QUEER ­KOREA

PERVERSE

MODERNITIES ​
A series
edited by Jack Halberstam
and Lisa Lowe
 Todd A. Henry

QE
UER K
O
RE
A
Duke University Press ​Durham and London ​2020
© 2020 Duke University Press
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of Amer­i­ca on acid-­free paper ∞
Designed by Courtney Leigh Baker
Typeset in Arno Pro and Avant Garde Gothic Std by
Westchester Publishing Services

Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data

Names: Henry, Todd A., [date] editor.
Title: Queer Korea / [edited by] Todd A. Henry.
Description: Durham : Duke University Press, 2020.
Series: Perverse modernities | Includes bibliographical
references and index.
Identifiers: lccn 2019032736 (print)
lccn 2019032737 (ebook)
isbn 9781478001928 (hardcover)
isbn 9781478002901 (paperback)
isbn 9781478003366 (ebook)
Subjects: lcsh: Homosexuality—Korea (South) |
Sexual minorities—Korea (South) | Gays—Korea (South) |
Lesbians—Korea (South) | Homosexuality—Korea. |
Sexual minorities—Korea. | Gays—Korea. | Lesbians—Korea.
Classification: lcc hq.16.K6 . q44 2020 (print) | lcc hq 75.16. k6
(ebook) | ddc 306.76/6095195—dc23
lc record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019032736
lc ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019032737
This work was supported by Core University Program for Korean
Studies through the Ministry of Education of the Republic of ­Korea
and Korean Studies Promotion Ser­vice of the Acad­emy of Korean
Studies (aks-­2013- ­olu-2250002).

Cover art: Early South Korean repre­sen­ta­tion of female

homoeroticism in film Chilt’u (Jealousy, 1960), directed by
Han Hyŏng-­mo. Cover photo­graph compliments of the Korean Film
Archive (donation by Cho Hŭi-­mun).

Fontispiece: “Chilt’u” (Jealousy, 1960). Frontispiece compliments of

the Korean Film Archive (donation by director of photography, Pak
Sŭng-bae).
CONTENTS

Acknowl­edgments ​vii
Introduction ​Queer ­Korea: ­Toward a Field of Engagement ​Todd A. Henry ​1

PART I UNRULY SUBJECTS ­U NDER

COLONIAL AND POSTCOLONIAL MODERNITY

1. Ritual Specialists in 4. Femininity ­under the

Colonial Drag: Shamanic War­time System and
Interventions in 1920s ­Korea the Symptomacity of
Merose Hwang Female Same-­Sex Love
55 Shin-ae Ha
(Translated by Kyunghee Eo)
2. Telling Queer Time
146
in a Straight Empire:
Yi Sang’s “Wings” (1936) 5. A Female-­Dressed Man
John Whittier Treat Sings a National Epic:
90 The Film Male Kisaeng
and the Politics of Gender
3. Problematizing Love:
and Sexuality in 1960s
The Intimate Event and
South ­Korea
Same-­Sex Love
Chung-­kang Kim
in Colonial ­Korea
175
Pei Jean Chen
117 6. Queer Lives as
Cautionary Tales:
Female Homoeroticism
and the Heteropatriarchal
Imagination of
Authoritarian South ­Korea
Todd A. Henry
205
PART II CITIZENS, CONSUMERS, SOLDIERS,
AND ACTIVISTS IN POSTAUTHORITARIAN TIMES

7. The Three ­Faces of 9. ­Ripples of Trauma:

South ­Korea’s Male Queer Bodies and the
Homo­sexuality: Pogal, Temporality of Vio­lence in
Iban, and Neoliberal Gay the South Korean Military
John (Song Pae) Cho Timothy Gitzen
263 323

8. Avoiding T’ibu 10. Mobile Numbers

(Obvious Butchness): and Gender Transitions:
Invisibility as a Survival The Resident
Strategy among Young Registration System,
Queer ­Women the Nation-­State, and
in South ­Korea Trans/gender Identities
Layoung Shin Ruin
295 (Translated by Max Balhorn)
357

