Bean Curd Boy and His Brother

Bean Curd Boy and His Brother
"Brother, how come you call me, mushy bean curd?"
"Because you are a six years old boy acting like a mushy bean curd."
"Why?"
"Because you are afraid of the dark. You are afraid of water. You run away from bullies like a dog running away with his tail tucked under his hind."
"I don't try to be like that," I protested. "I'm born that way."
"Well, I don't like to see my baby brother acting like bean curd,' he smiled looking at me. "I will help you to be Tazarn."
"Like Tarzan in my comic book?"
"Yes, like Tarzan," he said.
"Who's not afraid of giant gorillas? Who's not afraid of lions? Who's not afraid of ten- foot snakes?"
"Yes," Brother smiled, "Tarzan of the human jungle."
"Do you really mean it?" I shouted in delight.
"Yes, I mean what I say," Brother replied. "I want to help my baby brother to be Tarzan of the human jungle. Brave and strong. Not a mushy bean curd, easily smooshed by others."

The first thing he did was to lock me in the dark basement and left me there for hours. I had been afraid of the dark basement because I felt that a lady ghost with wrinkles all over her face lived there hiding behind a wooden furniture. I was afraid that she would pick me up with her long, sharp finger nails, flying through the sky, telling me, 'I am taking you to my chidren so that they play with a human boy. I will tell them not to scratch you too hard, 'cause they like to scratch each other with their sharp finger nails.'
I was shaking with fear, but there nothing that I could do but wait for Brother to come and unlock the door. Then I saw a spider in one corner weaving his web without fear. 'How come the tiny, tiny spider not afraid of the lady ghost while a big boy like me shaking? There may not be a lady ghost in the basement at all,' I thought. 'I may be just imagining.'
After the basement experience and other places in the dark, somehow I got over my fear of darkness.
After the darkness training, he took me to a swimming pool and taught me how to swim breast stroke. Then weeks later, he said, 'Let's go for a boat ride on Han River', the river by Seoul, where we lived.
"A boat ride? How nice!" I said.
About fifty yards away from the shore, he told me to undress and jump into the water.
"I can't," I protested. "I'm scared."
"That's why I am telling you."
I was forced to jump into the water. The water was cold. Also I was afraid that a giant fish would swim over and bite off my male organ and merrily swim away. The only thing that I could do was to swim as fast as I could to reach the shore.
"Slow down Hi-Dong," Brother yelled. "Otherwise, you are not going to make it."
I slowed down. Then again I thought of a giant fish swimming toward me, biting off my organ. I hurried.
"Slow down Hi-Dong"
I slowed down. Then I hurried again. By the time, I reached the shore, I was 'half dead' from exhaustion. Brother patted my back saying, 'You are as good a swimmer as I am'.
Since then, I was no longer afraid of the water. In fact I looked forward going out to the river to swim.

The last thing he taught me was to defend myself from bullies. He taught me basic martial art skills and told me to attack him. I tried to knock him down with my feet and fists, but he was too quick. I eneded up exhausted day after day. After weeks of training, he contratulated me for being a good student. 'Now I can call you Tarzan of human jungle'. It was one of the happiest days of my life. To be called Tarzan of the human jungle.

Then in December, 1941, Japan bombed Pearl Harbor and the WWII over the Pacific Ocean began. Japanese ordered every Korean to walk up to the Shinto temple and bow down to the picture of their emperor. My father, a Christian minister, refused saying, 'My god is the god of Jesus Christi. Only him I will worship.' One day Japanese police came took him to prison.
Several weeks later, my 15 year old brother volunteered to join the Japanese military to save his father from the prison. When the war came to end in 1945, everyday I sat on a rock by the house, hoping to see my brother walking toward home. I sat there week after week. Month after month. Waiting for my brother. Then one day I saw a wornout man limping toward my home. He was my brother.
He left home as a vibrant 15 year old boy. He returned home as an injured worn out 18 year old man. He died a year later from his injury.
Before his death, I looked forward to every tomorrow. After his death, my life has never been the same again. I still long for him, more than seventy years later. I wish there is a place called 'Heaven' where I can hold his hand and give him a nice smile.

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