My Pearls in Shanghai

Prologue

In the pitch dark of night,

The sea waves are continuously rolling in and out.

A girl is standing alone, her eyes wet with tears for her lost butterfly.

The moonlight is drying her tears quietly, one star after another falling into the sea.

Far away from her,

A big whale is swimming against the tide, coming closer to her.

His blinking eyes are holding the reflection of the little crying girl,

In fear of darkness.

He noticed. Why did you fail to find a blue butterfly asked the big whale.

She stayed silent.

The whale beckons her into the sea glittering under the moon.

Magic is unfurling like the petals of a rose, slowly resting in concentric circles around them.

She became part dolphin, then the two of them became part of the sea.

Her long, black hair swelled along with the seaweed, brushing along his slippery skin.

The pearls of sorrow, chained around her neck, started to melt into the sea.

A swirl of love was bubbling around them.

The crescent moon anointed them with the melodic murmurs of the sea.

She whispered softly to a dolphin, Now I can love, and I know where the blue butterfly is.

Ever since I left Shanghai, I’ve meant to write my memoir in English. Despite making this resolution every year, my laziness and daily routines made me put this project on the back burner until I contemplated the meaning of dying well. As I am winding down my time, what I am most dreadful of is leaving no legacy behind, given the impermanence of human beings. A few days after I returned home from Shanghai on a wintery night in December 2009 to start a new life, I was patrolling along the street where the colorful neon signage was dancing around my head, I was overcome with acute nostalgia for my life spent in Shanghai. Now my pen is trailing along the way my red yarns are fanning out in my mind. I am looking at the radiant smile of a little girl with the great expectation that someday she could be a beautiful swan. She was my ego, running through a red corridor in search of her blue butterfly.

The threads of my memory are entwined together into a bright red ball of yarn. The feelings I associate with each place, person, and food are preserved in my red yarn. And my passion for life is superimposing the color red on each thread of memories. These memories hold the emotions of love, hatred, regret, and sorrow. Some of those threads appear to be murky. , as if they have been dipped in a muddy pond. Others are glazed, coated with gems. Gloomy threads are interwoven into the dazzling ones, as if symbolizing how life is beautiful like a white lotus. Its white floral petals are in full blossom in the moonlight but are ironically in the center of a muddy pond. Although some memories have been poignant enough to leave me with emotional scars, I truly wish that my soul could reflect the spirit of a white lotus by mining the beautiful tears from my emotional wounds, which have turned out to be so valuable in making me so humane. In the process of beautifying my Shanghai memories with my imagination, as if reeling silk off cocoons, I have found peace in my existential presence.

As I savored the neatly piled memories of almost eight years in Shanghai, I realized that the color red held a special meaning of resilience, rebellion, intuition, and passion in the creation of my life. That symbol of red has been preserved as my soulful heritage. I imagined dipping my new wishes in the passion of the color red; then they melted into the sunset of my old days in Shanghai. Another new day is now being presented as a present. With such shimmering pearly memories hanging around my mind, my heart was burning with a glow while I was revealing the inner beauties of my Shanghai memories through writing and painting, which has given me my life’s purpose as an artist, I made a resolute promise to wake up stronger than yesterday, with more hope, every morning. I will keep spreading the seeds of hope until my wishes blossom and bear fruit since I have a responsibility for a little girl still running through a red corridor surrounded by wooden poles, revolving around its own axis, in search of a meaningful life. That little girl has a strong belief that she will become a beautiful swan someday. I have to help her become such a swan. That is why I have to wake up stronger than yesterday.

Chapter 1.

Digging Out My Intellectual Gems

My biggest regret about my adolescent period was that I didn’t enjoy studying much of anything except English. The absence of motivation and a lack of goals to focus on led me to hang out with friends aimlessly. Besides, school assignments and rote learning weren’t intellectually challenging to me. The multiple-choice answer sheets didn’t ask for my creativity; therefore, I felt like studying was a tedious chore. At home, I was not happy with my bookshelf, shelved only with reference books, with no space for intellectual inspirations. I felt that those books only guided me to find the right answers to multiple-choice questions. That’s it. The only motivation I had was my desire to enter a prestigious university in Seoul, which would surely help me find the perfect partner. I was too immature to realize that letting myself remain under the protection of others is equal to giving up the freedom to make my own life choices, which is the same as surrendering my sovereignty to another. Nobody can guarantee me happiness if I am not self-reliant. If I define what life is all about, I see it as giving my full commitment to doing what I love to do and being with the people I love. In that sense, my adolescent period could be comparable to the Dark Ages because I didn’t have any direction for my life.