Contributors 377
Index ​379
ACKNOWL­EDGMENTS

Books, especially edited volumes, do not write themselves. This one is cer-
tainly no exception, and it has taken many years and much support to make
the pre­sent volume pos­si­ble. Replaying that history in reverse makes the point
clear. This volume began as an international symposium, film festival, and art
exhibition held at the University of California, San Diego (ucsd), in 2014.
“Remembering Queer ­Korea” was the first of its kind to bring together schol-
ars, directors, and artists to rethink the peninsula’s history and culture from
the perspective of non-­normative subjects and queer analytics. As discus-
sants, Jin-­kyung Lee, Minjeong Kim, and Han Sang Kim helped reshape the
conference papers. Courtney Hibbard and Jennifer Dieli at ucsd’s Program
in Transnational Korean Studies (tks) provided endless administrative sup-
port. Jaekyung Jung was instrumental in installing the artwork of Siren Eun
Young Jung and creating the promotional materials for the exhibition, “Yeo-
sung Gukgeuk Proj­ect: (Off)Stage/Masterclass (2013).” I thank the student
workers who staffed the exhibition while it was open to the public. The film
festival would not have been pos­si­ble without Han Sang Kim who helped
coordinate the screening of several historical films from the Korean Film Ar-
chive, including The Pollen of Flowers (1972) and Sabanji (1988). Brian Hu,
the artistic director of the San Diego Pacific Arts Movement and currently a
professor at San Diego State University, was a wonderful co-­collaborator in
reaching a wider audience of Southern Californians who viewed the queer
films of South ­Korea. Lee Ann Kim, the former director of the Pacific Arts
Movement, is a true visionary in making this organ­ization one of San Diego’s
most prominent. Major financial support was provided by the Acad­emy of
Korean Studies, which also helped launch ucsd’s tks with a generous grant
of $600,000. Additional assistance was offered by ucsd’s Division of Arts and
Humanities, the Visual Arts Department, the Association for Asian Studies,
and Film Out San Diego.
A smaller version of the film festival took place in 2013 at Hanyang Univer-
sity’s Research Institute of Comparative History and Culture (RICH). I thank
Jie-­Hyun Lim for allowing me to curate a film event on ­Korea’s forgotten
pasts. It is my firm belief that filmmakers are some of the best historians of
queer K ­ orea, and I wanted to showcase their remarkable achievements. I am
grateful to have hosted some of ­these persons in the context of the 2013 (and
2014) event: Kwŏn Chong-­gwan, So Chun-­mun, Kim Hye-­jŏng, and Pak
Chae-jo. In screening their films, I benefited from the assistance and hard
work of Kang Kim, Yeonbo Jeong, and Seong-hee Hong at rich. Intellectu-
als of Korean gender and sexuality joined us for some memorable dialogues;
they include Han Ch’ae-­yun, Pak Jŏng-mi, Ruin, Kim Chi-­hye, and Kim
Kyŏng-­t’ae.
Since the early 2000s, involvement with activist organ­izations and com-
munity groups dedicated to the protection and well-­being of Korean “sexual
minorities” has facilitated my knowledge and approach to the issues raised in
this volume. I continue to rely on their indefatigable passion and generous
guidance. Over fifteen years ago, I was fortunate to befriend Sŏ Tong-­jin who,
in 1995, created the first LGBT student group, Come Together, at Yonsei Uni-
versity. He would be happy to know that, as of 2019, ­there are nearly seventy-
five such groups scattered across the country. And although he often claims to
have “retired” from LGBT studies, a recent reunion over food and spirits con-
vinced me that he is one of many living trea­sures of South ­Korea’s queer activ-
ism. So, too, is Han Ch’ae-­yun, whose tireless dedication to sexual minorities
is unparalleled. Countless ­others continue to staff numerous lgbti organ­
izations that have flourished since the late 1990s. I cannot possibly name all
of them h­ ere, but a visit to the booths that t­ oday populate annual queer pride
cele­brations, many of them relatively new, w ­ ill convince any reader of their
dynamism. So many inspiring ­people in ­these organ­izations have generously
shared their intimate knowledge, deep commitment, and endless passion with
me over the years. They include Tari Young-­jung Na, Siren Eun Young Jung,
Kim Chi-­hye, Candy Yun, Ruin, Yi Min-­hŭi, Kim/Cho-­Kwang-su, Heezy Kim
Yang, Yi Ho-­rim, Kim Kyŏng-­muk, Kim Tae-­hyŏn, Heo Yun, Yi Hyŏk-­sang, Yi
Chong-­gŏl, Kim/Yun Myŏng-­u, Chung’gangye, Ch’oe Ŭn-­kyŏng, Kim Yŏng-­
min, and Kim Bi. I also thank Stephano Park, Sang Lee, Seung Chang, and
their comrades in Los Angeles for showing me what a vibrant Korean gay/
queer community looks like in the diaspora.
Largely “outside” of South ­Korea but always in interactive dialogue with
it, a growing coterie of scholars dedicated to scholarship on queer K ­ orea and
its diasporas have supported me in my work and done so much themselves to
build this field. They are Jesook Song, Ju Hui Judy Han, John (Song Pae) Cho,
Sam Perry, Allan Simpson, Dredge Kang, Patty Ahn, Erica Cho, Timothy Git-

