By Jason Lim
I am not exactly unfamiliar with Korea. I worked here for a few years way back when, and have been back frequently enough to pass as a local. But every time I visit, Korea always manages to present me with little odds and ends about her culture, people, and things that give my brain either a brief pause or a longer-lasting freeze. Not necessarily bad, but different or unexpected enough to notice against my own cultural and behavioral paradigm that I have become accustomed to living in Washington D.C. During this current visit, the little things about Korea that I knew were always there but got to me this time in a more visible and fascinating way were…
One, the vastly differing concept of personal space. Koreans don't really seem to share the unspoken social agreement that each person is entitled to some invisible force field of space into which a stranger shouldn't encroach unless it's to kiss or pickpocket.
True, lack of personal space integrity is understandable in a crowded subway car during commuting hours. But it's a bit disconcerting when you can feel the hot breath of a random stranger on the back of your neck when standing in line to pay at an empty convenience store, or the uncomfortable closeness of the posterior regions when trying to leisurely pick out yummy bread items from the local bakery. You could swear that you had a clear space in which to wield your plastic thong to grab that last piece of deliciousness, only to avoid whacking someone's hand by a hair's breadth as he or she snatches the last piece out from under you. Everyone is sneaky fast here in Korea.
This phenomenon also manifests itself when walking. I am constantly judging my location relative to everyone else on the same road so as to modulate the speed of my gait or make slight course correction to minimize the potential of collision and maximize the space between us. This doesn't seem to happen in Korea. Here, it's a straight line or nothing. Every street crossing has been a reenactment of the chicken run scene in the "Rebel Without a Cause" to see who blinks first as we walk inexorably toward each other in a weirdly impersonal way to a geometric inevitability. Then I veer to avoid the collision, without a nary of acknowledgement from my worthy adversary who, more often than not, has her nose buried inside a smart phone.
Two, Koreans speak very directly. When looked at in a positive light, they get to the point very quickly without a lot of fluff. In a more negative light, even neutral observations can be brutally critical. Of course, the interesting thing about Korean is how language adapts to not only the situation at hand but the vertical hierarchical relationships (which are also situational). Conversations in a formal meeting can rival any other language in circumlocutions and avoidance of any substance while heavy with pontifications.
However, everyday conversations tend to be so direct as to seem accusatory. "You didn't pay me," the drycleaner would spit out for the money owed for delivered clothes, rather than saying, "We still have a balance on your account." Or, the teacher would say, "Your son is bad in Korean" instead of "Your son has a good start for having lived in America but needs to work a bit to catch up to his peers."
Three, it's fascinating how a third world country can co-exist with an advanced first world country within the same space in Korea. It's not uncommon outside of Seoul to step into a lavatory that you'd swear has been constructed in the fetid hell of some unmentionable legendary kingdom and then walk next door to a hotel with amenities and services that would put the finest in the world to shame. Or spy an old woman straight out of missionary photos from post Korean War wearing Apple watches and scrolling through her latest Galaxy 9S.
It's almost witnessing the past and future at the same time in the present. In that sense, history is never far away in Korea wherever you look. Its past trauma, fierce sense of accomplishment, and anxiety over the immediate future are always lurking just below the surface, transformed into a collective nervous energy that strains against the geopolitical suspension frozen in place by the division that has defined this land for 70 years.
Perhaps that's why the one thing that you don't notice in Korea is a sense of leisure. Despite all that she has done, there is always a sense of hurriedness everywhere you look, a cultural imperative to keep on moving. Direction or destination would be nice, but it's actually the constant, nervous motion that seems to be an end in itself. Breathlessness can be exciting, fun, and even intoxicating, but, sooner or later, you need to take a deep breath. Korea could definitely use a breather.
Jason Lim (jasonlim@msn.com) is a Washington, D.C.-based expert on innovation, leadership and organizational culture.
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One, the vastly differing concept of personal space. Koreans don't really seem to share the unspoken social agreement that each person is entitled to some invisible force field of space into which a stranger shouldn't encroach unless it's to kiss or pickpocket.
True, lack of personal space integrity is understandable in a crowded subway car during commuting hours. But it's a bit disconcerting when you can feel the hot breath of a random stranger on the back of your neck when standing in line to pay at an empty convenience store, or the uncomfortable closeness of the posterior regions when trying to leisurely pick out yummy bread items from the local bakery. You could swear that you had a clear space in which to wield your plastic thong to grab that last piece of deliciousness, only to avoid whacking someone's hand by a hair's breadth as he or she snatches the last piece out from under you. Everyone is sneaky fast here in Korea.
This phenomenon also manifests itself when walking. I am constantly judging my location relative to everyone else on the same road so as to modulate the speed of my gait or make slight course correction to minimize the potential of collision and maximize the space between us. This doesn't seem to happen in Korea. Here, it's a straight line or nothing. Every street crossing has been a reenactment of the chicken run scene in the "Rebel Without a Cause" to see who blinks first as we walk inexorably toward each other in a weirdly impersonal way to a geometric inevitability. Then I veer to avoid the collision, without a nary of acknowledgement from my worthy adversary who, more often than not, has her nose buried inside a smart phone.
Two, Koreans speak very directly. When looked at in a positive light, they get to the point very quickly without a lot of fluff. In a more negative light, even neutral observations can be brutally critical. Of course, the interesting thing about Korean is how language adapts to not only the situation at hand but the vertical hierarchical relationships (which are also situational). Conversations in a formal meeting can rival any other language in circumlocutions and avoidance of any substance while heavy with pontifications.
However, everyday conversations tend to be so direct as to seem accusatory. "You didn't pay me," the drycleaner would spit out for the money owed for delivered clothes, rather than saying, "We still have a balance on your account." Or, the teacher would say, "Your son is bad in Korean" instead of "Your son has a good start for having lived in America but needs to work a bit to catch up to his peers."
Three, it's fascinating how a third world country can co-exist with an advanced first world country within the same space in Korea. It's not uncommon outside of Seoul to step into a lavatory that you'd swear has been constructed in the fetid hell of some unmentionable legendary kingdom and then walk next door to a hotel with amenities and services that would put the finest in the world to shame. Or spy an old woman straight out of missionary photos from post Korean War wearing Apple watches and scrolling through her latest Galaxy 9S.
It's almost witnessing the past and future at the same time in the present. In that sense, history is never far away in Korea wherever you look. Its past trauma, fierce sense of accomplishment, and anxiety over the immediate future are always lurking just below the surface, transformed into a collective nervous energy that strains against the geopolitical suspension frozen in place by the division that has defined this land for 70 years.
Perhaps that's why the one thing that you don't notice in Korea is a sense of leisure. Despite all that she has done, there is always a sense of hurriedness everywhere you look, a cultural imperative to keep on moving. Direction or destination would be nice, but it's actually the constant, nervous motion that seems to be an end in itself. Breathlessness can be exciting, fun, and even intoxicating, but, sooner or later, you need to take a deep breath. Korea could definitely use a breather.
Jason Lim (jasonlim@msn.com) is a Washington, D.C.-based expert on innovation, leadership and organizational culture.
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