Reach out your arm. Stretch it as far as you can. Then plunge deep, deep into the plush velvet pocket of your psyche. Reach down as far as you can go, stretching and striving to touch the smallest bit at the very bottom of your memory, where your personality and psyche sit quietly waiting for you to appear. There, at the bottom of your psychic well, you lean over as far as possible to reach into the very deepest bottom corners. There lies the ephemeral boundary between memory and imagination. There, straddling those two realms, lies ensconced Park Wan-suh's novel "Who Ate Up All the Shinga?" (1992), asking you -- truly -- who are you and what are you.
It is a deeply moving, warm personal tale of a bucolic countryside early-childhood idyll. It is followed by a middle-childhood and teen & late-teen life adapting to the big city. Those buckets of warmth, filling some two thirds of the tale, are then burnt away like morning fog by the afternoon sun to reveal an evening of authoritarianism, spittle-strewn revenge and that petty, petty humanity that comes from fear. Absolute fear. The tale weaves together childhood, family, nature, parents and grandparents, and then more flowers, trees, brooks, vegetables and mountains. It weaves together colonialism, urbanization, independence and civil war. It weaves together elementary school, middle school, high school and university. It ends with the crack of the authoritarian whip in the early days of the modern Republic of Korea, hunting for Reds. Reds everywhere. Published in 1992 when the author was 61-years-old, and after she had written numerous other autobiographical novels over the prior 20 years, this pinnacle of her oeuvre unveils her as a master of her craft.
How to Write?
Someone famous may or may not have once said that writing is easy: just sit down at a typewriter, slit open your wrists and bleed out onto the page. As we read "Who Ate Up All the Shinga?", we wade through Park's memory and her imagination, swimming back and forth between the two: swimming in her warm metaphorical blood, swimming in the outflow from her heart and her mind. And she makes it look so easy.
Park's deeply moving, amazingly simple, clear and honest writing style weaves a tale like a soft feather floating on the aromatic wafts of a jasmine arbor. The toddlers play in the healthy dirt and rain, amidst the rural bushes and trees, and hop the stream to get to the garden's communal outhouse. These are her memories. Grandfather has his first stroke on page eight, and by page nine Mother has launched a rebellion and has sent Brother to Seoul to attend high school.
Somewhere out beyond this child's world, there's a war raging between Japan and China. A little later, another war, somewhere out beyond, is raging between Japan and the U.S. For a five-year-old, or seven-year-old or nine-year-old -- as the story progresses -- however, such World Happenings are far, far away. The dates of the World Happenings and the realities of colonialism and imperialism only exist because we, modern-day adults, know of them today. For a child at that time, supposedly living "through" them, they are all far, far away. The dragonfly on the azalea is a much more real thing.
"The rain showers we encountered there offered a magnificent spectacle. Seoul children may think that showers descend from the sky, but we knew the truth: they charged forward from the fields like soldiers. Where we were playing could have been bathed in relentless sunshine, but as soon as thick shadows came down over fields nearby, we'd spy a curtain of rain making its way toward us. We'd fly home at breakneck speed, shrieking, all too aware how fast that curtain moved." The rain was a much more real thing.
Reality, then, is what's in front of you. In the countryside, it's all the animals, plants, creeks, hills, shamans, rituals, rain squalls, friends, grandparents, Mother, aunts, uncles, cousins, bugs and seasons. In the city, however, it is the structured life: being encouraged to use a Japanese name at elementary school, making new friends, the shame or social standing that comes from using a Korean or a Japanese name, getting free rubber balls when Malaysia and Indonesia are captured, but having rubber shoes rationed once the war begins to go badly for Japan. Later on, there's basic sugar rationing and ceremonies at school to honor the Japanese king. However, reality is also running along to the library on Sundays, climbing the mountain trail up and over Inwangsan Mountain to get to school and returning to grandpa's hometown when he passes away after his third stroke.
Emotions
The bright lights of the big city didn't really wow the young Park. She just takes them in stride. The most important thing, as with most preteens, is image, the way we think people are thinking about us, our friends and, of course, our parents and siblings. Mother and Brother are everywhere. The young Park moves with aplomb from thatched roofs, wooden beams and mud walls to brick, asphalt and cement, her mother being the unmoving rock to which she clings. As preteens everywhere, Park is both repulsed and attracted to her mother, and Mother is her pillar. She moves from a lantern life to an electrical existence. She moves from endless flowing creeks and streams to only two buckets of water per day, delivered by a laborer each morning. Mother is always there.
Many of the young Park's bare emotions are basic humanity, but many are also a child's pride. She describes her first new home in Seoul, up in the hills above today's Independence Gate, along subway line No. 3. She describes her new surroundings, certainly, but could be describing her acceptance of early adulthood. "My own sense of beauty had developed under the influence of aesthetics handed down for centuries. The chest that confronted me here, with its hasty paper job and tacky colors, insulted my eyes." This is how humans grow up.
The complex emotions of late-childhood and preteen existence waft back and forth as Seoul lives through its mid-20th century experiences. When a child tries to be an adult but is still only a young teenager, or when an older teenager tries, again, to be an adult, but is still a child in many regards, emotions can erupt. The range of emotions that runs from shame and embarrassment at one's family through to the free-flowing tears of love that you can only have for your family; they all cover the young Park as we follow her and her family through the rural comfort and stability of colonialism, the mild chaos of independence in August 1945, and through to the ravenous months of pillage, chaos and fear brought on by the fratricidal Korean civil conflict (1950-1953).