Storytime
Hello internet. It's been a very long time since my last post. I still check by here, but deviant art is much more interesting now.
I just wanted to share a story i found online that made me teary eyed. It's from a blog of some sort written by an american man. copypasted so I don't mess with his bandwidth.
~ ~ ~
New readers might not know this, but I’m somewhat of a newlywed, having married my Korean wife on March 8 of this year. One Sunday morning five weeks after the wedding, my wife’s mother suffered a catastrophic stroke from which the doctors doubted she would recover at all - though she did pull through, that tough woman. Six weeks after that, though, still in the hospital, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. For the following nine weeks, we received regular urgent calls to rush to the hospital to say goodbye. All of them were false alarms, until another Sunday morning two weeks ago, when my wife’s mother finally passed away.
My wife’s family, though Christian, is still deeply Confucian in its devotion to family. You Westerners and Anglos who think you know what a close family is would probably agree, after living in China or Korea, that Confucianism takes family ties to depths unknown in the West. And because I’m married to the oldest child in the family, I was a bit shocked to discover that I was now looked upon as the “oldest son” of my wife’s family, outranking her two brothers - in theory, anyway. My inability to speak Korean soon made it clear that I could not play that role, so I receive much honor from my brothers, but little of the burden they’re having to bear.
This became clear, especially, during the three days’ mourning at the funeral home. Korean Confucianism dictates that the sons of the deceased spend two full days in black mourning suits, welcoming all who come to pay their final respects. (The daughters are not allowed to do this, but instead linger outside the altar room in their own black mourning dresses.) The visiting hours extend from roughly 8.00 a.m. to midnight, and the sons spend that entire time seated next to the altar, until a visitor arrives, at which point the sons stand shoulder to shoulder.
At first, my brothers-in-law insisted I welcome guests with them in this fashion, and I did my best - but it was confusing. Sometimes, visitors would come, we would bow, and then the visitors would turn to my mother-in-law’s portrait, place a white chrysanthemum on the table in front of it, then bow their heads and pray. They would then turn back to us, and we would both bow to each other from the waist, shake hands while exchanging a few words of thanks, and say goodbye.
At other times, though, guests would come in and go through the same process up to placing the flower - but then, instead of bowing their heads and praying, they would stand upright, fall to their knees, then place both hands on the floor in front of them, and touch their foreheads to the floor between their hands for a few long seconds. Then they would stand up, and repeat that ritual a second time, and stand back up, bow toward the portrait from the waist, slowly, then turn to us.
The first time this happened, I thought my brothers-in-law and I would bow from the waist the way we had with the earlier guests. So I was surprised to see them instead spread out a bit, face the guests, and then, together with the guests, do the two full head-to-the-floor genuflections all over again, followed by the final bow from the waist.
I thought this second form of reverence was beautiful. I couldn’t understand why it was performed less frequently than the first.
Anyway, after we and the visitors performed that rite, the visitors would then shake my brothers-in-laws’ hands down the line, and usually, when they got to me, look quizzically at me and either ask my brothers-in-law a polite “who’s the foreigner” question in Korean and then shake my hand, or else look at me coldly, turn their backs without a word, and leave.
To digress for a second, I can’t recommend highly enough that second experience to any white Anglo, because it was the first time in my life I had experienced what it feels like to be looked down upon and rejected because of your race. I’m fully aware, in retrospect, that my interpretation of these people’s reactions to me could be wrong, that possibly it was just discomfort, confusion, or any number of other reasons that they didn’t treat me as equal to my brothers-in-law. But the feelings I experienced during those moments were new. I felt a new appreciation for the experience of people of color, or in interracial marriages, in the U.S. and other white-dominated countries.
My brothers-in-law noted the awkwardness, and seemed to come to grips with the fact that I was not Korean, that I was a somewhat distracting presence for all, and gave me permission to basically come and go as I pleased while they kept the stricter vigil. I pretty much did that for the rest of the mourning.
Back to the story, though: After a few hours of sometimes kneeling - kow-towing, to give it its Chinese name - and sometimes only bowing, I asked my brother-in-law: “Why do some people kneel and touch their heads to the floor when paying their final respects, while others don’t, but instead only stand, pray, and bow?”
His answer saddened me: “The ones who kneel are traditional Koreans. That’s the way we’ve always done it. But the ones who don’t kneel are Korean Christians. They were taught by the missionaries not to kneel to their ancestors, because that was worshiping them, and the First Commandment in the Bible forbids that, so it would displease God.”
