Category: Misun’s Life

6.  Athletic Team

Winter vacation passed quickly, and the second semester of the third year began on February 1, 1980. My friends and I climbed the snow-paved hill, pushing and holding onto each other to arrive at school. Students entered the classroom, excitedly greeting one another. As everyone settled into their seats, the class president announced that we should tidy up the classroom after class since it was the first day back. We then prepared to start our lessons, still chatting about our vacation experiences.

All of us, chatting and playing pranks, stood in unison as the front door of the classroom opened. Our subject teacher entered. The first class of the day was English. The teacher, who had previously taught at Pyongyang University of Foreign Studies (평양외국어대학) before coming to the countryside, had gray hair. Because of his hair color, he was affectionately called ‘Grandpa,’ even though he was less than 60 years old.

He was easy-going, exchanging jokes with students and possessing a quick wit. My family was originally from Pyongyang, so I easily understood his Pyongyang accent, though his English was still challenging for me. However, other students struggled with his Pyongyang accent.

He began the class after acknowledging the students’ greetings. While writing English words on the blackboard and explaining, a student raised her hand and said, “Teacher, could you please speak more slowly? I’m having trouble understanding your explanation.”

Upon this request, the teacher paused, removed his hand from the blackboard, and turned around. After a moment of contemplation, he asked the class president to bring an extra chair to the front of the classroom. All eyes were on them as the class president fetched the chair and placed it near the lectern. “Do you all have difficulty understanding me?” he inquired, promptly taking a seat as soon as the chair was positioned. “Yes,” came the unanimous response from the students.

With a smile, he surveyed the students before calmly beginning to tell a story.

He recounted his experiences at Pyongyang University of Foreign Studies, expressing doubts about his qualifications as a teacher due to his tendency to speak quickly whenever students asked for explanations repeatedly. Before transitioning to teaching, he had worked as an interpreter in the trade sector and was eventually assigned to the university, which led him to his current role. Despite his efforts, including practicing speaking slowly while walking down the street, he found it challenging to overcome his innate habit of speaking quickly.

He reflected that correcting this speech habit might have been easier if he had initially pursued a career in education rather than interpretation. Despite his ongoing efforts, he recalled being asked to slow down from the very first class, prompting many thoughts about his teaching style.

The 45-minute class was filled with the English teacher’s captivating anecdotes. From that day forward, we always brought a chair to the lecture desk before an English class.

All the subject teachers shared interesting stories on the first day of school, without covering any academic material. As classes came to a close, the class president announced that the wooden floor needed to be cleaned and polished to shine before we could head home. Pairing up students, she assigned each duo a section of the floor. Soon, all 45 students sat on the floor, diligently rubbing it with a candle and cloth, resembling a swarm of crawling ants.

Those without candles made do with only cloth, struggling to bring out the pale yellow, painted color, and achieve a smooth surface.

A candle and a piece of cloth were always essential items for students, alongside textbooks and notebooks.

Our homeroom teacher had a perverse temperament; she wouldn’t even allow us to go home for lunch if the cleaning wasn’t up to her standards. Aware of this, all the students crouched down and diligently rubbed their assigned sections. It wasn’t until after 40 minutes had passed that she finally called a halt, held a reflection session, and dismissed us. Despite feeling disheartened about having to clean from the very first day of school, not a single complaint was uttered.

Parade practice for April 15th commenced a month into the second semester. As March approached, everyone naturally began thinking about Kim Il Sung’s birthday. News spread quietly that my school would start its practice past mid-March, sparking excitement among everyone. Even a delay of just one day meant less time spent marching to the stadium.

In early March, the PE teacher began scouting athletes for the April 15th competitions. My school’s basketball team had a reputation as the best in the city, and the PE teacher seemed determined to excel in the field and track events as well.

It was a day when we had two consecutive hours of PE class. The first period involved using equipment, and in the second class, the teacher announced that we would form groups of four and compete in a 100-meter dash, with the fastest individuals being noted. We lined up in order of our height, and being small, I found myself near the back.

One by one, starting from the front row, students sprinted from the line drawn on the ground to the PE teacher, who was stationed 100 meters away. As each classmate completed their dash, I watched eagerly until it was finally my turn. I took off towards the teacher like a shot arrow. He separated those who arrived first, making them run multiple times until only three remained. I was among the last three.

‘I will be the first again,’ I resolved within myself. I was determined to excel because I knew he was selecting athletes to represent the school. As the signal was given, the three of us dashed towards the teacher.

