(이 영문 단편 소설은 미국에 살고 있는 의사 동생이 1996년도 The University of Iowa 의과 대학 본과 1학년 재학 중에, 의과대학생을 대상으로 열린, Carol A. Bowman Creative Writing Contest 에서 무명으로 응모해서 1등상을 받은 작품입니다.)
심사평 - Both delicate and resolute in its searching, and inventively ordered. The reader works into the essay, finding his way, much as the writer found his.
Small Happiness
Three Years Ago
How many years has it been since you came to Ann Arbor? Three? Four? I’ve known you for quite some time, Mei, haven’t I? Well, Mei, I could not not notice that you are as much an activist as a scholar…which is good. That means you have a heart. I admire you for that, really. Keep in mind, though you’re going there tomorrow for the sole purpose of following up on my project. Collecting one hundred urine samples per day is by no means a small task, and you won’t –and mustn’t –be distracted from it… what I’m trying to tell you, Mei, is…quite bluntly, don’t get involved. It’s hard-won grant money I’m sending you there on…which you, being my only student, must know better than anybody else.
Three Months Later
You’re a tenacious person, aren’t you? I’ll tell you once more, in no uncertain terms: I will never remove any part of any person’s body unless I am absolutely certain doing so will save the person’s life which otherwise is in peril. And it’s out of the question I’ll teach to how to perform a surgery on the young girl. You have little or no background in science, let alone in medicine! It’s impossible!
…Mei…here…these are painkillers and antibiotics…and the pink ones are for you. Get some rest.
Three Months Earlier
The country was unadorned. It evoked in me, however indistinctly, China…the land I left as a small child. Unmanicured streets. Unarranged faces. Left as there were –as they grew, as they remained, and as they transfigured with time. The small village where my advisor conducted her research a year earlier was at least 30 kilometers away from the nearest city. A bus came once every other day. It brought to the village supplies and, only occasionally, people. My arrival was one such occasion. The villagers couldn’t –or, perhaps, didn’t bother to –distinguish between Asians and Europeans, and so I was referred to as “young white woman,” as opposed to “white woman,” which denoted my advisor.
I took an instant liking toward one of the children in the village. Joohi was her name. Eleven years of age. There was something awfully familiar about her; did she resemble my younger sister, who had died in an unspeakable accident several years before? Across the “racial categories”? For reasons I stopped trying to fathom, I grew fond of her. She liked me back. Long after other kids had lost their interest in the new “white” woman living in their village, Joohi visited my hut, at least once every day, presumably to see if I was doing okay – presumably because I never asked. I often took her with me for daily rounds of collecting urine samples from the villagers. She was my friend and my substitute sister found in the unlikeliest place in the world.
Three Months Later
Joohi hid behind me. Her mother and her aunt began to shout words at me most of which I couldn’t decipher –I could infer, though, from what little I understood, that Joohi was ready (or due) for clitoridectomy, and that it’s our tradition and you white people must not interfere… With what few words I could muster of their language, I made a deal with Joohi’s mother and aunts – one day for Joohi, one day for Joohi, I do anything for you, one day for Joohi…
I ran straight to Dr. Strassman, six miles due north from the village. From his home, I phoned the American embassy and asked if I could adopt Joohi as my daughter. I wasn’t eligible; I wasn’t married. Even if I were, it would have to be agreed upon by Joohi’s parents. Can she apply for asylum? There is no precedent, ma’am. Can you not make this the very first case? You can try ma’am but I’d have to advise you against it.
I turned to Dr. Straussman. I asked him to perform clitoridectomy on Joohi…just this once, just this once, please…with anesthetics, with sterile instruments, she would suffer much less pain, much less chance of infection, as you must know, Dr. Strassman, please, just this once… He refused outright. Then show me how to do it, show me! I learn things quickly and I’m sure I can learn it within hours. They do it without medical training, don’t they? Why can’t I? Please, Dr. Strassman, please… A moment later, I found myself crumpled on a wooden chair. Handed to me was a small ziploc bag containing painkillers and antibiotics.
I ran back to the village, only to find that Joohi’s mother had broken our deal as soon as I ran out of sight. Why? I asked. So that my daughter will find a good husband and have a good life, Joohi’s mother answered, and you white people must not interfere. I left the village the following day. I left the continent three days later.
A Week Later
I was back in my apartment at Ann Arbor. I sent a letter to the department chair, stating my decision to withdraw from the program entirely. A face now began to haunt me, in my waking hours as well as in my dreams –that of Joohi, now grown up, her hands soaked with blood, her lips contorted with contempt, telling me, “So that my own daughter will find a good husband and have a good life.”
A Year Later
For the previous year, I had worked for an organization called DTFGM (Death To Female Genital Mutilation), based in Berkeley, California. Recently, though, I had another staff member tell me that Joohi’s parents very likely hurried her FGM because of my friendship with her, which must have signaled to Joohi’s parents –and other villagers –that their daughter had been polluted by you, Mei, a “white” woman, and so was in need of immediate FGM… I attempted to strangle that woman and, the following day, formally resigned from DTFGM.
I couldn’t endure the guilt…but…what am I guilty of? only once before…only once before had I felt so guilty, and it was just as incomprehensible and nerve-wrecking… Back there in China, back when I was…how old was I?…there lived a grandmother in our town who walked like a duck. And our neighborhood children, I one of them, mocked her. In my defense, she really walked like a duck, her face wizened to the point of being almost unrecognizable as a human being.
