My Korea - Kevin O'Rourke

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huge stone and the well dried up.

      The Yangban’s Tale doesn’t mention two further grades in the status system of old Korea, chung’in and so’ol. Although these classifications are no longer really relevant, I suspect they could still be dragged out at marriage negotiation time. Chung’in do not appear as a discrete class until the sixteenth century. They took the chapkwa (miscellaneous) civil service exam. Many grew quite wealthy from contacts with the Chinese, which enabled them to build commercial connections. I have also read somewhere that they took the regular mun’gwa exam too. One way or the other, they had restricted opportunities for promotion. Chung’in ranked between yangban and commoner; they were the secretaries, translators, interpreters, accountants, geographers, scientists and doctors in the administrative system. They worked in technically demanding positions that yangban would not take. They were the brains of the bureaucracy, did all the work and were rewarded with small stipends and smaller respect. Sŏ’ol was the term for a child of a yangban and kisaeng, or a yangban and his concubine. Like the chung’in, the sŏ’ol was precluded from rising very high in the bureaucracy. At least this was the case until the Hideyoshi Wars. After Hideyoshi and the subsequent Manchu Invasion, Korea endured a terrible bout of national depression. The intellectuals looked for a new code to re-establish the national dignity. Part of the effort led to a rejection of Chinese influence in art and writing. Why should we imitate great masters from the past, the radicals cried? In the changes that ensued, the sŏ’ol found themselves being promoted to ranking positions in the bureaucracy. To the end chung’in were denied much promotion, but with their brains and skills they emerged in the 1800s as a very wealthy class. Chung’in students were among the first to study abroad, mostly because yangban would not allow their beloved sons to mingle with barbarians. A number of these chung’in intellectuals played prominent roles in the Enlightenment period. Chung’in were also first to wear the dirty label of Japanese collaborator. Chosŏn had discriminated against them for hundreds of years; one can understand why they jumped at the chance to increase their personal wealth under the Japanese.

      What are the lessons to be drawn from studying the yangban concept? First, it behoves you to treat everyone, on every occasion, as yangban, and to hope that sometimes, at least, you will be treated as yangban in return. This is quite a lot to hope for since, as Dr Crane points out, the foreigner begins as sangnom.

      The great key to cultural accommodation is the realization that in Korea all the people are Korean. Korean culture excludes; it is paet’ajŏgida as the Korean language puts it. In addition to the basic meaning of excluding or exclusive the term has the additional meaning of cliquish. Cliques of one kind or another control everything and have done so since time immemorial. Examples abound: Yi Sŏnggye and the founding of the Chosŏn dynasty; Sejo’s usurpation of Tanjong’s throne; the factional squabbles in mid-Chosŏn and the purges that claimed countless lives; Taewŏn’gun’s henchmen; Queen Min’s inner circle; the various groups that curried favour with the Chinese, the Japanese, the Americans, the British, the French, the Russians and the Germans; the in-groups around Syngman Rhee, Chang Myun, and Park Chunghee; the insiders in the administrations of General Chun and General No; the henchmen of Kim Youngsam, Kim Daejung and Noh Moohyun; the in-groups in both government and civilian organizations and in the great chebŏl companies; the gurus in schools, hospitals and church organizations. Cliques are the arbiters of power. The foreigner just does not belong. Without malice, he is simply discounted. That’s one reason he finds it so difficult to do business here. The rules of exclusion hit him at every corner. He is constantly treated as if he has no feelings. Things are said at meetings that ignore his presence. I remember meetings with the chancellor of my school many years ago when I was foolish enough to say I disagreed with the august man’s view. There would be a stunned silence, followed by comments from various professors to the effect that I was a foreigner and didn’t understand. Often a well-meaning professor would beg forgiveness on the grounds that my Korean was very poor, oblivious of the fact that his defence of the chancellor involved insulting me. Then the chancellor would say, ‘No, no I like people to say what they think,’ and the uneasy professors would turn to me and say in chorus – as if I hadn’t understood what the chancellor said – ‘You may freely express your views.’ I always left these meetings giggling.

      Another example of Korea’s excluding culture, which you may have noticed – how could you miss it? – is how very rare it is for an elderly foreigner to be offered a seat on the subway. It’s a matter of not being seen with the eyes of the spirit as opposed to the eyes of the flesh. Whenever I am offered a seat, it is invariably by a man who thinks I am much older than him and in much worse shape, while I am smilingly convinced of the opposite. The truth is we could both use the seat.

      Whenever I see a white-haired old man with a stick,

      I say to myself: ‘When I’m old, I won’t go out.’

      What a laugh! Already I’m sixty-three;

      old men offer me their seats on the train;

      they think I’m in worse shape than them.

      The indignity of growing old defies definition;

      it’s the old Chinese shrimp thing in reverse:

      sweet head, tail full of shit.

      After a poem by Yi Chehyŏn (1287–1367)

      When yangban talk occurs around me, I quickly point out that the O’Rourkes were kings of Breifne, which makes me royal stock (wangshil). Rourke, I always add, is a Viking word meaning the good king. People are always enormously impressed even if they laugh themselves silly at my insufferable foreign arrogance and impertinence. I always hasten to point out that the family came down a few pegs over the generations, not that I really believe this, but I know that a dust of humility is always good. My approach doesn’t get me much recognition, but it puts a quick end to yangban talk.

      It’s important not to be too constrained in your ideas about the yangban system because the tradition takes some interesting twists. Many Koreans would be appalled to find out that King Yŏngjo’s mother was a maid in the royal kitchens. Her duties were to look after the water for the morning ablutions of the court ladies, an onerous duty, no doubt, given that court ladies tended to be a testy lot. But Yŏngjo’s mum rose from the ignominy of her station to become the bearer of the king’s son, a future king himself. Yŏngjo ascended the throne after Kyŏngjong’s brief reign, which ended in an allergic reaction to pickled crab – poisoned, no doubt. There are those who hint that elements close to Yŏngjo were responsible. As you might surmise, Yŏngjo had a bit of a complex about his parentage.

      Kojong’s first son, Prince Wanhwa, was born to a chung’in palace woman. Taewŏn’gun, delighted by the mother’s lack of rank, which translated as an utter absence of indebtedness to ranking others, wanted to appoint the child crown prince. He even discussed the matter with Queen Dowager Cho. The prince died in childhood, ostensibly from measles, but there are lingering doubts about malicious intent.

      In recent years my titular Dow Jones has taken a dip. I used to be shinbunim, kyosunim, sŏnsaengnim, but these days ajŏsshi or harabŏji is as much standing as I get. There was a guard in my apartment complex many years ago who seemed intent on cutting my pretensions to rank. When I parked my car in a way that outraged his finer sensibilities – and I seemed to do this regularly – he ya-yad me forthwith. Now I don’t like being ya-yad; ya-yaing is doggie talk to me, so I ignored him. Of course, no one likes being ignored. Inevitably the guard let me have both barrels. Now while I sympathize with a cruel fate that forced him to deal with an obtuse long-nosed fool, I did so wish he wouldn’t raise his voice. Next to being ya-yad, I hate this most. He shouted; I got mad, venom-quiet mad. He screamed about regulations; I asked about etiquette; did he know the meaning of white? He snarled about rules; I pointed out all the other cars blatantly in violation of his rules. I reminded

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