Yanwen’s blog

On 9/9, I went to see my PCP about a rash that had developed on my skin. I was diagnosed with shingles, but since it had been nearly two weeks, I was told it was too late for antiviral medication, which only helps if taken within 72 hours of its appearing.

The rash had started about two weeks earlier, with five painful patches on my left arm. They tingled and itched, eventually forming blisters. I assumed they would go away on their own and didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. I pushed through the discomfort with sheer willpower, not even skipping a day of my regular exercise routine.

It wasn’t until that weekend, when we visited my son, that my daughter noticed the rash and insisted I see a doctor. So, I went the following Monday.

When I told my relatives in China, one of my sisters suggested that I might have gotten the rash from a swimming pool. A few others echoed this. But I had already done my research—checked the Mayo Clinic, a source I trust—and learned that shingles is caused by the varicella-zoster virus, the same virus that causes chickenpox. After you've had chickenpox, the virus remains in your body for life, and it can reactivate years later as shingles. It’s definitely not something you can catch from a swimming pool.

This was the second lesson I learned from this experience: always do your own research. Arm yourself with knowledge rather than relying on others' opinions or random guesses.

The first lesson I learned was to seek medical help early. Initially, someone had suggested that the rash was from bug bites, but I knew this was different—the affected areas felt hot and painful in a way that bug bites don't. Still, I didn't want to overreact to a skin rash. 

It wasn't until I read that early treatment for shingles can shorten the infection and reduce the risk of complications—like postherpetic neuralgia, which causes lingering pain after the blisters have healed—that I realized ignoring it wasn’t the wisest move. Let’s hope I’ve avoided that complication.

Yesterday, I watched people cleaning up fallen leaves on the street, surrounded by clouds of dust from the leaf blowers, with the deafening noise filling the air. None of them wore earplugs or masks to protect themselves from the dust. They might reconsider it if they’d done some research on the health risks from inhaling dust and mold while raking leaves. This is just another example of the cost of ignorance.

A Chinese saying goes, 小病不治，大病难医 (Xiǎo bìng bù zhì, dà bìng nán yī), "If small illnesses at early stage are left untreated, they become difficult to cure when they turn serious at late stage." It captures the essence of my experience, where delaying medical attention for what seemed like a minor issue could have led to more serious complications. The saying emphasizes the importance of addressing problems early.

I share this shingles experience in the hope that readers can take something from it: never downplay a health issue. Early medical attention can prevent complications down the line. Always equip yourself with knowledge rather than relying on assumptions or hearsay. In the end, ignorance is a risk we should all avoid.

Yesterday, I wrote about the novel Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 by Cho Nam-Joo (2016). Despite its slim size, at just around 170 pages, the book stirred up considerable controversy in South Korea. It sparked protests from men and garnered widespread support from women, igniting national conversations on gender inequality in the country.

A bit of background: months before the book was published in the fall of 2016, a young woman was murdered near the Gangnam metro station in Seoul in what was later described as a misogynistic crime. The perpetrator testified in court, claiming, "I had been ignored by women for so long and couldn’t take it anymore, so I murdered a woman." This crime is more than shocking—it’s almost incomprehensible. A man felt entitled to women's attention and, when denied, responded with murder. It reflects a deeply ingrained patriarchal belief that women owe men something merely by existing, as if male entitlement is his birthright.

The author, Cho Nam-Joo, described the protagonist as "a vessel that contains experiences and emotions common to every Korean woman."

Though the novel paints a grim picture of an ordinary woman’s life in Korea, I believe that while Kim Jiyoung reflects the average woman, she also represents hope. 

Early in life, she developed a "female consciousness," which heightened her awareness of the injustices around her. This awareness, however, caused her immense pain, eventually leading to her mental breakdown. The author doesn’t explicitly state this, but readers can easily sense it.

Female consciousness is the realization of gender inequality and the refusal to accept it as natural, inevitable, or unchangeable. It’s the understanding that you are living as a woman in a patriarchal society. This awareness is an essential awakening for women to achieve self-realization.

For instance, when Jiyoung’s teacher said, "He bullies you because he likes you," Jiyoung thought, "That’s not right. If he likes me, he should treat me kindly, not hit me until I cry."

Another telling moment occurs during a job interview when the interviewer asked three female university students, including Kim Jiyoung, a deeply inappropriate question: "If you were meeting with a client and they made physical contact, such as casually touching your thigh, how would you react? One student said she would protest and take legal action. Another said she would reflect on her own behavior and wardrobe. Kim Jiyoung chose a more neutral response, saying she would make an excuse to leave. None of the three women passed the interview. Upon learning the result, Jiyoung was outraged, thinking, "If I’d known, I would’ve just said what I really felt—‘I’d smash his hand.’ She also realized that if she were a man, she would never have been asked such a question. She wanted to tell the interviewer, "Asking such a question under the pretense of an interview is itself sexual harassment."

Before having a child, Jiyoung grew anxious about what she might lose. Her husband reassured her, saying, “Don’t focus only on what you’ll lose.” Jiyoung sharply replied, You can say that because you won’t lose anything. I, on the other hand, could lose my youth, health, job, professional connections, and even my life plans and dreams. So of course, I’m focusing on what I’ll lose. But what will you lose? Her husband simply responded that he would lose some time with friends and need to work harder.

Jiyoung, by nature, was patient, quiet, and gentle—never the one to loudly protest. Yet, her suppressed discontent ultimately led to her mental breakdown, manifesting as Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). The two women who "possessed" her were representations of her repressed self—symbols of her awakened but silenced female consciousness.

Tragically, it was only by adopting the identities of others that Kim Jiyoung could find the courage to speak her truth. Only after being labeled as "mad woman" could she finally express her real feelings. And even then, her truths were simple: telling her husband that she was truly exhausted and needed him to show more care, and telling her in-laws that holiday chores left her physically drained and that she longed to spend the holidays with her own parents, not in-laws.

The story of Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 is also a powerful commentary on the pervasive issues faced by women in Korea and beyond. Through Jiyoung’s journey, the novel lays bare the systemic injustices that women endure and highlights the crucial awakening of female consciousness. This awareness, though painful, is essential for self-realization and societal change. 

As we confront the deeply ingrained patriarchal norms and tradition, and the tragic reality of misogynistic violence happened near the Gangnam metro station in Seoul, Jiyoung's story reminds us of the struggles many women face and serves as a beacon of hope for a more equitable future. Her journey from silent victim to the voice of a DID woman underscores this hope and the need for a broader dialogue about gender equality and the courage required to challenge entrenched injustices.

Finally, let us never forget this, "The eternal feminine draws us upward" from the final lines of Goethe's Faust.

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.