Calling You From Halfway Across the World: A memoir dedicated to a decade-long friendship

By Yeojin Kim

Calling You From Halfway Across the World is a memoir dedicated to Yeojin's childhood in Seoul, South Korea, and Columbia, Missouri. The book delves deeper into the friendship between Yeojin and Grace, who become best friends during their brief two years together at Fairview Elementary. It accentuates the miraculous power of friendship, transcending the 6,735 miles standing in between. Based on Yeojin´s anecdotes and vivid recollections of her childhood, this heartwarming memoir is sure to imbue every reader´s heart with happiness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9781312275775

Book preview

Copyright

Calling You from Halfway Across the World

Copyright © 2023 [Yeojin Kim] All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9781312275775

Author's Note

Luxuriating on the slow days after the AP exams, I was leisurely sitting at our neighborhood Starbucks, happily sipping a Strawberry Crème Frappuccino with my mom. The cold, luscious drink was perfect to assuage the sultry weather in the midst of June. We were reminiscing on my childhood in Missouri, wistfully recollecting our daily walks in the reddish-orange sunset, my first playdate with Grace, our 40-day road trip traversing the North American continent, and more. We talked for hours, even after finishing our venti-sized drinks. It had been over a year since my mom and I sat at a cafe to talk without fretting about the time. I spent a particularly busy sophomore/ junior year packed with intense activities: marching band, multiple APs, SAT prep, honor societies, clubs, etc. I’d been running forward for the past year, abandoning my idyllic persona and evolving to become the poster child of an academic Asian student. Even now, I was scheduled to attend a four-week long summer camp starting next Sunday. Relishing the short respite from the academic stress accumulated over time, I wistfully recalled the sedate days seven years ago when I would unhurriedly devour the Children of the Red King series with Grace.

Mom, do you remember the winter break in 2nd grade when Grace and I started our book marathon for the Red King series? I asked.

Yes. I used to reprimand you for staying up all night reading. You used to do a lot of things behind my back at night, thinking I wouldn’t know…but I did.

Oh really? What kind?

You don’t remember? Once, you were so afraid Yeonseo would eat your Girl Scout Cookies that you devoured the entire packet while hiding underneath the thick duvet. Your dad and I were so amused; we even took video footage.

Indeed, my mom had a video of me quietly munching on the chocolate-covered biscuits in the middle of the night, hiding under my blankets, and reading a book. Unfortunately, I couldn’t recall the amusing incident even after watching the hard evidence. I’ve been experiencing these moments quite frequently: I would be ranting about a past event, then I would pause to remember what came next. My hardware wasn’t large enough to retain all memories; some had to be discarded in evanescence. It has been my long-time dream to record my enduring friendship with Grace in tandem with my personal growth over my adolescence. Writing a memoir seemed appropriate. Recently, I’ve become enamored with these Youtube shorts where people whip up mouthwatering dishes while sharing interesting stories about themselves. I figured I could do the same, but in the old-fashioned way—writing.

Inside the cozy Starbucks that languid afternoon, I had an epiphany: I wouldn’t be able to write a memoir if I didn’t remember anything. A few days later, I finished my calculations. I started marching band in August, and senior year would be incredibly busy with college applications. Therefore, the only available time was now; somehow, I would have to document roughly three-quarters of my life in the four weeks at a summer camp . I didn’t plan on writing a full memoir: that would be a lunacy. However, I did want to jot down all the little nuances I cherished with all my heart but knew I would soon forget. Similarly, I wanted to set myself a goal so I would punctually finish this ambitious project.

Consequently, what you’re about to read is the hard-earned upshot from waking up at five every morning and going to bed at midnight. I might have written a good chunk of it in class as well, pretending I was another assiduous student meticulously typing notes on the lectures. If I was given more time, I guarantee it would have been lengthier and more enthralling—but the time I could allot to this book was circumscribed. I hope you understand this isn’t a traditional memoir: there are very few dialogues and maybe some grammatical gaffes here and there. Also, it was my first time writing a paper this long outside of school. You may notice that the prose in the last few chapters is significantly well-structured than in the first few. I will probably rectify this writing many years later and republish it into something much more magnificent. 

But for the time being, I hope this memoir will be a light reading for those seeking some soul-warming content.

