Topic Edit: My Fleeting Life – Tears in America (3)

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About three years later, electricity finally arrived in our village. 
The world seemed transformed, bathed in newfound light.

Before long, a radio speaker was installed in our living room—rented by a company that provided broadcasts to homes in the neighborhood. The company controlled the programming, transmitting major radio shows through the speakers, and we had to pay a monthly fee for the service. Though there were no selectable channels—only an on/off switch and a volume dial—I was enthralled.

With the press of a button, melodies filled the air. I hummed along with singers as their voices danced through the speaker. Wrestling matches kept me on the edge of my seat, and news reports gave me glimpses into events beyond our small mountain village.

Then, one day, as my younger sister and I sat listening, a group of men entered our home. Without a word of explanation, they began to remove the speaker. 
Our parents had fallen behind on payments, and the company was reclaiming its property.

I clung to them, pleading. “Please! Don’t take it away!”
But they ignored my cries, shaking me off with cold indifference.
No matter how desperately I begged, they took the speaker and left.
I stood in the front yard, watching them disappear, my body frozen.

As the last sound of the outside world vanished from our home, 
thick tears streamed down my face.

There was only one house in our village that had a TV, and on days when a famous Korean wrestler had a match, that house would charge the neighborhood kids to watch. However, since I had no money, I couldn't go inside. Instead, I would set up a brick ladder and watch the TV through their window. Fortunately, the couple who owned the house never chased me away.

Looking back, it seems a little funny that I went through so much effort just to watch a wrestling match. But at the time, that wrestler's matches were as popular in Korea as the Super Bowl is in the U.S. today.

On hot summer days, my neighborhood friends and I would often go to Namsan to play. One time, while we were swimming in a small stream by the roadside, completely unclothed, a passing U.S. military jeep stopped, and the soldiers took out a camera and snapped several photos of us. I wondered if our pictures had ever ended up somewhere in America.

Another time, my friends and I skipped school and went to the Han River. Near the dam’s sluice gates, we took off our rubber shoes and played by catching small fish. Feeling adventurous, we decided to go inside the sluice gate area. Though none of us could swim, we waded in up to our chests. Suddenly, one of our friends was carried away by the current. We rushed out of the gate and ran along the riverbank, screaming for help, as we weren’t capable of saving him ourselves. Luckily, a nearby fisherman saw what was happening and rescued him. After that terrifying experience, we never went back to the Han River to play again.

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