Self-portrait: Bulimic Korean piano prodigy turned novelist

I returned to New Zealand after over two decades. My mother brought an old suitcase to our reunion. “I could not throw them away. Maybe you can take care of this.” I opened it later and saw the faded letters from South Korea, which my friends sent me when we immigrated to New Zealand in 1994. There were old diaries, scrapbooks with newspaper clips, and photo albums. I found cassette tapes and videotapes, too. These were the documentation of my life when I lived in Auckland.
The 1995 Westpac School Music Contest for Chamber Musicians (now the NZCT Chamber Music Contest) programme was also in the suitcase. The Ivinkaia Trio won the competition, and I played the piano. The programme read, “Daimy is sixteen, formerly studied in Korea, and joined the trio only eight weeks before the Westpac Competition.”
Two months before the Auckland district contest, I met the other trio members, Lara, the violinist, and Rachel, the cellist. Lara and Rachel had been rehearsing with a well-known piano prodigy until she injured her hand playing hockey at school. My piano teacher was coaching the trio and brought me in as her replacement.
Lara and Rachel were the two best young musicians, not just in Auckland but in New Zealand. They could easily win the competition so my concern was that I would be the reason in case they didn’t win. My confidence was at its lowest since we came to New Zealand.
I was interviewed for the TV show Asia Dynamic, and my mother said on camera that we had moved to New Zealand for my education. I went to an arts school in Seoul and studied music composition. The tuition fee of the private school was already toppling our finances, and it increased yearly. Just before we left, my sister had been admitted to the same school to play the oboe, and since we both studied classical music, my parents wanted to give us more opportunities in the Western world.
This was how my parents justified our family’s immigration to us, too. I found out that it was only partly true much later. My father was the eldest son of his family, and my mother didn’t want to try for a son, an heir after two daughters. My father was tired of the ongoing conflict between his parents and wife which severely strained their relationship. I understand why my parents wouldn’t want to mention this on national television, but I wish they were at least honest with us.
My parents said we would leave for New Zealand, and I was excited. I had seen students from my school go to foreign countries. Almost everyone went to America as we all dreamt of studying at The Julliard School. I’d never heard of New Zealand before, and my classmates hadn’t either. They wrote on a card, “Good luck in the Netherlands, Dami!”
When I arrived, the shock was profound. No one pronounced my name right, and everyone called me Daimy. Instead of telling people the correct way, I changed my name. Once I started school, I felt outraged by my parents and wondered why they lied. They could not have come here for my education—not when some children could not read music. I was devastated that my parents pulled me out of the privileged arts school, and now I would fall behind my old classmates.
I thought that I would at least be the best student in class. One day, my music teacher, Ms Bradley, gave us a composition assignment. I considered this the chance to redeem my pride and was determined to present the most accomplished composition. However, after everyone showcased their piece, I was ashamed of my arrogance. I did my usual 16-bar composition in A-A’-B-A. In Korea, I was trained to construct music in the formation required by the university entrance examination. But other children’s music, even by those who did not read music properly, stunned me. Their out-of-box innovations had no restriction or formation to follow. Those years of expensive education might have given me the technique, but my imagination and freedom of thinking were limited.
With this realisation, I no longer wanted to continue with music. But I dared not stop because I believed my parents came here for me. Their sacrifice to help me become a professional musician gave me no choice. My father had become a wild goose dad who stayed in Korea to make money and support us. My mother had to sort out everything where she did not speak the language fluently. I quickly became a translator for the family, an onerous role for a 15-year-old. We were the first wave of Korean immigrants to New Zealand, and my sister was bullied at school. All four of us soldiered on, but we were unable to help each other. I thought this was all my fault. If I had not been so ambitious, my parents wouldn’t have decided to immigrate, and we would have lived comfortably in our country. My father would not have to feel lonely, missing us. My mother would not have been treated like an illiterate when she was an aspiring writer in Korea. My sister would never have a half-eaten apple thrown at her head and shouted, “Go back to your country!” I messed up our family.
*
To punish myself, I developed a little secret. I had no control over my family’s trials, but there was one thing I could control—my weight. When I refused food, the scale went down; if I ate, it went up. The anorexic phase eventually turned into bulimia. I had gotten extremely handy at lying and hiding away the evidence. It took a few years until it became apparent to others that I had a problem.
