Yanwen’s blog

I recently came across Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 by Cho Nam-Joo, published in 2016. I checked with my Korean student yesterday. She said it was mostly accurate during that period in Korea.

The novel chronicles the life of its protagonist, Kim Jiyoung, from childhood through school, work, and marriage, leading up to her mental breakdown. It reads like a case study on a pervasive social issue that affects half of the population: gender inequality in a patriarchal society. The author presents Jiyoung’s experiences in a matter-of-fact tone, as if to suggest that this is just how life unfolds for women like her in a modern society.

The first half of Jiyoung’s life was marked by everyday gender discrimination, starting even before she was born. Her grandmother, a staunch believer in the necessity of having at least four sons, was deeply disappointed when Jiyoung’s mother gave birth to two daughters. Each time, her mother tearfully apologized to the grandmother. When the third child was yet another girl, her mother cried all night and eventually had an abortion. It wasn’t until five years later that her mother gave birth to a son—the "precious grandson" her grandmother had been waiting for.

At elementary school, Jiyoung encountered more subtle but equally harmful discrimination. A boy who sat next to her relentlessly bullied her. When the teacher finally became aware of the situation, rather than addressing the problem, they dismissed it with, "He bullies you because he likes you." This left a lasting impression on Jiyoung.

In middle school, gender bias was institutionalized through the school’s dress code. Girls were required to wear knee-length uniform skirts and, in summer, had to endure three layers of clothing, meant to conceal their developing bodies. Jiyoung recalls how unbearably hot it was during the peak summer months. In winter, they had to wear black stockings, couldn’t add extra socks for warmth, and were restricted to dress shoes, which made the cold almost unbearable. Meanwhile, boys faced no such scrutiny. They were free to wear any shoes and even loosen their shirts in the summer. The rationale? Boys needed to be ready for physical activities at any time.

High school introduced Jiyoung to more overt forms of sexual harassment. She faced inappropriate behavior from men on public transport, teachers, and even classmates. One night, while being harassed by a boy on her way home, the boy accused her of leading him on, claiming, "You’re the one who always smiles at me in class." Jiyoung, who didn’t even know him, was stunned. Yet, even at home, she found no support. Her father blamed her, questioning why she was traveling so far for tutoring, why her skirt was so short, and why she was even talking to strangers.

At university in Seoul, Jiyoung had her first boyfriend, but their relationship ended when he enlisted in the military. During a social gathering, she overheard that a senior had always had feelings for her. However, when asked why he didn’t pursue her, the senior sighed, "Forget it, who wants to chew gum that’s already been chewed?" Jiyoung was shocked. This seemingly upright and kind senior viewed women who had been in relationships as "chewed gum," while no such stigma was attached to men.

A Chinese saying that expresses the traditional value that is no longer prevalent now “男尊女卑” (Nán zūn nǚ bēi), meaning: "Men are superior, women are inferior." It perfectly encapsulates the gender inequality deeply rooted in traditional societal values, which is central to Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982.

Kim Jiyoung's story, though fictional, resonates with the lived experiences of countless women around the world. It exposes the deep-rooted gender biases embedded in society, from birth to adulthood, and highlights how the traditional belief of the superiority of men over women — continues to manifest in everyday life. 

While these attitudes may no longer be as openly prevalent as in the past, the subtle and insidious forms of discrimination persist. The novel serves as a start of conversation and a reminder that dismantling these patriarchal structures is an ongoing process, one that requires both individual awareness and collective societal change.

Continue tomorrow.

Today is the Mid-Autumn Festival, a time of many things, one of them being a moment from 2017.

That summer, a young relative stayed with us while preparing for his English entrance exam to enter college here. We supported him in every way we could—cooking for him, helping with his English, assisting with his school transfer, and driving him back and forth to college as the fall semester began.

During that Mid-Autumn Festival, we received news from his parents in China that he had sent them mooncakes via local delivery and wished them a happy festival. It was a thoughtful gesture, demonstrating his care for his family back home. Meanwhile, we didn’t hear from him until he needed a ride back from school. This left me thinking quietly.

