[칼럼] My Story 2 -  ● If There Is No Road, I Will Pave One as I Go.

(NewsKorea=Seoul) Digital News Team = My Story 2 - ● If There Is No Road, I Will Pave One as I Go.

My father was upright and principled. Like many with such characteristics, he could not bend in the face of a chaotic and twisted world. His temperament seemed to have been inherited from my grandfather, a 20th-generation descendant of Kim Kyun, one of the founding fathers of the Joseon Dynasty and lord of Gyerim. My grandfather, a Confucian scholar registered in the Namwon Hyanggyo, dedicated his life to educating younger generations in Hamyang. Naturally, our family was steeped in a Confucian order and conservative atmosphere, and my father's uprightness and integrity were closely tied to this family tradition.

During the late Japanese colonial period, my grandfather suffered under forced shrine worship and name changes, a plight common among Confucian scholars of the time. Witnessing this, my father realized the need for modern education and went to Tokyo to study.

When Korea gained independence, a new world opened. It was a time of boundless possibilities for the youth of a nascent nation equipped with modern education. In 1948, as U.S. military governance ended and the police force of an independent nation was established, my father joined the police. Why the police? Perhaps it was to reclaim the dignity lost due to the suffering inflicted by Japanese police on my grandfather. Or perhaps he saw it as the only profession where he could live true to his upright character. It might also have been a pragmatic choice amid the intense ideological clashes of the post-liberation era.

My father was an exemplary public servant. However, while his character was effective in enforcing the law and cracking down on crime, it did little to illuminate his own path in life. In other words, he was inept at adapting to and thriving in a crooked world. During his service, he received three medals of merit and two presidential commendations, but these honors did not equip him with the wisdom to navigate a complex society.

My mother, on the other hand, was a modern woman who had received a contemporary education in Osaka, Japan, and worked for the Osaka Railroad Bureau. Both my parents were respected intellectuals, rare in their rural community, and they built a happy family that was the envy of others.

This happiness was shattered in the early 1970s with the eruption of the infamous "Grandmother Spy Ring Incident." In 1972, a major espionage case involving Lee Eui-hwa, a key spy trained in Moscow, broke out on Geoje Island. My father, then serving as a chief of the Dongbu Substation of Geoje Police Station, arrested and interrogated Lee Eui-hwa, leading to the apprehension of 31 spies active in Korea—a monumental achievement.

The case, unprecedented in scale since independence, highlighted the tireless efforts and risks undertaken by frontline officers. However, when it came time to divide the credit, senior officials in the central government claimed all the glory, leaving the lower ranks, including my father, sidelined. While the high-ranking officials received promotions and monetary rewards, the diligent frontline officers were ignored or given token recognition, exposing the rot in the police hierarchy.

Unable to tolerate such corruption, my father protested against the police leadership. In a hierarchical organization like the police, openly defying or questioning superiors was tantamount to professional suicide. Initially, officials from the National Police Agency attempted to placate him with promises of promotion and transfer, but my father refused. When appeasement failed, pressure to resign followed. My father resisted, but there were limits to how long a local police chief could hold out against central authorities. Inevitably, he left the police force, effectively unemployed at a young age.

After losing his job, my father’s life spiraled downward. Despite his best efforts, every venture ended in failure. He used his severance pay to purchase 25,000 pyeong (approximately 82,500 square meters) of hilly land on Geoje Island, transforming it into the first large-scale tangerine orchard in the area. It was a bold gamble, fueled by his belief that tangerines could be cultivated even on Geoje Island, which is much farther north than Jeju Island. This confidence was both his dream and his hope.

But my father’s modest dream was crushed overnight. During the winter of 1974, an unprecedented cold wave, the harshest in 56 years, wiped out all his tangerine trees. He was left with nothing but a debt of 20 million won—a staggering amount at the time, equivalent to the price of four to five decent houses in Seoul.

