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IN AT THE DEEP END
JAMES SCARTH GALE writes:
Compared with the Western world, with its indescribable hubbub, Korea is a land of the most reposeful silence. There are no harsh pavements over which horses are tugging their lives out, no jostling of carts or dray-wagons, no hateful clamour that forbids quiet conversation, but a repose that is inherent and eternally restful. The rattling of the ironing sticks is not nerve racking, but rather serves as a soporific to put all the world asleep. Apart from this one hears nothing but the few calls and echoes of human voices. What a delightfully quiet land is Korea! In the very heart of its great city Seoul, you might experiment at midday in the latest methods of rest-cure and have all the world to help you. (Korea in Transition, p. 17)
Can you believe it? Korea the land of repose! The amp and loudspeaker put paid to that many years ago. Seoul is a clamourous, noisy place, and with countless millions milling in the streets, there’s no way you can avoid them. In addition to being constantly deafened, you’ll be pushed up and down stairs, squeezed into corridors and elevators, elbowed, shoved, shouted at, made fun of, and, depending on your general levels of sensitivity, more or less aggravated, irritated, peeved and annoyed. Once out on the street, you are Crane’s mythical Mr Everyman Non-person, (more about this later), noticed by everyone but seen by no one. You will feel constantly that you are coming out of a football match and being pushed into a bullfight. It’s surprising how much physical contact there is in a culture where touching is – or at least used to be – rude!
So how to deal with people? Until someone knows you, you don’t exist. Going up or down the stairs, students will push you out of the way, but if they are your students, they will stand back and bow. Introductions are extremely important. So get those name cards and put your titles down. It helps people break the ice in relating to you. People need to know how big a deal you are. Knowing whether the person you are meeting is older or younger is pivotal in starting the relationship. If older, then you are a little more formal, he/she a little less formal. The opposite pertains if you are older. It may take a little jockeying around to establish the basic information without rudely asking the other party their age. But it can be done. You will find that you are much more reluctant to ask someone’s age than most Koreans.
Very few foreigners are aware that in the old days it was impolite to say ‘Good morning, Professor Kim.’ The name in Korea had a sacred aura like the name of Yahweh in the Old Testament; it was not to be used if at all possible. Only rude foreign devils were capable of such boorish exposure of a man’s name. Western influence has changed this, but the relics remain. To this day you say ‘Good morning Professor, Good morning President, Good morning Chairman, Good morning Sister.’ You do not add the person’s name.
Everyone in Korea has an appropriate title. Unfortunately, the foreigner often is not too sure what it is. The Columbans had a seminarian on overseas training who worked in a parish in Wŏnju. What to call him was a big problem. Eventually the problem was solved when someone hit on the layman title. From then on he was known as Layman X. Figuring the intricacies of titles is enormously complex, well beyond the ability of most of us. What we need is safe practice. Over the last twenty years the culture of the ajŏsshi-ajumŏni title has changed enormously. Nowadays everyone seems to be either ajŏsshi or ajumŏni. In the apartment yard, I’m normally addressed as ajŏsshi or harabŏji. Harabŏji and halmŏni are okay, but a foreigner should be careful about using ajŏsshi or ajumŏni. Err always on the side of safety. Giving someone a little extra rank doesn’t hurt. The worst that will be said of you is that you are very polite. Sŏnsaengnim is almost always appropriate. Your doctor, your dentist and your teacher can always be called sŏnsaengnim. A nurse is called kanhowŏnnim. Your housekeeper should be addressed by name – Miss Lee, Miss Kim. When you get to know her well you can call her ajuma or ajumŏni, but don’t do it in front of non-family members. Your kids will call her ajuma or ajumŏni very quickly, but they too should use her name in front of outsiders.
