her solemnity, I faced her directly and sat tall. “Thank you, Umma-nim.”
“Did they tell you at school about His Imperial Majesty Gojong Gwangmuje ?”
I rarely heard my mother use high court language, and it took a moment to understand whom she meant. Then I nodded, for Teacher Yee had told us last week that Emperor Gojong had died in the middle of January. Dethroned and prohibited from returning to the main palace, he still commanded respect because, though he ultimately failed, at least he had tried to fight Japan’s political assault, and his consort, the beautiful and outspoken Queen Min, had been murdered long ago. After her murder, he and his ministers had changed his status from king to emperor in a futile attempt to match the level of his sovereignty with that of Japan, but they lost the kingdom anyway. Japanese officials had entered the palace with troops, and Emperor Gojong was forced to abdicate to his secondson, Sunjong, the only surviving offspring of the martyred queen. From the blackboard, I’d copied the new word abdicate , along with others Teacher Yee explained but didn’t write on the board: sovereignty, protectorate, coerce, annexation, propaganda. Teacher Yee said that the Japanese had responded to public pressure by designating March 4 as the national day of mourning for Emperor Gojong.
Then she told us the noble and thrilling story she’d heard: that the emperor had committed suicide to protest the forced marriage of his son to Japanese royalty, Princess Masako of Nashimoto, which was Japan’s way of saying we were the same country, the same peoples, when obviously it was their attempt to dilute the sovereignty—that new word—of the Korean royal line. Much later, I heard the other more plausible story of Emperor Gojong’s death. Japan wanted him to sign a document asserting his satisfaction with Japan’s union with Korea, which Japanese envoys would present at the Paris Peace Conference. But Emperor Gojong decided to send his own secret emissary to Paris to protest Japan’s annexation, and when the emissary was discovered and killed, the emperor was also killed. Even if I had known this, for a young girl with a colorful imagination, Teacher Yee’s story of honorable, romantic sacrifice was far more captivating.
To keep this dramatic story swirling in my head and not out of my mouth, I tucked a hem edge with a needle, pressed it tightly between my fingers and said distractedly, “Sunsaeng-nim said there’d be a big parade in Keizo for his national day of mourning.”
“In Seoul,” said Mother, to remind me that Japanese language was not allowed at home.
I wanted to ask not only if the emperor had committed honor suicide, but also if his son, the new emperor, was really a simpleton. Girls at school said he was an idiot, but I knew that term was mean. Mother had a relative still at court, a cousin who had married the last prime minister loyal to Emperor Gojong. When this prime minister refused to affix his seal to the Protectorate Treaty of 1905—which proclaimed Japan to be the protector of Korea and thus opened wide the gates for official Japanese takeover—he was removed bodily from the palace. Not long afterward, he and their only son, a four-year-old child, were killed. His widow, whom I called Imo , Maternal Aunt, still attended royal functions and wouldcertainly know something about the young emperor. Because of Mother’s warnings about my responsibility as a child of yangban, I’d known not to talk about Imo to my schoolmates. And I followed the same inner counsel and said nothing now.
Mother spoke as softly as the susurrus of thread being pulled through fabric. “Yes, there’s a big funeral planned, and they’re freely giving travel papers to anyone going to Seoul. What I’m going to tell you must remain between your ears.” She looked at me meaningfully and I nodded. “Your father is helping to coordinate a nationwide protest. Instead of a parade of mourning,
“Did they tell you at school about His Imperial Majesty Gojong Gwangmuje ?”
I rarely heard my mother use high court language, and it took a moment to understand whom she meant. Then I nodded, for Teacher Yee had told us last week that Emperor Gojong had died in the middle of January. Dethroned and prohibited from returning to the main palace, he still commanded respect because, though he ultimately failed, at least he had tried to fight Japan’s political assault, and his consort, the beautiful and outspoken Queen Min, had been murdered long ago. After her murder, he and his ministers had changed his status from king to emperor in a futile attempt to match the level of his sovereignty with that of Japan, but they lost the kingdom anyway. Japanese officials had entered the palace with troops, and Emperor Gojong was forced to abdicate to his secondson, Sunjong, the only surviving offspring of the martyred queen. From the blackboard, I’d copied the new word abdicate , along with others Teacher Yee explained but didn’t write on the board: sovereignty, protectorate, coerce, annexation, propaganda. Teacher Yee said that the Japanese had responded to public pressure by designating March 4 as the national day of mourning for Emperor Gojong.
Then she told us the noble and thrilling story she’d heard: that the emperor had committed suicide to protest the forced marriage of his son to Japanese royalty, Princess Masako of Nashimoto, which was Japan’s way of saying we were the same country, the same peoples, when obviously it was their attempt to dilute the sovereignty—that new word—of the Korean royal line. Much later, I heard the other more plausible story of Emperor Gojong’s death. Japan wanted him to sign a document asserting his satisfaction with Japan’s union with Korea, which Japanese envoys would present at the Paris Peace Conference. But Emperor Gojong decided to send his own secret emissary to Paris to protest Japan’s annexation, and when the emissary was discovered and killed, the emperor was also killed. Even if I had known this, for a young girl with a colorful imagination, Teacher Yee’s story of honorable, romantic sacrifice was far more captivating.
To keep this dramatic story swirling in my head and not out of my mouth, I tucked a hem edge with a needle, pressed it tightly between my fingers and said distractedly, “Sunsaeng-nim said there’d be a big parade in Keizo for his national day of mourning.”
“In Seoul,” said Mother, to remind me that Japanese language was not allowed at home.
I wanted to ask not only if the emperor had committed honor suicide, but also if his son, the new emperor, was really a simpleton. Girls at school said he was an idiot, but I knew that term was mean. Mother had a relative still at court, a cousin who had married the last prime minister loyal to Emperor Gojong. When this prime minister refused to affix his seal to the Protectorate Treaty of 1905—which proclaimed Japan to be the protector of Korea and thus opened wide the gates for official Japanese takeover—he was removed bodily from the palace. Not long afterward, he and their only son, a four-year-old child, were killed. His widow, whom I called Imo , Maternal Aunt, still attended royal functions and wouldcertainly know something about the young emperor. Because of Mother’s warnings about my responsibility as a child of yangban, I’d known not to talk about Imo to my schoolmates. And I followed the same inner counsel and said nothing now.
Mother spoke as softly as the susurrus of thread being pulled through fabric. “Yes, there’s a big funeral planned, and they’re freely giving travel papers to anyone going to Seoul. What I’m going to tell you must remain between your ears.” She looked at me meaningfully and I nodded. “Your father is helping to coordinate a nationwide protest. Instead of a parade of mourning,
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