Another Person

by Kang Hwagil, Clare Richards (Translator)

Overview

A compulsively readable and razor-sharp campus novel about the impact of power and consent in a university setting

Perfect for fans of Cho Nam-joo, I May Destroy You, and If We Were Villains by M. L. Rio

Riveting and uncompromising, Another Person explores the long-lasting consequences of the sexism and misogyny fostered in universities.

Vacuum cleaner bitch.

When Jina sees this anonymous comment on a forum it forces her out of her stupor. It is posted on a website dissecting her public allegations of workplace sexual assault, the backlash to which forced her to quit her job. She has spent months glued to her laptop screen, junk-food packaging piling up around her, tracking the hate campaign that's raging against her online. This post stands out from the noise, for it could only have been made by someone who knew her as a student at university.

The comment stirs something deeply repressed. So Jina returns to Anjin University, and to the toxic culture that destroyed the lives of many female students including one, Ha Yuri, who died tragically and mysteriously not long before Jina left. Somewhere within Jina's memories is the truth about what happened to Yuri all those years ago.

Told in alternating viewpoints, in sharp, intelligent and multi-layered prose, this powerful and necessary novel confronts issues of sexism and abuse on university campuses.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781782279372
Publisher:	Steerforth Press
Publication date:	07/23/2024
Pages:	304
Sales rank:	937,378
Product dimensions:	5.06(w) x 7.77(h) x 0.93(d)

About the Author

Kang Hwagil is one of South Korea's new group of 'young feminists'. Her writing has received numerous accolades, most recently the 2020 Munhakdongne Young Writers' Award for short story Eumbok. She has published two short story collections, A Decent Person (2016) and White Horse (2020), as well as two novels, Another Person (2017), which won the Hankyoreh Literary Award the same year, and The Haunting of Daebul Hotel (2021).

Clare Richards is an editor and translator from Korean, with a key interest in feminist literary fiction. She is the recipient of grants and awards from the National Centre for Writing, Literature Translation Institute of Korea and The Korea Times, amongst others. Her translation of Kang Hwagil's prize-winning short story The Lake was published by The Massachusetts Review in 2022. Another Person is Clare's debut novel translation.

Read an Excerpt

1. Jina
 
My mind empties when I think back to that day. What happened to me? Which memories still remain?
There was a small lake. Its odour was thick and deep. When it rained, the dark stench spread throughout the whole neighbourhood. Its stickiness seeped in from all directions; the air, heavy with moisture, trembled in the rain. I trampled down on the blades of grass as I drifted along the roadside.
You want to know what happened? What I did?
I wasn’t satisfied until the smell of fresh green grass permeated every inch of my soles. I wasn’t at ease until the edges of my trainers were smeared dark green. Until the smell of mangled grass shot through me like a sharp cry, I couldn’t forget. Forget what was coming for me. Forget that my body was already sodden with the stench of the water, emitting its stale tang.
For a long time I couldn’t remember. But it’s sharp and vivid now, like it were only yesterday. And feels, too, like an echo from the distant past.
The voice calling my name.
Jina-ya? Jina-ya?
There was a rice field. The field was vast—so vast I thought my heart would burst. At dusk the world was coloured every warm shade of red. The air breathed in the last heat of the day, radiating the gentle scent of the afternoon sunlight. The sun trembled as I stretched out my hand. I filled my lungs with the breeze and ran to the end of the levee. The crimson-dyed evening was tender, a smile brimming with love.
Jina-ya? Jina-ya?
That day, someone called my name. I didn’t look back. Looking straight into the faraway, setting sun, I walked and walked. It was the only thing before me, all that was coming for me. I forgot the smell of the voice that clung to my body.
Wait.
The sun lighting my path never existed.
 
I haven’t left my flat in three months.
 