Never call the waitress agasshi. You will save yourself some pain if you note her name when she first approaches your table. But if you don’t know her name – Miss Lee, Miss Kim, Miss Park – call out ‘Yŏgiyo!’ to attract her attention, Similarly the waiter should be Mr Kim, Mr Park and so on (chibaenim perhaps if he’s a head waiter), not ajŏsshi. Young people who know each other well address each other by name, Myŏngja sshi, Kimun sshi; the girls often call an older boy op’a, an older girl ŏni. If you know students well, you can use their names, but be careful. In the office avoid Kim sshi (sshi translates as seed); Kim sŏnsaeng is better; there’s no need for nim between equals. Miss Kim and Kim yang are widely used. When cordial relations exist, it’s always permissible to refer to someone slightly older as hyŏngnim. Don’t call your taxi driver ajŏsshi; call him kisanim. Don’t call the man who comes to fix the sink, fridge or computer ajŏsshi even though you hear Koreans use this title; better call him kisanim or don’t use any title. Most people in my apartment complex call the guards in the yard ajŏsshi. I don’t call them anything, but if circumstances force me to make a choice, I call them kyŏngbiwŏnnim. Many Koreans smile at this, but the guards don’t think any the worse of me. Never call a woman samonim. It’s polite all right, but they don’t like it. We used to use pu’inkkesŏ or perhaps Kim yŏsa if we knew the woman’s name, but I don’t hear either of these too much anymore. And never refer to your wife as yŏsa or pu’in. It’s a certain giggle causer. When talking to equals, she is chip saram, or anae, or ajumŏni; she’s ch’ŏ when talking to people that outrank you. The wife refers to her husband as namp’yŏn or uses his name, Mr Kim, Mr Cho. In direct address the husband calls his wife yŏbo, the wife calls her husband yŏbo or chagi. In the old days she referred to him as pakkat yangban (outside master) or sŏbangnim. Nowadays these appellations raise a smile. The general principle is, if you don’t know the appropriate title, use sŏnsaengnim, and if sŏnsaengnim feels awkward, don’t use any title. Finally, be aware that when polite people start calling you ŏrŭshin, you are already on the slippery slope to old age.
Social standing is critical in interpersonal relationships. There are only two class categories anymore: yangban and sangnom. Yangban is an honorific term for the nobility; sangnom is so bad that no one admits to belonging to this class. Now, of course, there are all sorts of yangban: the real yangban who traces his bloodlines in family registers (hojŏk) to mid-Chosŏn and earlier; and the manufactured yangban who created a family registry with a little bribery and general skullduggery and thus raised the family escutcheon from sangnom to yangban. I’ve been told that 10% of the population was yangban at the end of Chosŏn, but that by the time the country got through the Japanese occupation, there were none left! This, of course, is a Korean gentleman poking fun at prized traditional institutions. You should be aware that while it is always permissible for Koreans to belittle Korea, it is never permissible for foreigners to do so. There are five or six family names that are sangnom, but I have no intention of listing them here because that sort of information is offensive. Suffice it to say I’ve noticed over the years that a lot of my foreign friends have sangnom Korean names, probably given by a Korean mentor with a sardonic sense of humour. Most of these friends are blissfully unaware, or pretend to be, of the joke they carry on their name cards. What’s in a name? According to Dr Crane foreigners are sangnom anyway!
You will appreciate then that a thorough grounding in the yangban concept is de rigueur for aspiring long-term residents. The definitive text, The Yangban’s Tale, was written by Pak Chiwŏn (1737–1805), the indefatigable Chosŏn dynasty Shirhak (Practical Learning) scholar. Again copyright restrictions do not pertain.
THE YANGBAN’S TALE
A yangban lived in Chŏngsŏn in Kangwŏn Province. A man of most benevolent disposition, he loved reading the classics. Whenever a new county magistrate was appointed, it was customary for the new appointee to seek out the yangban and express his warmest feelings of respect. However, such was the poverty of the yangban’s household that he had borrowed 100 bags of rice from the government granary over the last number of years, a state of affairs that greatly angered the inspector when he came to town on an official inspection and examined the accounts of the government granary.
‘What son-of-a-bitch of a yangban has depleted the army grain?’ he shouted and he ordered the arrest of the yangban.
When the county magistrate got the official arrest order, he was filled with pity for the yangban. But what could he do! The yangban had no means of repaying the debt. The magistrate was caught in an impossible situation. He couldn’t put the yangban in jail; and he couldn’t disobey the order of a superior.
The yangban in his desperate plight was reduced to tears. He wept day and night but unfortunately failed to come up with a plan.
