by Kim Sagwa
A life bound by a few internet sites pushing information on the public all day long, and by a few flyers picked up at any subway station. A life where you’re scheduled to go to a language camp in an English-speaking country and a ski camp during the long summer and winter school breaks. A life that can be summarized by an adequate command of English and appropriate people skills. This is the life that Crystal leads now and it’s the life that awaits her. In the evening a mob of students, clutching pencils and cellphones, hovers outside the smoothie shop that just opened across from the cram school; their parents struggle to cover their expenses. Parents like Mina’s and Crystal’s, who have the ability to do this, are in the minority. These burdens are manifested in the huge digital clock at City Hall Plaza, whose golden letters and numbers are fodder for the parents, reminding them of what their duty is. Chewing on these figures, the parents weep in anguish and hardship. They inherently know that to be true residents of P City, even if they can’t cover their children’s expenses, they must at least pretend they can. Once a month they have to dine at a downtown restaurant that bustles with Westerners who add a tip and pay a surcharge. They love the vibrant ambience and are energized by the abundant varieties of fresh organic fruits and vegetables. The parents draw comfort from being able to cover what they must. Thus encouraged, their fighting spirit strengthened, they’re ready to cover even more excessive expenditures. There’s a peculiarity to this wave of esprit—it gets higher and higher, never subsiding, forever gorging itself on those who have drowned. This strange wave builds constantly, yesterday’s crest giving way to today’s even higher crest, so that yesterday’s high water is suddenly the lowest of low water and barely an afterthought. People speak in muted tones about what they have to cope with: We have to cope with today because tomorrow there’s even more we’ll have to manage. Life is a matter of coping, and the most important thing is to survive, whatever it takes. So in order to survive, we have to cope. Whatever comes up, we can’t just shake our heads and say no. We have to silently accept it. We have to be content with meager wages, conflicted relationships, unfair treatment, and a wasted life. That way we’ll have an opportunity to carry heavier burdens, and that’s not a punishment but an reward. To live an advantaged life, we must cope with this reward along with everything else. For reward read suffering, and for suffering read reward. It’s that simple. Life is a series of painful exchanges. The medium of these exchanges is P City’s private tutoring industry, a colossus without precedent.
The residents of P City have access to the choicest education in the world, laid out right in front of them, an infinite selection of educational products starting with private tutoring and continuing with study-abroad programs or alternative schooling, ranging from elite day schools to boarding schools, stimulating the appetite with the same diversity of multinational offerings you’d find at your local Starbucks. The people of P City know how they should spend their money, at least as far as education is concerned. Be proud, they tell themselves, you belong to the most highly educated citizenry in the world, and therefore have the most rewards. As we’ve mentioned, reward means suffering and suffering means reward, and the effect of this quality education consists of only one thing: inflating their egos. Consumed by ego, they pursue a superstore lifestyle and if along the way the traditional markets, the old bookshops, and the neighborhood eateries get swallowed up, they can always shift the blame to corrupt politicians. They adopt a lifestyle of speaking a Western lingo others can’t follow; they roam like a pack of dogs ravaging everything in their path; and when they’re done roaming they get an exclusive luxury apartment in which they build their own private utopia. Never do they acknowledge there will be a price to pay. They’re already paying the price. Their inflated egos have already burst but they’re unable to let them go, so they shoulder them on a journey through a tunnel of suffering. For them the world is no longer normal. Rats will abandon clean water and swarm to the pot where sugar water is mixed with heroin. Not because they’re addicted but because they need to numb the pain of their distressing lives and block out the torment.
If you find yourself crying because your ego prevents you from giving up on something you can’t afford, don’t despair—everyone else is in the same boat! So what you do is put on your most snobbish look and pick up something even more expensive, or go all out and get the most expensive item of all. Let your ambition run wild. Aim higher. Do that and you’ll end up with a bonus—a pair of fancy speakers or the cellphone your favorite celebrity uses. That’s how you get to the top of this pyramid—but all that awaits you there is an exorbitantly priced dinner, an exorbitantly priced espresso, and an exorbitantly priced apartment, nothing you wouldn’t find at the top of other pyramids. So what’s new?