viii  |   Acknowl­edgments
zen, John Treat, Eunjung Kim, Layoung Shin, Car­ter Eckert, Rachael Miyung
Joo, Anthony Y. Kim, Woori Han, Minwoo Jung, Kyunghee Sabina Eo, Yeong
Ran Kim, Chelle Jones, Soo Ryon Yoon, and Ungsan Kim.
In bringing this volume to fruition, I thank Ken Wissoker, my editor at
Duke University Press who believed in this proj­ect from the beginning and
assisted me at all stages to make it a real­ity. I have learned so much from his
wisdom and friendship. Nina Foster, Olivia Polk, and Sara Leone as well as
many ­others at Duke University Press helped polish the manuscript. Two
talented reviewers provided criticism that sharpened the prose and made
the volume more accessible. I am grateful to Lisa Lowe and Jack Halbers-
tam for including Queer ­Korea in their pathbreaking series, Perverse Mo-
dernities. I also thank Anjali Arondekar, Howard Chiang, Janice Kim, Ste-
phen Sohn, and Sonja Kim for reading my own contributions and helping
me to make them more compelling. My co-­writers endured many editorial
demands in making Queer ­Korea cohere. I thank them for putting up with
my “crazy love” (yŏlae)—­coincidentally, the name of one of South K ­ orea’s
first transgender bars. Kyunghee Sabina Eo and Max Balhorn have done a
tremendous ser­v ice in translating the essays of Korea-­based scholars whose
impor­tant work Anglophone readers have access to for the first time. I hope
that more of this translingual l­ abor continues and that the flow of liberating
knowledge and praxis moves increasingly in the direction of enlightening
­those of us on this side of the Pacific. The willingness of so many South
Koreans to regularly take to the streets for social change is what keeps me
­going. So, too, are the many gradu­ate students who continue to produce
scholarship on queer subjects without any promise of ­future employment.
All too many of them enter their respective disciplines knowing that their
work ­w ill likely be misunderstood, devalued, and even shunned. I w ­ ill not
rest ­until at least one of them gains tenure-­track employment at a Korean
university. That work is, in short, the basis of my activism.
It brings me ­great personal plea­sure to complete ­these acknowledgements
where this proj­ect ­really began. In 1999, exactly twenty years ago, I arrived in
Seoul to begin my journey of studying K ­ orea and the language, and familiar-
izing myself with its queer communities. A stint working at an It’aewŏn gay
bar in 2003–2004 and participation in Seoul National University’s LGBTI
student group, then called Maŭm 005, allowed me to make my intellectual
work more meaningful to the communities about whom I try to think, speak,
and write. I am especially grateful for the loving support of my family and
Derek Shin who kept me brutally honest about how I can and cannot relate to

Acknowl­edgments  |   ix
queer and other marginalized folks. It is to all ­these ­peoples—­known and un-
known . . . ​from the past, in the pre­sent, and into the ­future—­that I dedicate
this volume. May individual and collective peace, happiness, and, above all,
liberation (however defined) arrive very soon.

x  |   Acknowl­edgments
 Introduction

QUEER ­KOREA
­TOWARD A FIELD OF ENGAGEMENT

Todd A. Henry

O
 
n September 7, 2013, two South Korean men—­gaudily clad in shiny,
beige-­colored tunic jackets with mandarin collars—­held a public
wedding ceremony in downtown Seoul.1 Along the Ch’ŏnggye
Stream, a site of recreation typically occupied by straight ­couples and hetero-
sexual families, Kim/Cho Kwang-su, a gay activist and filmmaker, and Kim
Sŭng-­hwan, his longtime boyfriend and cinematic collaborator, professed
their love for one another at a Las Vegas–­style spectacle. In addition to
­congratulatory remarks offered by media celebrities, the wedding ceremony
included upbeat songs performed by the gay men’s chorus and a musical ser-
enade comically enacted by the newlyweds themselves. Even more controver-
sial, Kim/Cho and Kim vowed to use their symbolic ­union as a national test
case for marriage equality, contributing their wedding donations (ch’ugŭigŭm)
to create a private organ­ization in support of other same-­sex ­couples. How-
ever, even before the country’s judicial system (which ultimately denied them
a marriage license in 2016) could deliberate on the legality of their relation-
ship, fundamentalist Christians waged an equally spectacular protest by cov-
ering the stage with ­human feces, reminding well-­wishers and event onlook-
ers of the Bible’s purported denunciation of homo­sexuality as sinful.2 Since
this dramatic confrontation, most progressive politicians have succumbed
to ultraconservative constituents who regularly use pride festivals and other
queer cele­brations to oppose policies aimed at protecting “sexual minorities”
(sŏngsosuja). For example, in 2014, just months ­after being elected to a second
term as the mayor of Seoul, Pak Wŏn-­sun suggested that South ­Korea become
the first country in Asia to legalize gay marriage, if only as a token gesture of
tolerance aimed at proving the country’s cosmopolitan credentials to the re-
gion and the wider world.3 But, unfortunately for South Korean proponents
of same-­sex ­unions, including Kim/Cho and Kim, Taiwan won that honor in
May 2017 when the Constitutional Court passed a landmark ruling establish-
ing the illegality of current marriage laws, a decision that has paved the way for
gay and lesbian ­couples in that Asian nation to wed.
From the vantage point of queer activists who have repeatedly called on
government officials to adopt nondiscriminatory policies ­toward lgbti citi-
zens and their continued demonization by fundamentalist conservatives who
brazenly claim that “anal sex is not a h­ uman right” (hangmun seksŭ inkwŏn i
anida), it appears that South K ­ orea, like Taiwan, can be located along a teleo-
logical, if highly contentious, trajectory of liberal inclusion at whose end point
stands the Holy Grail of marriage equality. Indeed, over the past fifteen years,
movements advancing marriage equality have quickly gained currency across
many parts of the world, with same-­sex weddings becoming ­legal in much of
Western Eu­rope and North Amer­i­ca, parts of Latin Amer­i­ca and Oceania,
and one nation in Africa. In this sense, Pak Wŏn-­sun’s controversial call for
South ­Korea to engage in what might be called “matrimonial one-­upmanship”
and activists’ own citation of global pre­ce­dents, including the U.S. Supreme
Court’s 2015 ruling in ­favor of gay marriage, suggest that the country simply
lags b­ ehind other parts of the world in this re­spect.4 According to this progres-
sive model of “global queering” (on which more ­later), South ­Korea ­will, with
the passage of time, eventually join its more advanced counter­parts, as the
country has since the 1980s in terms of cap­i­tal­ist development and procedural
democracy.5
However, a closer examination of the sexual minority movement and the
conservative heteronationalists who oppose such activism reveal a related
but dif­fer­ent narrative of queer life in this postcolonial, postauthoritarian
society—­one that has tended to fall outside the empirical and epistemologi-
cal purview of a queer studies that continues to privilege North Amer­i­ca and
Western Eu­rope. Indeed, that most lgbti-­identified South Koreans (for
whom marriage equality is ostensibly being advanced) refuse to take a public

