New Start

Yelim Cho

I breathe in the crisp, cold air. Standing at the entrance of the Seoraksan National Park, I unconsciously eye my sister’s clothes or moreso how her body looks in her clothes. We wear matching shirts and shorts for family spirit! she would insist for hours on end before we left, but really, it just makes me question even more how we share 50% of our DNA.

The annoying whines of little children temporarily avert my attention; my ears shout at me, “Ugh, that noise! Get me out of here!”

Literally, all I hear are annoying chatters and shouts of over-excited people.

But even this deafening noise isn’t enough. It isn’t sufficient enough to suppress the loud voice that I’ve got talking in my head. It is constantly reminding me how my sister is beautiful with a perfect hourglass shaped body, and I am just short and chubby. The ridiculous hiking outfits that we wear make the distinction worse. Her shirt hangs loosely around her arms and waist while it flatteringly hugs her chest. My shirt feels tight all over, making it impossible for me to hide the bulkiness of my body in comparison. And the shorts—the shorts!—they make the cellulite in my legs more conspicuous than it normally is standing next to the two gorgeously toned pillars my sister stands on.

All the women in my family have a history of relieving stress by eating which also affected none other than me. Because of the stress of moving schools, I made it my routine to stop by CU and GS25 - monstrously successful convenience stores in Korea that seemed to multiply like roaches - to load up on the quota of baked goods every morning on the way to the school bus and also on the way back home from school. I stuffed my face quickly on the bus so that I didn’t get caught by my mother. I ate it so ravenously that I swear some students were casting me the side-eye thinking that I hadn’t eaten for days…Most times, I wouldn’t get caught by Mrs. Cho. But on the days that my mom’s sixth sense was particularly strong, she would interrogate me about what I had for lunch, and snacks, and

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drinks, and water, and how much I walked, whether I tried my best in PE class, until eventually I would cave and confess my sins. When I did, my mom would feign surprise, and I was forced to jump rope, counting up to the calories that I had consumed in excess. It was becoming a regular thing: I ate, got caught, and jumped rope. At first, I felt guilty, and I jumped as if it were my penance to the holy land of the beautiful. But eventually, the pain in my legs and my chest overpowered my determination to cross those gates of pearly whites, and I came up with ways to sneak past those punishments as well. The hiking path that we take to heundeul-bawi (the swaying rock) is much more challenging than I had anticipated. I have to calculate each step so that I maintain my balance on the stairs made of bulky rocks and slippery mud. My legs are tiring out and I am struggling to put one wobbly leg in front of the other. I am so tired that I’m pretty sure that I am hallucinating for the last kilometer of the hike. Each step I take, I see the remnants of the grand breakfast buffet I had that morning and the Leaning Tower of Pisa that I had stacked. In front of me, instead of the rocky dirt-covered stairs that some people sometime way back when put in decent effort to construct, I see the dirtied glassy white porcelain dishes from the morning. Each step I climb, I climb one of the plates that I had stacked. I take one step, and I see half of the vanilla muffin that I left over. Another step, I see half of the chocolate muffin. Next step, bagel crumbs with smears of whipped cream cheese. Some pieces of fruit, ketchup and little bits of scrambled eggs. Some greasy oil from bacon and sausage, leftover milk and cereal, and hints of coffee on the cup. It is quite surprising how good my memory is. I begin to question my intellectual ability. How did I not pass my vocab test last Friday?

“Ahhh!” I yell, tripping over a tree branch. My body lurches forward, and I try my best to stay balanced 1708 m above sea level. I swear some girls that walk past hide a smirk. I take a sip of water to come back to my senses. Freezing cold water slides down my throat; the water tastes sweet. Unconsciously, my hands touch my belly, and I feel my stomach sticking out, bloated; the thoughts come back, and while the hallucination is gone, now I hear a voice getting louder and louder.

“You should have eaten a salad with a little piece of chicken breast instead of all that junk!”

I get up and start running. I run fast to get away from the voices.

I was comparing myself both at home with my sister and at school with my

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friends. I was never safe. The girls at my new school were all so skinny and slim.