The yangban’s wife cried out in frustration:
‘You’ve spent your life sitting there reading and now there’s no way of repaying the debt. Yangban, yangban! I’m sick of rotten yangban. The title is rubbish!’
A rich man lived in the village, and when the story of the yangban’s misfortune was noised abroad, the rich man had a serious discussion with the members of his household.
‘No matter how poor a yangban is, he’s always respected and honoured. No matter how much money I make, I’m always despised. I’m not let ride a horse. If I meet a yangban, I must tremble and grovel. I bow, I scrape, I crawl. It’s a dirty life. Now the local yangban has a huge problem. He’s caught; he has no way of repaying the government grain. So why shouldn’t I buy his title and be a yangban myself?’
As soon as the rich man had the agreement of his household, he went to see the yangban and offered to repay the government grain. The yangban was delighted. True to his word, the rich man went to the government office and repaid the debt.
The shocked magistrate, not sure what this was all about, went to see the yangban. The yangban, dressed in hat and knee breeches, fell to the ground in fear and trembling. He couldn’t even look at the magistrate, and he kept referring to himself in the low form as ‘Your servant, your servant.’ More shocked than ever, the magistrate helped the yangban to his feet.
‘What does all this mean? Why on earth are you doing this?’
The yangban was even more overwhelmed. He fell to his knees again, kowtowed and said, ‘A thousand pardons. Your servant has sold his yangban title and repaid the grain debt. From now on, the rich man on the other side of the street is the yangban. Your servant can no longer behave with the arrogance of the past.’
The magistrate was filled with wonder by all he heard.
‘This rich man is truly a wise man, a yangban. No meanness in the accumulation of wealth: a man of righteousness. Takes the urgency of another man’s predicament as his own: a man of benevolence. Hates the low, loves the high: there’s wisdom here. This man is truly a yangban. At the same time if people sell the yangban title by private agreement, without a proper deed, there’ll surely be lawsuits in time to come. This transaction will only be accepted if I call the people of the village together, appoint witnesses, and draw up a proper deed. I’ll sign the deed in my capacity as magistrate.’
So spoke the magistrate.
Accordingly the magistrate called all the ranking men in the town to a meeting. He also called the farmers, artisans and small traders. He sat the rich man on the right of the dais in the place of honour, and he put the yangban in the courtyard. Then he drew up the deed and read it aloud.
‘This deed is drawn up on such-and-such a day in the ninth month of the tenth year of the reign of Ch’ienlung.
The yangban title has been sold to repay a debt in government rice; the price is 100 bags of rice.
There are several divisions of yangban. There is the scholar sŏnbi; there is the official who participates in government; there is the man of virtue known as kunja or wise man. The muban (military nobility) stand to the west; the munban (civil service nobility) stand to the east. Hence the yang or double branch of the nobility. You must choose from among these divisions.
Henceforth, you must perpetrate no base deed. You must imitate the men of old and respect their will. You must rise at the fifth watch, light a candle and sit with your eyes trained on the tip of your nose, knees bent, heels supporting your buttocks. You must recite fluently from The Writings of Tung-la, and your voice must sound like a gourd sliding across ice. You must endure the pangs of hunger, put up with cold and never let the word “poor” pass your lips. You must grit your teeth, tap the back of your head with your fist and with a gentle cough swallow your saliva. You must clean your official hat with your sleeve, but the dusting movement must be as smooth as water waves. When you wash your hands, you must clench your fist and refrain from scrubbing. When you rinse your mouth, make sure there is no offensive odour. Call your servants with a long, easy drawl; walk slowly, drag your feet. In copying from the True Treasure of Classical Literature and the Anthology of Tang Poetry, make sure you use tiny sesame seed lettering, a hundred characters to the line. Don’t soil your hands with money; never ask the price of rice. No matter how hot it is, you mustn’t take off your thick pŏsŏn socks. Don’t eat with your topknot uncovered. When you eat, don’t begin with the soup, and don’t gulp your food. Don’t work your chopsticks like pestles and don’t eat raw leek. When you drink wine, don’t slurp on your beard; when you smoke don’t suck in your cheeks. No matter how angry you are, don’t beat your wife; no matter how vexing affairs may be, don’t throw dishes. Don’t hit the children with your fist. Don’t call a servant a rotten so-and-so. When you’re annoyed by an ox or a horse, don’t curse the owner. Don’t warm your hands over a brazier. When you speak, don’t let your spittle fly. Don’t butcher beef or eat it. Don’t gamble. If any of the hundred provisions are at odds with appropriate yangban decorum, you must bring this deed to the government office and have it corrected.’
