of the Ming, get the great chieftains under Heaven to recommend a candidate. If you succeed, you will have played a master’s role in setting up a great nation; if you fail, you will at least retain your status as elder uncles of the emperor of the land of the white gulls.’
Hŏsaeng finished his long harangue.
Minister Yi said, ‘The scholar-officials are most fastidious about decorum. They’re not going to cut their hair and wear barbarian dress.’
Hŏsaeng was angry again.
‘Who are these self-styled scholar officials,’ he said chidingly. ‘Born in a barbarian land, they boast of scholar-official status. What could be more foolish? The white clothes they wear is the dress of merchants. They wear their hair up, gimlet style, aping the manners of the southern barbarians. What’s all this decorum talk? Fan Uch’i thought nothing of his hair when it came to repaying his enemies. King Wuling didn’t think it shameful to wear barbarian dress when it was a matter of making the nation strong. You want to have revenge on your enemies, you say, but you make a big deal of your hair. In a time that calls for galloping on horseback, brandishing swords, throwing spears, drawing bows, and casting stones, you insist on wide sleeves and decorum! I made you three proposals. You’re not willing to do any of them and yet you call yourself a trustworthy servant of the king. Is this the model of a trustworthy servant? A man like you should have his head chopped off!’
Hŏsaeng groped for a sword to run the minister through. A frightened Minister Yi got quickly to his feet, dashed out the back door and took to his heels.
Minister Yi returned next day. The house was empty; Hŏsaeng was gone.
5
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.
