Untitled 34
I don't know how to say it.
For all the sounds and sentences my big mouth has vomited over the years, for all the chicken scratches my hands have scrawled over pages, for all the keys my fingers have typed and deleted and typed and deleted and typed and deleted, I just don't know how to make the words in a way that makes any sense to me.
Enveloped by the darkness of the night sky, we locked eyes, yours filled with confusion and worry, mine with confusion and ... what? Anguish, fear, loss?
I didn't know where to start.
Lips slightly parted, jaw locked in uncertainty, unsure what shape my lips should form to make the right sound to make the right word.
I didn't know how to start.
So I started.
"I watched someone die."
---
What does Korea mean to me?
It means a million things and more, and it's impossible to put it into words. I only lived there for two years, and it's already been over 5 years since I left, but it's imprint on me seems to have only deepened over time.
It's a place where I felt the greatest joys and the loneliest miseries. Where I learned the depth of my strengths and independence; where I began to travel alone in foreign countries; where I learned to push my physical boundaries with running, cycling, climbing; where I finally realized that I wasn't just a quiet-nerdy-model-minority-math-major-Asian-girl-who-should-just-keep-her-head-down-and-focus-on-getting-married-and-getting-promoted-to-middle-management-so-she's-mildly-successful-but-not-too-successful.
It's a place where I finally began to understand the vastness of me.
So somehow it's only appropriate that Korea is where my understanding of the world began to break down.
---
We had gone climbing that day, the four of us all together. Two of the others in our party, I knew well-- they had been very close to me during my time in Korea, two of the most important people not only then but in my life at large. The third I had only met a week before, but he was a close friend of the two others, and I was happy to climb with him.
We had just completed a beautiful multi-pitch in the mountains of Korea, in celebration of my return, in celebration of our friendship, in celebration of life, really, because it was a beautiful October day.
October is possibly the best month in Korea. It's right at the cusp of summer and fall, where the vibrant emerald greens begin to turn-- into red, yellow, orange. It's gorgeous, a cacophany of color.
We had started early that day-- it was a national holiday and the route we wanted to climb, the South Face of Dobongsan (도봉산의 남축길), is popular. But by some miracle, none of the 26 million people living in the Seoul metropolitan area were there that day.
We had the entire route completely to ourselves.
And we completed it quickly. The wide chimney-stem first pitch. The slightly overhanging finger crack second pitch. The thin, high-step third pitch. The wild traverse chimney fourth pitch. The terrifying, exposed slab traverse fifth pitch. And then the final adventure chimney sixth pitch.
The high variety and high quality of climbing in this multipitch is the reason why it's our favorite in all of Korea.
And we flew through it all before lunch time!
At the top, we ate lunch and chatted cheerfully. We joked about the hikers on the next peak over, staring at us in awe.
And then we packed up for the descent.
This route, the South Face of Dobongsan, has actually been very important to me for a long time-- since the very beginning really.
When I first learned how to climb in Korea six years ago, I was fortunate enough to have joined probably the best gym in the world. The gym members quickly adopted me as one of their own, putting a lot of energy in teaching and training me. Within two months of touching my first plastic hold, we were going outside on multipitches, and I was learning rope systems, knots and rapelling.
This route was one of my first ever.
And I completely fucked up the first rappel.
Another gym member and I set up our belay devices to simul-rap, meaning we would both be descending on a rope at the same time from the top.
This rappel is a pretty scary one-- it's 50 meters straight off an overhanging cliff, meaning I'd be lowering myself in mid-air, Mission Impossible style.
And halfway through the rappel, dangling in space, my hair got completely eaten up in the belay device, jamming it so I couldn't move up or down. And with my hair as thick as it it, it was impossible for me to tear it out.
One of the others had rappelled down before us, and when he realized what had happened, he sprang immediately into action to save me. Using some slings, he set up a prussik and began to ascend the rope I was on. Once he got to where I was, he set up a sling for me to stand on and untangle my hair, freeing up the belay device so I could continue descending.
I learned a lot of lessons that day on that climb.
Mostly that I loved climbing and that I wasn't about to quit. In a show of remorse and as an apology for being a dumbass, the next day, I cut my hair short and continued climbing.
This was that climb.
