijung,” Sungmi asked. “You aren’t going to be  promoted to reporter here, are you?” Mijung’s eyes began to  well up and Sungmi knew the answer without having to ask  again. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad? You could  have written home or come talk to me.” Mijung was silent.  Her shoulders rounded and began to slump. It was as if the  very thing she feared was suddenly coming true. Mijung felt  shame in that moment. She felt shame, not for anything she  had done, but for everything she didn’t do. “It’s alright. I  understand,” Sungmi said, consoling her friend. “I’ll take  care of these cups and cleaned up the floor. Go on ahead.”  Sungmi looked into Mijung’s eyes and knew she wanted to  say something, but she just couldn’t.  

Sungmi cleaned up the floor and took the empty tea cups  to the kitchen. She stood at the kitchen sink, washing the tea  cups that were once on the floor. She thought about  Mijung’s plight and felt pity for her. She would rather put up  with the daily abuse from her coworkers than to return  home. “What would she do?” she wondered. “Would she take  the abuse or would she open herself up to the shame of  returning home in defeat.” Deep in thought, she was  suddenly awoken by a man’s voice from the doorway.  

“Ms. Lee has always been tough on new hires, but she  means well.” Sungmi turned around to look at the owner of  the voice. At first she was shocked that someone was talking 

to her at all. “Here, let me help,” he said and began to put  away the clean teacups that she had just washed and dried.  “What was he doing?” Sungmi thought. “Is he helping?”  She was shocked and amused at the same time.  “Men can’t help put away tea cups?” He asked as though  he knew what she was thinking. She didn’t know what to say.  For a brief moment, she forgot about being called a country  bumpkin or her mom being called a whore or the girls  spilling tea. For a brief moment, she was Sungmi again. After she had washed, dried and put away the rest of the  tea cups, Sungmi went back to her desk and waited for  Mijung to show her how to calculate the weekly subscriber  totals, which was to be part of her duties as a clerk. Mijung  gave her a ledger, an abacus to calculate the totals and a  large pile of receipts to sift through. The other girls were well  into their work already and even had time to chit-chat in  between totals.  

Accounting wasn’t her best subject. She was more into  writing and composition, but she was content having a job.  She hadn’t used an abacus since elementary school when it  was compulsory for all students. She remembered the basics  well enough and began to input the first totals. Her fingers  flicked the wooden beads with a satisfying click. Her muscle  memory soon took over and she could calculate totals as fast  as she could say the numbers in her head. She even enjoyed  the zipping sound when she reset the abacus to zero. Flick,  flu-flick, ziiiip. Flick, flick, flick…. Ziiiiip. In just one hour she  was halfway done with her pile of receipts. She recorded each  receipt in her ledger and confirmed the totals. She was  getting quite good at this. In another hour, she finished all  her receipts. A sense of accomplishment washed over her.  With her receipts done, not even the mole could protest. She  might even rethink what she said when she called her a  country bumpkin. Sungmi looked at her neatly piled receipts, 

her clean ledger, stood up and stretched. She told Mijung she  would be right back. She was going to the restroom.  It was the moment she had dreamt about after getting off  the bus. She stepped into the bathroom stall in the woman’s  restroom and closed the door. The lock found its housing  with a satisfying click. Sungmi pushed on the door to confirm  that it was indeed secure. The lock clicking into place, the  world outside of her stall had all but disappeared. There was  no office, no Seoul, no commuter bus, no Inchon, no old  ladies and no Mother. She was hidden away in her own  kingdom and the western toilet made of porcelain was her  throne. The toilet paper dispenser, her prime minister. “The  queen demands tissue. Dispense!” She commanded the  plastic dispenser. With one flick of the wrist, the servant  rained down white tissue paper onto the bathroom floor. She  enjoyed it thoroughly.  

She giggled, whooped and dispensed more tissue onto the  bathroom floor. She would have continued for longer if it  were not for the voices she heard entering the restroom. She  recognized those voices and suddenly her regal presence was  replaced by schoolgirl fear. She didn’t think they knew she  was in the bathroom stall. They were talking about her as  though she were not there.  