2  | Introduction
stance on this fraught issue suggests the need to interrogate the social conse-
quences and intimate stakes of making known or vis­i­ble their non-­normative
sexuality or gender variance. As in other parts of the world, in South ­Korea
the practice of marriage not only involves two atomized individuals seek-
ing ­legal recognition from the state but also deeply implicates f­amily mem-
bers, intimate friends, and co-­workers. For most heterosexual c­ ouples enter-
ing matrimony, ­these overlapping communities play crucial roles in actively
promoting—­but, in the case of queer subjects, potentially endangering—­
their material security and psychological well-­being. Even for the most vocal
advocates of same-­sex marriage, including Kim/Cho Kwang-su, it took several
years to convince his partner, Kim Sŭng-­hwan—­and, by extension, his part-
ner’s ­family—to acquiesce to a public ceremony that undoubtedly would cata-
pult them into the national limelight. Although ultimately deciding to bless
their sons’ relationship, participation by the c­ ouple’s parents at the 2013 wed-
ding ceremony, which included an emotional speech by Kim/Cho Kwang-­su’s
­mother, subjected them and other relatives to the possibility of what might be
called “homophobia (or transphobia) by association,” a concept invoked by
several authors in this volume.6 A variant of “guilt by association” (yŏnjwaje), a
system of collective culpability that was used both before and ­after the Korean
War (1950–53) to punish f­amily members of alleged communists, the phrase
refers to a similar stigma that marginalizes sexual minorities and, by extension,
their kin.7 Such homophobic and transphobic associations can even follow
queer Koreans into the diaspora. In the U.S., for example, church and other
organ­izations often form the community around which diasporics seek to
protect themselves against racial vio­lence and the economic vicissitudes of
their host country, but where they also regularly encounter the anti-­lgbti
agenda of conservative community groups.8 In this sense, the vis­i­ble participa-
tion of some parents in support of their “out” c­ hildren at recent pride festivals
and other public events marks a highly controversial dimension of a queer
politics that, in South K
­ orea as elsewhere, remains as much family-­oriented as
individually based.9
In recent years, the plight of sexual minorities has become a rallying point
for some progressive-­minded individuals, particularly among millennial South
Koreans who, when compared with their older counter­parts, tend to support
cultural diversity. But the increased visibility and heightened stakes of same-­
sex marriage have ironically diverted the attention of many non-­normative
communities away from public advocacy for liberal forms of inclusion, h­ uman
rights protection, and identity-­based politics. Especially in the current age of

Introduction | 3
neoliberal consumption, the internet and other digital technologies, such
as smart phone–­based dating applications, have enabled a new generation
of South Koreans to pursue a wide range of self-­oriented practices of inti-
macy, but without necessarily creating public personas that subject them to
endangering forms of alienation from ­family, society, or nation. Although a
Western-­centric lens might simplistically characterize their lives as “closeted,”
a locally grounded analytic insists that individuals politicized as sexual minor-
ities have deftly carved out an “under-­the-­radar” presence.10 Such clandestine
sociality in both on-­and off-­line spaces has allowed lgbti South Koreans
to cultivate intimacies with other gender-­variant or sexually non-­normative
subjects while attempting to shield themselves from the public scrutiny that
only a small number of activists, such as Kim/Cho Kwang-su and Kim Sŭng-­
hwan, are willing to endure. Just as remarkable as the large crowds that gath-
ered along the Ch’ŏnggye Stream in the fall of 2013 to support their symbolic
­union ­were many more under-­the-­radar queers who avoided participating in
the cele­bration precisely ­because they feared that their presence at that pub-
lic site would subject them to the kind of legibility they had worked so care-
fully to avoid.11 In spite of ­these efforts, high-­ranking military officers have, in
recent years, exploited digital technologies to infiltrate gay male subcultures.
Subjecting active-­duty soldiers to arcane regulations that criminalize same-­
sex acts (even when consensual and done off base), high-­ranking leaders have
transformed the private practice of anal sex (kyegan) into charged ­matters of
public concern and national security.12
Although same-­sex marriage poignantly underscores one fraught aspect
of queer life in South K ­ orea ­today, other historical modes of same-­sex sexu-
ality, cross-­gender identification, and non-­normative intimacies—on the
Korean Peninsula and in the diaspora, as well as in relation to Asia and the
wider world—­remain a troubling oversight that the pre­sent volume seeks
to address. This blind spot not only plagues pre­sent debates about accept-
able bound­aries of hotly debated issues, such as class inequalities, rampant
suicide, sexual harassment, and patriarchal domination as well as ­labor mi-
gration and citizenship rights. It also limits how the past is ­imagined and
recounted in terms of similarly contested pro­cesses of Korean modernity,
which include colonial rule, nationalist politics, and authoritarian develop-
ment. The problematic occlusion of queerness in the politicized narration of
history is perhaps most apparent in the media’s power to frame pre­sent mani-
festations of non-­normative practices of gender and sexuality in terms of past
traditions, especially by highlighting the purported lack thereof. To return

