Shattered Illusions: Homophobia in Korea
Anti-gay protestors participate in a rally while the annual Seoul Queer Festival takes place in central Seoul (2018). Image courtesy of the Korea Herald.
I hardly associate myself with the Lost Generation, military brats, or people pursuing foreign job positions, but I nevertheless belong to a community of expatriates—people who oscillate between various countries that they call home. I was born in Pontiac, Michigan and during the first six years of my life, I lived in Rochester Hills, Michigan: the archetype of a sleepy suburban town. The next eight years, though, I lived in Seoul, Korea, one of the busiest places on the planet, with 10 million people crammed on top of each other. My whole life, a sense of permanence seemed fleeting. Throughout high school especially, I was always moving from Seoul to Michigan and back again, sliding between languages, cultures, homes. In many ways, I felt as though I was always away from my home country, displaced and constantly settling into a liminal place.
My early years in Michigan were defined by loneliness. Having only spoken Korean at home with my family, I was unable to communicate with my fellow peers beyond simple babbling. As soon as I had a grasp on the language, we moved to Seoul. My loneliness did not dissipate there—I couldn’t read or write in Korean, which meant that I spent every break time inside laboriously copying the shapes of my peers’ letters while teachers looked on coldly. The first few years adjusting to living in Korea was, in a word, turbulent. Though the details are hazy now, I do distinctly remember the feeling of these two languages slipping away from me despite my desperation to grab onto them.
While I’ve finally achieved a balance between English and Korean after nearly 6 years, the two cultures—East versus West—remain vastly different. The code-switching I conduct on a regular basis is beyond the usual acting-different-in-front-of-your-parents-and-friends. Instead, it completely consumes me. When I switch between these two countries, it’s as if the behaviors and actions I have in one country become completely useless in the other. Hundreds of miniscule, socially acceptable actions become completely redundant and unnecessary in one country or the other thanks to the enormous chasm that separates the norms of the East and the West. What use do I have for my knowledge of the routes and etiquettes of the subway system of Seoul in suburban Michigan? What of my obligatory neighborly cordiality that I use everyday in the States? The people in my Seoul apartment complex would look at me as if I've sprouted another head if I asked them how their day was going.
In the States, I find myself identifying more as a Korean. I’m always missing people who look like me, who speak my language and understand my culture. Many times in Korea, though, I think of myself as an American, surprised at the deep-seated sexism and homophobia that still persists. Because of the constant comparisons I make, I’ve also been keen on trying to stay unified wherever I was—trying to be Korean in Korea, American in the States. This has also led me to be blind to other issues while I’ve always assumed that I’ve been so perceptive. For a long time, I’ve ignored the microaggressions I’ve faced in the States for being Asian (always thinking, no, they’re just being friendly; they just don’t know any better). I’ve also ignored how conservative Korea is, grasping for justifications that the few people I’ve met don’t encompass the whole nation and that it’s getting so much better, thus allowing me to be surprised every time I’ve encountered a moment of sexism or homophobia. Funnily enough, both these illusions were broken in the past two years. The American illusion fractured slowly over the months of COVID when anti-Asian hate crimes spiked and I met people who denied the significance of it (and the deep-seated exoticism of Asian women that intertwines sexism and racism that I won’t get into here). The illusion I had of an increasingly liberal Korea came crashing down throughout the summer of 2021, too.
The social nuances between the U.S. and Korea are so different and have consistently reshaped the person I have to be in each country. Korea, a Confucian society that values a culture of filial piety and homogenization, perpetuates the existence of racism, sexism, and homophobia. Though certain qualities of the social norms may complicate my relationship to Korea, I nevertheless am deeply proud of and love my heritage, celebrating our strides toward rebuilding our country following immense tragedy and loss. This love, however, does not make up for Korea’s backward attitudes with regards to basic human decency, and this I cannot and will not defend.
Like I said, the illusion I harbored of Korea and how liberal it is shattered over the span of a few months. Before this summer, I still had hope and attributed everything I saw that I disliked to be minor flukes. After this summer, I had made up my mind about one of my homelands.
I
April 2021
My mother is a stay-at-home mom that married at 23 and had me, her first child, at 27, and my brother, David, at 28. Because my father often travelled for work throughout our childhood, my mother was left to care for my brother and me on her own. This closeness made her slightly overprotective and sometimes overly-involved in my personal life, as a mother does. Then, in 9th grade, I left for boarding school and I enjoyed the freedom from the constraints of home.
But last fall, at the start of my freshman year, I realized that I only had four years left with my parents. I felt guilty for having left my mother so abruptly and early during high school, when her life had revolved around mine for so long. Just when my guilt threatened to remain a permanent fixture of my life, COVID presented an opportunity to me in the form of Zoom school.
