A Tree That Lives For Many Years - Chapter 1 Part 1

I do not have memories of being called by my name. I’m the daughter of the house under the oak tree where I live. The daughter of a fisherman’s wife. Even that, some forgot me. Saying, ‘There’s a fisherman’s daughter who’s good at weaving mats.’ And the other person, usually surprised, would ask.

‘Ah, the one who weaves sokuri for sale? Does she have a daughter?’

As for me, they just call me whatever they want. The name they gave me seems buried in the back like forgotten, and they call me whatever they pleased. After a bit of thought, I tried calling myself Jakyung. The next day, I was called Jagang, and on the third day, I became Dokjong. And if things went wrong, I would go back to being a daughter of the Oak Tree.

No matter what, being the daughter of a fisherman or the daughter of a mother who weaves and sells fabrics. It seems like I’m not the only one who has lost their name in the village. The obedient girl next door is called poor because she’s the daughter of a tenant farmer. The twelve brothers, often caught in the act, were commonly referred to as “Se-i Ne-i” like this. As time passed, I began to speculate that everyone in the village lived in a similar manner.

However, whether it was because my head was larger, or if it was due to the unfamiliar eyes hanging below my forehead, I, with a skirt barely reaching my calves and just one set of clothes, did not know which part of this land I belonged to. One day, by chance, I came across a well-dressed young man from a wealthy family who was followed by about six attendants. It wasn’t just one, but several of them. It happened on a market day when I casually followed my father. In that bustling place filled with people, I couldn’t help but wonder if the vibrant silk worn by those attendants would ever fade. I was the only one contemplating such thoughts.

They, who adorned themselves in silk I wouldn’t dare touch, carried stiff books proudly against their chests. Even to my young eyes, their appearance was enticing. Silk was something I could only dream of touching, and even if it were to fall into my hands by some chance, I would hide it in the deep recesses of the wardrobe, for it would be a shame to waste such precious fabric.

I was intrigued by something more approachable among the young man’s possessions, something seemingly within my reach. In the nearby village, there was a small school where local kids gathered for basic education. I thought I might be able to get a thick book to study there. Even though we lived modestly in the countryside and had financial challenges, there were adults who believed in giving basic education to the kids in our community.

In any case, my wish was for my mother to be someone like that. Even if I didn’t aspire to achieve something significant like a man, it was still good to be prepared. There are parents who teach their daughters, even if it’s just in case. While my mother’s hands, worn out from weaving, were pitiful, and my father, smelling of fish, was worrisome, my desire for books was burning like a fire in a hearth.

“Him?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

It’s not like I can use what I learn like a man. I won’t be marrying into a grand mansion or becoming a refined daughter-in-law. Meeting a reasonably similar partner, having children, and working in the fields tirelessly—there won’t be time to read lines. The eyes of my mother, who tirelessly weaves fabric, were telling me just that.

“Oh, you probably have your own thoughts.”

“What thoughts?”

“I don’t like asking that man with only a small plot of land to read for me every time. Didn’t he do the same to you?”

Occasionally, my mother, who expresses regret to the neighbor when putting up wallpaper in our house, was like that. That man, for some reason, brags about knowing how to read. You need to offer him things like dried persimmons and cinnamon rice cakes, and then he starts reading line by line. He was a strange guy who unnecessarily twisted and turned his words into difficult words and got upset if you asked twice. Later, I found out that most of the time, it was some useless information like advising to get some chestnuts at the birthday party of a certain young man.

Would it be better if I were a bit clumsy and avoided harm? Getting hurt emotionally is one thing, and my father, busy spreading fish intestines, is too occupied to even pay attention. It seems like in this situation, expressing regret is inevitable.

“Huh? Whether it’s putting up wallpaper or writing names, He’ll do it all for you.”

The hands that weave sokuri momentarily slowed down, and soon, my mother raised her head with excitement.

“That’s enough. Even if a woman knows how to read, it only makes her more headstrong.”

My mother was firm, rejecting the idea completely. She insisted that if I wanted to attend the literacy class, I should concentrate on weaving sokuri, and my father should continue his work on the sea. She argued that four characters were sufficient for our circumstances. In our modest situation, where we occasionally used grass paste and struggled to eat simple rice cakes, she questioned the need to send a daughter, who would be better off getting married, than to attend a literacy class.

