QUARANTINED
San Francisco Chronicle Magazine
I grew up 30 miles north of Busan, South Korea. I walked the rural roads and attended Yang San Girl's High School. The uniform of my school clung to me, as did my eagerness to learn. We had two standardized uniforms. One for summer -- a white top and a turquoise skirt with white shoes. One for winter -- a navy blue jacket and skirt, with blue shoes. In the dead of winter we could wear black stockings. My shiny black hair, cut to the required length, hung much the same as did the hair of each of the other 62 girls. But a special friendship grew between myself and one of them -- Sue Mei. She stood a bit taller than I and weighed a few pounds more, but such things do not matter to close friends. Together we studied; together we washed and waxed our classroom's floor. Together we laughed. Together we talked.
Eventually she revealed secrets of her life and I did the same. But one day I noticed she watched me extra carefully when she told me the name of her village.
"Sang Dong," she whispered.
It meant nothing to me. Why should it? I was a sophomore in high school. But a few days later, as I sat on the floor folding clothes with my mother, I said, "Sue Mei is from Sang Dong."
My mother stopped folding pants, "You are sure she is from Sang Dong?"
"Yes"
"It is a quarantined city."
"Quarantined?"
"Like So-Rok Island."
And then I knew. All Koreans knew about So-Rok Island, even sophomore girls. My friend, my very best, gentle friend lived in a quarantined city. A city the residents must live in. Sang Dong is the Korean city of the lepers.
Her life must have been inconceivably difficult. Both her parents were lepers and basically they were confined to the city. In Korean it is called moon doong byung. Kinder souls call it Hansen's disease. I'm sure they survived on very little money. My own family barely survived. But Sue Mei was disease-free and she could come and go each day.
My wise mother asked only one thing of me, "If she ever has open wounds be careful." And so I was.
Our friendship blossomed as we became juniors and then seniors. But in our final year of high school it became evident our futures would soon open behind different doors. My door eventually opened to preparatory school. I hoped beyond hope that one extra year of study would find me one small spot in a University. Sue Mei's door slowly creaked open and led her to a harsh factory job in a food processing plant. There she worked and contributed her small check to the survival of her family in Sang Dong.
We continued meeting during my year of prep school. Finally one day I received a letter. A magnificent crisp, white letter of acceptance to Busan Women's University. The next day, Sue Mei brought a gift. I opened it and cried. Inside, I unwrapped paper and found expensive shoes -- shoes we had admired together many times in the shiny window of a western store. Foreign-made, high-heeled leather shoes. Shoes I had no hope of ever owning. Foreign things with their unbelievable import tariffs were items to be admired and dreamed about, not owned. That my best friend slaved in a factory to buy them reduced me to tears. That she returned to Sang Dong each night made their value triple for me.
"These are shoes," she smiled, "to help you become successful."
What could I say? I could only hug and bow with tears on my cheeks to a friend.
Even now many many doors later, it makes me sniffle when I think of those shoes. I am also pleased to report Sue Mei is happily married, has healthy children and we still talk on the phone across the sea.
I think of those shoes ... my shoes of success. Perhaps they did help me through the doors of life, but they certainly helped me with something more important. Those shoes bonded me with a friend from Sang Dong ... forever.