“What a joke!” one of the girls said. “No college degree  and no work experience. She thinks she can just waltz right  in here and fit in?” 

Another voice said, “If she thinks she can, then she really  is as stupid as she looks.”  

“I don’t know how she got here, but we’ll make sure she  doesn’t stay long.” The geese giggled together in haughty  fashion.  

And then it was quiet. Sungmi didn’t know what to make  of it. They were talking about her, this much she knew. But  they suddenly stopped. “Maybe they left,” she wondered. 

“Maybe they had grown bored of their new target and  decided enough was enough.”  

While she was working through a third scenario, she felt a  cold surge run down her back. Another cold surge ran down  her leg. And another final cold surge ran down her hair. She  knew what this was. It was cold water raining down from  above. She looked up to see three faces peering down at her,  laughing maniacally as each one held an overturned empty  cup.  

“Country bumpkin, come here to hide?” Said one of the  girls.  

“She probably has no idea what was happening,” said  another.  

The one that seemed to be the leader of the three said, “I’ll  say this with simple words that even a high school drop out  can understand. You don’t belong here. You were never  welcome. And you’re going to leave. We will see to that.” And  to punctuate her sentence with cold finality, she dropped the  empty cup onto Sungmi while the two others followed suit.  The plastic cups hit the restroom tile floor with a loud  pinging sound that seemed to ring hollow through the whole  office.  

After the girls had left, Sungmi opened the door and  stepped out of the stall. She took the tissue from the floor  and soaked up as much water as she could. She rose to look  at herself in the mirror. Her disheveled hair was a mess. Her  mascara had run down her cheeks. She wiped it not knowing  whether it was water or her tears. She combed her hair with  her hands and pinned it up with a clip her mother had gave  her. She looked at herself again. She pinned her shoulders  back. She lifted her chin. She said nothing. She walked out of  the restroom and returned to her desk. She sat down without  looking at anyone.  

“Sungmi, what happened to you?” Mijung asked. “Why  are you wet?”

Sungmi replied, “Nothing. I’m fine.” Mijung didn’t know  what to say and so she left Sungmi to her own devices.  Sungmi looked down at her desktop expecting to pick up  where she left off. Much to her surprise, her receipts were  gone. Her ledger was missing. She looked under and around  the desk. She asked Mijung, “Have you seen my ledger? My  receipts?” Mijung didn’t know. As she looked around the  desk, she heard giggling coming from a group of girls. She  knew that giggle. It was the same giggle she heard in the  bathroom. Sungmi stood up, reached for her abacus and  pushed up her sleeves. Enough was enough. She didn’t care if  she lost her job on the first day, she was going to get her  revenge. Death by wooden abacus.  

“Where is your work?” Ms. Lee stopped Sungmi in her  tracks. The mole looked sternly at Sungmi. “I’ll repeat myself  because I know that country girls are slow. Where. Is. Your.  Work? It’s due today.” 

“I don’t have it, Sungmi replied.  

“Half day’s pay on top of this morning’s demerit,” The  mole said. “But that’s a day and a half of pay and it’s my first  day!” Sungmi said exasperated. “Well, at least we know that  country girls can add!” The geese giggled. “And you won’t go  home until it’s finished.” 

Sungmi searched for those missing receipts. She had no  time to eat her lunch that Mother had packed her. She  looked around each desk and in every waste basket but found  nothing but tissue and candy wrappers. She looked inside  her desk drawers and found nothing. She went to the kitchen  to drink some water. As she washed her hands she thought  maybe she had missed someplace. A thought bubbled up in  her mind but she pushed it down. She thought that no way  could someone be so cruel. She didn’t want to entertain the  thought, but she knew she had to check. She turned around  and walked out of the kitchen. She walked toward the  hallway and opened the door to the restroom. With each 

dreaded step she made, she inched closer to the bathroom  stalls. She opened one door and peered into the toilet.  Nothing. She moved to the next stall, opened the door and  peered over the bowl. She was relieved to find nothing. She  moved to the next stall. She was torn on the desired  outcome. She wanted to find the receipts, but also did not  want to face the idea of fishing wet soggy pieces of paper  soaked in toilet water. She opened the door and peered over  the seat. She couldn’t tell if she was relieved or disgusted.  There they were. Her receipts from this morning.  

