Yeon woo (Jenn) Kim Re-write

Background.

My original text was from John 4: 4-42, which is commonly titled as “Jesus talks with a Samaritan Woman.” Like many modernist writers, I took the view of the Samaritan woman to tell her side of the story, to shift the focus from Jesus to the woman to show her 'unique' experience, rejecting the 'universal truth' and bringing new perception to a familiar story. (Mann, 2013, Jenkins, 2001) The familiar story describes the woman as someone who has had five husbands and she is an outcast in her society.

Like Jean Ryhs Wide Sargasso Sea, my story is written in first person view so the story could be subjective as well as providing a 'deeper emotional link to the character' as mentioned in Mann 's lecture on Wide Sargasso Sea 1. (Mann, 2013) As Jenkins noted in the Wide Sargasso Sea Introduction, the story of the female protagonist mirrors what colonization did to the natives, (Jenkins, 2001) and my protagonist's journey is similar to the journey of Antoinette. Ezra's broken marriages and her harsh treatment not only reflects the role of a woman in the society of her time, but of the colonial system. The aspect of colonization I wanted to focus on was the theme of survival.
When I was little, my Grandfather taught me a few words in Japanese. When I tell people that I first heard Japanese from my grandfather, some reacted with scorn. A Korean who embraced the enemy’s teaching was a traitor, and he should have rejected their indoctrination. Even if he had no choice but to learn, he should have thrown the knowledge away after the country was liberated. Like the New World Poets, the language of Japanese was like a chain. Using it and teaching it to his grandchild could be seen as passing on the 'servitude' and 'humiliation' to the next generation. (Walcott, 1974, Walder, 1998). This theory; how one's acceptance to another's culture/language despite their use is a 'defeat,' yet some must choose it for their benefit. It is incorporated in my rewrite as Ezra tries to be more like her husbands. For her goal she accepts their culture, just like writers mentioned in Walder's Language use english (the colonizer's tongue) for their purpose (gain readership, get published).
I also added a part where Ezra picks up the Holy Scripture and cites her justice, the parts that supports her. Unfortunately, that is never adhered to, despite how men relied on and cited the scripture. Her mother’s one and only line, (referencing the motherland of colonized people as Jean Rhys did, pointed out by Plasa C. 2001) “Holy scripture means nothing in a woman’s hand.” Highlights that the law and good will is only used by the colonizers when convenient. This is showing the 'White Man's Burden' mentality; that colonizers are ‘looking after’, ‘helping the poor savages’, or ‘civilizing the people’ as if it is their duty, their righteous role, (Achebe 1995) and when challenged, only those with power get to decide what is ‘right’.

My protagonist assimilates society's demands of her and this proves to be a futile attempt to have the society accept her. Her attempts further alienate her from her 'kind' (women) and like Jean Rhys's protagonist, she is left with nowhere to go. I drew this theme/story from a personal experience of my grandfather, a survivor of the Japanese colonization in Korea, and drawing on the theme of Rhys' colonial's dual identity. It talks of enforcing an identity and then taking it away when it suits the colonizers (Ciolkowski, 1997). According to Jean Rhys, when she stated she wasn't English, “They'd get even more amazed at that. I was [a] traitor” (pg. 350)

With this rewrite, my main theme was ‘survival’. I wanted to show that all people who were victims of colonization didn’t learn or succumb to their culture out of choice. Those who became the 'cooks, houseboys, drivers and maids' didn't do this out of love and adoration for their colonizers; It was for survival for themselves, and for their family.

Like the modern writers James Joyce and Virginia Woolf, I wanted to experiment with my writing with the 'stream of consciousness' method (Mann, 2013). I have used fragments of her memories like flashbacks to go against the conventional method of writing. The narrative goes back and forth between past and present without headings or chapter titles. It also uses repeating images, going away from set structure to emphasize that there is more than one story and more than one way of telling the story (Mann, 2013). Because of this, the imagery I used in this story was that of a weed. Strong, resilient and scorned due to their desire to survive at the cost of others. She had to cut the flowers (symbolizing what made her special) off to make it look like other plants so she would not be killed.

I put Ezra's change as a character throughout each husband to reflect the colonization process, how it changes the native's way of thinking over time. Incorporating Fanon's theory of how colonialism 'transformed' people and robbed them of national unity. (Fanon, 1995) Ezra, no matter how much she tries to change, is never accepted and never stops trying to be someone else. She has nowhere to go, incorporating the modernist theme of “Isolation, absence of society or community, the sense of things falling apart, dependence and loss” as Carr explained for Jean Rhys' style. (Carr, 1996)

I hinted at racism in this story to highlight there is always some kind of hierarchy that people use to put themselves above others.

