Narrating Korean life - Part 2

Courtesy of David Tizzard

 

I often find myself standing at the local school gates, waiting for my children to emerge. I love the responsibility of picking up our kids from school, watching them all come running out, seeing the mums chatting away with each other, the hordes of yellow buses waiting to whisk children to the next lesson, and the occasional dad, shuffling restlessly on two feet. The 10-15 minutes standing there is a wonderful break from everything else that happens in life: you forget your bills, you don’t think about work. You are lost in a moment, poised for one thing and one thing only. The sight of your children.

In a way, it’s like becoming a dog. You wait patiently by the door. Hoping that any minute now your sole reason for being will return. You know they will. But there is a wonderful moment of tension that arises. One kid emerges, then another. And another. But not yet the one you seek. Your head tilts to the side, curious. And then everything becomes right in the world. If you had a tail, you would wag it. But you don’t. Not anymore, anyway. We’ve evolved beyond the need for those. The universe has been here 14 billion years and life has been around for around 4 billion years. Civilization somewhere between 6-12,000 years. In that time, we’ve discovered one of the meanings to life: living in service of others. In a postmodern neoliberal world largely devoid of transcendence, it as the school gates where one can meaning.

The gates

The school gates are like no other part of Korea. And, if you don’t have kids here yourself, you’re never likely to see this part of the culture. It rarely features in Netflix dramas, the news only comes if there’s a tragedy, and the rest of our media has decided to focus on the single, sexy and solitary. Many of the people who have tasked themselves with reporting on and representing the country across Twitter and TikTok will never know the experience that parents, kids, and teachers go through twice a day. Every day. For years and years and years. More than politics, ideology, or popularity, one of the things that divides people is this experience of the school gates.

Compared to the subway or the high streets, the gates are some of the noisiest places in the country. They are vortexes of controlled chaos and cacophony. All around them, society might be still and quiet. But once you enter that area, it’s like the feeling of your ears popping when you go underwater or high up a mountain.

Kids have very little control over their voices and volume levels. They shout, holler, and scream at each other from all sorts of distances. Their lack of ego also means they care little for others judgement. Added to this is the excitement of having finally finished for the day and you realize that in those 15-odd minutes, you are surrounded by laughter and smiles. I’m sure they’re quite contagious. Like a disease the pleasure spreads. At least subconsciously, there must be some dopamine transfer happening. Only the most jaded can see happy children and not feel a tinge of joy themselves. Fifteen minutes of joy. Orwell never wrote about that.

Small society

The children often look like a society of all their own. They come out in packs, generally of around 3-5. On their backs is a bag full of books that would make gym enthusiasts grimace. They also carry another bag with indoor shoes and, because of the weather here, an umbrella (either for the sun or the rain). The girls will often link arms or hold hands, walking slower than the boys who sprint, bursting past each other and sporadically jumping on each other’s backs. Punches and jabs being thrown as they no doubt recount the humor of the day’s events. Elderly security people by the gate decked in luminous waistcoats of no real authority will often admonish them loudly but secretly be enjoying the rumbunctious behavior. The odd kid will come out by themselves, engrossed in either the sky or their handphone. Teachers will walk between the classrooms, the voices carrying authoritatively across the promenade in a register that one doesn’t hear in normal speech. Each child known by their full three syllables and these shouted at them in full. “Kim Eun-young! Cheoncheonhi ga!”

My two children each have ten syllables in their name and, despite my best efforts, I’m incredibly conspicuous every time I appear, bearded and dressed in a way that eschews the blacks, whites, and greys favoured by Korean society. My wife and her sister never let me leave for the school in slippers no matter how hot it is. I must wear shoes! My brother-in-law is a Lieutenant Colonel in the Korean Army and he gives me a lot of training gear for my running that’s covered in the insignias and logos of the ROK Army. I sometimes wear these and get the occasional glance, men wondering if they should be saluting me, clocking my facial hair, and then deciding that I’m obviously not one of them. Certainly not in the Army sense. But in every other sense I am…A parent waiting for my children.

