Marilyn and Me. Ji-min Lee
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Marketing Department,
Twentieth-Century Fox
To Whom It May Concern:
My name is Herbert W. Green and I am currently stationed in Korea with the 31st Regiment, 7th Infantry Division. I am very homesick; Korea is a terrible place. I do not believe I can effectively convey the sorrow and terror I’ve seen here. I worry about the children who have lost their parents and their homes; where will they sleep tonight? May the grace of God be with them, though perhaps God’s blessings are avoiding Korea for the time being.
I write to you from a hospital in Pusan. I was mistakenly hit by napalm by allied troops providing air support and lost many of my comrades in a place called Hwachon, just above the 38th Parallel. Hearing the screams of the dying made me want to die, too. Thankfully I got out of there alive and am getting better.
I am lying in bed recuperating, but the days are long and tedious. Would you be able to send me a new poster of the lovely Miss Monroe? All of us, from my fellow soldiers to the Korean errand boy, dearly love Miss Monroe. Her beautiful smile is like the warm sun and her poster by our beds melts away our worries. I don’t even go to the USO shows as I vastly prefer looking at a picture of Miss Monroe. A few days ago, all my pictures of Miss Monroe were stolen. I feel like a man stranded in a desert without water. Please consider what I’ve been through—I hope you’ll send me a poster. I heard Miss Monroe is filming a new movie. We would be thrilled if you could also enclose a few pictures. We would love for Miss Monroe to visit us here, but we know that is a long shot.
I trust that you will grant us our request. Thank you in advance. I wish you all the best.
P.S. If you see Miss Monroe please tell her that we are all rooting for her to be happy.
A Day in the Life of Miss Alice of Seoul
February 12, 1954
I go to work thinking of death.
Hardly anyone in Seoul is happy during the morning commute, but I’m certain I’m one of the most miserable. Once again, I spent all last night grappling with horrible memories—memories of death. I fought them like a girl safeguarding her purity, but it was no use. I knew I was under an old cotton blanket but I tussled with it as if it were a man or a coffin lid or heavy mounds of dirt, trusting that night would eventually end and death couldn’t be this awful. Finally, morning dawned. I looked worn out but tenacious, like a stocking hanging from my vanity. I used a liberal amount of Coty powder on my face to scare the darkness away. I put on my stockings, my dress, and my black, fingerless lace gloves. I walk down the early morning streets as the vicious February wind whips my calves. I can’t possibly look pretty, caked as I am in makeup and shivering in the cold. Enduring would be a more apt description. Those who endure have a chance at beauty. I read that sentence once in some book. I’ve been testing that theory for the last few years, although my doubts are mounting.
As always, the passengers in the streetcar glance at me, unsettled. I am Alice J. Kim—my prematurely gray hair is dyed with beer and under a purple dotted scarf, I’m wearing a black wool coat and scuffed dark blue velvet shoes, and my lace gloves are as unapproachable as a widow’s black veil at a funeral. I look like a doll discarded by a bored foreign girl. I don’t belong in this city, where the ceasefire was declared not so long ago, but at the same time I might be the most appropriate person for this place.
I get off the streetcar and walk briskly. The road to the US military base isn’t one for a peaceful, leisurely stroll. White steam plumes up beyond the squelching muddy road. Women are doing laundry for the base in oil drums cut in half, swallowing hot steam as though they are working in hell. I avoid the eyes of the begging orphans wearing discarded military uniforms they’ve shortened themselves. The abject hunger in their bright eyes makes my gut clench. I shove past the shoeshine boys who tease me, thinking I’m a working girl who services foreigners, and hurry into the base. Snow remaining on the rounded tin roof sparkles white under the clear morning sun. Warmth rolls over me as soon as I open the office door. This place is unimaginably peaceful, so different from the outside world. My black Underwood typewriter waits primly on my desk. I first put water in the coffee pot—the cup of coffee I have first thing when I get in is my breakfast. I can’t discount the possibility that I work at the military base solely for the free coffee. I see new documents I’ll have to translate into English and into Korean. These are simple, not very important matters that can be handled by my English skills. First, I have to notify the Korean public security bureau that the US military will be participating in the Arbor Day events. Then I have to compose in English the plans for the baseball game between the two countries to celebrate the American Independence Day. My work basically consists of compiling useless information for the sake of binational amity.
“It’s freezing today, Alice,” Hammett says as he walks into the office, smiling his customary bright smile. “Seoul is as cold as Alaska.”
“Alaska? Have you been?” I respond, not looking up from the typewriter.
“Haven’t I told you? Before heading to Camp Drake in Tokyo, I spent some time at a small outpost in Alaska called Cold Bay. It’s frigid and barren. Just like Seoul.”
“I’d like to visit sometime.” I try to imagine a part of the world that is as discarded and ignored as Seoul, but I can’t.
“I have big news!” Hammett changes the subject, slamming his hand on my desk excitedly.
I’ve never seen him like this. Startled, my finger presses down on the Y key, making a small bird footprint on the paper.
“You heard Marilyn Monroe married Joe DiMaggio, right? They’re on their honeymoon in Japan. Guess what—they’re coming here! It’s nearly finalized. General Christenberry asked her to perform for the troops and she immediately said yes. Can you believe it?”
Marilyn Monroe. She moves like a mermaid taking her precarious first steps, smiling stupidly, across the big screen rippling with light.
Hammett seems disappointed at my tepid response to this thrilling news. To him, it might be more exciting than the end of the Second World War.
“She’s married?” I say.
“Yes, to Joe DiMaggio. Two American icons in the same household! This is a big deal, Alice!”
I vaguely recall reading about Joe DiMaggio in a magazine. A famous baseball player. To me, Marilyn Monroe seems at odds with the institution of marriage.
“Even better,” Hammett continues, “they are looking for a female soldier to accompany her as her interpreter. I recommended you! You’re not a soldier, of course, but you have experience. You’ll spend four days with her as the Information Service representative. Isn’t that exciting? Maybe I should follow her around. Like Elliott Reid in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.”
Why is she coming to this godforsaken land? After all, American soldiers thank their lucky stars that they weren’t born Korean.
“We have a lot to do—we have to talk to the band, prepare a bouquet, and get her a few presents. What do you think we should give her? Folk crafts aren’t that special. Oh, what if you draw a portrait of her? Stars like that sort of thing.”
“A portrait?” I stammer, flushing all the way down my neck. “You can ask the PX portrait department—”
Hammett grins mischievously. “You’re the best artist I know.”
My mouth is dry. “I—I haven’t drawn anything in a long time.” I am as ashamed as an unmarried girl confessing she is pregnant. “And—and—I don’t know very much about her.”