BaekJul BulGul (Indomitable Spirit) original draft

At least we have the dirt. We could
ball it together like table
crumbs and hold it under our tongues
until the soil separates
from the ore of KeumGang San. That way
we’d coat our throats in diamond dust.

They stopped teaching Korean in
Korean schools today. Something
as simple as annyoung
haseyo said in the hallways can
earn a demerit. They’re holding
red pens against our children’s throats
and it’s as good as their bayonets.
When Yeong-Sun calls me otochan
I want to smack her in her mouth
so hard she spits out blood hotter
than the rising sun, or feed her strips
of kimchi one by one. The sour
will preserve her dying Choson tongue.

The missioners taught us metaphor.
Their pahng was so tough it may as well
have been flesh, won’t melt like bahp. No –
When they taught us how HaNaNim said, Let
there be bit but we were still sitting in
the dark, windows boarded against
the street, well, that was metaphor.
God ga ra sa dae light i ssue ra.
Our throats grew warm with the words we’ve saved
since morning, since our daughters were born
into this. I swear Yeong-Sun looks like
a yudeung or a lighthouse when she
recites any passage in Korean.

Sometimes, after prayer, they ask us
what we believed before we knew Christ.
Their voices are soft so we could tell
they’re being polite, won’t turn around
and burn our books on Palgwe or Taeguk.
But still, we’re tired of philosophy
and reasoning. We start to sing:

Arirang, Arirang, Arariyo,
Arirang gogaero neomeoganda.
Nareul beorigo gasineun nimeun
simnido motgaseo balbyeongnanda.

There’s silence. We’re all closed eyes, living
in our own Koreas. Someone brave
opens his eyes first; someone braver
says this dirt will never be enough.