I trudged through my first years in the new country in this mud of guilt, rage, and silence. I felt only uplifted in Ms Bradley’s choir. She also made the school sing Whitney Houston’s ‘The Greatest Love of All’ every week at the assembly. I was astonished because, in my old school, we had never sung a popular song. I memorised the lyrics religiously. I was among the few Asians in school and worked hard to blend in. I loved the song’s powerful melody but was confused by the lyrics. It said that the children are our future and let them remind us how we used to be. Then, still a child, I could not imagine how to be someone’s future and remind anyone of anything.
So I was introduced to Lara and Rachel with a troubled mind. They didn’t know I played the piano only because my parents expected me to. For me, it was pointless to stay motivated. My peers in Korea were better than I was, and I lacked the creativity of my New Zealand peers.
Lara and Rachel had already advanced with Dvorak’s Trio in F minor, Op 65, Allegro con brio. I noticed that they didn’t have a music stand. I knew it was an extraordinarily complicated, lengthy piece, and I could not breathe from the pressure.
But when they started playing, something moved inside me. I had never witnessed anyone having so much pleasure as Lara and Rachel making music. Nobody at my old school talked about how they loved music. Most of us were there because our parents wanted us to succeed as musicians. Lara and Rachel’s playing celebrated the joy of music. Instead of the score, they read each other. They talked with their eyes. I felt how intimate the interactions between instruments could be. I had always been a soloist, but now I desired to play in an ensemble.
Back home, I went straight to the piano. I practised independently and tried to catch up when we met for rehearsals. Lara and Rachel were patient. They gave me time and space to improve and inspired me to play it off by heart. I watched their movement closely and listened to their inhaling, all my sensory nerves at the ready. And as time passed by, I started to hear it. Three of us played as one instrument, our voices organically immersed in each other. I was obsessed with Dvorak; it lived on my mind day and night. In my waking hours, if I did not play it on the piano, I played it in my head, and when I fell asleep, I woke up immediately to the next bar.
By the time of the Auckland regional, I was less worried about sabotaging Lara and Rachel’s reputation and more enjoying making music with them. I do not remember much about the regional competition except that we won. When I realised we were going to the national final in Wellington, I got terrified again. We were one of eight ensembles from all over New Zealand. But I was determined not to let my insecurities ruin what we had been working so hard for. After all, it was a blessing to play with these two incredible musicians. I would seize this moment and make the most out of it.
On August 12, 1995, the 30th anniversary national final of the Westpac Music Contest for Chamber Musicians was held in Wellington Town Hall. Our trio was the last to play that night. I read in the Evening Post and the Dominion later that the joy of the musical spirit in our winning performance was evident to the audiences, who were also delighted by our visual communication. The adjudicator, Wilma Smith, commented on “the beautifully timed transitions between sections, while all three players showed fiery individual virtuosity”.
I have always remembered this night vividly, how I felt possessed on the stage. I felt a certain strength within my soul for the first time and knew I also had to stand tall and lead because we were the base, hypotenuse, perpendicular of an equilateral triangle. I also remember us exchanging smiles and feeling exuberant. Our dialogues transformed from tranquil whispers to the blazing run-up to the climax like an oiled engine. There was silence after the last note, and the explosive applause followed in the hall. My veins felt like popping, and my heart kept thudding long after the clapping stopped.
After Wilma announced our trio as the winner, we stumbled to the stage, and Dame Catherine Tizard handed us the Arthur Hilton Memorial Prize. At the reception, I was overwhelmed by smartly dressed grown-ups who wanted to talk to and praise us. We wore black satin dresses with a glittery bodice that Lara and Rachel’s mothers designed and made themselves. My mother, not a stereotypical Asian lady, was the only one who could not sew, so Rachel’s mother kindly made mine, too, paired with a red ribbon on my hair. It was the most exciting night of my 16 years, but it was not just about winning. It was the ecstasy we experienced and the magic we created together onstage.
*
Two weeks after taking the tapes out of the suitcase to a shop, I picked up the USB stick. In one of the converted files, my sister sang the children’s songs I composed with me on the piano. The two of us were so cheerful. In our 40s now, I cannot remember when we laughed like that the last time. My sister must have been about 10, and her voice is pure and clear. It was before my fingers got weakened by the eating disorder. At the end of the song relay, we asked our mother what she thought of it, and she said in a surprisingly young, crisp voice, “I thought the wonderful singing conveyed the composition’s quality. I am immensely proud of you two.”