Her feet were bound –more tightly than a tourniquet so that her toes were bent all the way to the sole of her feet. Each and every step she took was with such intolerable pain that she had to walk like a duck for her entire life. I had known it all along, but, quite inexplicably, only a month after my younger sister’s death, my guilt for having made fun of her –how many years before! –began to gush forth. It began to gush forth with such force that I had to seek some therapy. I wanted to get some therapy this time, too, but I was broke.
Soon after resigning from DTFGM, I received an epiphany while watching the film, “Kiss of the Spider Woman.” Toward the end of the film, a doctor (or a nurse) gives morphine to a horridly tortured political prisoner, whispering, “I’m not supposed to do this, but this will help you with the pain….” I began searching for a pre-medical program I could afford.
Two Years Later (Now)
When I coolly think about it, Jim’s transgression isn’t so egregious; statistically, a non-trivial percentage of men habitually “get off” on pornography of one sort or another. Moreover, those pictures he downloaded were so-called “soft-core,” as Diane consoled me. And, above all, they prove Jim is not a pedophile or some other kind of pervert; he’s an average “Joe” who digs blonde women with long legs and large breasts… He’s a perfectly normal guy, Mei! Congratulate yourself! “Perhaps you’re right, Diane” I half-heartedly conceded. It could’ve been a lot worse, Mei; you could’ve caught him in, you know, action…with one hand on the keyboard and the other…making a peace sign?…ha ha ha ha.
Diane is my next-door neighbor. A week ago she bought a computer from Wal-Mart which was having trouble “launching” the Netscape program into “cyberspace,” and so Jim, my boyfriend, came to her rescue. He performed what could loosely be described as a software “insemination” –by connecting his laptop with Diane’s desktop through a cable and transferring a replica of his own Netscape program directly into hers. It worked. only too well. Two days later, Diane told me she had something important to show me –a folder called “cache,” which contained all the pictures Jim “downloaded” from the internet. Look at these, Mei, it also tells you when he downloaded them… “Oh no! I was in the library at that time memorizing all the muscles in the arm for a test!” Well, your boyfriend was at home vigorously using them, ha ha ha ha… It’s okay, Mei, don’t feel so bad. All men are pigs… Look at this on my wrist, Mei…My first boyfriend gave me this with his cigarette when I told him I didn’t wanna get his name tattooed on my ass… I seriously thought about blasting away that fucker with a shotgun… Why didn’t I? I didn’t have a shotgun…ha ha ha ha…
Last night Jim came to my apartment. I hesitated but opened the door for him. Her tried to kiss me. GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF MY BODY!
Last Night
Look at me, Jim…Just look at me. In what ways do I approximate those blond women with long legs and surgically enlarged breasts? Answer me, Jim, I’m curious… By definition I’m dark-haired, and almost by definition I am short-limbed and flat chested… Why –and how –did you find me attractive when I couldn’t be further removed from your “ideal” women? Or did you find me attractive?
Or…perhaps…I’m the closest you can get…with what little semblance I have of those women… Those blonde women with large breasts won’t even give you the “time of day,” will they…and I, nonetheless, have a vagina, don’t I?…solely by virtue of being a woman…solely by virtue of being a woman…
Now
A fine rain has turned coarse when I look outside again. I decide to start for home early today. As I put away the last patient’s chart, the intercom rings, “This is Dr. Fisher down at the acute care. We have an Asian girl here with a superficial cut on the eyelid. She doesn’t speak much English. Can you come down here and translate for us?”
Ming is her name. Eleven years of age. She wouldn’t tell me anything about her parents or where she lives. How did you get here, Ming? I took a bus. You took a bus? “She just walked in, holding that blood-soaked piece of cloth against her eye,” a nurse later tells me.
Will I get a big scar? Ming asks. Dr. Fisher says yes, I translate for her. Tell me, Ming, how did you get hurt like this in the eyelid. I really want to know. I got into a fight with my sister, Ming replies.
I offer to drive Ming home. Look, it’s raining out. You’ve got that dressing on your eye and you don’t want to get it wet. I really think I should drive you…all right, Ming, I’ll drop you off wherever you want me to –from there you can walk or take a bus or whatever…
From where she told me to pull over, I absent-mindedly watch the silhouette of Ming and her umbrella blending into the now pouring rain. Her right hand is tightly clutching a small ziploc bag against her prepubescent chest…a small ziploc bag with painkillers and antibiotics in it.
I vault out of the car and run toward where Ming has vanished. In my utter clumsiness, I slip and fall. I lie there one side of my face against the sidewalk. There’s something awfully familiar about this –the snicker of raindrops bouncing off me, the stone coldness of the sidewalk, and the searing pain on my knee… My sister must have lain like this when she fell from that building on the desolate street in San Francisco, her precious plump body so often reflected with so unbearable shame, now growing stiffer and colder with each second. Hey, Mei…once decomposed, we all look the same…there is no body, you know…only the bones…
I’m a medical student now. I’m doing better than ever before in my life… People already look up to me. My projected income is six figures. I’ll finally find a good husband and have a good life…a good life. A good life.