I crossed the finish line ahead of the other two competitors. The teacher announced my time: 12.9 seconds. He instructed me to join the Athletic Team after school the following day. I was overjoyed; I could barely contain my excitement. Everyone around me envied my success. They patted my back and remarked on how fortunate it would be to no longer have to walk to the stadium or be under the homeroom teacher’s strict supervision.

From the next day onward, I became a member of the athletic team, training for running on the school grounds. Meanwhile, the other students continued shuttling back and forth to the stadium from mid-March.

The pivotal day of the year, April 15, 1980, marked the distribution of our school uniforms. The government provided uniforms for students from elementary school through university. I received mine three times throughout my schooling. Despite having many children, my parents didn’t need to worry about the expense of school uniforms, much like school tuition.

Students, and even teachers, often shed tears of gratitude during the uniform distribution. “Thank you, dear father, Kim Il Sung,” students chanted, pledging to repay the leader’s kindness by dedicating themselves to diligent study and aspiring to become pillars of the nation. The receipt of the uniform served as an inspiration for students to study harder and practice diligently for the parade.

In the afternoon of April 15th, Jongnam and I participated in the 100-meter dash as school representatives. The stadium buzzed with deafening cheers from students representing all the schools in the city. Clad in the sportswear my mother had made for me, I greeted my fellow schoolmates and proceeded to the starting line. Across the field, the PE teacher stood by the students holding the finish line.

Anxiety coursed through my entire body as I stood at the starting line. Beside me were eight other students from various schools, all displaying signs of nervousness. Jongnam, positioned in the next row, seemed more relaxed, likely due to her previous experience as a basketball player in competitions.

At the sound of the whistle, I surged forward. With no awareness of my position relative to the other runners, I focused solely on reaching the finish line and the PE teacher’s exuberant shouts. As he grasped my hand and led me to our school’s section, where students erupted in cheers. I had clinched first place. I made a bow before the entire school.

It was my inaugural track-and-field meet, a triumph that brought honor to my school and catapulted me to newfound fame. From that day until I married, I continued to compete as an athlete, representing both my school and later my workplace. Despite lacking stellar academic grades, my status as a school athlete made me the envy of my peers.

I attended the co-ed middle school located behind my house until my second year. However, at the onset of my third year in 1979, the school underwent a division, segregating into boys’ and girls’ institutions. The school near my house transformed into a boys-only establishment. Additionally, the High Machinery College (고등기계전문학교), situated opposite the People’s School from which I graduated, became a girls’ middle school, while the college itself relocated elsewhere.

Towards the end of my second year, my homeroom teacher, who had been a significant presence, married someone from Pyongsong (평성) and consequently resigned from her teaching position. Her departure left a palpable sense of sorrow, as she was deeply attached to our class.

As we bid farewell to our cherished school and teacher, we made our way to the new school, climbing the same hill I used to breathlessly go back and forth in my People’s School years. Our new teacher was a single woman living in my neighborhood. Whereas our previous teacher was tall, big-eyed, pretty, and had a good personality, the new teacher was short, had small eyes, and had a bad temper. 

I missed my old school behind my house. I was still with the same friends in the same class, but I was not enjoying the school due to the new environment and the new subject teachers. 

Farm work continued at the new school without fail. Soon after the school year commenced on September 1, mobilization for the fall harvest commenced within a few days. Looking back on my middle school years, I recall my teacher’s frequent shouting to swiftly finish the fieldwork, more than her actual teaching of academic subjects.

Midterm examinations were scheduled a month following the farm mobilization, just before the winter break. This period demanded students’ undivided attention on their studies, as there were no social activities like farm mobilization (농촌 동원), road paving (길닦이), or railway support (철도 지원) during the winter. In contrast to South Korea, where private education is prevalent, North Korea solely relies on public education. All academic pursuits are confined to the school premises, prohibiting students from attending classes elsewhere.

All the students had to stay at school until midnight during the exam preparation period. We studied for six periods, ate our lunch, and studied for the upcoming exams. In the evening, either a parent or a sibling of each student would bring dinner to the classroom, allowing us to refuel before resuming our studies. 

 At 11 pm, designated group leaders checked their members’ memorization progress. Subsequently, at 11:30 pm, our homeroom teachers conducted a daily reflection session. Group leaders reported on individual performances, highlighting both successes and shortcomings. Those who struggled were publicly critiqued, standing singled out before eventually being allowed to resume their seats. This ritual persisted each year until my graduation.