People often say that advantages bring disadvantages, that actions are accompanied by reactions. It’s only natural that there are dark shadows, but in P City, anyway, such expressions don’t make sense. If you’re going to describe this city correctly and precisely, you have to phrase it something like this: an immensely inflated disadvantage brings a bit of an advantage. It’s identical to drug addiction. The greater the pain when you wake up, the more intense the moment of pleasure at that first hit. When your brain is conditioned for the pinnacle of pleasure, your body is too weak to remember the pain. With all the suffering that’s already around you, it’s not easy to distinguish the suffering from the addiction from the other kinds of suffering. And so you tolerate it. You confuse the suffering that comes from addiction with the suffering that comes from life. But you never get used to it. Instead you convince yourself that life is a process of progressive pain and you grin and bear it. People extol the sliver of light that sometimes penetrates suffering—hope remains, or that’s the human spirit at work—but any sliver of light is merely a momentary delusion of the late-stage addict. It’s an anomaly, how could it be anything else? What’s normal about searching for hope amidst suffering when the world all around you has gone crazy? As the waves crest higher and higher, who wants to stay where the water is lowest, defenseless and defeated, consigned to oblivion? Instead you try to escape. You have to run. There’s nothing brave about going toe to toe with the waves that will surge over you. Just take off, screaming, as far as you can go, follow the mad rats that are following the pied piper. There’s no time to lose. People are already submerged, bodies in the water.
In the end, life will smother Crystal. She’ll be all by herself then. She won’t be able to do a thing. In the end the foulest things you can imagine will taint her. She’ll be stripped of all that she cherishes most. That’s how she’s been raised: by conquerors.
And this is how she’ll survive. Hitching a ride on the backs of mad rats, she will survive. She’ll reign triumphant. Crushed to death, she’ll send out a beacon of light from the top of the highest tower—smothered yet shining.
This is Crystal’s situation to deal with now, the society and the space in which she lives, and there’s no way around it.
CRY AS MUCH AS YOU CAN
There’s been no letup to the rain, but there are still sandy layers of dust in the sky. The television warns of global warming and red tide. Dampness rules the city. Women’s hair has lost its curls and hangs limp, and tortilla chips lose their crunch as soon as the bag is opened, so they need to be toasted before being eaten—it’s that kind of weather. The patter of falling rain clings to the ear like a song that won’t go away.
But now that the rain has finally stopped and the sun has returned, the world, revealed in its dazzling light, looks somehow transformed. The weather has warmed up enough to melt butter and soften cheese. It’s Wednesday morning and under the clear skies Mina and her mother are visiting her soon-to-be-former school. Wearing street clothes instead of her school uniform and sporting dark glasses and headphones, Mina walks with her eyes front, not greeting anyone. Her mother is dressed in a pink spangled blouse, a green chiffon skirt, and gilded spike heels, and accessorized with a gold-colored
saddle bag. Her face is agleam with perspiration and foundation. She looks glum and seems preoccupied. Ripples pass through the monotone sea of school uniforms, the iridescent mother and daughter drawing everyone’s eyes. Into the school office they go, the students massing outside. While Mina’s mother signs the withdrawal form and talks with her homeroom teacher, Mina remains zoned out behind her dark glasses and headphones. One of the other teachers approaches the table where Mina is sitting and offers her a can of mango juice, but Mina waves it off. The teacher leaves the can on the table and disappears. Head bobbing, shoulders shimmying, singing in a soft, low voice, Mina takes the can, pops it open, and sips. Her mother looks at her, absolutely baffled, then lowers her head and yanks at her hair:
“How in God’s name did I end up with a kid like her?”
“Excuse me?” says the homeroom teacher.
Mina’s mother bolts up, marches over to Mina, and slaps her on the shoulder in irritation. Startled, Mina springs to her feet. Mother and daughter leave the office. The students disperse, murmuring. A blinding ray of sun suddenly shoots through the hallway, and everyone looks away, squinting. Mina’s mother hoists her gold-colored saddle bag to block the sun. Mina in her dark glasses is the only one to keep her eyes forward; her expression is unchanged. Mina and her mother slowly walk past Crystal. But Crystal doesn’t approach; she gives no hint of recognition. She looks at Mina but can’t see if Mina in her dark glasses is looking at her. Before she can ask herself what’s happening, Mina and her mother have left the building. But she feels neither sorrow nor shock, only as if some trivial clump of gray matter buried deep in her brain has eroded—one more useless appendage has atrophied and dissolved, that’s all. Such tiny erosions have been occurring for some time now. Craving sugar, she hurries to the snack bar for dark chocolate studded with espresso beans, then paces for a few minutes before heading out to the pine grove beyond the playfield. As she ambles along she thinks about the minute clump in her brain that’s eroded. But instead of gathering, her thoughts keep scattering. About to cry she looks up, and there in front of her is Mina. Registering Crystal, Mina slowly removes her dark glasses and headphones. The sun has made a lemonade-colored halo around Mina, which is so strong that Crystal can’t distinguish Mina from Mina’s long shadow stretching out toward her. Long dark Mina approaches her.
“Mina.”
Crystal notices Mina’s bloodshot eyes and the dark semi-circles beneath and takes a step back.
“What’s wrong?” asks Mina.
“I’m scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“Your shadow is so long.”
“Let’s go in the woods.”
They sit beneath a tall pine and for a while they don’t say anything.
“Crystal, I don’t want to keep living. What should I do?”