So we hadn't chosen this route simply because it was a good one. It was also a celebration of my journey in climbing. It was a benchmark-- to see how far I've progressed in six years, from this silly girl getting her hair stuck in belay devices to this capable, mature woman skilled in sport, trad and ice. And it was a celebration of our friendship, our growth from student and teacher to friends.
That's what this was meant to be.
So when we finished that first rappel without incident, I was ecstatic.
But there was a second rappel.
Compared to the first, the second rappel is far less scary. From the bottom of the first rappel, we have to walk about 10 meters through the forest to the second. It's relatively low angle and isn't too hard to down-climb, but the rocks can be loose, and with the moss and grass around, it can be a little slippery. Given that, it was decided that three of us would rappel down off a fixed line with alll the gear, meaning we would tie the rope to a tree. The last person would just down-climb.
It was an amalgamation of all the wrong things.
She was still packing away one of the ropes some meters away. I was making my way down to the second rappel station. A phone call came in the middle of the set up. And the fourth person began to rappel without notice.
The next thing we knew, there was a scream and the sound of body hitting rocks.
The fixed line was gone.
It hadn't been secured properly.
---
The days that followed were some special kind of hell.
The endless police statements. The crying, the anguish, the fury, the guilt, remorse, denial, shame, confusion, disbelief. The drinking and the funeral. The hospital and cars. Avoiding everyone, avoiding the world, the only solace we could find was in each other.
A dream-like haze composed of sharp flashes of emotions strung together by images.
And once it settled down-- what was left?
---
Betrayal.
For all the love I'd received from Korea and for all the love I poured into it came the hard realization that maybe I'd never be able to truly understand this country. That there were deep-seated cultural differences that would always keep us separated at our very cores.
Somehow, this was so painful.
As an Asian American, I've thought about this a lot when it comes to white America versus Asian America. There are some experiences that are so distinctly Asian American, would a white American person ever be able to truly appreciate the depths and meanings of those experiences?
And now here I was, facing the same exact thing between myself and Korea. For all I thought I knew about the people and the culture, in this moment of tragedy, I finally realized how wide the ocean was between us. The way we understand guilt and responsibility, shame and respect, love and loyalty. I didn't realize how little I knew.
In the end, I still love Korea deeply and I still love the friends and experiences I have had there, but in that love I also understand that there is some part of it I can never quite touch.
---
Determination.
Even if it's painful, I don't want to give up climbing.
In his book, When Breath Becomes Air, Paul Kalanithi explores this question, "What makes life worth living?" In the context of the book, this question comes around as he performs neurosurgery on patients. Sure, he may be able to save a patient's life, but if they're completely paralyzed-- is that a life worth living? And what is each person's threshold for a life worth living? If a procedure changes a person's personality, or leaves them somewhat or partially or completely mentally or physically damaged-- is it worth it?
I don't know if I will climb forever. I can already tell that now, almost 7 years in, my passion for climbing has evolved a lot. Some years it's really strong, other years, not so much. It's dynamic and the way I love climbing has changed.
But what I do know is-- this isn't how I want it to end.
I don't want my climbing career to end in tragedy like this, pushed onto me by some arbitrary destiny. I don't want to live my life in fear and in avoidance of something. For me, that kind of life is surely not worth living.
At the time that I quit climbing, I want the decision to come out of positivity and growth, fueled by a passion for a new beginning. I want it to be my choice, on my terms.
---
Love.
In the darkness of our personal hell, in those days that followed, I also felt the deepest love and the greatest gratitude.
I have been so unimaginably lucky in my life to have people to give love to and to receive love from.
I've always restrained myself in intense emotions, especially those related to love or affection. It was only as I got older that I felt more comfortable hugging or touching others or saying words of affection, even as friends.
I've always learned to play it cool, so I'm not the one who is overly attached.
What a waste of time.
In our lives so short and so unpredictable-- why do I wrong myself with half-felt, half-expressed emotions? Why do I wrong others by never letting them know?
How many people live, unaware of how important they are? How many people live, unable to express their love?
Both of these are so tragic.
If only you could understand the depth of my love for you.
If only I could show you the depth of that love.
---
Under the cover of night, illuminated by the infinite stars in the sky, the words tumbled and tripped over their selves. They got lost and confused, flipped over and flipped back.
I don't know if any of it made sense. I don't know if you understood what I was trying to say.
But you stayed beside me.