I was 14 years old. Not long ago, we had lived comfortably, without lacking anything. Suddenly, we were plunged into deep poverty. I learned then how unbearable it was to face the cold winter wind without even a pair of gloves. I had no study guides, which all the other children seemed to have. But the most difficult thing to endure was witnessing my father, once a confident and dependable man, crumble under the weight of life.

The father I knew had always been dignified and trustworthy, but now he seemed small and frail. This sight was unbearable for me. It was then, perhaps, that a vague sense began to take root in my heart—that I might have to run life’s course in reverse to support my collapsing father.

When it came time for me to decide on high school, I had already resigned myself to not attending. I couldn’t bring myself to add to my father’s burdens when he was already struggling under the weight of his failures.

But life often opens a new path where one believes none exists. A newly established private school, Masan Central High School, was offering full scholarships to students who graduated middle school at the top of their class. It was as if the system had been designed specifically for me.

However, even this small breakthrough seemed insurmountable. A full scholarship didn’t cover living expenses, boarding costs, or the minimum funds needed for school supplies. My family couldn’t afford even that.

When I gave up on high school, my father took me to Masan, the capital of South Gyeongsang Province at that time, submitted an application for admission, found me a boarding house near the school, and even set up a small desk in my room. He handed me a modest amount of spending money and returned to Geoje Island. After he left, I cried endlessly, overwhelmed by his silent sacrifice.

A month into my life in Masan, I learned a painful truth: my father had borrowed money at a high interest rate to cover my boarding and living expenses. Unable to bear the thought of burdening him further, I moved out of the boarding house and found a place where I could live rent-free in exchange for tutoring the landlord’s son.

Although my tuition and living costs were barely manageable, I began to question whether attending high school was worth it. I felt guilty for forcing my struggling father to sacrifice so much just so I could study.

To make matters worse, I was no longer at the top of my class, as I had been in middle school. Back then, I was a star—always excelling academically, winning awards in writing and public speaking, and even serving as student council president. But in Masan, a much larger pond, I was just one of many talented yet poor students. This realization dulled my motivation and made studying less enjoyable.

Did someone in the heavens notice that I had lost interest in my school studies? Is that why they decided to play a trick on me? As I was about to advance to my second year, the special class I was in was dissolved. The students in the special class were divided and integrated into regular classes. In hindsight, the opportunity to stand out among ordinary students was a small consolation. However, the tuition exemption was revoked, leaving me without the only foothold that allowed me to attend high school. Fortunately, through my homeroom teacher’s introduction, I was able to cover my boarding expenses by becoming a live-in tutor for a classmate's family. It was a relief, but a growing thought began to take hold in the back of my mind: perhaps it was just as well, given that I was already losing interest in high school studies.

“Should I continue studying with money borrowed at high interest by my father?”

I posed the question to myself and immediately answered.

“No, instead, I should go to Seoul, earn money on my own, and study in a better environment if the opportunity arises.”

Once I make up my mind, I never look back.

“Think thoroughly before making a decision. Once decided, move forward resolutely.”

This is my guiding principle. I submitted my resignation letter to the school. The withdrawal caused a far greater commotion than I had anticipated.

At school, many teachers who had taken a special interest in me, including my homeroom teacher, each voiced their advice and concerns. I was astonished to learn there were so many reasons why one shouldn’t drop out of high school. Even the vice principal, principal, and chairman got involved in persuading me. However, as I listened to their reasons, it became clear that their main concern was the potential decline in the school's prestigious university acceptance rate. Realizing this, my determination to leave that high school grew even stronger.

The uproar extended to my home as well. My father, who had personally experienced the hardships of self-financing his education during his studies in Japan, was the most vehemently opposed to my “reckless journey to Seoul.” Though he didn’t say it outright, I believe he felt a deep sense of guilt, thinking his poverty had forced his son onto such a challenging path.

