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Studying Under Nobel Winner Edmund Phelps
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Seeing the Stars at the US OPEN 2006
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Jessica Agra: Tennis Champ at Fourteen
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Travelers, We All Are
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Kamsamida Kim
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Confused state of MY religion
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A Leap of Faith
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Buon Giorno! The Start of a European Adventure
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Inspired by Leaders, Bill Clinton Included
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Leaving my Heart in Shanghai
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On Finding the Right Words to Describe Greece
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The Chronicle of Human Life
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The Kiss of Eternity: A Fairytale
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Til When Do We Continue to Care
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Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus
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A League of Their Own
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Dean Rudy Ang: Educating Future Men for Others
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A Teacher’s Voice
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Ithaca
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Nicole Lim: Life at Harvard
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The Lord of the Rings: Beyond the movie
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The Sound of Music
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The Game: Popet Lizardo on Tennis
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Filipino Wisdom in Foreign Shores
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Victor Calanog: Flying High
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Wilson Lee Flores: The Passions of a Writer
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A Greater Scheme of Things
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Remembering Our Grandfather
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Kamsamida Kim
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Thursday, January 1, 1970
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I met Kim at a beauty pageant, of all places. She was representing her village, a quaint, charming town beside the sea. She was the runner up to Miss Korea – insurance, in case of an accident on the runway or a collapse due to an eating disorder most models have these days, I’m not really sure.
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Sometimes she would warily ask, “Would your parents have accepted me if I were a lawyer and had a profession of some sort when you met me?”
I’d just laugh and hug her closer to me, hoping that it would be answer enough and wishing that it were that simple. But I could see that this hurt Kim, my refusal to answer, and I am pained by it. Despite this, I continue to believe that it is often better to shield the ones we love by an avoidance of the truth.
I grew up in a privileged family; or at least that’s what my mother always told me. “Always thank the Lord for your blessings; you have so much more that what others have. We gave you the best and you should strive for the best.” I’d tune out at this point.
Of all people, you’d think my mom, devout Christian that she is, would be more open and understand my predicament. I was the whiz kid, breezing through High School, getting into Stanford on a full computer science scholarship. Unfortunately I was in my senior year when the dotcom crash occurred, but that was an act of nature beyond my control anyway. I went on to work as an analyst at Mckinsey, putting in grueling hours and feeling life spin past me.
Funny thing is, I know I must have met a lot of interesting people during that stage of my life, but as I look back, everything seems suspended in a dense fog. It all comes back to Kim, always Kim. Memory before Kim was a blur; everything with her in it is vivid with color and life.
My friends love it. “Koreans are of the highest species,” they declare. “You’re damn lucky; Kim will probably always be perfect-pretty, ageless, submissive, while the rest of us rot with our fat aging wives in the future.” I try to ignore them, discount them as the introverted geeks lacking in social graces that they most likely are. But it’s hard, knowing that the people closest to me will never get what my life’s all about, knowing that they’ll never try hard enough to see what’s inside Kim’s heart. It’s all face value with them.
“I wish you were ugly; maybe they’d take you more seriously,” I’d half jokingly tell Kim, as we lay under the sheets, half dazed and consumed by the night’s passion. But she has never understood this comment and I don’t think this sweet and gentle wife of mine even realized the depths of her beauty.
“You deserve someone your equal, someone better educated than she is.” My father’s voice keeps repeating in my ears, despite my constant struggle to block it out. If only they knew. Kim is stronger than so many people I know; she learned to adapt in less than a year, learned perfect English in two, found a permanent job in three. My Korean isn’t nearly half as good as her newfound language is.
This is nothing new, this whole intermarriage business. People have done it before and I don’t understand what the big fuss is about, really. But it is a big deal, and I’ve learned to accept it. People still stare at us when we walk hand in hand on the streets. There are days when Kim has to forcibly stop me from picking fights with random, rude strangers. They must think I have some crazy Asian fetish such as that of Nicholas Cage or one of those other notorious American actors. But I mustn’t generalize. There are some people who think that we’re perfectly normal, but even they find it hard to believe that what we have is true love.
It’s hard sometimes. We live, two of us alone, so dependent on each other that to lose another would be like cutting off part of one’s soul. They always say that this kind of love is superficial, unhealthy – dangerous even. But I don’t believe them. Love consumes; it is sometimes a quiet summer’s day but often a raging storm, no matter what they say. Inexplicably, Kim has come to saying “You complete me” with teary eyes each time she’s caught in a happy moment with me. And I cringe, for it is a line from a movie that I desperately loathe, but I am touched because I honestly feel the same way.
Always, I oscillate between two emotions. At times I feel that there is something so dreadfully wrong about marrying someone similar to oneself. I talk with confidence, because I talk from experience. There is none of the excitement of getting to know the other person, but often just the humdrum monotony of sameness caused by lack of challenge and danger of falling into leading a boring life. It is harder initially, of course – getting past the barriers of how each one was brought up. But just as pain sweetens the success after it, so it is in this case. There is great satisfaction in being able to get one another’s jokes and stories that cross the boundaries of culture and language.
Then there are days when I am depressed and I think that this hardship; this figuring out the sanctity of marriage, is all a joke. As I said, it’s difficult. Again my father’s voice resonates and destroys precious moments, “Marry her and there’s no coming back.” I sense where he’s coming from. My father’s best friend died during the Vietnam War, devastatingly accidentally killed by a fresh faced guerilla. Then he almost lost his manufacturing business to the Chinese. “Stupid cheap labor,” he would say. But can’t he see that it’s all different? Vietnamese, Chinese, Koreans?
Yes, I’m glad to get away from the superficiality of it all; that cloud that surrounded my early years. But this is what I am embarrassed to say – Sometimes, I miss it. I miss being spoiled, being the center of attention. I miss the luxury of being waited on, of having family members at my disposal. Most of all I miss time.
Three years ago, Kim and I decided to try our hand at having children. One miscarriage came after another, and all our savings were spent going to specialists for IVF treatments. I was busy enough as it was then, but these days I literally spend all my waking hours making a living for Kim, partly in an attempt to prove that I too can give the best to my family. Day in, day out, I toil, that when I go home there are days when all the energy I have left for is to sit on the sofa and rest my tired eyes. And I hate it, this lethargy that keeps me away from Kim. But then I think of time without my wife and it makes no sense at all. So see, I’d rather have less time if that meant more time with her. After all, what is time but a relative position to the order of things?
Kim comes into the room and holds out a plate of kalbi and kimchi as I write this. I’ve grown to love it; the smell of Korean food. She leans forward and caresses my cheek, attempting to wipe all my pain away. And then there’s nothing left for me to say but Kamsamida. I’m thankful. Always, despite it all, still, thankful for Kim.
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