His Lordship the magistrate of Chŏngsŏn affixed his signature to the deed; the chief clerk and the inspector signed as well. The usher then took out the seals and attached them here and there across the deed. The sound of the seals rang out like the beat of a big drum; the seals on the deed were like the stars in the sky. When the local headmen had all read the deed, the rich man, visibly discountenanced, thought for a while and said, ‘Is this what a yangban is? I always heard a yangban was like one of the Immortals. If this is all there’s to it, it’s not very attractive. Can’t you correct it, give the rank a little more substance?’
Whereupon the magistrate wrote a new deed.
‘When Heaven created our people, it made four divisions. Of these four divisions, the most prestigious was the sŏnbi scholar; the sŏnbi was yangban and there was nothing better. He had neither to farm nor engage in trade. With a little learning, he could advance in the civil service. At worst, he had the rank of chinsa. The red certificate of the civil service is no more than two feet long, but it holds a hundred things. It is the sŏnbi’s money bag. If a chinsa gets his first appointment at thirty, every other post in the bureaucracy is open to him. His sideburns can grow white sitting under a sunshade; his stomach can swell to a chorus of “yeas” from his servants. In his room he can seat a kisaeng beside him; he can breed cranes in the trees in his garden. An impoverished sŏnbi, resident in the country, can do as he pleases. He can take a neighbour’s ox and plough his own fields first; he can call the villagers to weed his fields first. No one can curse him for behaving thus; no one can express resentment, not even a man who is hauled in and has lye stuck under his nose, not even if he is strung up by the topknot in punishment.’
The rich man took the deed, stuck out his tongue and said,
‘Stop, please! This is unbelievable! Are you trying to turn me into a thief?’
The rich man covered his head with his hands and took to his heels. Until the day he died, he never mentioned the word yangban again.
RAMIFICATIONS OF THE YANGBAN’S TALE
You now understand the sublime importance and unimportance of the yangban concept, as well as the niceties of the class system in Korea. You will have perceived that the sŏnbi scholar class is best of all; that the farmer is reasonably respectable; that the artisan is a step lower; and that the merchant ranks last of the four. Of course, a few doghouse professions have not been mentioned, notably, kisaeng, monk, mudang (shaman), slave and butcher. The butcher is the bottom of the barrel, but even here there are gradations: the beef butcher is superior to the pork butcher, who in turn outranks the dog butcher. So if someone calls you a dog butchering son-of-a-bitch, you’ll know that you have given great offence. Ex-pat merchant types should not feel too unhappy. At least you are not listed among the doghouse professions, although in Confucian terms you are not much better.
At the beginning of Chosŏn, the king stood on top of the social pyramid. The nation was composed of king and people (paeksŏng). The people, with the exception of the slave class, were yangmin (the yang character meaning good). A yangmin who passed the kwagŏ civil service examination became yangban upon taking up an official appointment. The yang character in yangban is different from the yang character in yangmin. Yangban means the two services, civil and military; yangmin simply means the good people. The term yangban was restricted to those in public office. Gradually yangban began to think of themselves as a separate class. To a yangban, everyone else was sangmin, meaning ordinary people, which included peasants and merchants. As time went on, however, sangmin became sangnom, and the sangnom label is very definitely pejorative. In late Chosŏn, landlords among the yangmin – self-styled sŏnbi (literati) – began to adopt the yangban style of living. Gradually the families of literati and office holders called themselves yangban and did not marry sangmin (ordinary people). This in turn served as a spur to wealthy sangmin to doctor their family registers so that they appeared to be yangban. Public office did not follow automatically from claiming yangban status. One had to pass the kwagŏ civil service exam AND take an official post. Even then, those who took the exam often encountered discrimination in the kind of post that was available to them, particularly so in the case of people from the north and the west.