*   *   *
 
Stupid woman.
Today, too, people hated me. I was spending today, like every other day, alone at home, reading articles and comments written about me. The subject this time was ‘stupidity’. The pattern in which the disputes unfolded was generally similar. Someone called me stupid, and then the responses followed: she’s not stupid, just afraid. No, she wasn’t stupid or afraid, she was just a hopeless case to begin with. Then came another rebuttal. Look, let me explain to you what ‘stupid’ means. Haven’t you heard the story? The girl dancing in the red shoes. Beanpole legs limping as she walks. The girl who couldn’t stop dancing, in shoes she should never have worn. She shouldn’t have longed after what didn’t suit her to begin with. Should’ve known the shoes were bad. She had no clue the shoes weren’t right for her—you think she would have known her two legs would spread up in the air?
That’s what stupid is.
These people I’ve never met know me better than I know myself.
My ringtone pierced the air. Like a disobedient child caught in the act, I blinked and directed my gaze down at the white flashing screen. It was Tana. I looked at the phone for a brief moment before turning back towards the monitor. I didn’t pick up.
I knew what Tana would say. She’d tell me to stop looking at what I was reading. It was obvious. At first she’d say she’d phoned out of boredom—it was only when the conversation neared its end that she’d bring up what she really wanted to talk about.
Jina-ya, don’t pay attention to any of that bullshit.
I always responded that I wouldn’t. Then, as soon as we hung up, I’d type my name, ‘Kim Jina’, into the search engine.
I was aware that what people were saying was bullshit. How could I not be? I just couldn’t stop reading. Tana knew my obsession with what other people were saying. That must be why she made a habit of stressing the same thing every time.
‘Most of them are on your side. You know that, right?
But today I’m not having any of it. I ignored the phone. It continued to ring. Once. And again. And again. Then silence.
I burst out laughing. I was actually disappointed. I mean, really? I’d deliberately avoided the call, but the moment the ringing stopped, the disappointment I felt was unbelievable. Then came a violent rush of loneliness, a sickness in the pit of my stomach. I’m this predictable, this dull.
Like on that day last summer.
My boyfriend grabbed me by the neck.
Right. It’s a stupid story.
 
Lately I’m most envious of the people who think my story is pointless. I, too, want to look at myself and think ‘I just don’t get her.’ To see myself in that same way. To become another person. A person totally distinct from this someone I can’t understand, don’t want to understand. I want to heave a deep sigh and call out my own name.
Jina-ya, come on. Why would you do that?
I wish emotions were something you could choose to feel. The fear that someone might leave me, discarded, without value—I hate that feeling. People have realised the hold these thoughts have over me, and treat me in whatever way they please. I want to stop consoling myself, to stop telling myself that despite all this I’m still okay. I want to harden. To not feel anything at all. What I need is to lie my body on a bone-dry mound of hay. To breathe in the parched, stiff scent of the grass. To have every drop of moisture sucked from me. And then, one day, looking at the dampened heart of another, draw a long breath and ask,
Come on, why would you do that?
Why didn’t you end things?
 
He was my senior at work, and it was the fifth time he’d assaulted me.
That day, I reported him.
 
I’ve thought enough.
I shoot up from my chair and put some water on the stove. For tea. Or coffee. But inside my head the thoughts continue to unravel like balls of yarn, one after another, disordered and entangled.
Like Tana said, not everyone was badmouthing me. Some said I was brave, some offered help. I was thankful, but their words weren’t enough to rid me of my shame and embarrassment. Sometimes what was more crushing was not what he did to me, but the fact everyone knew.
Click. I extinguish the flame the moment it ignites. Taking a bottle of water from the fridge, a gulping noise sings out as the cold liquid slides down my throat. I still want tea or coffee, but it feels like a hassle. I don’t want to do anything that requires attention or exertion.
What’s the point?
My psychiatrist advised me to do something for myself. Eat your favourite food, tidy up, exercise, talk to friends. I went to three sessions before giving up. It felt like the psychiatrist wasn’t simply listening to me, but doing me a favour by listening to me. The last time I went, I was handed a questionnaire to fill out, but each and every checkbox was a struggle. These kinds of things: Do you often feel lonely? Do you ever feel insignificant? Are you often unable to control your emotions? I felt I might as well be better off taking one of those online psychology tests. The last question was something like this:
Do you feel like the world is out to get you?
I didn’t go back after that. I didn’t follow a single one of the doctor’s recommendations. Especially not today. The bin is full to the brim with junk-food packaging. Clumps of dust and hair balled up on the floor. As long as it’s not for anything in particular—and by that, I mean occasionally getting up to take out the overflowing rubbish—I don’t leave the flat at all. Inside the flat, I barely move, either. I order food over the internet, and anything I can’t get online, I don’t eat.
Three months of this. Since leaving my job, this has been my life.
I’m the living record of a terrible mistake.
‘This isn’t your fault,’ Tana would say whenever I put myself down.
I know. That’s why I miss Tana, and why I don’t want to listen to her. I want to feel her affection, but hate feeling how I’ve become someone requiring constant encouragement. Just because she’s a friend, it doesn’t make it any less embarrassing to bare myself in front of her each and every time we speak. And whenever I talk to Tana, I have to do my best to hide my brokenness—I don’t want her to know I’ve been ruined to an extent beyond which she can handle. I’m afraid of seeing the look in Tana’s eyes that she’s had enough. But concealing my teeming anxiety is exhausting. Just the fact that I need to exert myself irritates me. I don’t want to lose Tana, but I also don’t want to work to keep her. Just the fact I have this mindset makes me a terrible human being.
I’m suddenly overcome by the most awful thought. That’s right. I am that kind of person.
That’s why he hit me.
I hurriedly pull out the cold water again and drink from the bottle. I try to push the thought away, but in the end I can hear his voice once more, distinctly. He said the same thing every time he hit me.
‘Don’t think this is over.’
At the end of the trial, he was fined three million won for assault.
My chest freezes, solid.
 