During the spring 2021 semester, I decided to take my classes remotely from our family home that we kept in Michigan when we moved to Korea. My mother also came from Korea to spend time with me and my brother, who was in boarding school thirty minutes away from us. This meant that I was spending an unprecedented amount of time with my mother. Even in middle school, I was gone for most of the day, and was only home for the evenings. Now, I ate all three meals at home with my mother, every day, for three months.
I thought I already knew my mother pretty well, but over the course of these months I got to know her better than before. I realized she saw the world differently in a manner that was subtle, yet crucial, in making her views unlike mine. This Goodall-like period of observation was insightful, and it allowed me to make comparisons between me and my mother. I’m adaptive and mentally sturdier, but flakier and perhaps too stubborn in my ideas. My mother is gentler and more determined, but, at times, more impatient and cruel in the unique way a mother can be. Unwittingly, I began gathering these comparisons in a dusty filing cabinet in the corner of my mind, and so when I heard my mother’s remark one day, I found myself totally unsurprised.
“I don’t understand why we have to include those gays more and more in these TV shows.”
She said this in a mild, offhand manner while sharing an orange with my father, who was watching a new K-Drama. My father remarked in assent and I looked up from the book I was reading to sneak a glance at my brother, who was already there to meet my eyes.
The “more and more” that my mother referred to was the increasingly inclusive nature of K-Dramas. Though nowhere near American standards, we were starting to incorporate LGBTQ stories—or, at least, trying to.
The norm in Korea has always been heterosexual. Confucianism left very little room for those who were outside of that norm, with their emphasized importance of continuing the family name and the reinforcement of gender norms and obligations. These attitudes persist today. When we do have Pride marches, we also have anit-LGBTQ marches to battle them. In 2018, 120,000 people gathered for the largest ever Seoul’s Queer Culture Festival. What should have been a huge step forward resulted in 200,000 people signing a petition to the Blue House (the White House of Korea) to cancel the event. Later on in the year, when 300 participants gathered for the Queer Culture Festival in Incheon, they were met with 1,000 anti-LGBTQ protesters. Even in moments of progress, the resistance was bigger: most of the anti-LGBTQ groups are spearheaded by various protestant churches, all arguing that homosexuality is a sin and that they will be sent to hell. On my Korean Instagram feed alone, it’s not uncommon to see casual anti-LGBTQ comments, with other users adding notes of agreement. I always click on their profiles to see what kind of lives these hateful people are leading, and it’s always so...normal. They have kids, or dogs, some of them are students, or employed, old and young, some accounts are filled with food pics while some have photos with just a few too many filters.
In a broader point of view, Korea is not the minority when it comes to anti-LGBTQ sentiments. In East Asia, gay marriage is only legal in Taiwan. Western societies are almost the only societies where LGBTQ communities are accepted and even that acceptance is conditional and hanging on by a thread.
I’ve thought long and hard on how to write this essay without making my parents seem like monsters. And, while needing criticism, it’s become clear to me that my parents, too, are a victim of the social norms enforced in the country in which they grew up. In Korea, homosexuality just doesn’t happen: many of those who identify as LGBTQ hide it and lead a seemingly “normal” life in order to avoid scrutiny and discrimination that would follow them around their whole lives; similarly, many are part of heteronormative families with children to hide this part of their identity. Though, on paper, discrimination based on gender and sexual orientation is banned, both prevail in all facets of Korean society. It is possible to be fired, disowned, evicted, and assaulted due to one’s sexual orientation, thus forcing so many people to conceal it, to bury it. Being gay in Korea could ruin your life and, because of this, it is never talked about.
In many ways, there wasn’t and isn’t a chance for exposure to the LGBTQ community in Korea. I first learned that gay people existed when I was 13. A favorite series of mine then featured a gay couple, and I remember thinking how unnatural and strange that was. Curious, I did my research and slowly gained more exposure to the LGBTQ community. I’m thankful that I was afforded the opportunity to be exposed to this community through a slightly more impartial lens. In the rare instances where homosexuality is talked about in Korea, the context is almost always negative, which would have greatly skewed my views to be distasteful towards the LGBTQ community. We aren’t born with hate, but rather we learn it.
In Asian societies, homophobia doesn’t equate to a horrible character flaw in the ways it does in the U.S., a quality that I’ve gradually come to realize. Given the inherent lack of exposure to the LGBTQ community as well as the widespread rejection of what little they do know, people in and from Korea find it impossible to understand much less accept it. Despite their inability to understand the LGBTQ community, I find it impossible to think less of them for it.
I don’t blame my parents for what they couldn’t learn and, to me, they’re just my parents. They like to golf, my father likes to cook pasta and watch TV, my mom likes to collect wine and attempts to read books while secretly playing games on her phone when she thinks no one’s looking. My mother taught me that I should never marry into a family where in-laws demand too much from their daughter-in-laws, to be financially independent, and that marriage is something for later on while my career is now. My father taught me my love for books and movies, took me on walks where he thought I might find the landscape pretty, is the best person to cheer me up when I’m upset, and actively fought for gender equality in his workplace starting from the day I was born.