4  | Introduction
to the frenzied fanfare of 2013, mainstream newspapers heralded the u­ nion
of Kim/Cho Kwang-su and Kim Sŭng-­hwan as the country’s first same-­sex
wedding.13 To be sure, efforts to gain official recognition of their relationship
marked a turning point insofar as their public ceremony sparked a national
debate over l­ egal definitions of matrimony.14 However, lost in sensational ac-
counts of this recent case is that gay marriage—­whether performed as public
ceremonies seeking state protection, conducted to dignify queer relation-
ships in the eyes of f­ amily and friends, or ­adopted as a practical mechanism
to protect the economic well-­being of marginalized individuals—is neither
new nor foreign to the peninsula.15 Indeed, alarmist reports of the 2013 cele­
bration overlooked previous attempts by same-­sex ­couples to secure recogni-
tion of their ­unions. For example, as early as 2004 a lesbian ­woman tried to
sue her ex-­girlfriend to have their relationship accepted as a de facto marriage
(sasilhon), an arrangement that protects most heterosexual partners who do
not officially wed one another. In the end, the court refused to rule on this
attempt to divide the lesbian c­ ouple’s assets. But the presiding judge, a young
man who had studied Eu­ro­pean pre­ce­dents, did respond to the precarious
situation of sexual minorities by advocating civil u­ nions as a pos­si­ble way of
protecting their relationships.16
Although this progressive proposal remains po­liti­cally unpop­u­lar and has
yet to bear l­ egal fruit, South K
­ orea boasts an even longer but largely unknown
history of same-­sex ­unions, particularly among working-­class ­women. As
my contribution documents, such bonds took root a­ fter the Korean War, a
deadly conflict that severely disrupted heteropatriarchal kinship practices. In
response to gynocentric subcultures that emerged in the wake of this national
tragedy, journalists routinely covered female-­female wedding ceremonies
from the 1950s to the 1980s, if only as an entertaining tactic of profitmaking
that minimized the economic strug­gles of single or abandoned w ­ omen. Not
unlike media accounts of the 2013 cele­bration, postwar reports repeatedly
cited ­these queer ­unions as the county’s first, even to the point of obvious
incredulity. Their accuracy notwithstanding, sensational accounts of same-­
sex weddings, I argue, sought to accommodate nonconforming practices of
kinship into the country’s hetero-­marital culture. They did so by describ-
ing male-­dressed ­women as “husbands” and female-­dressed ­women as their
“wives,” rather than referencing the subcultural terms paji-­ssi (Ms. Pants) and
ch’ima-­ssi (Ms. Skirt) used by queer ­women to express their desires for one
another. Underscoring the unsustainability and evanescence of their relation-
ships, such profitmaking reports also functioned as cautionary tales aimed at

Introduction | 5
redirecting subversive forms of homoeroticism ­toward advancing the (re)pro-
ductive goals of cap­i­tal­ist accumulation and national loyalty.
In addition to offering historicized accounts that recall such charged mo-
ments of social and cultural anxiety, Queer ­Korea examines the ongoing effects
of ­these pasts in “a field of power that seeks to silence, erase, and assimilate all
non-­normative expressions and desires.”17 To this end, we use interdisciplin-
ary methods such as close reading, archival research, visual analy­sis, and eth-
nographic fieldwork to trace the understudied ways in which queerness has
been represented and, more often than not, exploited to consolidate idealized
notions of ­family and community, as well as compulsory paths of develop-
ment and citizenship. By exploring the instrumentalist nature of discourses
and practices of non-­normative sexuality and gender variance, the volume
challenges privileged but ­limited forms of knowledge that have tended to
advance nationalist trajectories and similarly homogenizing operations of
power. Like media accounts, most academic narratives of K ­ orea continue to
neglect critical insights offered by a sustained focus on queerness, which they
often implicitly consider a foreign or threatening presence to collective images
of the self, ­whether defined in national, religious, sexual/gendered, or other
terms. To be sure, the number of students interested in lgbti-­related topics
at South Korean universities has grown dramatically in recent years. But in a
society that discouraged queer subjects from documenting or verbalizing their
experiences u­ ntil at least the 1990s, even the most e­ ager researchers strug­gle
to locate relevant texts to analyze and willing in­for­mants to interview. Perhaps
more detrimental, many students lack institutional support for their research,
forcing some to pursue gradu­ate degrees at overseas universities. Although a
small coterie of dedicated scholars have succeeded in publishing pioneering
studies on non-­normative sexuality and gender variance, few can succeed in
an acad­emy that remains disinterested in, if not hostile to, queer studies.18 For
their part, most activists, although often trained in gradu­ate programs, are so
occupied with countering lgbti discrimination that they cannot adequately
investigate how past repre­sen­ta­tions of “problematic” bodies endanger their
present-­oriented tactics of survival.
Such epistemological and po­liti­cal conditions inform the urgent nature of
this intellectual proj­ect, which began as an international conference, film fes-
tival, and art installation at the University of California, San Diego (ucsd),
in the fall of 2014. From its inception, the proj­ect, then entitled “Remember-
ing Queer K ­ orea,” aimed to facilitate a multilingual and multidirectional traf-
fic in textual and visual forms, both from Korean contexts to En­glish ones

