Mark H. Kim

Yeontan is a cylindrical coal briquette which was the primary cooking and heating fuel in twentieth-century Korea. It is often referred to as gu-gong-tan, a nine-holed briquette, though a standard yeontan has twenty-five holes. The peculiarity arises from a series of linguistic evolutions cut short by the fading usage. Originally, there were nineteen holes on yeontan. It was thus referred to as sipgu-gumeong-tan, a nineteen-holed briquette. The repetition of gu, however, rendered the pronunciation tricky, and the contraction sipgumeong-tan soon took over. But alas! ssip is a slang word for “vagina,” and it was now all too easy to order “pussy-hole briquettes.” Eventually, gong, another word for “hole,” was substituted for meong, and the preceding sip was taken out completely, resulting in the current nickname gugongtan.

By early 90′s, my hometown had become one of the last towns to have a sizable number of gugongtan-heated homes. Grandma used to tell me that I should wake up and run away as far as possible if I ever felt dizzy in my sleep. But how do I know I’m dizzy if I’m asleep? I had left my hometown at the age of three, and I am still not sure grandma ever answered my question.

My sharpest memory of the hometown is of a moment at the marketplace near grandma’s apartment. I had just read the name of the toy I wanted to my grandma: Ja-pan-ki-no-ri. I want that, grandma. Please? Grandma was first shocked that I was able to read, and was soon horrified that the mini vending machine cost nine-thousand-and-nine-hundred won. But I knew none of this; I had just wondered why it took grandma so long to find her purse. Back in the apartment with the new toy, I forgot all about the dizzies. Grandma also did not mention it for a while, but it took me a long time to realize the absence of warning.

Nineteen years have passed since then. I was back in my hometown, eating at a cheap sushi buffet with my aunt-in-law and her children; we were planning on visiting grandma’s grave afterwards. Aunt and I were talking about grandma, and it occurred to me that 9900 won was no longer enough for a meal at an okay restaurant: we had to pay 13000 won per person to eat in. What can you buy with 100 won around here these days? Why do you ask, aunt said. I need precisely nine-thousand-and-nine-hundred won.

It was the first time in my life I visited a relative’s grave on my own accord. Aunt and I bowed down, stood up, bowed down again, stood up, and dedicated to grandma’s grave a glass of makgeolli, the traditional Korean rice wine. Aunt then went looking for her little boy who ran down the mountain a few minutes ago. Left alone, I sat down and stared at grandma’s grave for a long while, only to find a little hole right next to the tombstone. I gave the hole a long gaze, drew a heavy sigh, and stuffed the money I brought into the hole. As I was filling the hole with dirt, however, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that I did something incredibly silly. I wanted to be dizzy once again: I could forget everything if I were dizzy, if I were given the cue to run away as far as possible. As soon as the thought pierced through my head, I grabbed the bottle of makgeolli and poured the drink into my mouth.

Nothing happened; the dizzies just weren’t there. I was only reminded that I knew now perfectly well when I would be dizzy in sleep—-and why, even. I threw the bottle into the ground, let out another faint sigh, and wondered what I could have done better as a two-year-old.