Even now, though they think it’s unnatural, my parents are learning from me and my brother that the LGBTQ community is not a fluke or a freak of nature. Maybe they won’t be able to truly accept them in their hearts. But they’re learning to respect and acknowledge them, bit by bit, slow and steady. I was still hopeful. If I was able to nudge my parents’ minds just a little bit, surely this meant that it would be easier to change younger minds—if they weren’t already in the fight themselves.
II
June 2021
“Do you support LGBTQ?”
I peered up from Excel to look at my student, and attempted to unfurrow my brows that had scrunched together in disdain for my abysmal spreadsheet abilities.
“Yes, of course.”
I turned back to figuring out how to hide rows without deleting them, when I heard him retort, “What? Why? Damn.”
The cells and rows and conditional formatting flew out of my head as I blankly stared at this frustrated kid. But he went on chattering to his friend, my gaze ignored. Thinking I had misheard, I tuned into their conversation. They were having a debate about LGBTQ rights (whether they should even be acknowledged or not), the girl for and the boy against. The boy was losing, which he couldn’t accept and had asked me in hopes of backing his point.
The two kids were both my students at the cram school (hagwon) in Seoul where I was working as a math TA over the summer. This particular cram school mostly catered to students who study in the US and Seoul international school students. Most of them were in high school studying ahead for their AP classes and the SATs.
I was flabbergasted at my student’s reaction to my support. And, listening to his vehement opposition to gay rights, I intervened: “How could you not support gay rights?”
As the boy froze mid-gesture, I closed my laptop and mapped the historical trajectory of LGBTQ communities in ancient civilizations (just look at the Greeks alone: socially acceptable pederastery in Athens, the Sacred Band of Thebes), the perpetual presence of non-binary expression in non-western societies (Hijras in Hindu society, third genders and homosexuality in pre-colonial African societies, and even eunuchs in East Asia), and how our present understanding of heteronormativity had stemmed from Victorian England’s rigid moral ideals. Our “modern” ideas were, in reality, quite stiff compared to older cultures.
I was quite pleased with myself, thinking that maybe this would change his mind—though what a childish hope that was, people don’t change what they believe in that easily—when he launched into a tirade of his own. He accused me of being brainwashed by liberals and cited the Bible as his source: “God created man and woman,” he sneered.
It was ridiculous how my long hours of research and respectful behavior were both reduced to a mere laughable tantrum in this boy’s mind. He genuinely believed the Bible to be a legitimate justification for homophobia, refusing to even acknowledge what I said as historical truth. I was especially surprised by his attitude, given that he had previously studied in the US. Did simple exposure not work for everyone as it had worked for me?
Whenever this boy traveled to the States (though I had an “ah-ha” moment when I realized he went to a Catholic school in Georgia) and encountered members and allies of the LGBTQ community, all he must’ve thought about was how disgusting and unnatural it seemed. Before this moment, I realized retrospectively, I offered my students the benefit of the doubt, believing that they would distance themselves from rather than share the views of Korea’s general public. I had assumed that, although they were raised by Korean (and most likely conservative) parents, they would be open-minded and accepting of the LGBTQ community through sheer exposure and time away from Korea, as I had.
Not pleased with the lack of support for his own views, the boy turned to another student in the room, asking him as well: “Do you support LGBTQ?”
This student answered promptly. “No.”
I was dumbfounded that there could be another person who could agree with this boy, but that wasn’t the end nor the worst of it. When a new student walked in, the boy asked him the same question. He confidently answered no without hesitation. To make matters worse, the boy also asked the primary teacher who had just walked in, who also answered no. I very nearly dropped the stack of marked papers I was bringing over to the teacher for him to look over.
Even now, I can only describe this experience as horrifying. What was so celebratory about hating others? Why and how did my students promptly answer ‘no’? In the States, to say ‘no’ would, in most contexts, be deemed shameful, and many who oppose LGBTQ rights would hesitate in providing their answer knowing that it would be met with considerable resistance. But, while studying in this classroom in Korea, these boys found camaraderie and a safe space for their mutual hatred. It was this sense of bonding that truly disarmed me. I stared at them mutely as they used this hatred as a jumping off point to talk about other mundane things, as if what they had just agreed upon was as trivial as disliking a hardass teacher or mutually adoring a favorite rapper.
For the rest of the day, I replayed that conversation in my head, and I felt true betrayal because these students were representative of a group with which I had associated. At that moment, I had never felt so alone. Until then, I had believed that my students were just like me, torn between two cultures, at odds with one or the other. I never imagined that so many of them would align themselves with ideas that I considered unthinkable. I had assumed that if I couldn’t find someone with my beliefs in my home country (whichever one of mine), I would find them in this community of people who were always one foot in and one foot out of both cultures.