She picked them up one by one with her forefinger and  thumb, trying ever so carefully to not touch the water. On her  hand and knees, she picked out each receipt. The irony was  not lost on her. Once a queen sitting on her porcelain throne,  now a mere peasant touching toilets. She persevered and  took out all the receipts. She laid them flat on the restroom  floor and gently dabbed them with tissue. She needed to be  careful because once dried, she needed them to be legible.  She spent what seemed like hours drying them to the point  that she could carry them back to her desk. 

The geese were packing up their things now. Had the day  past already? She had no idea. Between drying herself off  and drying off the receipts, she had no idea what time it was.  

Sungmi sat down at her desk. She opened up her ledger,  reset her abacus, and set to redo the work she had completed  this morning. It took her longer the second time around. Not  because she was tired, but because she had to be careful with  each receipt. By the time Sungmi finished, the sun had  already set and everyone had gone home. She rose from her  desk and put her ledger and receipts in the mole’s box. She  had finished.  

She went to the kitchen to pour herself some tea. She felt  comfort in the smell and warmth from the teacup. She was  relaxed. 

“Rough day today,” called a voice from behind her. It was  that same man that talked with her in the morning. He stood  at the door of the kitchen and smiled at her. Out of all the  people she had met today, he was the only one who was kind  to her. And she didn’t even know his name. “Hyunwoo. My  name is Hyunwoo,” he said. Sungmi wondered how he could  read her mind. Hyunwoo approached her and poured  himself a cup of coffee. She got a closer look at his name tag.  “Hyunwoo Kim. Section Manager. Administration.”  Sungmi’s heart sank. He was her boss.  

“Good evening, Section Manager,” Sungmi said as she  abruptly bowed while still holding her tea cup. Hyunwoo  smiled.  

“Please, no need to be so formal. Besides, we already  know each other from this morning. Didn’t we clean the tea  cups together?” Sungmi remembered. It was the only good  thing that happened today. “I’ve been watching you. You’re  Mijung’s friend from Inchon, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, today is my first day,” Sungmi replied. “I’m working  as a clerk now, but I’d like to become a reporter someday. I  can write and speak English.” 

Hyunwoo did something that completely took Sungmi off  guard. He spoke in almost perfect English. It was laden with  an accent but his diction and grammar were near perfect.  “Korean winters can be so cold, but there’s nothing like the  cool crisp air in the morning,” Hyunwoo said in English. It  almost sounded poetic. “I spoke English when I studied  journalism in the U.S.” Hyunwoo went back to speaking  Korean. “I learned a lot.”  

“Please teach me. I wanted to go to college and study  journalism, but my mother wouldn’t allow it. This is the  closest I have ever been to anyone who has traveled abroad.”  Sungmi was beaming with enthusiasm. She felt close to this  man and was comfortable talking about her dreams with  him. 

“Oh don’t worry about that. I’ll teach you. I think we will  be spending a lot of time together in the future,” Hyunwoo  said. He came closer to Sungmi and placed his hands on her  shoulders, rubbing gently. “And don’t worry about becoming  a reporter.” Hyunwoo moved his hands down and rested his  right hand on the small of her back. “If you play your cards  right, you will be out of clerkship and on your way to  reporter sooner than you think.” He moved his hand below  her waist. Sungmi’s whole body froze. She had to bite the  inside of her cheek to keep herself from screaming. As  Hyunwoo rubbed Sungmi’s back, she bit even harder and  could sense the acrid taste of blood dripping in her mouth.  “Yes. I think you get the picture,” Hyunwoo said satisfied  that he got his message across. Hyunwoo drank the rest of  his coffee and placed the cup on the sink. “You can go home  after you clean this up. And Miss Kim, I’ll see you  tomorrow.” Hyunwoo left the kitchen. Sungmi didn’t move a  muscle. She stood there frozen in time, afraid that if she  moved, it would bring him back to continue what he had  started. She would have stood there all night if she could, but  a sense of nausea overcame her. She bolted from the kitchen  and headed straight for the restroom. She slammed open the  bathroom stall and vomited into the toilet. She hadn’t eaten  anything all day, but it didn’t matter. Her body rejected  whatever it had inside as a reaction to what had just  happened. She felt disgusting and disgusted. She got up and  went to the sink. She splashed water on her face. It felt like  waxy oil under her skin that she couldn’t wash off, even with  soap. No matter how many times she lathered, rinsed and  repeated, she felt gross. The grease didn’t come off. She  stood at the sink, her face bowed, dripping with water. She  dried herself but still did not feel clean.  