The yangban/sangnom distinction is part of Korean folk history. When a yangban drank from Yŏngwŏl’s ‘Chuch’ŏn’ (Wine Spring), he got refined rice wine, but makkŏlli was as much as a sangnom could squeeze out of it. An irate sangnom borrowed a yangban cloak and horsehair hat and approached the spring with new confidence, but all he got was makkŏlli. In his rage he blocked the spring with a 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.
CONCLUSIONS FROM THE STUDY OF THE YANGBAN CONCEPT
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.
New Year’s Day: Year of the Dog
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 him that his job was to make my life as ruffle-free as possible. He looked at me as if I had two heads. I played my final card: I proclaimed that I pay his salary. There was a moment of hair-on-end shock, of stunned disbelief. Our altercation stuttered to an eerie conclusion. He walked away in total disgust, his only other option being murder, and presumably the elusive sage still disapproved of violence.
I’m not too sure what my loss of status is all about, because I think I’ve gained greatly in dignity in the intervening years. Yeats says that men improve with the years. In the case of the great poet, ‘De mortuis nihil nisi bonum’ is the guiding principle, and when the time comes, I would hope for such treatment myself. At any rate, I now have a nice salt and pepper mop of hair in place of the original nondescript mousy brown. And while I’m not a natty dresser, I’m certainly not the slob I was as a young man. And in addition to a doctorate in Korean literature, and an honoris causa doctorate from NUI in Ireland, I have published more than twenty books, some in prestigious US university presses, I had a poetry column in the Korea Times for many years and subsequently in the Korea Herald, and I travel free on the subway because I’m an honorary citizen of Seoul. Not bad for a sangnom. Of course, none of this does me much good. Only those who know me well give me a title, and to tell the truth I’d prefer if people who know me didn’t use a title. For the rest, I’m harabŏji or ajŏsshi. I have been called much worse. An angry motorcycle policeman once called me a shipp’al shang nomsaekki, a phrase I’d rather not translate, but believe me it’s pretty bad. I don’t even know what my offence was, but I think it involved an illegal U turn at a time when U turns were part of the daily diet. How times change! We once bet our driver $20 he wouldn’t do a figure of eight around the policeman at the center of Kwanghwamun intersection. The nice policeman laughed and waved. If you tried this in the US or Ireland today, you would get a huge fine and maybe even a month in jail.
A little reading poked large holes in my ideas on status. I was shocked, for example, to discover that the monk was sangnom, and that for hundreds of years monks were barred from entering Seoul. It was actually the Japanese who permitted them to come back to the capital. The priest could not reasonably expect to fare much better in status politics, but I never knew one who thought for a moment that he might be sangnom. While priests always seemed to be treated with great courtesy, my reading introduced me to stories where the priest nom was a recurring character and the yasujaengi was very bad news indeed. Chungnom is a common appellation for a monk; and shibunom is not as rare as most priests think. At the end of the nineteenth century when missionaries were banned from entering the country, some of them adopted the guise of mourners. They were clad in white and wore veils over their faces. It worked great until they went to rural villages. The village dogs were not fooled by mourning garb. The butter-cheese smell of a foreign sangnom was unmistakable; the dogs duly went berserk. Not to worry. Clergy, whatever their status, have always managed to move in the higher echelons of society.
Yangban sometimes had surprising ideas about what constituted decorum. When Ch’ae Chaegong, prime minister to Chŏngjo, was holding a meeting with his ministers in the sarang-reception of his house, he was mortified to hear what sounded like someone urinating loudly in the brass chamber pot. Upon investigation he discovered his mother sitting on the pot in the next room, urinating to her heart’s content. ‘You mustn’t do that, mother,’ the prime minister said, ‘when I’m holding a meeting with my ministers.’ To which the redoubtable lady was said to reply, ‘My undercarriage produced a prime minister in its time. Is something as inconsequential as a pee now to be denied?’
The bottom line is that anyone with plenty of money is yangban nowadays. And the foreigner’s sangnom status is really marrowbone talk, only of consequence when he is unknown or when there’s trouble in the air. On the surface, where so much of Korea’s interrelating takes place, the foreigner will usually be treated as yangban unless he is foolish enough to antagonize everyone. Yangban status for a foreigner is a sort of pseudo designation that breaks down under stress. And when it breaks down, look out!
