By Kim Woo-nam’s dream
The moment I was born, I drew my legs together. It wasn’t something I had learned. The body knows before the mind does—cold air, the sense of someone peering in, about to give me a name.
My grandmother tried to look between my legs. She had longed for a grandson to carry on the family line.
“Oh… it’s a girl.”
Her words struck the ceiling and fell back onto my body. “Fuck.” I tightened my legs even more. Before I had language, my body was already a sentence.
Even when they tried to change my diaper, I refused to open. My grandmother grew anxious; her fingertips trembled. At last, she clasped her hands together.
“I was wrong… please forgive me… please let the child open her legs.”
The words I was wrong changed the air in the room. Something unseen settled, like dust falling still. Slowly, I loosened my legs—not forced apart, but like a flower opening late.
I already knew how to fold my body to protect myself, and how to endure until someone said they were sorry.
Centre of the Web 