Listening to their casual hate, my friend from high school flashed before my eyes. He’s transgender, and I remember thinking of him as shy and diminutive before his transition. Once he transitioned, though, I was struck by how he seemed. I had never seen him so happy, so comfortable, so vibrant. How could anyone in that state be abominable?
I thought of a family member who confessed to me in a warbling voice that he was bisexual, scared because he knew what our family would think. Our family still doesn't know. I thought of one of my students in Korea whose pronouns were “they/them,” but couldn’t find a box indicating gender to tick on their student contact slip. They wrote their pronouns next to their name on each quiz, a quiet defiance against a heteronormative system. How could we hate anyone who was just trying to figure out who they were? Shouldn’t it be celebrated that they could find who they were so early on, when many people still struggle?
Previously, I was in denial of how conservative Korea truly was. This summer was eye-opening for me, revealing not just the ugly, sexist underbelly of Korean society, but the deeply entrenched hate toward the seemingly unnatural. I ended my summer with less hope than I started out with. I saw firsthand the revival of “feminists” vs “anti-feminists” online wars, the truths of sexism within my own family, and how this hatred runs amok in our society.
Are we really that hopeless of a case? I truly hope not.
III
August 2021
It would be nice if I could end this story with some kind of redemption arc, an encounter in which I meet someone whose prejudices I’m able to persuade into changing—a neat chapter with which to conclude my story. But, unfortunately, real life doesn’t align with plot formulas.
My students still ask each other if they’re gay as a joke, and take genuine offense to such accusations. Once, a student of mine called another gay as a joke. When he hastily answered no, the other boy egged him on about it until he jumped up, toppling his chair. The argument brewed until I was forced to intervene before it turned physical.
A high school friend, who had gone to school with me in Michigan, claimed he supported LGBTQ, but insisted that the community keep it private. When asked why, he replied that their public relationships were an inconvenience and jokingly elaborated that their PDA caused his eyes to rot.
A close Korean friend from an international summer camp a few years ago expressed his concern about his new gay roommate. This friend had gone to middle and high school in the US. I steered the conversation away from the topic by joking that the roommate wouldn’t come onto him even if he were the last man alive, while feeling my stomach sink.
All of these interactions this past summer has led me to conclude, finally, that I would most likely end up living in the States after college. The past few years, I’ve pondered on where I would end up after college: in the U.S. where I laid down my own connections and roots, or in Korea, my homeland, where all my family and history reside? I had always been adamant in maintaining a balance between my life in the States and in Korea, a battle that has been waged since I was very young, starting with my determination to keep a solid hold on both my languages.
Despite my desire to keep both lives with me, it’s also become increasingly obvious that this is something I can’t do indefinitely. This is my sixth year of living away from my family in Korea, and I’d be lying if I said that getting on that plane was just as easy as it was a few years ago. I found myself dreading every time I had to take the plane to fly to either the States or Korea. Not only was it the prospect of a 13-hour flight and adjusting to a new time zone that seemed taxing, but I was more exhausted about constantly having to leave half my life behind.
The biggest drawback of living in Korea, for me, was how ridiculously old-fashioned everything seemed, especially when compared to the different social nuances of the West. I despised the blatant sexism that was still so prominently present in Korean society, which I also observed first hand in my extended family. I disliked the concept of seniority in everything, how it was implied that I would have to grovel to my elders. For a moment, it was easier to ignore all this. As Korea saw multiple successes in their entry into mainstream media (BTS, Parasite, Squid Games, to name a few), I was, for a moment, blinded by pride. I assumed that this integration of Korean culture into Western culture would be a two-way street, and that some aspects of Western beliefs would bleed into Korea. I think I also hoped for this, knowing that we were probably strong enough to be able to integrate some key ideas without undergoing erasure of our own culture. But evolution never unfolds the way we intend it to.
Despite the surge in popularity—and, on the other hand, romanticism—of Korean culture, I was still faced with the truth: that certain aspects I could never stand were nowhere near dissipating. Korea has improved—that is true and undeniable. I will also forever be proud of my homeland, and will always trace my roots back to this country, and I want it to be clearly known that I do not mean for this piece to be slander in any way. But it also seems to be glaringly true that I will never be completely at peace in Korea. Perhaps my inability to accept my home is in and of itself a sign that I don’t fit in, and is a fact that I’ve been avoiding for a very long time. Perhaps it’s also cowardly and selfish for me to run away, to take the easy way out by simply choosing one of my homes instead of deciding to stay and fight for what I believe in, to steer the country toward my envisioned future. Of course, this could change one day, and I could decide to move to Korea. Except, for now, though it may not bode well with anyone—because I’m only nineteen, and very slightly a coward—let me be selfish, let me choose the easier path.