According to Jenkins, the novel Wide Sargasso Sea, where Mr Rochester swoops down to take Antoinett's 'love, her name, her money and her freedom' reflects the colonial system. (Jenkins H, 2001). Using this view, I have also used the fifth husband to summarize what colonization does to the colonized. They invade, take what they want, try to guise it as good will to protect themselves and ultimately discard the colony, leaving them without any foundation or support.

Story - Ezra

So Thirsty

I run my hand on my throat and to my relief, it felt smooth, contradicting how it felt inside. Looking up, the sky outside the small window was still ominously grey. The blazing sun hadn't broken through the deep fog yet. I imagine this would be the ideal time for women to set out to the well, chatting and giggling with their urns to fill. Before my second husband, I too would be among that crowd of women sharing recipes, news about a sheep lost in the woods or what the Jews in Jerusalem were doing.

That all changed; it is now a distant memory. Sorrow and anger faded, leaving marks of thirst behind. .

The rustling in the bedroom tells me that he is awake.

“Woman,”

I answer as I am summoned. I feel as though there was another name I was called before. No time to ponder as breakfast must be served.

I fix my hair and clear my throat. Greet him with a smile before entering the kitchen to prepare the meal.

Tossing the dry kindling into the hearth, I smash the flint together until it creates a spark, filling the small room with smoke. I cough again. The thirst worsens.

Crouching close to the floor, my hands loosely clasped together, I notice the small shrubbery bush outside the home. From a distance, one would think it was a neatly trimmed fauna but on a closer inspection, one would find that there was an old, stubborn, weed rooted among the other plants, trimmed to fit in. It swayed gently like the others, struggling to fit in, least it gets uprooted by the next person visiting the house. Left alone, with its vibrant violet flowers they looked beautiful to pass as a usual flower plants, however someone had named this flower as a weed. For that, in order to keep it from being uprooted, I had to cut the stalks before buds started to form.  

The cut flowers were dried then left around the kitchen, for I couldn’t bring myself to throw them out. I grew up decorating my hair with colourful flowers, making flower crowns for another, singing songs of praise, listening to our ancestor’s tales, competing with other girls for knowledge of the Holy Scriptures or with making intricate patterns with embroidery. The Holy Scripture told us that woman with wisdom and devotion was a gift to the husbands. I strived to be a bright and strong to support my future loving husband.

The chatter of women's voices snaps me rudely awake. Immediately I snuff out the hearth and flatten myself on the cold wall. Holding my breath, the women's chatter draws closer. I see their long shadows reach the foot of the open doorway. The laughter stops. The chatter stops. The footsteps stop. I dare not look through the doorway to meet their scornful glares. From what seems like eternity, they finally leave, clicking their tongues.

“I don't know why they suffer such a sinner to live.”

“They should stone the shameful wrench.”

“Whore.”

The shadows and the voices fade away and relief escapes my body.

With shaky hands I calm my beating heart. This is nothing new. You have heard this all before. I repeat to myself. You brought this on yourself. You deserve this. You have to be punished. I chant. It eases the pain and silences my indignant cries against my tormentors.

“Woman, what is taking so long?” He asks. Hastily wiping my tears, I return to my task.

 

After serving the breakfast and helping him dress, he heads to the prayer hall. I sit alone in the house. To my own rotten luck, no water is left to quench my desperate thirst. Luck. I muse at the word. Was it luck or was it will of God that my first husband passed away to illness? They told me that it was the will of God then. Believing them I was then married to his younger brother who was barely twelve. He was a sweet child. Wanting to fulfil the role of my protector, he tried to grow up fast. Perhaps it was due to this haste, he unfortunately followed his brother few months after.

I grieved. Yet they said it could never match their own. They said it was my fault. How else could two brothers die under one woman? How dare I survive them? I tried to voice my defence but was warned if I did not admit my wrongdoings and beg for forgiveness, I would not escape being buried alive together with my husband. Grievance and sorrow froze into fear and desperation. Without time to grieve my two husbands properly, I had to fight to live. I admitted my sins. I blamed myself. I called myself a lazy and ungrateful wife. With my father in law’s anger appeased, I was cast out of the house in shame.

To preserve my father's name, before I could set a foot in his door, I was given to my cousin as his second wife.

It was at that time I began hearing their words sharp as barbs. I was labelled as a ‘shameless woman’.