“Yeah, I’m not exactly thrilled about life either.”
“What do you mean? You’ve got a boyfriend. You’ve got a lot to live for.”
Watching Mina, Crystal searches for a reason for her to live. But nothing comes to mind. Flummoxed, she wonders if that means it’s all right for Mina to die.
“No, I can’t say I do. Look, Mina, didn’t you make it this far because you had something to live for?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve never really thought about stuff like that.”
Crystal dabs at Mina’s tear-wet cheeks.
“I just want to die.”
Mina is crying harder now. Crystal looks at her face. Then she looks up at the sky. Fuzzy white light. She feels dizzy. Again she looks at Mina’s face. Mina crying, her face rose red, and she’s beautiful. It’s a feeling she can’t deny. She reaches out and pulls Mina close. The scent of the pine needles pierces her nostrils. The odor of cool earth, the scintillating light, the tangy pine scent, the tepid air with just the right humidity—they all come together to deliver a powerful boost to Crystal’s spirits. Slanting shafts of radiant light fall all around, and she and Mina are right in the middle of it. Mina’s polo shirt feels cool and crisp and gives off the fragrance of soap. Her hair streaming down is framed by the needles. Crystal nestles her head against Mina’s chest, taking in the soap fragrance and the scent of pine needles. She’s drowsy, wants to hang on to this time and space a little longer. The needles quiver faintly in the breeze. The girls embrace for what feels an eternity, like lovers caught in a storm, clinging in quiet desperation.
Crystal hears the distant ring of the bell for the start of class. She can’t tell if the ringing is real or if it’s coming from inside her head. She doesn’t want to know.
Mina gives her a gentle prod. “Time for class.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got to go.” Wiping her tears, Mina puts her dark glasses and headphones back on. Crystal gazes at her blankly.
“I’m off. Bye.”
“Bye. Be safe.”
With a wave to Mina, Crystal runs off. Behind her glasses Mina is crying. Crystal doesn’t look back as she runs toward her classroom. She takes the bar of chocolate, unwraps it, and bites. The oh-so-rich and bittersweet chocolate combined with the dry crunch of the coffee beans envelops her in a sense of loss. She feels she’s tumbling down an endless flight of stairs, like someone with an ulcer who’s chugged a super-sweet mug of cocoa. These are new sensations for her. Something has come to an end. A thread has been snipped, a door closed, and she realizes now that there’s a place to which she can never return.
The earth is turning too fast. If she’s not careful she’ll end up flying off toward the far side of the universe.
Feeling a tremor from the ground, she lurches to a stop. Gingerly she lifts a foot and sets it down. Nothing—no movement beneath her sneaker. She looks up at the sky again. The sun is hiding behind a baguette-shaped cloud.
She feels the loss deeply, is momentarily breathless. A throng of students storms toward her, then they pass by, giggling and talking. It’s nothing, she keeps telling herself as she starts up the steps of the building toward her classroom.
Mina’s gone, she’s disappeared, she hasn’t come back. And Crystal’s not about to go looking for her. Words don’t pass between them any longer. Crystal tries to forget her, but the feeling of loss won’t let go. It’s like an abandoned well, a place she passes by all the time until one day she falls in. The well is bottomless. It has nothing to do with the laws of physics, and yet she falls vertically, a slow and steady drop. The stone wall of the well is sometimes gray, sometimes black, maybe even orange, but mostly it’s colorless. She’s still dropping and there’s still no bottom. But she’s surely falling, and that’s the problem. How can I be falling down when I didn’t have enough time to reach the top? The rock wall is cold and hard and damp to the touch. She hears cheerful reggae music in the distance, is reminded of the sweet smell of grass. Time passes and she starts getting bored, but she still can’t release the tension she feels. And now, finally, she’s getting angry. But still she’s dropping. She tries to think rationally—there has to be a way to overcome this, there’s got to be a lesson to learn. But the next moment she feels stupid—she might as well try to coat this stone wall with egg white.
What do I do now?
Great—she’s asking herself the same question Mina asked her and never got an answer to. It’s the same question but all it does is repeat in her mind; she’s not troubling herself over it. These days, to keep up her English she’s watching Saturday Night Live without the subtitles, one episode per night, watching it more than once, and she’s gotten to where she laughs along with the live audience. Occasionally she’ll feel she’s really getting the hang of American humor, but she’s not sure if this is a kind of default brainwashing that results from all the work she’s put into studying English, or if she’s laughing because the jokes really are funny. The more ambiguity she has to contend with, the angrier and more fretful she becomes. And before she knows it a primeval anger has taken over—especially when, for the umpteenth time, she hears a word she doesn’t k
now. That’s when despair hits and she kills the TV and turns on music, jacking up the volume. She dances and she shakes her head every which way and she tries to roust all the unpleasant thoughts.
