The Newspaper King

My life’s been fabricated. I’m no longer asleep. It’s past lunchtime. I feel the inevitability of my eternal collapse. I refuse to reopen my eyes and salute the new day.

Yesterday was a fucking parasite. I got pushed into the realization that I was never meant to be a journalist. The interview was a mud-deep mess. I regurgitate the one last question. I picture the baldest man in the room asking, “What would you do if your superior ordered you to do tasks that you think are unethical?”

What? The question triggered a bug in my system. All I could grasp was my time with Ms. Hwang–my homeroom teacher back in middle school. She was the one who labeled me “the newspaper king.” For twenty years, when someone asked why I wanted to become a journalist, my go-to response was because “my favorite teacher, Hwang, believed in my potential to become a great journalist one day.”

One time, Hwang made us write down our dream jobs. Most kids turned in “Lawyer” or “Doctor,” but I wrote “Journalist!!!”. At the end of the class, Hwang asked me to visit her office after school. Other kids gave me those envious looks because they sensed I somehow handed in the correct answer.

Peeping at graded papers on Hwang’s desk, I said, “Reading news is so much fun. I always talk about the day’s news with my parents.” I ended the chat saying, “One day, I want to publish the greatest newspaper.” I turned around swiftly and stepped out the door. A few steps into the hallway, I could hear Hwang’s voice. “The kid’s a genius. What a newspaper king!”

I felt great all day that I could barely sleep. I had to match myself to the shadows of that title. I woke up with the sheer purpose to fetch and read the papers, faster than anyone in the country. I never stopped reading and eventually began writing articles. Even as a high schooler, I interviewed random local politicians. They loved taking pictures with “the youngest journalist.” I studied journalism in college. In two years, I became the chief editor of my college newspaper.

I’ve been warned by those who had firsthand experience with the big-name newspapers in this country. These people told me things like “You need to leave this country, go to the US or something.” and “You won’t be able to survive as a real journalist.” and “You’re too idealistic. You don’t respect the culture. The hierarchy. The system.”

The newspapers–wrapped in plastic–are now stacked at the front door. I failed to get accepted by any of the major newspapers. Every time I read a rejection letter, I get transported back to hearing Hwang’s voice. I feel like she’s screaming into my brain again and again. “You are a newspaper king, Youngjoon. You are a fucking king!”