My wife had told me, in the first days of our courtship, that her childhood was marred by family fights over whether to pay respect to ancestors the traditional way or, in following the teachings of their new Christian faith, to refuse to do so. It’s an issue that has caused a lot of strife and discord in many Korean families since the missionaries came, and continues to do so. The funny thing is, though, that as I watched this custom being enacted by mourners toward my mother-in-law, it never entered my mind that they were “worshiping” her. They were paying respect, they were honoring, they were expressing reverence for this woman they loved and her path on this earth, as far as I could see - and doing it in a very touching, beautiful, humbled way. And now, because some long-ago foreign man of a foreign god had interpreted their culture in terms of his own, they were fighting about it.
My wife’s family, again, being Christian, themselves did not pay their final respects to their mother in this traditional way. Instead, they constantly pulled out their Korean translations of the English (King James) translation of the Hebrew/Aramaic/Greek Bible, read verses from it, prayed to its god, and droned Western hymns (again in Korean translation) from its hymnal. I found that sad.
On the third day, we were called to watch the Korean undertakers wrap my mother-in-law’s body in the traditional silk binding-cloth, from head to toe, layer after layer, each layer tied tightly across her body with silk ties, until in the end she looked as if enclosed in a silk cocoon. A few hours later, we were at the funeral grave-site. The Christian preacher read a few verses from the Bible, they sang a few more hymns, the Korean grave-diggers covered the coffin with dirt and trotted in a circle of four to pack it down, in a cheerful way that made the children laugh and me think of the wry grave-digger in the Yorick’s skull scene in Hamlet. They said one last prayer - I kept my eyes open, as always when people pray, and took in the beautiful view of nature from this hilltop site, thinking appreciative thoughts the whole while about nature’s beauty, my in-laws’ decency, my mother-in-law’s well-meaning life - and then we all left.
We were all exhausted. I thought that was the end of it. But soon I learned that Korean Chusok - “Thanksgiving” - began two days later, and we would be spending another three or four days with the family at my father-in-law’s apartment on the outskirts of Seoul.
During Chusok, I learned that families visit the graves of their ancestors to have a meal “with them” there - so back we went to the gravesite, only three days after the burial. For some reason, my wife’s family didn’t bring a meal to the grave, but at many of the neighboring graves speckling the rolling hills of the massive cemetery, families were all picnicking by the burial mounds with rice and chopsticks and kimchi and the whole Korean spread. It was a cheerful sight on a beautiful, sunny, late-summer day.
We kept our visit short. Father-in-law now read from the Bible instead of preacher. I noticed he read from Revelation, the last book of the Christian New Testament, which Martin Luther himself rejected and opined should not be included in the Protestant Bible because he “saw no God there.” More hymns were sung and prayers said, as I again surveyed the view of nature, and mentally surveyed the path of all our lives, and its common destination.
I found myself wondering again, as I had many times over the past week, if anybody in the family found it sad that all the words being spoken were not from the hearts of the family members, but the pages of a foreign book; that no words at all were being spoken by any but the elder men - preacher, then father; that the words were not about this kind woman in the ground at the end of her good life, but were instead about a “jealous God” and a crucified teacher in that foreign book. Even the tombstone inscription was not the family’s words, and its subject not the family’s mother and wife: instead, it was a cliche verse glorifying the god of that book. It seemed so impersonal to me.
I remembered, too, all those rushed “last visits” to the hospital bed, the family thinking so many times they were sharing their last moments with her, and each time wishing that someone would simply speak to her - would tell her she had been a good mother, a good wife, that she was loved, that her life was well-spent - instead of incessantly weeping and praying above her to the god they hoped would save her. I don’t think she ever got to hear her family express such things. Religiosity kept getting in the way.
The final Chusok prayer was said, and the family turned to leave. My wife stayed, and so did I. I told her I didn’t want to offend anybody, but that I wanted to pay my respects to her mother in the most beautiful way I could. After I explained what I meant by that, I was surprised that my wife approved.
So, though it felt slightly foolish, this foreigner - whose culture’s book and customs had dominated the life and death of this woman - he faced his mother-in-law’s fresh grave, went to his knees, touched his head to the earth at her feet, lingered, stood. Did the same thing again, stood again. Then he bowed his head, inwardly thanked her for her selfless life as a good mother and wife and neighbor - she really was all of these things - and rejoined his family.