 

The shadows shrink and I prepare for my hike to Jacob’s well. Named after our proud ancestor. I would always plead my mother to repeat his story before bed. How I imagined myself to be Jacob’s adored second wife Rachel! He worked 7 years for her father to wed her and even when he tricked by receiving her older sister Leah, he worked another 7 years for her. In the beginning, I used to be angry at Leah for getting in the way of Rachel and Jacob. After a while I felt sorry for her. Now, I envied her. Envy is a sin, I tell myself as I wrap myself up and nervously step out of the house.

The unbearable heat forces the others indoors and into the shade. I walk the dusty path scarcely used. Young children trail behind to have their look at a shameful woman. Next they will start calling. Then will come the insults, followed by rocks.
Suddenly, they stop abruptly as if there was an invisible wall between us. I know why. A barren square catches my eye. The ground is flattened around the silent wooden beam in the centre. Various jagged rocks form a perfect ring one after the other. Above the wooden beam is a beaten sign reading “They shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them”. This was the place where sinners were put to death.

My cousin’s first wife was seen with another man alone. The following day she was tied on the wooden beam crying out her innocence to the other’s deaf ears. My cousin, now my husband, was the first to hurl that stone. I wanted to scream for him to stop. To voice out the innocent truth that they knew deep in their hearts. The others were not listening. Even the women came out to witness the punishment. The look of pity was sealed tightly on their grim faces yet they stood away, shaking their heads.

I wanted to yell at my husband to stop. She did not deserve this even if she had a relationship with another man. Quietly divorce her.

He turned to the crowd, searching for someone. Our eyes met. As I wondered, a heavy realization sank in. The one he was looking for was me.

“Ezra!” He called.

The others turned to me, the air still with silence. He gestured for me to come to him. I looked to my left. I looked to my right. No one moved.

Slowly, trembling I moved forward into the crowd who opened a wide path for me, watching my every move silently.

When I reached him, with a smile, he gently took my hand, turned it over and placed a heavy rock. He gestured with his eyes. I felt every blood in my body freeze, cold sweat down my back.

“Go on. She deserves this.” His words echoed.

I felt faint. My body started to shiver and I dropped the rock.

I tried to say ‘No’ ‘I can’t’ “please don’t make me do this’ but my voice failed me.

He bent down and picked the rock up and put it back in my hand.

“Prove to me that you are different from this woman.” He said, releasing my hand with the heaviest object I have ever held.

The others watched my every move with held breath.

Trembling, I turned facing her.

Her eyes and mine met.

“I did not commit adultery!” She screamed, her eyes wild, wet with tears. “I never, in my life did anything that deserves this!”

“Silence you heathen!” They bellowed. “What would you know about deserving?”

Her eyes changed to that of anger and hatred.

“The only reason I am here is because you wanted a mute, controllable wife!” Her voice was shrill, unrecognizable with grief.

He turned to me.

“Throw it, least you have the same punishment!” He ordered.

I shook my head.

“Sympathiser!”  They yelled.

Like being hit by a lightning bolt, I was now aware how thin the line was between me and the woman tied to the post.

The murmuring became louder and I could see few jostling towards me from corner of my eyes.

“Maybe she planned it together?” “Covering up for her sin?” “Maybe they are in the same league.” “Perhaps there is a circle of...”

Squeezing my eyes shut, praying for forgiveness over and over, I threw the stone.

As soon as that stone left my hand, I knew there was no going back. To save my own self, I had become 'them'.

Madness swept them up in frenzy and I kept my eyes closed, unable to open them. The madness soon surrounded me and engulfed me whole. I welcomed it.

 

I reach the well hoping to ease my thirst. The heat is unbearable under the heavy clothes I drape around me. I drop the small, well used bucket into the well and pull on the thick dry rope. I pull and pull, hearing the water sloshing below.

The water is refreshingly cool, running down my throat. I wiped the water from my chin and it fell to the dry soil and I noticed a stubborn, dirty weed standing tall over dead plants, weeds and flowers alike. 
It felt like no matter how much I took, I could never sate my thirst. Filling the rest of the jar I hurried down the path.

Thinking back, it was after that stoning I pushed myself to be like them. I loudly scorned those 'dirtier' than myself. I went to the praying hall, presented offerings and gave my prayers amidst the dirty looks. Head down, mouth sealed, I dutifully obeyed my husband and his every whim. I mimicked their words and their actions. To the point I felt I somehow saved myself from falling into the same category as the shameless, dirty sinners. At least I knew I knew my place. At least I was humble. At least I was trying to better myself. I repeated this like a prayer.