One evening during the first semester’s exam preparation, I was diligently memorizing the assigned test material after having dinner brought by my mother. The subject I focused on was Revolutionary History. Alongside this, there were other test subjects like Korean, Math, English, Chemistry, and Physics. The assessment for the rest of the subjects, namely, remaining classes, Biology, Korean History, World History, Music, PE, Arts, and Female Practical Training, was based on scores earned during regular class hours.

While other exams held importance, achieving a full score in Revolutionary History was crucial. This subject delved into the revolutionary chronicles of Kim Il Sung, and proficiency in it was a focal point during our life reflection sessions. Notably, the exam for Revolutionary History preceded all other tests, and my homeroom teacher consistently stressed that excelling in this subject would positively impact performance across different subjects.

I was struggling to concentrate as I tried to recite the exam material with my eyes closed and ears covered. All the other students were also reciting out loud. During this time, the entire school reverberated with the voices with the students as if the roof were about to fly off. However, I was so itching to play some pranks as I sat at a desk the whole day studying. 

As the winter days grew shorter, our school, lacking electricity, relied on oil lamps. Each student placed one on their desk to illuminate their books. Soon, the classroom was enveloped in a hazy glow, casting dark shadows across our faces.

As the night wore on, fatigue set in, and some students succumbed to sleep, their heads resting on their desks. While wandering the classroom, I noticed Yongok(영옥) sound asleep at her desk. Unlike most students who progressed from the first grade of People’s School, Yongok had transferred from across downtown. Back in her previous school, she had been part of the basketball team, but at our new school, she often faced reprimands for dozing off during class. She later joined the sports team at our school. 

Feeling mischievous, I tore the back page off my notebook and placed it over my lamp, collecting lampblack that quickly turned the white paper coal-black. With a mischievous impulse, I approached Yongok, who was sleeping at the back, and lightly touched her face with the lampblack-covered paper.

Amidst the tedium of the long night, other students, weary from studying, chuckled as they observed my antics. Laughter filled the room as they noticed Yongok’s smudged appearance. The lighthearted moment provided a brief relief from the monotony. However, our joy was abruptly interrupted when our homeroom teacher burst through the classroom door.

The presence of our stern homeroom teacher immediately instilled tension in the room. Amidst her arrival, the previously giggling students swiftly rearranged their desks and sat upright. Despite being shaken by her desk partner, Yongok, still in a daze from sleep, rubbed her face and eyes, completely unaware of the situation unfolding.

A veil of secrecy covered the classroom as everyone sneakily observed, and an unexpected burst of laughter erupted despite the teacher’s stern presence. However, the laughter ceased abruptly when the teacher, sensing something amiss, locked onto Yongok. In a commanding tone, she demanded silence and singled out the culprit to stand. All eyes turned to me as I hesitantly rose, fully aware that I was in significant trouble.

The teacher grabbed the pointer by the blackboard and struck a blow on my head. “I have noticed that you never study but always cause trouble,” she scolded, then hit me a few more times. Tears built up because of the pain. The teacher’s look, full of spite, instantly silenced the classroom. That evening, she released us 30 minutes late due to my prank. 

Our previous teacher had been warm and would often join in, sharing laughter with us. However, the arrival of the new teacher brought a stark contrast. She frequently resorted to harsh scolding and beatings, even for minor issues. It seemed like she lacked any favor among the students. My disdain for her grew so intense that, even in my adult years, when our paths crossed in the neighborhood, I couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge her.

During that period, there was a full acceptance of corporal punishment in schools, where neither students nor parents voiced objections against such treatment from teachers.

The next morning at breakfast, I recounted the incident to my mother, displaying the lumps on my head. My father, who had been quiet until then, suggested that my mother arrange a meeting with the teacher. Concerned, my mother inspected my head, advising me to behave at school while assuring me that she would address the issue with the teacher.

Even if the cause was my own misbehavior, no parent would feel happy seeing their child return home bearing the marks of punishment. My father, though reserved, showed signs of distress over the incident.

Among the children, I was known as the most reliable and helpful to my parents. I often provided practical assistance, seeking to alleviate their burdens.

While in school, notebooks were always in high demand in my family. While the government provided school supplies, the notebooks were prone to tearing, frequently requiring replacements. With four of us—my older brother, younger sister, younger brother, and myself—all attending school simultaneously, notebooks were inevitably in short supply.