She didn’t realize that she had gathered her things and  stepped out of the office towards the bus station. Her body  went through the motions as if on autopilot. She hadn’t 

realized that she boarded the bus back to Inchon and hadn’t  noticed all the late night commuters who looked at her  unkempt appearance. She was preoccupied with her  thoughts. The incident ran through her head over and over  again like a terrible movie on repeat. The sick feeling she got  when he put his hands on her shoulders. The even sicker  feeling she got when he lowered his hands to her bottom.  The feeling of shock and helplessness froze her. The taste of  her own blood when she bit down on her cheek to stop from  screaming. She tongued the wound and it felt raw. She  winced with pain. She thought about it for the whole 1 hour  and 45 minute bus ride, trying to understand what she did  wrong. Did she lead him on? Should she have screamed?  Would anyone have heard even if she did? Everyone had  gone home for the day so she doubted it. Should she tell  someone or just keep quiet and pretend it didn’t happen?  She didn’t know what to think. She was exhausted.  

The bus rolled into the station at Inchon and the  passengers rose to disembark. She got up like the undead,  stepped off the bus and made her way home in a trance. She  opened the gate to her front yard, crossed the garden and  reached for the handle on the front door. She was not  thinking of Mother hiding behind the console table, lying in  wait for her prey. Or maybe she was too exhausted to care.  Either way, if Mother had been waiting, she would not have  had the strength to fight or escape. 

Sungmi took off her shoes and collapsed into the kitchen  table chair. She sat there for quite some time. It wasn’t until  the clock struck midnight that she realized that she was  home. She looked around. She could hear Mother snoring in  the bedroom. She would not rise for another five hours. “At  least she didn’t have to answer her questions tonight,” she  thought. Sungmi’s stomach grumbled. It had settled down  from vomiting earlier and was craving something to digest. It  was then Sungmi realized that she was still holding onto her 

lunch box in her right hand. She looked at it and loosened  her grip slightly. The plastic box protected its contents the  whole day. She placed it on the kitchen table, untied the  handkerchief, and opened the lid. Inside she found a  handwritten note. She recognized the penmanship as  Mother’s and read it.  

“Sungmi,  

When two enemies fight, it is called war. When a man  and woman fight, it is called marriage. When Mother and  daughter fight, it is called love.  

When I was young, I made decisions in my life that  caused me to be the ire of every person’s judgment. I will  never be able to escape that. But those decisions brought  

you to me. For that, I have no regrets. I want you to avoid  the mistakes I made and live a peaceful life. That is why I’m  so hard on you and tell you how to live your’s. Because it is  how I wish I lived mine. 

Today is the first day of your life. I can’t tell you what to  do or how to behave. I can’t help you fight your battles or  persevere through struggles. But what I can do is make  your favorite food for the journey. I made your favorite  Mandu for lunch on your first day. Share some with your  coworkers, who will welcome you with open arms. Share  some with your friend, Mijung, who will show you how to  succeed. And share some with your manager. I’m sure he  will be a good man who will help you achieve your dream to  become a reporter. And finally, save some for yourself. This  Mandu will give you the strength to meet challenges head  on. Always remember that Mother loves you, no matter  what path you choose. I am proud of you my daughter.  

Mother”

Sungmi read that last line over and over again. She  wanted to get up and run to Mother, hug her and ask what  she should do, but she couldn’t. She wanted to scream at the  top of her lungs and cry how much of a failure she was, but  she couldn’t.  