~ ~ ~
I just wanted to share a story i found online that made me teary eyed. It's from a blog of some sort written by an american man. copypasted so I don't mess with his bandwidth.
~ ~ ~
New readers might not know this, but I’m somewhat of a newlywed, having married my Korean wife on March 8 of this year. One Sunday morning five weeks after the wedding, my wife’s mother suffered a catastrophic stroke from which the doctors doubted she would recover at all - though she did pull through, that tough woman. Six weeks after that, though, still in the hospital, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. For the following nine weeks, we received regular urgent calls to rush to the hospital to say goodbye. All of them were false alarms, until another Sunday morning two weeks ago, when my wife’s mother finally passed away.
My wife’s family, though Christian, is still deeply Confucian in its devotion to family. You Westerners and Anglos who think you know what a close family is would probably agree, after living in China or Korea, that Confucianism takes family ties to depths unknown in the West. And because I’m married to the oldest child in the family, I was a bit shocked to discover that I was now looked upon as the “oldest son” of my wife’s family, outranking her two brothers - in theory, anyway. My inability to speak Korean soon made it clear that I could not play that role, so I receive much honor from my brothers, but little of the burden they’re having to bear.
This became clear, especially, during the three days’ mourning at the funeral home. Korean Confucianism dictates that the sons of the deceased spend two full days in black mourning suits, welcoming all who come to pay their final respects. (The daughters are not allowed to do this, but instead linger outside the altar room in their own black mourning dresses.) The visiting hours extend from roughly 8.00 a.m. to midnight, and the sons spend that entire time seated next to the altar, until a visitor arrives, at which point the sons stand shoulder to shoulder.
At first, my brothers-in-law insisted I welcome guests with them in this fashion, and I did my best - but it was confusing. Sometimes, visitors would come, we would bow, and then the visitors would turn to my mother-in-law’s portrait, place a white chrysanthemum on the table in front of it, then bow their heads and pray. They would then turn back to us, and we would both bow to each other from the waist, shake hands while exchanging a few words of thanks, and say goodbye.
At other times, though, guests would come in and go through the same process up to placing the flower - but then, instead of bowing their heads and praying, they would stand upright, fall to their knees, then place both hands on the floor in front of them, and touch their foreheads to the floor between their hands for a few long seconds. Then they would stand up, and repeat that ritual a second time, and stand back up, bow toward the portrait from the waist, slowly, then turn to us.
The first time this happened, I thought my brothers-in-law and I would bow from the waist the way we had with the earlier guests. So I was surprised to see them instead spread out a bit, face the guests, and then, together with the guests, do the two full head-to-the-floor genuflections all over again, followed by the final bow from the waist.
I thought this second form of reverence was beautiful. I couldn’t understand why it was performed less frequently than the first.
Anyway, after we and the visitors performed that rite, the visitors would then shake my brothers-in-laws’ hands down the line, and usually, when they got to me, look quizzically at me and either ask my brothers-in-law a polite “who’s the foreigner” question in Korean and then shake my hand, or else look at me coldly, turn their backs without a word, and leave.
To digress for a second, I can’t recommend highly enough that second experience to any white Anglo, because it was the first time in my life I had experienced what it feels like to be looked down upon and rejected because of your race. I’m fully aware, in retrospect, that my interpretation of these people’s reactions to me could be wrong, that possibly it was just discomfort, confusion, or any number of other reasons that they didn’t treat me as equal to my brothers-in-law. But the feelings I experienced during those moments were new. I felt a new appreciation for the experience of people of color, or in interracial marriages, in the U.S. and other white-dominated countries.
My brothers-in-law noted the awkwardness, and seemed to come to grips with the fact that I was not Korean, that I was a somewhat distracting presence for all, and gave me permission to basically come and go as I pleased while they kept the stricter vigil. I pretty much did that for the rest of the mourning.
Back to the story, though: After a few hours of sometimes kneeling - kow-towing, to give it its Chinese name - and sometimes only bowing, I asked my brother-in-law: “Why do some people kneel and touch their heads to the floor when paying their final respects, while others don’t, but instead only stand, pray, and bow?”
His answer saddened me: “The ones who kneel are traditional Koreans. That’s the way we’ve always done it. But the ones who don’t kneel are Korean Christians. They were taught by the missionaries not to kneel to their ancestors, because that was worshiping them, and the First Commandment in the Bible forbids that, so it would displease God.”