Yet this was not good enough for my cousin. He wrote the divorce papers and handed them to me one night.

 

Falling on my knees, I begged him to reconsider. If there was something he did not like, I will change. I will do anything to be whatever he wanted me to be. He sternly said there was nothing I could do to change. That I was tainted. I was dragging him down with my foul reputation. He wished to marry again soon, so he wanted to make sure I did not marry after this.

“Grant me mercy!” I cried, grasping the end of his robe. I could not face the world if I was a divorced woman.

“You selfish woman. Can you not think of anyone but yourself?” With anger, he wretched his robe from my grasp. He turned to walk out the door.

“In the scriptures it says if I find my wife to be displeasing, I am to divorce her. However as I must follow these words, I wish for you to not marry, as you may be divorced again or let your husband die again.”

Was this his reason? Because he is following the scriptures? No. It wasn't right.

“If you truly follow his words, does God not command mercy to those that are weak?” My voice broke in a shrill cry.

He stopped. He turned slowly and faced me.

“What did you say?” His voice was cold and hard as the rocks.

“Does not the proverbs say rejoice in your wife all your life?”

The Holy Scriptures. They speak of wives being treated with love and adoration. How the husband should tell her how perfect she is every day.

“Does not the Proverbs say 'do not be captivated by other women?' Call her 'blessed' and praise her? Does it not say your wife is a gift from God?”

“You dare twist Gods scripture against me.”

His voice shook with such anger. Next, jars and earthenware smashed onto the ground. With a rod in his hand, he recited a verse in the scriptures. Which, I couldn't remember.

 

My mother nursed me back to life. She squeezed my hand and told me the scriptures did not mean the same when spoken by women. Justice, fairness and holiness was only a luxury that men could afford.

 

The next day I saw my father speaking to my cousin, my previous husband. Laughing with his arms around him. What he did, to me and to our promise, no one faulted him. Instead, they comforted and praised him.

Perhaps the fault lay with me.

Looking at them, I started to think what I did wrong to have displeased him so. What I could have done better. Where did I go wrong?

My next husband, a man 20 years my senior who was staying as a guest kindly took me in as his wife. I promised myself that I would better myself. Little did I know then I was simply digging deeper.

 

Upon setting the urns down, I heard someone tapping the door. Cautiously, I looked out the window and to my relief it was the food vendor. An old foreign woman who didn't care that one was not to associate or sell food to likes like me. Someone whom their own mother had abandoned. I was grateful for her business more than she was for mine. She was the only person in this town who would do business with me, except for men at night. I thanked her and carefully closed the door again.

 

I watched her leave with her cart filled with goods and I wondered what country she was from. My fourth husband had all sorts of names and prejudice for every race save his own. Especially the Jews. He claimed he was a righteous, holy man, following the scripture. He justified his hatred for other races for they were corrupting the 'real' message. His hatred for other races overshadowed all the flaws I had, and as long as I was a Samaritan, he was happy to have me as his wife. I clung to this sole salvation desperately.

This marriage I will make it work, I promised myself. I lost myself trying to be more like him. To do things he liked, to say things that made him laugh. Horrible things about people. Not just other races, but of women. He would chuckle and tell me not to be harsh. Yet comparing and putting others down were the only thing I could do to alleviate my sins and mistakes.

 

Months passed as the pretend hatred became real and besides those my husband approved, I could not stand them. Hatred and anger twisted my heart and soul.

 

Cruelly, that became the reason for divorce. With a much younger woman behind him, he said I was too much. He said I was corrupting his pure mind and soul. What little belongs I had were thrown outside along with me.

Dazed, angry and hurt, I picked up the few items of clothes under the scrutinizing eyes of his neighbours. More came out to watch and laugh. Those I had scorned and embarrassed returned my words and actions, laughing and jeering loudly. Remembering that moment still stirred my heart and caused my face to burn with embarrassment.

The gates to my father’s house were closed shut. As written in the scriptures, as I was divorced, my cousin would not be allowed to have another wife. Furious, my father threatened to sell me as a slave. My mother, as her last act towards her daughter, gave me few coins and a map to her mother's house.

Determined not to cry in front of them, I bit my lip continued to my new abode.

 
Through her connections, my grandmother purchased a small decrepit shack along the outskirts of the town. This was where the shameless, unmentioned ones lived. As one who scorned on them before, I could not meet them in the eye. They kept their distance from me and just like me, they longed for the world to forget about them.