If anyone were to meet me as I am now, they’d likely think me weak—but I hadn’t always been this way. I became weak.
I thought if the police investigated him, he’d be put under house arrest, surveillance, something—but none of that happened. I knew nothing about the legal system. I’d likewise thought there’d be protective measures put in place for the victim. I could of course apply for a restraining order. But that took time. I needed evidence as to why he shouldn’t be allowed contact with me, and then that evidence needed to be approved. I didn’t know the laws. I didn’t know the trial would take so long. Believing he would at some point be punished, I waited. Then five months passed.
I know. I should have informed the company and requested to be reassigned departments, or instead asked for him to be moved to another team. But I was more afraid of other people knowing than I was of seeing him. So the whole year we were dating, I didn’t make a single friend at work. I kept my colleagues at a distance. At first my shyness had been the problem, but later it was the fear our relationship would be found out. As time went on, I didn’t want anyone knowing what had happened to me. And when I started exceeding my performance targets again and again, I became a complete outcast. It was immediately clear I was first and foremost a competitor. Owning up to these people and asking for their help was unimaginable. I didn’t feel there’d be a single person on my side.
After I told my story, someone actually said this to me: I would never have expected it from you. You didn’t look like the type of girl this kind of thing happens to.
What exactly should a woman who’s beaten by the man she loves look like? And what about him, the man who hit me, who as he beat his girlfriend, whispered he was going to kill me? What does Lee Jinsub look like?
I can say one thing for certain. He was a good-looking man. I still remember clearly. A height clearing 180 centimetres, deep-set eyes, sharp nose—features that would arrest your gaze from far away. But, how should I put it? He didn’t have much of a personality, and so despite his good looks, left somewhat of a vague impression. Because of that, ironically, I felt less nervous around lofty men when I was with him. He didn’t assert himself aggressively, nor did he do anything to flaunt his presence. Even if he had, his vagueness meant it never felt that way. In fact, it was only as he looked down at me, hands squeezed around my neck, that I felt his presence distinctly. Forced down against the floor, unable to breathe, I could see him clearly. There, in centre of my blurring field of vision, was the distinct image of his face.
He knew very well how he came across to people. He told me once. That there was a time a different girl would confess her feelings for him almost every day. And he said this too. That he’d never dated a short girl with darker skin like me. He felt very certain of what his type was, and made sure to emphasise it. I like girls with soft, porcelain skin. He said that was the kind of girl who suited him. We look perfect together. But he said there weren’t many girls like that, and that it took a lot for him to tell a girl she was beautiful. I couldn’t be angry at him, though. After all, he whispered this to me as I shrunk away—but I don’t care about any of that when it comes to you.
His words were like looking into an upside-down mirror. My face inverted inside of it. As soon as his certainty faded, I would become nothing—it was clear. Yet I, upside-down, always smiled. I looked prettier that way.
One of the online comments said this: women who lose themselves over words like that are pathetic.
I hope they all continue to live with such certainty.
And then, when something unexpected comes their way, they’ll crumble to pieces all the easier.