My fateful moment came when I got to know Professor Budlong in Switzerland. She was the one who stirred my intellectual curiosity for self-development. Aside from all the lessons she gave, she wove each day of her life in a way that expanded her potential as far as possible. She didn’t care about others’ opinions of her lifestyle. The dresses she wore were not trendy, but they epitomized her spirit with their combination of elegance and Bohemian style. I enjoyed having intellectual talks with her in her home, where every corner of her space revealed her aspiration for knowledge and the arts with paintings and books. More importantly, her infatuation with Orientalism cultivated my curiosity for Chinese arts and history, which influenced my decision to live in Shanghai. She gave me a desire to be a cultured woman, like a beautiful swan waltzing across the river, reflecting the light. I still remember her words of encouragement when I visited her office, saying between tears, My efforts never pay off; I am still far behind the others. My report card grades are all Bs, Cs, and even a D.

Surprisingly, she encouraged in a heartfelt way, Based on the progress you’ve made so far, I think you’re a genius. Your attitude is amazing to me! I’ve never seen a student print out an entire movie script to analyze the characters line by line. If you put all of your heart in your work, that’s all you need to do. I didn’t care whether her words were just exaggerations or not. But her words of encouragement are still alive in my mind. I could say that she was the first one to dig out my intellectual gems.

Before I met Professor Budlong, I was quite similar to a poor baby elephant whose strong legs were chained pathetically to an immense column. No matter how hard this elephant struggled to unchain herself, her strength was not enough. Even though she grew to a gigantic size, she forgot why she had to free herself from this big chain because she forgot why she had come to earth. This pathetic elephant was raised to be a circus elephant to please others. Being raised by others’ thoughts might offer us a comfort zone, but that is not life—it’s just obedience. The art of living is to create a life by one’s own thoughts. Professor Budlong released me from a metaphorical huge metal chain, made from others’ beliefs that I have to stay this way. Freeing me of all the chains that bind me, whatever they may be, is a must in my journey of self-recovery. I can then steer my way with the unshakable belief that I will become who I want to be.

Chapter 2.

My Childhood

When I recall my childhood, I remember that my intellect failed to flower into a full blossom because I was living my life based on others’ opinions. When I was a middle-school student, I greatly admired Maria Callas, a legendary soprano singer whose powerful voice powerfully stirred my emotions. Her performance as Violetta in La Traviata carried empathy towards the main character, and I was so captivated by the ability of the human voice to express emotions so beautifully. So, curious about what my voice might sound like if professionally trained, I asked my mom if I could be an opera singer. Her sharp tongue started to pop my metaphorical balloons that held the image of me as an opera singer: Nobody in your father’s family line or mine has an artistic gene. Never dream about becoming a singer. I believed that I didn't have any artistic gene. My wish list, which used to hold as many dreams as possible, got smaller and smaller, and my spirit shriveled.

I miss those days when I could believe without a doubt that my wish was my command. When I was a little girl, I believed that I could be a prima donna, an opera singer, a pianist, a painter, a fashion designer, and an architect. But this confidence drifted farther and farther away from me as I got older because I didn’t believe my imagination as I had during my childhood. The saddest thing about being an adult is that we forget how to imagine as we become more accepting of our reality.

When I was a little kid, what I wanted most was a smile and some positive attention from my mom, and I still long for it. My mind zooms in on a younger me as an elementary-school student. Her small shoulders shrink on the way home after a piano lesson. In great anticipation of warm smiles from her mom, she opens the entrance door, looking for her mom. Quite contrary to her expectation was a rushing flood of giddy noise from her youngest brother, riding on his small motorbike toy in the living room, and her younger sister, crying loudly for her mom’s attention. Their mom’s ears couldn’t absorb all the noises, and her patience couldn’t be suppressed further. She burst into screaming with her two slim fingers holding her ears, Be quiet! The sounds of crying, shouting, and yelling bounced off from the ceiling, floors, and windows, falling into the fragile ears of the little girl. So exhausted was their mother that she failed to notice her young daughter, awaiting her smile. Yes, it is a sad portrayal of my childhood.

To console myself, I created an imaginary mom who would come out of the kitchen, welcoming me with big smiles. I could smell the potato pancakes, sizzling in the frying pan. Hey, you finally came home. How was your piano lesson? Cutie, try the potato pancake I made for you. Picturing this would cause happiness to ripple around me, and I would pass my sleeping and weary mom, going straight into my room. In those times, my need for emotional attention was left unattended. A bowl of rice might make me feel alive physically, but not emotionally.