Yet, I am not one to reverse a decision once it’s made. No one’s persuasion could sway me. However, it took a month and a half of enduring my family’s relentless opposition and attempts to dissuade me before I could finally act on my decision to leave high school. At last, I broke free from my boundaries. But like a fish leaving a safe, tranquil stream to plunge into the rough ocean without knowing where the currents would carry it, I was diving into the unknown.

Seoul in the late 1970s was exactly as Lee Ho-cheol described in his novel 'Seoul is Overcrowded.' The city was teeming with young people driven by the wave of industrialization, as well as farmers who had no escape from grinding poverty despite a lifetime of hard work. The streets were always bustling, and human life was cheap.

On the other hand, Seoul was also a land of opportunity. Even before the bubble of economic growth from the Vietnam War had fully subsided, a new wave of opportunities arose with the surge of overseas projects in the Middle East. Seoul was the forward base for those expanding their horizons globally. For Koreans, who had nothing to offer but their sharp minds, a diploma was the only stepping stone for upward mobility. The fervent drive to pursue higher education and learn at all costs captivated the hearts of the people like a spell. Yet, amidst this tide, I had not only abandoned higher education but also left my high school to step into this unfamiliar city. I was only 17 years old.

In Seoul, my priorities were clear: first, solve the problem of basic sustenance; second, earn money; and third, resume my studies. It was a life plan that seemed to run in reverse compared to my peers. However, I wasn’t alone—Seoul was filled with young people who had rewritten the conventional timeline of life like I had.

I pennamed myself Georo in my diary. Georo carries the meaning of "reverse," signifying my unconventional life trajectory. However, the name also carried a firm resolve: someday, I would set this reversed life upright. Writing the name in Chinese characters as 巨路 (meaning "grand road") gave it a meaning that deeply resonated with me.

At an age when others were attending school, I was working to make money—a clearly reversed path. Yet, considering the circumstances I was in, it was the right path. Moreover, my reversed way of life was merely a process toward eventually walking the right path. Making money was never my ultimate goal. That was the fundamental difference between me and others.

If I had set making money as my primary goal in life, my current self would be entirely different. No matter how urgent earning a living or making money was, I never forgot my guiding principle of "correcting a reversed path"—the essence of a U-turn. This principle, ingrained in a special memory, became the foundation of my life and led to the creation of my pen name, "Georo," which symbolized this very rule.

When I decided to make money, I never dreamed of becoming a 'chaebol' like Lee Byung-chul of Samsung or emulating Shin Seon-ho of Yulsan, whose rags-to-riches story inspired countless young people at the time. The wealth I envisioned was merely the freedom to study as I pleased, free from the chains of poverty.

☆ Author:  Atty Jeong-kee Kim ☆

● Education
- Bachelor of Arts in Political Science, Summa Cum Laude, State University of New York at Stony Brook
-  Doctor of Jurisprudence, Marquette University Law School
- Senior Executive Program, John F. Kennedy School of Government, Harvard University
- Research Scholar in North Korean Studies, Peking University

● Experience
- Consul General of the Republic of Korea in Shanghai
- Commissioner General for the Korean Pavilion at the 2010 Shanghai Expo
- CEO, Asia-Pacific Local Government Network for Economic and Social Development (CityNet)
- Secretary General, World Smart Sustainable Cities Organization(WeGO)
- Law Clerk, Milwaukee Circuit Court, USA
- Senior Attorney-at-Law, Dr & Aju LLC
- Distinguished Visiting Professor, World Economy Research Institute, Nanjing University
- Research Professor, Institute of Oriental Studies, Peking University
- Distinguished Professor, Graduate School of Political Science, Kookmin University
- Chair Professor, Graduate School of Business, Dongguk University
- First President of Soongsil Cyber University

● Publications
- Georo English Studies Series for College Students [10 volumes] (Georo Publishing)
- I Challenge the Possibility of One Percent (Chosun Ilbo)
- The Art of Negotiation (Cheongnyonneongsin Publishing)
- Korea and the World (Chekmidum Publishing)