Squat, Lee and Linton: Names and identity in today's Korea
This combination of file photographs shows Lee Jun-seok, left, the former chairman of the Ruling People Power Party, and Ihn Yo-han, chairman of the innovation committee of the ruling party. Yonhap
At the beginning of my first Spanish class in my London secondary school, our teacher set about giving us Spanish names. If I remember correctly, she dubbed me Miguel. I felt then, aged circa 11-13 years old, and I still feel now that this was a waste of time: I am not Spanish and never will be. Her bid to foist this Iberian moniker on me was actually an attempt to create a new identity for me, one completely out of kilter with reality. It was made even more ludicrous by the fact that she was also my French teacher. Was I to be Miguel one hour and Pierre the next?
Needless to say, the fake name did not even last to the end of that opening lesson. But the memory stuck with me as an example of an utterly pointless exercise. I suppose my teacher’s goal was to engender a sense of Spanishness in the class, to excite us with the possibilities that learning a new language could open up. But pretending we were Spanish was not the way to do it.
Fast forward several decades and I find myself living in Korea, having forgotten almost all my school-level Spanish and now instead speaking imperfect Korean. And the question of names is as relevant as ever. I have seen my name Koreanized in almost every way imaginable: my first name is often written in Korean in a form that, when brought back into English, essentially spells the word Scat, meaning either ‘go away’ or ‘animal droppings’ — neither of which particularly helps my ego. My nonagenarian grandmother-in-law calls me Su-keot, the Korean word denoting a male animal (but I’m just glad she knows who I am), and one well-meaning student recently gave me a form with my name written in Korean as Professor Seu-kwat, i.e. Squat.
Don’t get me started on my surname: thanks to a fat-fingered bureaucrat somewhere, my health insurance is registered under a different Korean spelling of my name than all the rest of my legal documents. And I can’t even get my name spelled right in English: in a TV interview I gave last month, I was billed as Scott Shepard in the live broadcast, though thankfully the good people of Arirang TV corrected my name in the uploaded version.
But through all this, despite every mispronunciation and misspelling, despite every administrative hurdle caused by someone typing my name wrong even though I have written it down or spelled it out, despite every unwelcome innovation on the word Scott – I have never attempted to give myself a Korean name. It would feel like I was pretending to be something that I am not. My name is Scott, whether I am in London or Madrid or Seoul.
Names matter, and they are inextricably linked with identity. Juliet’s claim, repeated into clichédom, that ‘That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet’ is probably not true. If roses were called stinkenberry, poisonwort or childsbane, they would invariably prove less popular gifts among lovers, star-crossed or otherwise.
Since the early chapters of Genesis, the act of naming has been an exercise of power: not always a nefarious activity (choosing a child’s name is a joyful and blessed task), but one of power nonetheless.
The clash late last year between Lee Jun-seok and the dual American-Korean citizen John Linton (whose Korean name is Ihn Yo-han) provides a clear example of names and language being used as tools in a political tussle. I won’t go into all the messy details (you can read them here and watch a report in Korean here) but when Lee, the former chairman of the governing PPP, greeted Linton, he referred to him as ‘Mr Linton’ and spoke to him in English, thereby stripping him of both his Korean nationality and his rightful title (Doctor or Professor).
Many people rightly levelled accusations of xenophobia and racism at Lee, who was clearly already preparing to leave the party, having been suspended after serious allegations of sexual misconduct and attempts to cover up evidence. In particular, Lee’s statement to Linton that ‘You became one of us, but you don’t look like one of us’ drew criticism even from his fellow conservatives.
It gets more complicated however, when you consider Linton’s own actions. He has, for example, published articles in this very paper using his English name. And Linton’s attempt at a light-hearted response (in Korean), ‘It seems you speak better English than I do,’ only works if you understand that Linton is actually an American citizen and a fluent English speaker. The people in the room laughed at his joke – partly out of nerves, presumably, but also because Linton does look foreign to Korea; Linton’s quip acknowledges this fact even as he lays claim to his Koreanness by responding in Korean.
In and of itself, the use of Linton’s English name is not necessarily an issue, nor is speaking English to him. The problem with Lee’s actions was the fact that he was using them as tools to reject Linton’s claims to Koreanness. It was, frankly, rude. I have written in detail elsewhere about what it means to be a Korean, and while Linton doesn’t fulfil all five categories of Koreanness (doing so would mean his claim to Koreanness is incontestable even to his most trenchant enemies), he nonetheless has a strong and obvious case for claiming to be Korean.
To be explicit: Linton is clearly Korean. But he is also American. He has a dual identity, and so it makes sense that he may choose to use his different names at different times. He can slip between his nationalities at will, writing in the morning as John Linton for the Korea Times and then speaking in the afternoon as Ihn Yo-han on Korean radio. This is his right as a dual citizen.
But the fact that he has two names, two identities, makes him harder to pin down. He doesn’t fit into older conceptions of what it means to be Korean because ideas of autochthony and race die hard. In an ideal world, his Koreanness would not make him be seen as any less American and vice versa; but in reality, it obviously does. After all, if Lee had taken aim at President Yoon rather than Linton, and somehow attempted to cast doubt on Yoon’s Koreanness, then everyone would have just looked at him strangely, because there is no doubt whatsoever about Yoon’s Koreanness. An attempt to dismiss Yoon as somehow foreign would just seem weird. The reason Lee’s actions struck such a nerve is the very fact that Linton’s Koreanness is less secure, more fragile.
As Korea’s demographics continue to change, we will see more and more people who do not fit the traditional mould of Koreanness. My own daughter, born in Korea of a Korean mother and a British-American father, will surely have a harder time establishing her identity than I did mine.
Whatever my Spanish teacher thinks and even if no-one can spell it right, I am, firmly, undeniably, Scott Shepherd. But my child, like others of her generation, will have to fight for her place and find for herself how she fits here. Her name is more contestable, as indeed is her identity. The sad fact is that when my daughter grows up, there will probably be more people like Lee who will attempt to reject her Koreanness. And while I will always seek to support my child in everything I do, the solution to this issue does not lie with me. It lies with the Korean people – a people who, frankly, have often mistreated previous generations of children like Linton and like my daughter. Sadly, Lee’s actions show that there is still a long way to go.
Dr. Scott Shepherd (scottshepherd@chongshin.ac.kr) is a British-American academic. He has taught in universities in the U.K. and Korea, and is currently an assistant professor of English at Chongshin University in Seoul. The views expressed in the article are the author's own and do not reflect the editorial direction of The Korea Times.