Tag: Misun’s Life

During this time, my mother was pregnant with my younger brother. Despite her delicate condition, she would prepare both me and my younger sister every morning, taking us to the kindergarten and nursery before heading off to work. I used to throw tantrums, resisting her as she held my wrist in one hand and my sister in the other. She would try to calm me down, saying, “Well done, my daughter. It’s getting late, and we need to hurry.” If I still resisted, she would simply start walking forward without me. In response, I would drop to the ground and kick my feet, crying loudly, “Mom, come with me!” My neatly-fitted hanbok skirt would get all muddy, and my shoes would be flung away. I was a daily headache for my mother, often preventing her from going to work.

When I was little, my mother always dressed us in beautiful Hanbok chimajeogori (skirt and jacket). My father would bring home all sorts of nice clothes and shoes from his business trips to Pyongyang, gifts from our uncles for their distant nephews and nieces.

One time, while playing on a slide at kindergarten, I got a thorn stuck on my butt. The slide was made of wood, and one side was cracked and spiky. Despite the teachers’ warnings to stay away from it, I climbed onto the slide. After sliding down a few times, I ended up with a thorn stuck in my butt, and I started crying loudly. A teacher rushed out of the classroom at the sound of my cries, inspected the thorn in my behind, and sent for my mother.

The kindergarten was in chaos, and the teachers didn’t know what to do. I cried my heart out as blood continued to flow. My mother, heavily pregnant, arrived and rushed me to the hospital. They had to cut open the skin to remove the thorn. My mischievous antics often gave my parents quite a bit of trouble.

On another occasion, when my sisters were not at home, and my father was away on a business trip, my brother, who was supposed to be studying, began playing with a bowl of beans in the corner of the room. My sister and I noticed and joined him, causing the beans to scatter all over the floor. My brother, trying to clean up, suggested we play a quiet and fun game. He held a bean in his nostril and blew it out with a “Pooh!” The bean shot out and landed on the other side of the room. My sister and I burst into laughter. Amused, I decided to try it myself, sticking a bean in my nostril and blowing it out. My bean also flew across the room. We continued taking turns blowing beans out, but disaster struck when I tried to push a bean in too far.

The bean got stuck, and I couldn’t get it out. Panicked, my brother hushed us, afraid our mother would find out. He assured me the bean would come out naturally the next day and told me not to tell anyone about it. He took us outside to play, and I forgot about the bean inside my nostril.

Three days passed, and the bean inside my nostril swelled and started to hurt. My kindergarten teacher noticed something was wrong as I, usually a loud and restless child, was suddenly sitting quietly. She realized I had a fever and sent for my mother. My mother was puzzled by my fever and discomfort. When she asked where I was hurting, I pointed to my nose and said, “There’s a bean in here.” It was only then that she noticed my vivid yellow runny nose, something she had never seen in me before.

I was taken to the hospital, and the bean was removed through surgery. The bean game led to our typically pampered older brother, the firstborn son of the family, being scolded and vowing never to play such a game again.

I was simply an energetic child who constantly wanted to run, roll, and play freely, making it impossible for anyone to keep me under control. Looking back, I realize that I was able to have such a carefree and playful childhood because of my loving and caring parents. My memories of those days are as vivid as if they happened just yesterday.

The birth of my younger brother had been eagerly anticipated by my parents, and his arrival brought them great joy. The very next day after his birth, my father took me to the kindergarten. However, as soon as we reached the kindergarten gate, I dashed back to the factory’s main entrance. Standing there, I proudly announced to every worker passing by that my mother had given birth to a son. Even at such a young age, I felt a sense of pride in having a brother born into a family of mostly daughters.

I even noticed a familiar female worker who was sneaking in because she was running late, and I couldn’t resist sharing the good news with her. I shouted, “My mom gave birth to a son!” My voice attracted the attention of the labor manager, who came out of the security room. The late worker was caught and scolded severely, all thanks to my enthusiastic announcement. Years later, the employee would joke with my mother about how she got caught for being late that day because I shouted at the gate.