My father, in turn, wrote a letter to ask for notebooks to his brother, an employee at Pyongyang Rondong Shinmun Publisher. (평양노동신문사) At that time, his brother was stationed at a pulp factory in Gilju, North Hamkyong Province (함경북도 길주), requesting assistance in obtaining the necessary notebooks.  

Unlike the rationed ones, the notebooks from the pulp factory boasted numerous pages, were white-colored, and offered an easier writing surface. As my father’s request for notebooks was fulfilled, I made regular trips to Gilju during vacations to visit my uncle. During these visits, I returned home with a backpack brimming with notebooks.

My uncle kindly accompanied me to the train station each time. He carried the heavy bag for me and ensured it was placed in the overhead bin before bidding me farewell.

My uncle once said to my father, ‘Among your many children, the fourth daughter is the most dependable. You can trust her to keep calm and handle herself well, no matter where you leave her.’ At the tender age of twelve, none of my siblings had embarked on a solo train journey with only a note detailing a relative’s address. My task of delivering the notebooks commenced at twelve and continued until I graduated from middle school at seventeen. Despite my brother’s graduation and enlistment in the army, my younger siblings still relied on these notebooks.

In addition to the notebooks, Gilju offered an abundance of fish and fruit trees, a rarity in my hometown. During each visit, I relished the opportunity to indulge in the plentiful pears and peaches available there. Upon my departure, my aunt generously filled my backpack with peaches, adding to the bundle of notebooks my uncle had prepared for my journey home.

After my uncle informed my father’s office of my departure, my brother often met me at the train station. Yet, there were occasions when no one arrived. In those instances, I shouldered the weighty backpack, topped with another bag, and walked the fifteen-minute distance home. Despite this responsibility, I regularly ran errands for my parents, visiting relatives without any hesitation.

The contrast between my pride in being a reliable daughter and the pain caused by the caning at school deeply troubled my parents.

My home, comprising two compartments, was among twenty others facing a river, forming the smallest unit of a household group called People’s Ban (인민반). In an effort to address the situation regarding my punishment at school, my mother decided to visit my teacher’s house, situated in the front row. She met my teacher’s mother instead of my teacher herself.

During the conversation, my mother explained the circumstances leading to my punishment in class, leaving my teacher’s mother visibly perplexed. This was particularly unexpected given that my father held a managerial position in a significant factory. My teacher’s parents were aware that the manager’s family from Pyongyang were living in the same neighborhood but had no idea that their daughter was my homeroom teacher.

My mother told my father how things went at my teacher’s house and said that she had been requested for ten pairs of winter shoes. She said that my teacher’s mother felt very ashamed to ask such a favor. My father granted her favor, albeit reluctantly. 

My teacher’s father worked at a cart operation office (우마차사업소), pulling cows to transport goods and supplies, while my teacher’s younger siblings were around the same ages as my siblings and me. In contrast to our comfortable life with supportive parents, good food, and adequate clothing, my teacher’s family faced considerable challenges. These differences in circumstances might have led my teacher to perceive me as spoiled due to my family’s background, which could have contributed to her bitterness and harsh treatment toward me. 

Teaching Biology, my homeroom teacher didn’t seem to garner much favor among students; the subject wasn’t well-liked. She appeared to have few friends among her fellow teachers, often commuting alone.

Later, I heard that her parents reprimanded her for the incident where she had hit me. Following this, her attitude towards me noticeably improved. However, I made efforts to avoid conflicts with her until I graduated.

Exams were over, and I received a “good” overall grade. It was a flattering result, given how I always fooled around. 

Before the winter break, a town-wide parents’ meeting was organized across all schools, conveniently scheduled on the same weekend to accommodate the working parents. With my father occupied by his responsibilities at the factory, matters regarding us children were entrusted to my mother.

She took great pride in attending meetings for my older brother, often being seated at a VIP bench, thanks to his stellar performance, being the well-regarded son of the shoe factory manager. His academic excellence was widely known and celebrated, serving as a source of pride for my parents.

On the meeting day, she commenced by meeting my younger siblings’ teachers in the morning, then attended the session at my school before heading to my brother’s. The education ministry’s thoughtful scheduling enabled parents with multiple children to participate in various school meetings.

As the first semester of my third year in middle school concluded, the new year of 1980 began.