So much can be said in silence. I forget this, but when I'm
reminded of it, its truth is familiar, and it stings because I work on living a
listening life but too often fail in this effort. When considering the silence
between two people, what isn't said can be dangerous – depending on the
situation. I know and always push hard for openness in communication – again,
in some instances – but yes, the power of silence, applied in the right
environment, says so much more.
Citing the power of the short story again, and this
anthology and this project, I doubt that I would've ever intentionally picked
up a story about a Korean émigré woman. If I did, I doubt that I would have
finished a longer story/novel about her and her life. Even if I ran across this
story in the New Yorker, where it originally ran, I doubt that I would have turned
all the pages to finish it. Which, to their glorious fault, stems from the fact
that they publish too much good content.
But, because of this project, I am committed to reading
these works of art and commenting on them (sometimes just rambling), but the
learning comes from consumption and digestion of them. Sometimes, I read them,
mull them over in my mind for a day, a week, a month, or more – and then, all
the pieces fall into place, and their message appears to me, and I can write
about what it has given me.
With JunHee, Klimasewiski allowed me into the mind of this
young woman, to see the world through her eyes, her mind's eyes. To hear and
not to hear her husband. To hear the harsh words spoken to her by her father
across the miles. To hear her dead mother's words come to her at night in
dreams. And finally, to experience her loss and her grieving. A good author can
create a character, set them in a story, and formulate their setting so
powerfully that it allows the reader to honestly experience the character's
life.
As a distraction and to take a trip, I often browse the archives
of The New Yorker and check out what they published alongside the story that I
just read. JunHee ran in the January 14, 1991 edition of The New Yorker… I was starting
my second semester as a freshman at Norwich. Glancing at the table of contents,
two entries catch my attention. "Report from Moscow" by Robert Cullen
and "Books" by my man…John Updike.
You'll have to bear with me as I fall down the hole of nostalgia and interest in the Soviet Union as I completely veer off writing about JunHee and switch over to writing about what was happening in Russia in December of 1990.
In Jan. 1991, there was still a USSR, and Cullen wrote of western cigarettes still being used as currency. Soviet citizens still waited in long lines for basic food staples. Eduard Shevardnadze also resigned his position as Foreign Minister taking Gorbachev by surprise. Cullen's conversations with his acquaintances detailed that many had lost faith in Gorbachev and his campaign for "openness" and reforms, and they felt that the "revolution" Gorbachev launched five years before would soon reach its "Thermidor."
I became restless with my studies and struggled to decide exactly what I wanted to focus upon. Events in Eastern Europe and the then Soviet Union captured my attention, and I began to explore shifting my major away from Economics and focusing on International Studies. Norwich also offered Russian as a modern language, and I decided that when classes started in August of 1991, I'd embark on a new course of study.
Summer break in 1991 allowed me to unplug from the traumas of freshman year at Norwich, and when I returned in August, a new world was unfolding in the Soviet Union. Predictions from December of 1990 were correct. Events accelerated in August with the Coup, and by December of 1991, we see Gorbachev resigning and turning the launch codes over to Yeltsin. At the Kremlin, on the evening of December 25, the Soviet flag was lowered as the State Anthem of the Soviet Union was played for the last time and the Russian flag raised in its place.
In the Fall of 1991, I can't recall my Russian professor's attitude or thoughts about events taking place over there during these events. We had a pretty decent-sized class, and I'm sure he was working hard to drive the basics of the language through our thick skulls.
After returning from Christmas break, the USSR no longer existed, and I'm sure we had some discussions…but again, they seemed to be erased from my memory. I recall that my fascination with the Russian culture and language continued to grow during this time.
I was
fortunate to experience this atmosphere of learning during these pivotal
events.
