260124

 

The late Bang In‑cheol’s mother, Oh Chun‑hwan, cared for me even more than for her own son. I always called her Omani—Mom. Our family’s financial situation was difficult, so after graduating from Gimcheon High School in January 1969, I left home and became financially independent. Of course, “independent” was only a word; in reality, life away from home was harsh and lonely. During my university years, whenever I found a tutoring job or some work, I boarded somewhere; when even that became difficult, I lived in the homes of the families whose children I tutored. In those days, the only time I had a proper meal was when I visited In‑cheol’s home. So I would find any excuse to drop by. In 1971, when detectives were watching the boarding house where I lived to track down student protest leaders, I ended up staying at In‑cheol’s house altogether. Naturally, Omani and I became closer than blood relatives.

Omani would often say, “I’ll find a good wife for you, Jintae,” and whenever a promising Ewha Woman's University pharmacy-major student came to her pharmacy as an intern, she would introduce her to me and encourage us to spend time together. But her eyes and my young eyes did not see the same way. They were all from good families—one was even the daughter of a well‑known Supreme Court justice—and they were kind, respectable young women. Yet none of them appeared to me as a woman I could marry. Despite having nothing, my pride was sky‑high, and I was not easily satisfied. Since childhood, my role model has been Alexander the Great. I believed that my future wife should be someone who would not be out of place as the First Lady. So although I interacted freely with the young women she introduced, I never considered them as marriage candidates. It must have been frustrating for Omani, but she persisted. And her persistence was finally rewarded. After I had rejected more than thirty candidates, she introduced me to the woman who is now my wife.

 

I believe it was the fall of 1977 when I was working at Samsung. The pharmacy was located across from the main entrance of Gwangjang Market in Seoul, and my wife’s family owned a building inside the market. My father‑in‑law, a man of remarkable business acumen, had built a large building on his land in the market. He lived on one floor and rented the other floors to fabric merchants as storage, earning a substantial income. My wife, from childhood, frequently visited the pharmacy across the street to pick up medicine for her father, so she had long been acquainted with Omani. At that time, my wife was not the only unmarried daughter in the family—her older sister, only a year older, was also single, and finding her a husband was a pressing concern. One day, a relative who had been visiting my wife’s home stopped by the pharmacy on her way out and chatted with Omani, asking her to help find a good match for the older sister. But Omani replied, “I know a wonderful young man, but I want to introduce him to the younger one, not the older sister.”

So, my first meeting with my wife took place at a café near Jeongil Academy in Jongno 2‑ga, with Omani present. Jeongil Academy was where I had studied during my second attempt at the college entrance exam, so that café was one of the few places I knew. We met during the day, but the meeting soon turned into a date for just the two of us. That evening we had dinner together and even shared a light drink. And that very day, we hooked our pinkies and promised to marry.

When I suggested that we marry before her older sister, both my wife and her family strongly opposed it, insisting, “A younger sister cannot marry before the elder.” I even stormed into their home after a drink and shouted at the top of my lungs. I had a reason for being so desperate. My mother had already passed away, and my father was bedridden after a stroke, with no certainty about tomorrow. I wanted to marry as soon as possible and give him a grandchild while he was still alive. In the end, my mother‑in‑law relented, unable to break my resolve, and we were married on May 2, 1978, at Haengbok Wedding Hall in Seoul.

 

There were many stories leading up to the wedding. I once told my mother‑in‑law, “We can just go to any temple, place a bowl of cold water, and bow—that’s enough,” nearly causing her to faint. At that time, I was living with my youngest sister, Sunnanm, in a tiny rented room on a hilltop in Bulgwang‑dong. My mother‑in‑law insisted, “You must at least have a small place of your own,” and purchased an apartment above Samseon‑gyo Market for us. There, I wrote the father's marriage permit by myself, placed it in a small jewelry box, bought a handful of fabric from Gwangjang Market, and went with my friends Bang In‑cheol, Kang Young‑won, and Jung Woo‑ryang to my wife’s home in the Shinbanpo Apartments in early 1978. And on May 2 of that year, we finally held our long‑awaited wedding.

That night, in the empty apartment, I wrote my father’s name on the marriage permit and shed tears—something I rarely did. “Why must I shoulder everything alone with such hardship?” I had emptied even my tiny savings to help purchase the apartment, leaving me completely penniless. I had no money for the wedding expenses, so I requested an advance from my company and used that to cover the costs. Yesterday was my daughter Eunjung’s 47th birthday, and as I sat this morning reflecting, forgotten memories flowed back like a panorama. So I record them here.