My wife had told me, in the first days of our courtship, that her childhood was marred by family fights over whether to pay respect to ancestors the traditional way or, in following the teachings of their new Christian faith, to refuse to do so. It’s an issue that has caused a lot of strife and discord in many Korean families since the missionaries came, and continues to do so. The funny thing is, though, that as I watched this custom being enacted by mourners toward my mother-in-law, it never entered my mind that they were “worshiping” her. They were paying respect, they were honoring, they were expressing reverence for this woman they loved and her path on this earth, as far as I could see - and doing it in a very touching, beautiful, humbled way. And now, because some long-ago foreign man of a foreign god had interpreted their culture in terms of his own, they were fighting about it.
My wife’s family, again, being Christian, themselves did not pay their final respects to their mother in this traditional way. Instead, they constantly pulled out their Korean translations of the English (King James) translation of the Hebrew/Aramaic/Greek Bible, read verses from it, prayed to its god, and droned Western hymns (again in Korean translation) from its hymnal. I found that sad.
On the third day, we were called to watch the Korean undertakers wrap my mother-in-law’s body in the traditional silk binding-cloth, from head to toe, layer after layer, each layer tied tightly across her body with silk ties, until in the end she looked as if enclosed in a silk cocoon. A few hours later, we were at the funeral grave-site. The Christian preacher read a few verses from the Bible, they sang a few more hymns, the Korean grave-diggers covered the coffin with dirt and trotted in a circle of four to pack it down, in a cheerful way that made the children laugh and me think of the wry grave-digger in the Yorick’s skull scene in Hamlet. They said one last prayer - I kept my eyes open, as always when people pray, and took in the beautiful view of nature from this hilltop site, thinking appreciative thoughts the whole while about nature’s beauty, my in-laws’ decency, my mother-in-law’s well-meaning life - and then we all left.
We were all exhausted. I thought that was the end of it. But soon I learned that Korean Chusok - “Thanksgiving” - began two days later, and we would be spending another three or four days with the family at my father-in-law’s apartment on the outskirts of Seoul.
During Chusok, I learned that families visit the graves of their ancestors to have a meal “with them” there - so back we went to the gravesite, only three days after the burial. For some reason, my wife’s family didn’t bring a meal to the grave, but at many of the neighboring graves speckling the rolling hills of the massive cemetery, families were all picnicking by the burial mounds with rice and chopsticks and kimchi and the whole Korean spread. It was a cheerful sight on a beautiful, sunny, late-summer day.
We kept our visit short. Father-in-law now read from the Bible instead of preacher. I noticed he read from Revelation, the last book of the Christian New Testament, which Martin Luther himself rejected and opined should not be included in the Protestant Bible because he “saw no God there.” More hymns were sung and prayers said, as I again surveyed the view of nature, and mentally surveyed the path of all our lives, and its common destination.
I found myself wondering again, as I had many times over the past week, if anybody in the family found it sad that all the words being spoken were not from the hearts of the family members, but the pages of a foreign book; that no words at all were being spoken by any but the elder men - preacher, then father; that the words were not about this kind woman in the ground at the end of her good life, but were instead about a “jealous God” and a crucified teacher in that foreign book. Even the tombstone inscription was not the family’s words, and its subject not the family’s mother and wife: instead, it was a cliche verse glorifying the god of that book. It seemed so impersonal to me.
I remembered, too, all those rushed “last visits” to the hospital bed, the family thinking so many times they were sharing their last moments with her, and each time wishing that someone would simply speak to her - would tell her she had been a good mother, a good wife, that she was loved, that her life was well-spent - instead of incessantly weeping and praying above her to the god they hoped would save her. I don’t think she ever got to hear her family express such things. Religiosity kept getting in the way.
The final Chusok prayer was said, and the family turned to leave. My wife stayed, and so did I. I told her I didn’t want to offend anybody, but that I wanted to pay my respects to her mother in the most beautiful way I could. After I explained what I meant by that, I was surprised that my wife approved.
So, though it felt slightly foolish, this foreigner - whose culture’s book and customs had dominated the life and death of this woman - he faced his mother-in-law’s fresh grave, went to his knees, touched his head to the earth at her feet, lingered, stood. Did the same thing again, stood again. Then he bowed his head, inwardly thanked her for her selfless life as a good mother and wife and neighbor - she really was all of these things - and rejoined his family.
~ ~ ~