Sungmi looked at the neatly packed rows of Mandu. It  was more than she could eat alone. She mentally divided up  the Mandu – some for the gaggle of geese, a couple for her  friend Mijung and some for her manager who promised to  make her a reporter if she played her cards right. She  skipped over those portions and saw that she had two for  herself. She picked one Mandu up, dipped it in sauce and put  it in her mouth.  

Her first bite had a familiar feeling. The soft dough gave  way to a savory meat mixture. It was a powerful sensation.  Pork, garlic and salt overpowered her nose and mouth in a  three pronged attack on her tastebuds. The intense flavor  was only matched by her voracious hunger from not eating  all day. But in the midst of the salty flavor, something else  was there, hidden but present. A subtle sweetness began to  rise and challenge the meat, garlic and salt. It was the  minced onion. Although small, it launched a counterattack  against the garishness of the meat. The more she chewed, the  more noticeable the sweetness became. It grew stronger and  stronger until it was not small anymore. A battle was waged  between the savory and the sweet. It was an equal fight.  

Sungmi ate another and chewed until the minced onion  came through. In each bite, the meat would win at first, but  with time the sweetness would come through and win the  second. She ate again. She ate her awful manager’s portion,  who abused her into thinking the only way she would  become a reporter was to play her cards right. She ate  Mijung’s portion, who was too cowardly to stand up for her  when she was bullied. She ate the geese’s portion. With each  movement of her jaw, she imagined the filling was goose 

meat instead of pork. And each time, the sweetness of the  onion prevailed. She shoved more Mandu pieces into her  mouth. Three, four, five pieces at a time. Her cheeks were  

stuffed and she could barely move her jaw. But she persisted.  With impossibly stuffed cheeks of overpowering meat and  dough, she knew that if she just kept chewing, the onion  would come through. She chewed, but she didn’t swallow.  Saliva and meat juices dribbled down her chin and neck. She  didn’t wipe it up. She kept chewing. Her jaw ached from the  constant movement. But she didn’t give up. She didn’t give  in. And after what seemed like an eternity of chewing, the  meat gave way to sweet onion. She wiped her neck and chin  with her napkin and paused. 

Sungmi began to weep uncontrollably. Salty tears rolled  down her cheeks as she wailed into the napkin to muffle the  sound. Her shoulders shuddered with each sob. Sungmi felt  pain, humiliation, regret and anger all at once. Rather, she  allowed herself to feel those emotions. She scanned her body  for injuries and bruises. She searched for the pain in her  hand where she dug her fingernails. It was there. She  searched for the pain in her cheek where she bit down. It also  hurt. Her neck was stiff from the awkward sitting position on  the bus ride home. Her hands ached from doing her  accounting work twice. Her legs and feet were sore from  walking around looking for her missing receipts. Her whole  body ached. She was hungry, thirsty and tired. But more  importantly, the walking zombie that rode the bus home and  floated through the garden had returned to a living and  feeling person. 

Sungmi’s tears subsided and a quiet stillness filled the  room. She pulled herself out of the chair and carried the  empty lunchbox to the sink. She ran hot water from the tap  and quietly cleaned the box so mother could fill it again with  food for another day tomorrow… Tomorrow. A feeling of  dread overcame her, like a melon baller piercing her chest 

and scooping out a piece of her heart. Sungmi did not know  what she was going to do about the gaggle of geese, about Ms  Mole, about him. A dark pale hovered over her like a million  imperceptible voices shouting all at once, saying everything  but meaning nothing. A small wrinkle appeared between her  furrowed brows.  

A faint smile crept over Sungmi’s mouth. It was then she  realized that every bruise, sore muscle, and act of  humiliation she endured today was merely temporary. Like  the flavor of meat, garlic and salt, the pain she felt would  soon fade. The sweet flavor of onion will come through and  fight back. The thought gave her some solace as she slid  under her covers in bed. As exhaustion overtook her, she was  lulled into a deep sleep by a single thought. She didn’t know  what would happen in the future, but she was okay with that.  Freedom was never about knowing her tomorrow. It was  knowing that her tomorrow was hers and hers alone.

Chapter 3

Coming Soon…