The bookshelf in my childhood home comes into my mind, which was full of Disney books with colorful pictures. These books were my treasures to satisfy my intellectual thirst to imagine beyond the boundaries of the house. Perhaps I have obtained two eyes since then: one for capturing reality and the other for elevating my melancholy mood to see beauty and happiness. I assume that these imaginations empowered me to bear unhappiness, enabling me to believe that life could be beautiful. I just want to have hope like a dandelion, squeezing brightly out of the crevice of an asphalt road to greet the sun. Perhaps my repetitive prayer might attract Professor Budlong for my guidance. Her attention towards me softly stirred my intellectual gems, which eventually put me on the road of self-discovery to Shanghai.

Chapter 3.

My First Taste of Grit

While contemplating the days I spent in schools and at companies, I noticed that the greater my desire for others’ recognition, the emptier I felt inside. Neither praise nor blame from others could get me to reach my authentic self. Coco Chanel’s words cross my mind repeatedly, saying that she invented her life because she didn’t like her given life.

In retrospect, when I was a first grader in elementary school that I first felt the burning urge for my homeroom teacher’s recognition. And the announcement for the skipping rope competition stirred my desire to win my teacher’s recognition to make up for the lack of attention from my family. I skipped rope like a rabbit, bouncing up and down the apartment blocks and hopping into the playground and then the park. I sprang out of my own goal for a homeroom teacher’s recognition. I was so serious about the competition that I practiced jumping around until I could make it 1,000 times. The next day, I raised my hand high, saying proudly, I jumped around 1,000 times. My teacher opened his eyes wide, and I overheard my classmates bustling behind me. I wowed everyone, so I could represent my class as a potential candidate. I imagined the moment when the golden trophy would soon be within my reach. My heart was ballooning so full with confidence just before popping into the air. The Goddess of Glory was smiling at me, and I adjusted my breathing before starting to skip the rope. When my turn came around, I started to skip the rope in front of the judges—one, two, and three. Again, my teacher’s eyes widened, but not from wonder this time—from the opposite feelings. The way I was skipping rope was wrong, I was supposed to skip a rope continuously until I couldn’t do it any longer or I stumbled into the rope.

When I faced the widening eyes and derisive laughter of the onlookers, my confidence crumbled like the crushed paper cups strewn around the litter bins. Then the perfect circle of my pride turned into a gyrating spokes—I was so angry with myself. I was mentally defeated, and I couldn’t admit such a humiliating defeat to my homeroom teacher. This bitter event tamed my ego to satisfy the expectations of others, including teachers, parents, and peers, whereby true happiness started to drift away from me. It took me almost 30 years to kick the habit of living to fulfill others’ expectations and begin to believe that no one could weigh my value except myself, since I am the only one who can create my own destiny.

Chapter 4.

Room Landscape and Identity

4-1. My Childhood Room

While I was living with my parents, the function of my room was limited to a physical space for me to stay, rather than a shelter to softly salve my vulnerabilities. I wasn’t attached to my own room because my taste was not mirrored in the choice of furniture or the color of wallpaper. My memorabilia, like rewards and paintings, were boxed up and kept in the storage room. The room, assigned to my sister and me, was insulated from us emotionally. The only item I felt attached to was a Sony Walkman; we used to listen to a tape of the Jungle Book using one earphone each as a bedtime story. With the narrator’s voice streaming into our ears, we visualized walking along the foggy tropical rainforest to find a swarm of monkeys sipping coconuts and parrots perching on each of our shoulders. In the darkness, our room stood in the center of an imaginary tropical rainforest. We dreamed about the tropical rainforest because we yearned for a variety of colors. Sadly, the visual language of my room was as monotonous as a monastery with a dark brown desk and wardrobe and a bed with an inexpensive bed cover patterned with swirls in dull colors. In an attempt to deliver fun, vitality, and dynamic energy, my sister and I started to draw and paint Disney characters with brighter colors, then glued our paintings to the papered walls of our bedroom. We were exhilarated and clapped aloud to find that our rooms were becoming brighter and more colorful. In front of our artwork, we whirled around over and over with our hands held tightly together in celebration of our paintings. We were chained into a circle. However, the images projected into our eyes were quite different from those that my mother saw; the vibrant flowers, colorful houses, and running children in our paintings ruffled my mother’s tranquility. My mother’s creases deepened, her round eyes shrieking, as steam from her ears,