6  | Introduction
and vice versa.19 Unfortunately, readers of this volume no longer have ac-
cess to the films that ucsd subtitled and screened in partnership with the
Pacific Arts Movement, a San Diego–­based film organ­ization, or a version of
Siren Eun Young Jung’s “(Off)Stage/Masterclass (2013),” an exhibition that
addressed the nearly forgotten history of South K ­ orea’s all-­female theater
(yŏsŏng kukkŭk).20 However, that spirit of transnational dialogue appears ­here
in terms of two expertly translated essays by scholars and activists based in
South ­Korea. ­These essays offer readers unpre­ce­dented access to pioneering
research on queer K ­ orea produced by intellectuals working in linguistic and
cultural environments that differ from, but engage with, t­ hose of our English-­
language authors, many of whom ­were also raised in Korean and diasporic
communities.
As editor, I thus attempted to foreground scholars, filmmakers, and artists
based in South ­Korea on whom many of us based outside the peninsula rely
for inspiration. But in the end, many essays published in this volume w ­ ere
written by academics anchored in North Amer­i­ca. A critical and geographic
distance from ­Korea likely enabled ­these authors to approach their subjects
without having to negotiate the myriad institutional and cultural barriers that
make generating knowledge about queerness on the peninsula so difficult.
Such conditions are perhaps most noticeable in the notable absence of work
on North K ­ orea, information about which most scholars lack access or inter-
est.21 However, this apparent dearth does not mean that North ­Korea fails to
impinge on the consciousness of South ­Korea—or that South ­Korea fails to
impinge on the consciousness of the North. Nor should it signal that North
­Korea cannot or should not be a part of what is written about the peninsula,
which remains dominated by a focus on South ­Korea. If ­these rival states suc-
ceed in formally ending the Korean War (or eventually reunifying) and open-
ing their borders to one another, silenced histories of non-­normative sexuality
and gender variance in North K ­ orea ­will likely teach us much about the lived
experiences of this postcolonial authoritarian state, one guided by nationalist-­
socialist princi­ples and Kim f­ amily rule. Indeed, the guiding premise of Queer
­Korea is that such Cold War geopolitics directly inform the vernacular lan-
guages and the local politics of non-­normativity on the peninsula and among
its diasporic communities. As such, the chapters that follow do not simply ex-
plore ­these trans-­and intranational articulations of queerness as recuperative
exercises that only aim to locate lgbti subjects in Korean history. By authenti-
cating their marginalized position in the nation, the resurrection of such “sub-
jugated knowledges” ­will likely benefit sexual minorities, especially t­ hose who

Introduction | 7
embrace identity politics and other forms of liberal inclusion. While encour-
aging ­these possibilities, we also explore past expressions of Korean queerness
to reveal the regulatory mechanisms and resistant forces foreclosed or enabled
by a shifting set of geopo­liti­cal conditions and related epistemologies. We aim
to support related narratives of and strug­gles for empowerment—­for exam-
ple, by the disabled, foreign mi­grants, “half-­bloods,” single w ­ omen, and the
proletarian classes—­that revolve around similar and overlapping dynamics of
mystification, obfuscation, and marginalization.
In this spirit, Queer ­Korea problematizes how practices of non-­normative
sexuality and gender variance have been consistently ignored or thought away,
as suggested ­earlier by the purported novelty and foreignness of same-­sex mar-
riage. To c­ ounter such popu­lar and academic myths, we attend to pervasive
forms of “queer blindness” that surround the peninsula and its inhabitants,
typically described in nationalist narratives as the collective victims of Japa­
nese colonialism, civil war, national division, Cold War rivalries, and other
tragedies of the twentieth ­century (and before). Due to ­these traumatic ex-
periences, scholars have tended to frame Korean society and culture in terms
of ethnoracial and heteropatriarchal purities. To be sure, ­these “survivalist
epistemologies” aimed to create living spaces for a community understood
as consistently beleaguered by outside forces. However, both nationalist and
postnationalist narratives have overlooked critical light that non-­normative
sexuality and gender variance can shed on the operation of successive and
intersecting structures of power, including colonialism, nationalism, capital-
ism, and neoliberalism. When considered in ­these expansive ways, queerness
emerges as an impor­tant dynamic of Korean history and a revealing analytic
of its society and culture, rather than appearing as a disruptive force or an
internecine form of subversion.
In addition to queering a Korean studies that remains nationalistically
heteronormative, our examination of the peninsula contributes to critiques of
queer studies that have focused on displacing Euro-­American forms of non-­
normative sexuality and gender variance. Despite its ongoing reputation as the
world’s “hermit kingdom,” the peninsula functioned as a particularly intense
site of transnationality during both the colonial and postcolonial periods.22
Queer studies of K ­ orea thus serve as much more than an Orientalist object of
inquiry or a Cold War application of area studies.23 In the essays that follow,
­Korea serves as a critical space to examine what Anjali Arondekar and Geeta
Patel have called the “geopolitics of queer studies”—in this case, one closely
connected to such historical pro­cesses as colonial modernity, authoritarian