I may have shared this before and might mention it again in future Mid-Autumn Festivals until another memory takes its place. It’s one of those moments that I associate with this special time of year. Hopefully I have something else to write about next year.

A Chinese poem, 但愿人长久, 千里共婵娟 (Dàn yuàn rén cháng jiǔ, qiān lǐ gòng chán juān), translates to "May we live long and share the beauty of the moon, even though we are thousands of miles apart." This famous verse expresses a wish for enduring connections despite physical distance.

By the way, some of my writings receive high readership on the first day, while others don’t. I asked a friend why, and there are many possible explanations. I learned that the most important one is relevance—whether the topic is something currently on people’s minds. But then again, that feels almost like saying nothing at all—because I have no idea what's currently on people's minds.

Finally, to my family and friends far away, may the bright moonlight remind us of the bonds we share, no matter how far apart we are. This Mid-Autumn Festival, let the moonlight bridge the gap between us, bringing warmth, love, and peace to our hearts.

举头望明月，期待满圆时。祝中秋快乐！(Jǔ tóu wàng míng yuè, qī dài mǎn yuán shí. Zhù zhōng qiū kuài lè!) means: "Raise your head to gaze at the bright moon, looking forward to the time of reunion.” Wishing you a Happy Mid-Autumn Festival!"

Saturday evening traffic was heavy, doubling the usual drive time. My children had come over for my birthday, and after dinner, they wanted to Uber back. However, we insisted on driving them. It's always fun and refreshing to listen to their witty exchanges—something we don’t get to be part of every day.

I'm sure many parents have spent countless hours driving their kids around for various activities, before the kids could do it themselves. Having them in the car always brings back memories of their childhood.

For some reason, I tend to think of car rides as putting them under a gentle house arrest, where for the duration of the trip, they can't go anywhere and are stuck listening to whatever I have to say. And I never miss this moment.

It was during these car rides that so many memorable moments were created: reciting timetables, ancient Chinese poems, telling Chinese stories, or just having casual conversations. They were always busy, so parents had to seize those fleeting moments.

These small, seemingly insignificant moments spent with the children—whether during a car ride or in the simple routine of daily life—are where lasting values and lessons often take root. Just like the rain in Du Fu’s poem, 随风潜入夜，润物细无声 (Suí fēng qián rù yè, rùn wù xì wú shēng), which describes rain quietly nourishing all plants at night, our guidance may seem subtle, almost unnoticed, but it seeps in over time, quietly nurturing their growth.

This reminds me of an event I mentioned before—my encounter at the YMCA women’s locker room, where I saw an Indian mother drilling mental math with her little girl while helping her shower. 

By the way, last Sunday I received an unexpected and delightful birthday wish from an old classmate from my Tianjin days. It was a small but joyful surprise—every one of them counts, just like those car ride moments.

Finally, it's these gentle influences, woven into the everyday, that shape our children in ways we might never fully see but can trust will endure.

This morning, I came across several exchanges in a college group about writing. One person mentioned, "After watching the talk on the documentary of Lisbon Maru sinking, I strongly feel that history should be recorded promptly. In the past few days, I’ve been reminiscing about small things from our school days and finding them quite interesting."

Another shared, "I admire the director Fang Li and was deeply moved by the humanity shown by the Chinese people. At the end of each year, I now write a yearly record, reminiscing and making notes about past years." Another said, "I admire you for taking up the pen. I haven’t been able to start writing anything myself."

These exchanges made me reflect on many things. First of all, the sinking of the Lisbon Maru really drives home the brutal reality of war.

For context: see the book The Sinking of the Lisbon Maru: Britain's Forgotten Wartime Tragedy by Tony Banham, 2006. The sinking of the Lisbon Maru occurred during World War II. It was a Japanese cargo ship, used to transport prisoners. On October 1, 1942, it was carrying around 1,800 British prisoners of war (POWs), along with Japanese troops and cargo. While en route from Hong Kong to Japan, the Lisbon Maru was torpedoed by the American submarine USS Grouper off the coast of Zhoushan, China, near Shanghai. The Japanese crew abandoned the ship after it was damaged, but locked the POWs below deck as the ship sank, preventing their escape.