“Why feed her when she’ll get married and leave?”

“What?”

“If she’s going to get married and leave, why bother feeding her?”

“Oh, dear.”

“Isn’t it a waste to use good rice to make grass porridge?”

While my mother’s stubbornness was indeed strong, it was not comparable to my reputation as an outcast in the village. Even though it was a literacy class set up by a man who had failed dozens of times in the past, I was eager to attend. No matter how strict my mother was, she couldn’t ignore my desperate desire to go.

“I won’t eat.”

“Oh, dear.”

Despite my father, who seemed more lenient than expected, having inquired about the cost of the literacy class, the more I resisted, the stronger my mother’s stubbornness became. If I refused to eat, she would clean the table, and my father would be busy trying to appease her. Our once peaceful household, belonging to the quiet outskirts of the village, had lost its peacefulness.

Throughout the night, the two of them argued fiercely over my education, and the sounds of their disagreement echoed over the fence. While pretending to be asleep and listening in, I was surprised to find that my father was unexpectedly firm. He suggested that learning to read could be beneficial for the family, though not as much as having a son. I anticipated my mother might compromise or support to some extent, but her response to my father was as unyielding as dried pollack.

‘Husband, pull yourself together. Aren’t you thinking about our child’s future? Even if she gets married, she’ll end up with a husband from a poor family, maybe someone with only a small plot of land for farming or a son of a fisherman. But if she learns to read, will those things become clearer to her? I can’t hold on to useless books and resent my fate. I might end up suffering and dying like my late sister, without any improvement.’

‘Think about it. Isn’t this situation like a dead-end? Some say just reading the familiar wall writings is okay. But that’s because they think the content isn’t worth bothering about.’

‘Have you not noticed the pride in the child’s eyes? Every time I scold, it feels like I’m seeing my late sister Yeon-woo, and it’s hard to handle. That’s why I told you not to bring the child on market day, but you still did…’

I had three paternal uncles and, including my aunt Yeon-woo, there were five aunts on my father’s side. Aunt Yeon-woo was the most cherished daughter of my late grandfather, and despite being from a desperately poor family, she was sent to a literacy class. I heard she was quite envied for her excellent Chinese character skills, better than most boys. However, she was married into a family that raised horses.

From early morning until sunset, she was busy with bean farming, supporting her in-laws, and carrying loads of hay to feed the horses. After all these tasks, it was already dark, and there was no time to leisurely read a book in the yard. Moreover, her uncle-in-law was sick, and suffering from an illness, so all the household affairs fell on the shoulders of Aunt Yeonwoo. Her weak husband passed away, and not long after, Aunt Yeonwoo also faced the end of her life. It wasn’t too much to handle the succession of tragedies. Thus, in her mother’s eyes, whether it was me or Aunt Yeonwoo, we both seemed to be no different.

I didn’t have as many younger brothers as Aunt Yeonwoo, and I was an only child, I thought I could learn enough if I wanted to. However, the world was not easy for a fifteen-year-old girl.

I didn’t have a lot of reasons for wanting to learn to read. I sometimes wanted to press down the nose of a man who boasted about knowing how to read just because of that, and I didn’t want to lay behind a boy who bragged about going to a study room. I also wanted to experience carrying books like a young man in silk clothes. What would it feel like to carry books? Instead of weaving sukuri, I was obsessed with thoughts like that, neglecting weaving and it was reaching a point where thinking about it made me sick.

I guess I’ll have to give up on one thing. The more I thought about it, the more my determination wavered. To go to school, I have to think about how many fish I need to catch, how many silk threads I need to weave for a silkworm. Even if I don’t want to think about it, I can’t help but think about it. As my mother says my future husband is just the same, no matter where he is. If I don’t face any hardships despite learning to read, then it’s pointless.

At times like this, I don’t want to get married, but I’m afraid that I’m an only daughter who will have to live alone until I die. I wish I had a sister, or even a nephew to bake rice cakes with, and I wouldn’t think of getting married.

The lingering attachment to reading remained, but from the next day on, I picked up the spoon without hesitation. My mother’s eyes widened in surprise, almost clearing the table, but I happily munched on rice while murmuring.

“I’m not doing it.”