8  | Introduction
development, and neoliberal familialism.24 Like much new scholarship on
queer Asia, the volume aims to “provincialize” approaches to non-­normative
sexuality and gender nonconformity that remain anchored in North Ameri-
can and Western Eu­ro­pean contexts of liberal pluralism and multicultural as-
similation. As the example of same-­sex marriage mentioned e­ arlier illustrates,
some South Korean activists are clearly pushing their state to create the con-
ditions necessary for the po­liti­cal inclusion of sexual minorities as normal-
ized objects of h­ uman rights. However, in a postcolonial society that, even
­after the formal end of authoritarian rule in 1993, continues to exclude them
from such protections and regularly exposes them to vari­ous forms of cultural
alienation, most queer subjects have consciously avoided the kind of public
visibility that typically undergirds identity politics. Foregrounding such pre-
dicaments, Queer ­Korea shifts our attention to historical junctures when non-
liberal regimes have sought to control the purported monstrosity of bodily
differences or erase them as threats to organic conceptions of ­family, society,
nation, or empire. In highlighting ­these politicized moments of the peninsula’s
past, we strive to formulate new ways to think and act beyond the politics of
despair and vio­lence that have come to dominate the pre­sent.25 Although ­legal
arrangements such as same-­sex marriage may solve this predicament for some
individuals, we should not assume that its liberal and assimilationist tenants
­will necessarily create conditions of survival and well-­being for many ­others
whose life practices relegate them to the fringes of social respectability and
cultural acceptability. Perhaps it is only from this uncomfortably queer posi-
tion, or what Lauren Berlant has called “cruel optimism,” that marginalized
subjects on the peninsula and in similar sites of abjection can imagine new
possibilities for liberation, but ones that do not necessarily rely on a hostile
state or a sensationalizing media to promote their economic viability and
emotional fulfillment.26

Unruly Subjects ­under Colonial

and Postcolonial Modernity

­ hether the object of empirical study or the subject of critical analy­sis, queer-
W
ness has remained largely invisible in research on the peninsula, buried ­under
male-­and elite-­centered accounts that have overwhelmingly focused on the
tribulations of a modernizing nation. In historical accounts of K ­ orea, the
experiences of Japa­nese rule (1910–45) and, l­ater, of anticommunist or anti-
capitalist development u­ nder postcolonial authoritarianism have tended to

Introduction | 9
dominate, leaving l­ittle room for non-­normative stories of the past.27 When
mentioned at all, individuals who do not figure as “proper” subjects of ­these
collectivized narratives—­including, but not ­limited to, ­those engaging in non-­
normative sexuality or exhibiting gender variance—­were made hypervisible
as social threats or, worse yet, rendered as pro-­Japanese collaborators.28 Al-
though such labels gained currency during the colonial era, pundits l­ater de-
ployed them as potent tools of subjectification during and a­ fter the Korean
War.29 In the ongoing context of Cold War politics, triumphant expressions
of heteronormativity and cisgenderism have persisted as power­ful ideologies
of national security that aim to promote and ensure bodily purity on both
sides of the 38th Parallel. In North ­Korea, for example, media and literary im-
ages of reproductive ­wholesomeness continue to function as a key strategy of
collective mobilization in its historic strug­gle against an allegedly hedonistic
south, which, along with the U.S., its patron state, Demo­cratic ­People’s Re-
public of ­Korea (dprk) leaders regularly accuse of fomenting homo­sexuality
and related “perversions.”30 Much the same can be said of South K ­ orea, where
in recent years a growing number of fundamentalist Christians boldly charge
sexual minorities with harboring pro–­North Korean tendencies and spread-
ing the aids virus, but without providing evidence to validate their exagger-
ated and exclusionary claims.31 In t­ hese alarmist formulas, “homophobia (and
transphobia) by association” extends far beyond the stigmatizing confines of
one’s biological f­ amily, transforming individual expressions of non-­normative
sexuality or gender variance into national threats that purportedly demand
vigilant surveillance, repeated punishment, and even further marginalization.
Through such instrumentalist discourses of deviance, repre­sen­ta­tions of
queerness have aimed to accommodate nonconforming bodily practices to
the (re)productive aims of successive regimes on the Korean Peninsula.32 Al-
though never fully successful, t­ hese “epistemological interventions,” as I call
them in my essay on female homoeroticism (see chapter 6), worked to assimi-
late the i­ magined monstrosity of corporal differences, harnessing them to col-
lective ends. When not already denigrated in t­ hese ways, nationalist and most
postnationalist scholars have largely ignored the subcultures of “perverse” bod-
ies, deeming them insignificant or embarrassing to their respective intellectual
agendas, w ­ hether feminist, Marxist, or other­wise. By contrast, the authors in
this volume actively recall such moments of forgetfulness and denunciation in
both historical and epistemological pro­cesses of cultural homogenization. To-
gether, they question such heteronormalizing forces as imperialism, nation-
alism, militarism, and industrialization, focusing on the lived experiences of