That community is extended through greetings. You have to say hello to the guards when you arrive. The other parents receive bows and differing levels of formality according to age. When younger parents appear, you often reach your arm out. Physically welcoming them in and breaking invisible barriers. There are no names among the parents, however. While each child is called individually, the parents are known simply as the mother or father of that kid. “Jeong-woo’s mother is here!” “Dong-hyun’s mother is busy today so Yuna’s mum is taking both of the kids to the swimming lesson.” “Edward’s father came today! Aiguya! You don’t have an umbrella?”

Children also greet adults in these environments. Young kids I have no idea about will often bow and let out an “annyeonghaseyo” as they pass. The more mischievous or curious will blurt out “hello”. I am conscious of the fact that I should reply in informal Korean to them. “eung! jal haesseo (Yeah, well done)”, I respond brightly. There’s a huge dichotomy between the tone and the level of politeness in the language when speaking to the little ones. However, all around the school gates, there’s rarely a grimace. There’s hardly ever a disgruntled expression. The overall tone is, for want of a better word, rather feminine.

Beyond identity

Our full lives and identities become subsumed by our responsibilities to both our own children and those of others. Regardless of how I’m feeling that day, I suddenly turn on. It’s a strange thing to experience in a narcissistic neoliberal world. Instead of being you, you simply play a role. Become an archetype. And so does everyone else. The whole school gate is a stage, and we are but merely players. A sweet release from the crushing existentialism of what or what not to be.

Fear, anxiety, worries about sexual abuse, pedophilia, and misbehavior gets lost. Gangs, inner-city violence, drugs, weapons, anti-social behavior, chavs, graffiti, "The Glory," "Squid Game" are all associated with modern content on social media. But real life? Modernity is the one fat kid you see waddling along with their smart phone, perhaps even with a piece of bread in their hand. You can tell they like their phone and they use it a lot. They’ve got lost in a digital world of superheroes and v-logs, forgetting themselves and their friends in the process. Thankfully, they are still largely the minority by the gates.

At the school gates you see marriage. Men and women together. Love. You also see heterosexuality. In our efforts to promote diversity and inclusion, something which I of course support, we often focus on the opposite of the above. I receive countless media interview requests and emails from international scholars doing research on Korea who want to ask me about the feminist movement, low birthrate, incel culture, LGBT movements, and so on. I do my best to answer honestly, leaning on my own reading and understanding of the academic literature as well as the lived experiences I’ve had here. But I do sometimes wish some media outlets or researchers would ask me about the school gates. Tell me about happy couples? What are young kids like here? What is the culture of straight people? I see this every day and never once am I asked about it. And rarely, if at all, do I see it online.

Standing there, I think about all of these things for a second. The hyper-real representation of society a la Jean Baudrillard. The anxiety of modern life described by Han Byung Chul. The gamification of culture and algorithms explored by Kyle Chayka in "Filterworld." I start writing a column in my head full of all these concepts and theories…and then my kids come. My daughter Elizabeth shouts noisily from afar. She runs to me and gives me a big hug, unable to contain her feelings of affection. My son Edward skips a little when he notices me but is careful not to break stride with his friends. We get in the car, eat some peach ice I prepared as a treat, and shout loudly to the other parents and kids as we drive slowly aware, conscious of the movement of little feet everywhere. We turn on the music, singing a mix of NewJeans and Huey Piano Smith, and all of the theories of academia and the anger of the internet are lost. We have become people again. Together. Fathers, sons, mothers and daughters. All playing our roles. I smile. And hope I can go to the school gates again tomorrow.

David A. Tizzard has a doctorate in Korean Studies and lectures at Seoul Women's University and Hanyang University. He is a social-cultural commentator and musician who has lived in Korea for nearly two decades. He is also the host of the "Korea Deconstructed" podcast, which can be found online. He can be reached at datizzard@swu.ac.kr.