My sister and I remained close after we both left New Zealand. I returned for good, but my sister had not been able to revisit our battlefield. My mother has always stayed in New Zealand. My parents separated for years before they divorced, and my father lives in Korea. This unanticipated gentle moment on the tape was so out of sync with where we are that it paralysed me. I sent the file to my sister, who lives on a little island in South Korea with her husband and two young children. She is still in exile.
The last file was what I was looking for – the recording of the national final in the Wellington Town Hall. I was struck by how brilliant we were that night for 10 enchanting minutes. We were fearless and loved every moment of it.
But I was disturbed by another memory. The night before the final, my mother and I arrived in Wellington and found a Japanese restaurant. My mother had ordered lots of food, but I was thinking of our final the next day. I was engulfed in panic and made myself sick in our hotel bathroom. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, the blood-shot eyes and puffy cheeks, and sat on the cold floor. I buried my face between my knees. How could I do this before the most important performance of my life? I did not deserve to win, but I must do this for Lara and Rachel. I had to be okay tomorrow so no one would know what I was going through.
Nobody found out. After the dream win, we were invited to the Bay of Islands arts festival. We were interviewed on the radio and in the newspapers. Our trio played for the Korean Night at the Aotea Centre. My family were chosen as model Asian immigrants and filmed for Asia Dynamic. My mother purchased a grand piano, my first since I started learning at five.
Our breakup moment as a mother and a daughter was when I told her I quit. The Bay of Islands Arts Festival was the most significant project for our trio, and I dedicated myself to the concert because that was to be my swan song. With more courage and resolution than I felt, I told my mother I did not want to play the piano anymore.
I never forgot what she said when she knew I would not change my mind.
“If you don’t play the piano, you are not my daughter.”
*
When I stopped playing, I felt relieved that I didn’t have to pretend to be someone else – an outstanding pianist, an exemplary immigrant child. All the publicity after winning and the expectations from people hung over me. But after over a year, when no one knew I played the piano, I missed something: music.
Years passed, and ironically, just as my classmates inscribed on the card, I settled in the Netherlands and had a family. I wished that having children would help me understand my parents, but I was still gripped by how our family had fallen apart.
I believed my mother disowned me. That was easier than admitting I hadn’t been honest, either. I did not tell the real reason I quit, just as my parents did not tell the real reason we immigrated.
If I had said to her that my secret illness was destroying me, and even after winning the competition, I didn’t think I was good enough, she would have said, “Keep faith in yourself. You are good enough. And when you learn to love yourself, your self-doubt and illness will become more manageable.”
I know this because that’s what I would have said to my children. I have also disguised the truth during life’s hardships to protect them. It must have been excruciating for my mother to see me quit because, once upon a time, I was her future.
*
After returning to New Zealand, I spotted a familiar name in a local newspaper. Ms Bradley was conducting a high school choir, and they were to perform a concert at a church near me. I went to see them, and after almost 30 years, she had not changed. She had always been doing what she loved.
Lara and Rachel had become prominent musicians. I am still wrestling with my insecurities, questioning whether I can have a voice, find pleasure in life, and be kind to myself. But then I think of the Whitney Houston song, and it tells me not to walk in anyone’s shadow and live as I believe. 
My fingers were stiff, and my hands were shaky when I started playing the piano again. The moment I touched the keyboard, it felt like the first time, the very beginning. The difference this time was that I played for no other reason than I loved music. Nobody would remember my brief brush with fame as an emerging pianist. But there is no pressure, only joy and gratitude, and that is how to play music.
Dami Jung’s award-winning novel Jane, Frank, and Mia (The Chinese University of Hong Kong Press, $22US), is available online. It tells the story of Jane, a Korean woman who arrived in Holland to marry her husband but is now divorced and raising her 15-year-old daughter Mia. The author says, “As a member of a diaspora myself, I love reading books by writers with immigrant backgrounds. War and poverty caused earlier migrations, and often there was no possibility of return. And when you can’t go back, it gives the story finality, urgency. Later generations, people like myself, had more choices. They could return to their country of origin or move to yet another country for their career, for profit, or for love. I am intrigued by what makes a home and why people stay or leave. I wanted to tell a story about someone who’s left their home.”