I hope this book will be a soft pat on the back. 

I hope this book gives you solace.

Preface

Reminiscing on our life in Missouri, my family all have different recollections of my first day at Fairview Elementary. My sister Yeonseo, who has five at the time, has sparse memories of the dark amber lights blinding her eyes that adjusted to being in the bright, almost fluorescent sunlight outdoors that morning; my introverted dad recalls the throng of loud parents conversing in English; my mom was culture-shocked by the grayish carpeted floor and its distinct waft that made her cringe. The five senses of sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch formulate my family’s memories. I, on the contrary, felt a tingle of prescience: the herald of something great. 

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Human memories are unreliable sources of information because they are subjective: since our brains cannot store everything, they evolved to save only the information they think is most significant, which is why you and your friend each remember something the other doesn't, albeit experiencing the same event. This is precisely why Grace and I decided to write two versions of our incredible story imbued with friendships and miracles, filling in the porous gaps for each other as we’ve always done. 

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Grace’s and my backgrounds are placed on the opposite spectrum. Her family has resided in Columbia, Missouri, ever since she was born, while my family moved once every few years to an entirely new location; she was white, and I was Asian; she had a mischievous little brother while I had to deal with an importunate little sister; but most notably, she had the warmth and largesse that made her likable while socializing wasn’t my forte.

My childhood is characterized by stability and instability. The instability came from the perpetual moving across continents. There was chronic angst nestled in my heart from not knowing the time and location we would move to, which made me prefer being secluded rather than socializing with people of my age. The stability came from my endearing parents, who tried their very best to help me make new friends while also filling in the void from the lack of them. 

When I give my whole spiel about living abroad and moving so frequently, people would sometimes ask how I endured the precipitous changes and challenges entailing them. My answer is simple and straightforward: family. My parents had different parenting methods and ways of expressing love to my sister and me. My dad was always busy, and he was generally absent from little but meaningful events: all my school plays, Bring your parents to School day, and weekend excursions to parks or museums. Nevertheless, he made the most out of his time by playing with us, taking us to movies, occasionally giving my mom a break from the mundane household chores, and sharing with us his childhood anecdotes growing up on a clementine farm in Jeju Island. He was introverted and reticent, meaning he would always listen to my sister and me chatting and chortling for hours without expressing any complaints. My mom, on the other hand, took the role of an austere and pragmatic parent who inoculated us from the world outside our cozy home. As a housewife, she raised my sister and me alone since my dad was basically never around. She was the one who cooked all our meals, helped us with our homework, took us shopping, premeditated weekend excursions, and punctually attended every single school event with her adamant and poised demeanor. My mom also taught us manners such as how to use cutlery appropriately, express deference to the seniors, and, most notably, articulated the importance of listening over talking.

In essence, my dad was the affable, cherubic version who would let me sleep on top of his tummy, while my mom was the strict parent who sculpted us into polite and respectful human beings. At that time, my dad was more of a friend who came over for sleepovers while my mom was our guardian: under her tutelage, I was safe. 

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When I was roughly seven years old, my dad experienced burnout: he had an epiphany (which seemed pretty obvious to the rest of us) that he was neglecting his family and parental responsibilities by blaming his busy vocation requiring him to allot 100% of his time and energy. He decided to relish a two-year sabbatical as a means of detoxification from his job and creating fun memories when my sister and I were still kids. 

One afternoon, my dad called me from his study, saying he wanted to ask me something in private. He had me sit on a comfy couch next to his desk and casually asked me where I would like to live if I could choose one place out of anywhere. At that time, I knew neither his plans nor world geography; therefore, I half-jokingly said: Well, Daddy, I would like to live in a peaceful countryside where there are cows and hens and friendly neighbors giving me homemade cookies to take home. Little did I know he would take my answer seriously and sign a two-year contract for a house in a small cul-de-sac in Columbia, Missouri (aka. the flyover state). Although he never explicitly said this to us, I could feel that my dad was remorseful for not being with us more often when my sister and I were babies and burdening my mom with the parental responsibilities entailing raising two energetic, impish girls. Naturally, the theme for his sabbatical became quality time with family; his objective was spearheaded towards mending the cleave, separating himself from my mom, sister, and