“Rinnnnggg,” the bell rang, and it was time for lunch. We headed down to the cafeteria, and the girls had their plates full of rice and bulgogi. Life just wasn’t fair; how was it that those girls could be so skinny and eat more than me? I, on the other hand, filled my plate with vegetable salad and a mere half scoop of bulgogi. Still hungry when my plate had emptied, I took my last piece of lettuce and cleaned even the last drop of the sauce for what calories I could allow myself. Then, of course, during class, my stomach lets out a RUMBLE.

The popular girls who were sitting at the back whisper conspicuously so everyone can hear, “OMG, how is she still hungry after all that food!”

When I get home, I throw my backpack on the couch, jump into my pajamas and rush to the kitchen. Then, I start eating like it is my first meal of the day...

‘Shut up, shut up, shut up!’ I scream at the voice inside my head. I feel a sudden urge to throw up. The carbs in my stomach feel toxic, and I can feel my arms, legs, and stomach expanding in real-time as they are absorbed. I stagger hurriedly ahead of my family, so they don’t see what is about to happen; there’s no need to worry them.

73 A wave of saliva intrudes my mouth and tears well up in my eyes. Just as I think I’m not going to make it, I’m at the top of the mountain, and I puke all over the heundeul bawi. (a humongous rock that is as big as a car, it is placed at the edge of a ‘cliff,’ a dislodged boulder that doesn’t quite fall off).

Aside from the mild scent of vomit, the view itself is quite beautiful. There is the heundeul bawi, the huge swaying rock as big as a car placed at the edge of a cliff which is an awe to look at. I realize that my mood also sways from anxious to calm just like this rock I see before me. Then, there is the sky. The sky is incomparable to the sky we usually see in Seoul where there is so much pollution. The air up here is amazingly fresh; it feels clean. At the beginning of the hike, I was disturbed. The hike does not immediately cure my body image. However, it does put things into perspective. Looking at this magnificent rock that was placed precariously on the edge of a cliff, and looking at all of the people that take turns attempting to tip it over to no avail, I realize that no matter how unstable I may feel, I am still grounded.

It was thirty minutes before the first set of the game. We were warming up and showing off our skills to the cheering audience. We first started by

stretching our bodies, especially the arms and legs. Then, we passed the balls to each other and moved on to the hitting lines.

“FWEET,” the ref blew the whistle, and the game started. My fingers do an intricate dance: Rock Paper Scissor Shoot, and the opposite team starts off by serving.

“Bam,” what a powerful hit! But I receive it with ease, my core stable, and the setter securely sets it to the hitter who spikes it down on the opponents. The ball hits the ground, and a point is scored. Several more of these exchanges and “FWEET,” the ending sound of the whistle. We won the game.

We wait in line to take pictures with the heundeul bawi, and my family gives the rock a big futile push (the side that isn’t tainted with my breakfast). I smile when the rock still rocks gently in place. We all get in place for the obligatory picture, all of us making ‘V’ signs with our fingers to signal our victory. Looking at our picture and the steady rock, I think no matter how the world may try to push me off, I will hold my ground.

I am standing next to the heundeul bawi, my hands feeling the cold air breezing through the gaps of my fingers. My white t-shirt is drenched in sweat, but the cool wind dries it up. I look at the huge rock standing still in its place, and I feel my emotions being swayed just like the heundeul bawi.

Breaking the mental confusion I am having, my dad points a camera at me and says, “Look here! Smile!” He takes hundreds of pictures both vertically and horizontally.

I am trying to find the perfect pose while my dad is glaring at the person next to me who is in the picture frame. We waited a couple minutes because we didn’t want to come off as rude, but the ajumma didn’t move an inch.

That is when my dad said, “Excuse me, do you mind moving a little to the right so we can take a picture?”

She gladly stepped aside and let us do our thing.

As minutes passed by, more and more people were lining up to take pictures, and even more people were coming up. Lengthening our hiking sticks and re-tying our hiking shoes, we went back down a series of steep stairs and rocky surfaces. Coming down, I felt so much better than three hours ago when we were at the base of the Seoraksan mountain getting ready to climb. My body felt lighter, stronger, and even more energized! I felt happier and stronger.

I realized something as I stared into the clear skies:. No one is perfect.

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