Understanding Sang-Mook

Sang-Mook was a very gentle and kind person. A year ahead of me in high school, he would often sit outside our study room at a circular table near the baseball field to go over his reading. When he spoke, he spoke softly and with a Korean accent.

I would occasionally greet Sang, and he would politely return the greeting. He was never stand-offish, but it seemed to me that he tended to keep to himself, and though there was no verbal or physical indication to suggest so, it felt to me that he wanted to be left alone.

This may have been a projection on my behalf. 

Sang-Mook was blind, and perhaps it was that disability rather than his personality which prompted that idea that he would choose to be alone. The frequency with which he sat at that table and the readiness with which he would communicate should have clued me in otherwise.

One day Sang-Mook was at his table, running his hands over his binders of braille print. I approached him and he stopped reading and greeted me. This time, rather than a cordial and abrupt hello, I sat down beside him and we had an actual conversation.

About school.

About his move to the United States.

About future plans.

Just normal conversation between two people getting to know each other. The bell rang and I had to get back to class. We said our goodbyes, with him returning to his binders and I heading back to the study room.

The frequency of our chats increased over time, and thus feeling more comfortable discussing it, I broached the subject of his vision.

“What is it like being blind?”

“It isn’t like being like anything, it just is.” he explained, “I can’t describe it. This is how I’ve been my whole life.”

I realized that Sang-Mook’s entire outlook was alien to my own. There was no point of reference that could be used to describe how he experienced the world; explain what the images his imagination constructed looked like.

What does the color of a flower mean to a man who has never seen?

After that, we never discussed the matter again. Instead we talked, and on occasions, if needed, I would briefly assist him up stairs or with his papers. Normal, friendly interactions.

Sometime after that, he was once again seated at the table, books laid out, running his fingers over binders of embossed literature.

I was in a hurry, but made sure to greet him as I ran to class.

“See you around, Sang-Mook,” I said.

He replied, “Not if I see you first, Kami.”