When My Name Was Keoko Read Online Free Page B

with Abuji. He was showing me "north"—two men sitting back-to-back at the top of the world—as I stared not at the paper but at the shining new badge on my collar.
    The badge was the reason those boys had thrown stones and called me names. I was good at Japanese. They thought that made me
chin-il-pa.
I wasn't a traitor, was I? Could you be a traitor without knowing it? Even to be called one was shameful.
    Maybe I could take the pin off. But they'd all notice—my teachers, the principal, Abuji, everyone. Then I'd be in trouble at school as well.
    I tried to make myself laugh inside by recalling Uncle's favorite joke about the
chin-il-pa:
"They eat Korean rice, but their poop is Japanese." But not even this cheered me.
    Suddenly, Abuji put down the pencil and looked at me thoughtfully.
    "You know, Sun-hee, kanji was not originally Japanese."
    Not Japanese? What did he mean? I looked up at him, puzzled.
    "Both Korea and Japan long ago borrowed the system of character writing from China. The Japanese use it in their own way, of course, especially when they combine it with their alphabetic writing. But the characters are the same. This"—he picked up the pencil again and pointed to the page—"is the character for north' in Japanese
and
in Chinese. And in Korean as well."
    Abuji stacked the books neatly, rolled up the paper, and put away the ink pot. I stood and bowed to him, preparing to leave the room.
    He spoke again. "Your grandfather was a great scholar. He knew much of the important classical Chinese literature. In his time and for hundreds of years before his time we Koreans always considered Chinese the highest form of learning." He paused and looked at me calmly. "To excel at character writing is to honor the traditions of our ancestors."
    I hadn't realized that my worries were showing on my face, but Abuji had noticed. What he'd said was meant to comfort me and to make me feel proud inside myself again.
    I nodded, hoping he understood my silent thanks. If those boys called me
chin-il-pa
again, I could reach inside and hold on to the knowledge he'd given me.

6. Tae-yul (1941)
    Abuji and Sun-hee spend hours studying kanji together. I sit with them sometimes, but I can't figure out why they think it's so interesting. Kanji is a complete bore.
    I do my best in school, but really I hate it. Not that
I'm a bad student. I always know my lessons. Son of the elementary-school vice-principal—it would be shameful if I did poorly. But I've never been Class Leader either.
    Abuji doesn't scold me about my grades. When I was younger, I used to wonder about it, why he didn't get angry with me. Surely he
felt
angry. He was such a good scholar, just like his father. Both of them had been Class Leaders their whole lives. Whenever I show Abuji my marks, he always looks disappointed. But he never yells at me.
    Science and mathematics lessons aren't too bad. But we study those subjects for only a little while each day. Most of the time we study Japanese. Japanese and more Japanese. And kanji is the worst of all.
    Each word is a separate character, and some characters look alike. A single brushstroke makes the difference between "sky" and "big." Two characters close together often make a whole new word. Who thought up this stuff? They must have tried on purpose to make it confusing. I spend hours studying kanji, until the strokes and lines look like one big blur on the page.
    Sun-hee actually
likes
kanji. When she first started school, she asked for my help. But pretty soon she got really good at it. Now she knows as many characters as I do. More, probably.
    We study together every day after school. One day I throw my pencil down on the table. "I can't stand it anymore," I say, gritting my teeth. I feel like shouting, but Omoni's in the kitchen; I don't want her to hear.
    "What's the matter, Opah?" Sun-hee asks.
    "Kanjikanjikanji all day long—that's what's the matter. I'm sick and tired of staring at these stupid