What Numbers Say (2023년 11월 29일)

가끔 인터넷에서 예전에 쓴 글을 만납니다.

'숫자가 말하는 것'이라는 제목의 이 글은

코리아타임스에 9년쯤 연재했던 

제 칼럼 'Random Walk'에 2009년 3월에

쓴 글인데, 엊그제 우연히 만났습니다.

'Random Walk' 칼럼에 쓴 100번째 칼럼...

반가워서 아래에 옮겨둡니다. 인터넷 판에

3월 13일로 되어 있으니 종이 신문에는

14일에 실렸겠지요. 

 

어머니가 우리 나이로 여든 살이 되셨을 때

쓴 글입니다. 그땐 여든이 참 많은 나이라고

생각했는데, 지금 아흔넷의 어머니를 보면

여든은 참 젊은 나이입니다. 

 

2009년 3월, 지난 5년 동안 쓴 칼럼을 돌아보며

느꼈던 슬픔이 다시 살아납니다. 시간은 그때나

지금이나 소중한 사람들을 앗아갑니다. 그리고

우리의 가슴엔 자꾸 무덤이 쌓여갑니다. 그 무게를

견디지 못한 우리가 누군가의 가슴에 무덤이 될 때까지. 

 

 

What Numbers Say

 

By Kim Heung-sook

My mother turned 80 last week. If she'd been

born elsewhere, she'd be 79, but here in Korea

you count your age from the time you settle in

your mother's womb. So, my mother is 80, even 

if she was born in the year 1930.

Mom didn't want to celebrate her birthday ― or

so she said ― but she has five grown-up children

and their spouses who insisted on doing something

special to mark the day. So, the entire family ―

except her youngest son-in-law who was busy ―

got together for a full-course Chinese lunch to

which everybody made due contributions.

``It's quite all right to live to 80," she said afterwards,

adding quickly, ``though the next years will be

downhill all the way." Despite her somber statement,

I could tell she was happy with what her children did

for her on her birthday.

My number is only 100, and so, instead of celebrating

it with a full table, I would like to commemorate it

personally: This is the 100th ``Random Walk," which

I started five years ago without thinking too much about

its future or mine. I still remember the chaotic state

of mind I fell into after saying ``yes" to The Korea Times'

repeated calls to start a column. I wasn't sure if I was

doing the right thing.

The first article appeared right in this space on March 5,

2004. Some of my readers may remember the article

entitled, ``Who Am I?" There, I was complaining about

my name for the difficulty of balancing ``heung (興),"

meaning ``prosperity," with ``sook (淑)," meaning ``calm,

clear water." Keeping a balance between conflicting

elements, or harmonizing them, would make the initial

step toward infinite freedom, but the very first step is

always the hardest.

Looking back, I find it almost ridiculous to complain

about my name, having come to understand that a name,

no matter how easy it sounds to live with, doesn't

guarantee an easier life. My mother's is a good example.

Her name is ``Choon-mae," meaning ``spring-ume

(or Chinese plum)." The two letters are not conflicting

at all, yet her life had been much more rugged than mine.

In the beginning, this column appeared once every three

weeks, but soon it was printed biweekly. While my column

lived on owing much to the tolerance of the host paper

and readers, some of the subjects I wrote about, or intended

to, died during the past five years, and I sometimes had

to use my inches for obituaries. Among the great losses

were Susan Sontag, the American writer and intellectual

warrior, and Park Kyong-ni, the Korean writer, both of whom

I admire.

On a personal note, I've lost a few close people, including

Bang Tae-yung, a former editor of The Korea Times;

Park Kun-woo, a former ambassador to the United States;

Kim Eun-jeong, the beloved daughter of a dear friend; and

``Kkomi," my canine companion of 15 years. Losing a friend

is creating a grave  inside you. Death comes to you when

you feel too heavy with all the mounds that the departing

ones have left with you. While I have suffered irrevocable

losses, I have also gained new friends through this column,

who enlighten or cheer me up.

A reader recently commented that my focus seemed to

have shifted over the past year from something lyrical to

socio-political issues. If she is right, it probably is because

I have felt a growing need to speak about the direction in

which this nation and the world as a whole are headed.

In a nutshell, we have been going in the wrong direction.

These days, I often think about the German poet and

playwright Bertolt Brecht, who said it was hard to write

lyrical poems in his time.

Now, as I begin a new chapter of this column, should I

return to so-called soft topics, or delve into hard issues?

I may be wandering; this column is ``Random Walk" after all.

I am not sure if I can follow my mother's example and say,

``It's quite all right to write to the 100th." What I know for sure

is that 100 is only a number like 80, and what these numbers

signify, at best, is that we are still alive. Once we are dead,

people stop counting.

So, I will keep busy living like my mother who, on her 80th

birthday, decided to study English, perhaps to read my

column someday. I don't want to disappoint  her when she

joins my readers, whose support has pulled me this far.

Thank you very much, dear readers. Special thanks to those

who have emailed me agreement and/or disagreement.