Out of those British POWs on board, many drowned or died when the ship eventually sank the next day. Around 800 survived, thanks to the heroic efforts of Chinese fishermen from nearby islands, who risked their lives to rescue the POWs.

The sinking of the Lisbon Maru fully exposes the unforgiving and dehumanizing nature of war—its inherent chaos leads to tragic mistakes like this. Ironically, this incident demonstrates the indiscriminate destruction and devastating consequences that war brings, which continue to occur in war-torn areas today.

Regarding the cruelty of the Japanese in their treatment of POWs, what can one expect from an enemy in war? War itself is an act of disregard for human life, a systematic killing of humans.

However, amidst this horror, there is a glimmer of hope—the brave Chinese fishermen, who risked their lives to save the British prisoners. Their actions remind us that courage, compassion, and selflessness can shine through even the darkest sinking moments. Even in war, human kindness endures.

Secondly, some members of our social group have already begun writing about our college experiences from the 1970s—a time when China was undergoing drastic changes. Looking back, there is so much worth preserving and recording from those years. As we reflect on these personal memories, we contribute to a larger tapestry of history, ensuring that these experiences, both big and small, are not forgotten

Finally, as the Chinese saying goes, 前事不忘，后事之师 (Qián shì bù wàng, hòu shì zhī shī), meaning:"If past events are not forgotten, they can serve as a guide for the future." It emphasizes the importance of remembering and learning from history to avoid repeating mistakes.

As we share and reflect on both personal memories and historical tragedies like the sinking of the Lisbon Maru, we are reminded of the importance of bearing witness to the past. Whether it’s the horrors of war or the personal stories from our own lives, recording these experiences ensures that future generations can learn from them. In a world that continues to face war, conflict and changes, the act of remembering is a way of creating a more compassionate today and tomorrow, without war.

Today, I want to share two thoughts. First, I recently watched a video about a college student in China, from a modest third-tier county, who constantly demands more money from her struggling parents. Despite their limited means, her insatiable desire for more was really unsettling to watch.

Her attitude reminded me of a relative’s child who said to me when he first came to the U.S., “I’m my parents’ only child. If they don’t spend on me, who else would they spend their money on? The benefit of being an only child is that all of their resources can concentrate on this one child.”

At the time, I thought he was clever, having figured out how to maximize his situation. But in his world, he saw himself as the center, with everyone orbiting around him. It never crossed his mind that his parents might want to spend their hard-earned money on themselves or that, after retirement, they too deserved to enjoy life with their lifetime savings.

In both cases, I believe the parents bear main responsibility for the behavior of their children, since both are young adults. Children are a reflection of their upbringing. As the Chinese saying goes, 栽什么树苗结什么果，撒什么种子开什么花 (Zāi shénme shùmiáo jié shénme guǒ, sǎ shénme zhǒngzi kāi shénme huā): "You reap what you sow; the sapling you plant determines the fruit, and the seeds you scatter decide the flowers that bloom." The way children are raised shapes who they become.

Second, I recently shared a piece of writing with one of my students. Her response touched me: "Thank you for sharing. You organized our conversation so well that I can see things more clearly. You’re someone who finds lessons in everything and guides them toward understanding."

Her words made me reflect on how I’ve developed this ability to organize my thoughts and express them clearly in writing. It all goes back to my early teens when my father encouraged me to write reviews after watching movies or reading books, and to summarize my progress after each semester. His goal was for me to see where I excelled and where I needed to improve. At the time, I didn’t enjoy the exercise, but now, more than five decades later, I realize its lasting value.

Though my father has been gone for over 36 years, his legacy endures -- one of them being the ability to organize my thoughts and put them into words, a skill and a habit that continue to serve me to this day.

The message I want to leave with parents is this: the behaviors and values you cultivate in your children today will shape who they become tomorrow. Whether it’s teaching them a skill or to appreciate the sacrifices of others or instilling the habit of reflection and growth, the seeds you plant now will bear fruit in the future. In both small gestures and lifelong lessons, what may seem like minor efforts today could become the foundation of their character and guide them throughout their lives.