Prologue
We were at my cousin Channing’s house, in the woods of a New England town, when our grandfather told us the Korean story of Chunhyang and Mongryong. With the distant sound of the Atlantic Ocean’s surf crashing into the rocks behind us, we sat in a clearing on tree stumps. It was late morning in the summer. The sun filtered down through the green leaves above our heads. Channing and I were nine years old.
My cousin had asked for a love story. She said, “Harabeoji, tell us the one my mother started before she died. She called it the most famous love story in all the land.”
“Ah!” Our grandfather exclaimed. “‘Chunhyangjeon’!”
Channing and I called our grandfather Harabeoji. Four syllables. A long word but it suited him because he was so tall to me. The tallest person in our family. And he taught us how to break it into parts so we could write it in Hangeul, the name for the Korean alphabet: ????, pronounced HAH-RAH-BUH-JEE.
When you’re born in one country and grow up in another, the ground can sometimes feel uncertain beneath your feet. I felt the influence of both Korean and American cultures, but I didn’t know what came from where. Harabeoji tried to link our worlds with stories. He said they were the same in every country: a saga in which someone leaves home foradventure; a legend of a hero who steals from the rich to give to the poor; a tragic romance where lovers fight against the rules of society to be together.
Harabeoji drummed his fingers on his knees. He said, “‘The Tale of Chunhyang’ is a pansori. That’s the Korean name for a story you sing. But I’ll spare you my singing voice.” He let out a laugh. I told him I wouldn’t mind if he sang. Channing said to just get started however way he wanted to tell it. He nodded and began. Our grandfather’s voice was deep and gentle. He started with the setting rather than once upon a time. “The same story happened over and over again,” he said. “But the place—the place changes.”
In Namwon, the soil was rich, the fields lush. The famous Jiri mountains offered delicate herbs and the water was always clean. Love was food, was life, was how we gathered around the brightest yellow bean sprouts with the largest heads, was the mudfish stew called chueotang, the deafening song of crickets that quiet when you walk past, the flash of koi swimming—broader than the ducks that paddled above them in a clear pond under the arches of a stone bridge.
And in this town, there lived a girl and a boy who fell in love but, because they were born into two different groups of Korean society, could never be together. Her name was Chunhyang, which meant “scent of spring” and his name was Mongryong which meant “dream dragon.” Everything was against them.
“What does ‘group’ mean?” I asked.
“Let him finish,” Channing said.
“People in Korea were grouped by their jobs,” Harabeoji explained.“Mongryong’s parents were in the government job group while Chunhyang came from two groups. Her mother was an artist. She played musical instruments, sang, and danced. Her father was like Mongryong’s parents, in the government job group. This meant that Chunhyang and Mongryong could never marry each other.”
“But what about Chunhyang’s parents? How did they marry if they were from two groups?” Channing asked.
Harabeoji shook his head. “They couldn’t stay together. They weren’t allowed.”
“Huh?” I said.
“That’s why Chunhyang and Mongryong’s love story is famous. They weren’t like everyone else,” he said.
I decided right then that I didn’t like this story. Channing on the other hand urged our grandfather to continue the tale.
The day Chunhyang and Mongryong met each other for the first time was exceptionally pleasant. It was the fifth day of the fifth month and everyone was out enjoying the warm breeze. Mongryong set off for beautiful Gwanghallu Pavilion with his servant. This grand pavilion was built to resemble the Palace of the Moon in Jade City in the heavenly realm. It had beautiful bright colors painted on the curved roof in green, blue, yellow, and red.
Meanwhile, Chunhyang and her servant decided to spend the afternoon on the hillside on a swing with other young people enjoying the weather. In this land, swings were different than the ones here in America. You stood instead of sat on a wooden board tied to a branch of a tall tree. The ropes were long, at least thirty feet or more.
“Someone must have climbed the tree to tie the ropes,” I said.
“It would be Chunhyang,” my cousin replied.
“She was a young lady in a hanbok, which you know is a long skirt and a short jacket,” Harabeoji said.
We nodded.
“Probably one of the servants tied the rope. Chunhyang’s servant, Hyangdan, went with her everywhere and helped her,” he continued.
“If Chunhyang and Mongryong have servants, why aren’t they in the same group?” Channing asked.
“Chunhyang’s mother had enough money to pay a servant but was still not allowed to let her daughter marry someone of a different group,” Harabeoji explained.
I shook my head at this.
“It was a long time ago,” he said. “Korea is different now.”
“Then why is this story still famous?” I asked.
“Because Chunhyang didn’t think the rules applied to her,” our grandfather replied.