2. My Childhood

As I reminisce about my childhood, I realize that despite the post-war scars and the prevailing insufficiencies of the late 1960s and early 1970s, I had a happy and carefree upbringing under the loving care of my parents. This era marked a period when the entire North Korean population was working tirelessly to rebuild the economy, which had been ravaged by the Korean War. It was a time of construction, with the construction of prefabricated houses, often referred to as the “miracle of Pyongyang,” and the nation was abuzz with excitement as the Hwanghae Iron Works introduced new rolling technology.

In our household, which consisted of seven children and two parents, we lived in a multi-unit house known as a harmonica house. Even families of cadre members like ours lived in similar housing to that assigned to ordinary laborers during those challenging times.

I happened to be the most mischievous among my seven siblings. While my younger brother was calm and good-natured, I was the mischievous one who could hold my own against boys easily. Perhaps it was because of my mother’s conception dream, which led her to believe I would be a boy until my birth. Regardless of the reason, I was a true prankster, playing tricks on my elder sisters and teasing my brothers. I was always on the move at kindergarten, staking my claim on all the rides in the yard and making sure no other kids dared to touch them, which inevitably led to fights and pinching.

My father held a high position as the factory manager and was someone with significant authority. Everyone, especially due to his assignment from Pyongyang, had a certain degree of fear and respect for him. Looking back, it seems that the kindergarten teachers treated me with more kindness and affection because of my father’s role.

The kindergarten was located within the factory compound. On one particular day, I managed to sneak away. The teacher responsible for overseeing nap time left the room after ensuring that all the children were asleep. I pretended to be sleeping but couldn’t suppress my desire to play at my father’s desk, which was a mischievous thought that must have crossed every child’s mind at some point. Maybe, even at the tender age of four, I was aware of my father’s high position within the factory. His office desk was large and shiny, and it was a delight to climb and roll around on it.

As his office wasn’t too far away, I jumped over the kindergarten’s fence that separated the buildings. Stealthily, I opened the door and found that he wasn’t there. I entered the empty office, climbed onto his chair, and then onto his desk. The desk felt incredibly smooth. Just as I was sprawled across it, singing and thoroughly enjoying myself, the door opened, and my father walked in. He had returned from the field and caught sight of me. Quickly, I scrambled off the desk and hid behind the chair, giggling mischievously. He picked me up, my feet fluttering in the air, and carried me back to my teacher. Incidents like this happened multiple times before I entered primary school. I still can’t fathom why I disliked nap time so vehemently back then. It’s amusing that as an adult, I often yearn for a nap even when I’m not allowed to take one.

Once, when I was six years old, I decided to take my younger sister from the nursery and bring her home. She was only three at the time. I should have taken the time to put socks on her and dress her appropriately, especially considering it was a cold winter’s day. However, I was in a hurry to sneak her out, so she had no socks on. The journey home with a toddler who could barely walk was long and arduous, and she cried loudly throughout the entire trip.

“Unnie! Oppa! Open the door!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. My brother soon flung the door open, looking startled as he took us inside. “Why are you both so frozen? How on earth did you get here without Mom?!” he exclaimed.

My third sister, holding our still-crying younger sibling, wasted no time. She swiftly removed the child’s clothes and began to knead her frozen feet, all the while asking, “Why did you bring her home? You snuck out of the kindergarten again, didn’t you?” She gave my head a light tap, which stung.

“It hurts! Why are you hitting me?” I cried out in response, more from fear for my younger sister whose feet had turned a deep shade of blue.

Our panicked mother soon arrived home, having been unable to find us at the kindergarten and nursery. She was rendered speechless when she saw the two of us crying for different reasons. Without a word, she brought in a basin filled with snow and started rubbing my sister’s feet with it to remove the frostbite. As a result of my impromptu decision to bring her home while running away from kindergarten, my younger sister ended up hospitalized for chilblains.