When the evening came, I realized whom I shared my neighbourhood with. Every night, men entered the huts and left before the sun rose. At first I was appalled that I was in midst of prostitutes and fought the urge to run away, reminding myself that to others, I was already like my neighbours.  No amount of scorn and self-hate could elevate my status. The other women avoided me like a plague, glares and silence followed me whenever I took to the well.

 

Then came the night when a man I recognized as a frequent visitor to my neighbours visited me. Wine reeking from his breath, he refused to believe I was not part of the night market. My strength paled in comparison to his and only in the morning, when sober enough to give me his silver, he realized what he had done and what it would mean for him. Fearing the repercussion, with a great sigh, he reluctantly announced he would marry me. Thus the wedding was hastily prepared and I sat silently beside him, dolled up prettily. The marriage lasted a week. Perhaps that was the minimum days one must stayed married to avoid the sin of committing adultery according to the Holy Scripture. Perhaps it was the culture. Perhaps it was something they made up. I received few coins from his family to stay silent and was swept under the rug.

 

It was just a nightmare I told myself. Yet the stain of the incident never faded. A small part of me, still alive lashed out in anger. How could this happen to me. How could this go unpunished? Did God really allow this kind of acts to happen? In that case what good was the coming Messiah do? Would he look at me like they would and call me dirty? Would he deny salvation as I have gone against the holy laws? That I was a failed woman, so far from the women who flowered into beautiful, pure, dutiful wives who gave many sons to the family?

So far from salvation I thought. No matter how hard I tried, I was never going to be like them. I would be just clinging onto pride with only pain to show for it.

 

That's how I became what I am now. Perhaps it was the money. Perhaps it was the short and sweet moments men treated me with love. The times where I was permitted contact with another being, where sweet words were exchanged and where status, past and sins were forgotten, made my eyes water from happiness. If I could live with this small happiness, this small salvation; I glad abandoned my rights and thoughts and became an object. I was more than willing to pay any price.

 

As the sun slowly set, leaving its burning prints in the sky, I sat in front of the mirror, hiding the scars, blemishes and the lines. Men liked women to smell sweet and clean. I wrapped my red robe around me. From the window I looked out to the small shrubbery, with wild weeds outgrowing the flowers. They stretch and spread, stubbornly growing strong despite how they were scorned. Stealing the sunlight and water from other plants. It was nearly time to trim the edges.

 

The day changed and repeated, nothing changing. Different men came and went from the house and I still took to the well for my never ending thirst. No matter how much I drank, the thirst soon came back, growing bigger and impatient than before. Hoping the next drink will satisfy my thirst, I carried my jar. Through the dusty roads, the stoning grounds and past the whispering people, I reached the Jacob's well.

 

Today, there was a man sitting at the well. He looked at me as I approached. Quickly I avoided eye contact, unsure who he was. From his dress, he looked like a Jew. With a gentle voice, asked me for a drink of water.

References:

Achebe, C. (1995). Colonialist Criticism. In Ashcroft B., Griffiths, G. & Tiffine, H. (Eds.), The Postcolonial Studies Reader 57-61.

Carr, Helen. (1996) Jean Rhys. Plymouth: Northcote House Publishers.

Ciolkowski L. E (1997) Navigating the Wide Sargasso Sea: Colonial History, English Fiction, and British Empire. Twentieth Century Literature, 43 (3), 339-359.

Fanon, F. (1995). National Culture. In Ashcroft, B., Griffiths, G. & Tiffine, H. (Eds.), The Post-Colonial Studies Reader 87-91.

Jenkins, H. (Ed.). (2001). Introduction. In Rhys, J, Wide Sargasso Sea. London: Penguin.Mann, E (2013). New Literature Week 3: Wide Sargasso Sea 1. [15]. Retrieved from https://autonline.aut.ac.nz/webapps/portal/frameset.jsp?tab_tab_group_id=_2_1&url=%2Fwebapps%2Fblackboard%2Fexecute%2Flauncher%3Ftype%3DCourse%26id%3D73479%26url%3D

Mann, E (2013). New Literature Week 5: Wide Sargasso Sea 3. [2]. Retrieved from https://autonline.aut.ac.nz/webapps/portal/frameset.jsp?tab_tab_group_id=_2_1&url=%2Fwebapps%2Fblackboard%2Fexecute%2Flauncher%3Ftype%3DCourse%26id%3D73479%26url%3D

Plasa, C. (2001). 'There is Always the Other Side: African and Caribbean Perspectives in Jean Rhys Wide Sargasso Sea, London: Palgrave/Macmillian

Walder, D. (1998). Post-Colonial Literatures inEnglish. Oxford: Blackwell