10  | Introduction
“unruly” subjects and their subordinated status in archival, visual, literary, and
ethnographic registers. Meanwhile, we eschew ghettoized approaches to mar-
ginality that treat queerness only in terms of minority or visibility paradigms.
As mentioned e­ arlier, this liberal model emerged in South K ­ orea only during
the 1990s and still does not include North ­Korea. Rather than assuming the
pervasiveness of a globalized logic of identity politics, we deploy queer ana-
lytics to interrogate disciplinary, biopo­liti­cal, and necropo­liti­cal structures of
normalization that have come to weigh on all residents of the peninsula, albeit
in considerably uneven ways. Queer ­Korea thus seeks to complicate narratives
that tend to advance, rather than to question, collective state goals, such as
androcentric familialism and cap­i­tal­ist (or socialist) development.
Several de­cades before Japa­nese officials managed to forcibly annex the
peninsula in 1910, a concerned group of male intellectuals, most trained in
the Confucian classics, appointed themselves as the patriarchal guardians of the
Chosŏn Court (1392–1910), which, in their view, desperately required “mod-
ernization” to retain national autonomy. Although sharing many of the same
reformist goals, t­ hese elites adamantly opposed the tactics of their lower-­class
counter­parts, including the millenarian ideas advocated by Eastern Learning
(tonghak) adherents and the antiestablishment agendas of other grassroots
movements, including the first generation of Korean feminists.33 To guide the
masses ­under their tutelage, some nationalist leaders abandoned Confucian
praxis in f­avor of Western-­and Japanese-­inspired models of “civilization and
enlightenment” (munmyŏng kaehwa). However, the epistemic frames of this
modernist paradigm tended to replicate t­hose of their imperialist counter­
parts, thereby undercutting the ability of nationalists to retain ­Korea’s sov-
ereignty.34 Although couched in familiar terms of Confucian statecraft, even
“Eastern values and Western skills” (tongdo sŏgi), an indigenous style of mod-
ernization aimed at placating conservative court stalwarts, also found­ered as a
strategy to protect the G ­ reat Han Empire (1897–1910) at a dangerous time of
35
imperialist incursions. ­After annexation, the nature and pace of reform fell
into the hands of Japa­nese rulers who adroitly hijacked the nation-­building
efforts of Korean elites while actively resurrecting and idealizing heteropatri-
archal traditions as the moral basis of a new colonial modernity, not unlike
early Meiji leaders had done at home.
For emasculated leaders now expected to serve a foreign empire, the trau-
matic experience of Japa­nese occupation informed which individuals ap-
peared in an increasingly defensive narrative of the nation and how Koreans
­were positioned, or sought to position themselves, as legitimate subjects of

Introduction |  11
that collective history. For example, patriarchal invocations of ­women’s lowly
status as a worrisome barometer of K ­ orea’s purportedly lagging “level of civi-
lization” (mindo) nationalized the concerns of this marginalized, but increas-
ingly vocal, subpopulation. On the one hand, bourgeois instrumentalizations
of illiterate ­Korean ­women produced an androcentric view of femininity that
ironically converged with imperialist and Christian views of “benighted” and
“heathen” subjects in desperate need of education, if only to promote their
cultivation as “wise m ­ others and good wives” (hyŏnmo yangch’ŏ). On the other
hand, such male-­dominated discourses did encourage a small group of edu-
cated New W ­ omen (sinyŏsŏng) to seek liberation from a refortified system of
heteropatriarchy.36
Amid this gender warfare, government officials, medical doctors, and other
regulatory professionals in colonial ­Korea came to define “­women” and “men”
in epistemologically binary and biologically dimorphic terms. In mirrorlike
fashion, ­these terms extended to equally rigid notions of femininity and mas-
culinity. Such power­ful categories of sex and gender worked to obfuscate a
wide range of queer practices and non-­normative life courses ­adopted by colo-
nized Koreans and Japa­nese settlers.37 During the Asia-­Pacific War (1937–45),
officials ­adopted the same binary paradigm to categorize “imperial subjects”
(hwang guk sinmin) as dutifully abiding by or treacherously deviating from
bodily norms aimed at maintaining a system of reproductive heterosexuality
on which colonial capitalism relied. A lack of empirical traces in colonialist,
nationalist, and missionary archives, especially ­those voiced by queer subjects
themselves, have restricted scholars’ ability to appreciate how unruly bod-
ies ­were, like ­those of so-­called New ­Women, of critical importance to the
power­ful confluence of imperialism and nationalism, as well as other modes
of collective mobilization and individual contestation, such as socialism and
anarchism.38
In her essay on shamanism, Merose Hwang reveals this impor­tant point by
demonstrating the understudied role that this folk religion, ­later described as
the quin­tes­sen­tial spirit of the Korean ­people, played in the regulatory imagi-
nation of both imperial authorities and colonized nationalists. She locates
the queerness of sorcerers, fortunetellers, and female entertainers—­a motley
group placed ­under police surveillance by the Government-­General and the
intellectual scrutiny of native intellectuals—in their ability to disrupt elite-­
and male-­dominated formulas of colonial modernity, both of which treated
popu­lar practices of spiritual healing as superstition. For bourgeois national-
ists seeking to promote a morally “healthy” society as the foundation of in­

12  | Introduction
de­pen­dence, members of the Sowi Church Guild thus figured as an unruly
prob­lem of (self-)governance. Although accused by male nationalists as col-
laborators (a label many would l­ater apply to them), adherents of the guild
boldly dressed in the cultural garb of their colonial overlords as devotees of
Shintō, the Japa­nese spirituality used by the Government-­General to “assimi-
late” Koreans.39 Imagining the marginalized perspective of the guild, Hwang
argues that its resourceful members, many of them female masters of ritual
per­for­mance, donned the disruptive “drag” of spiritual respectability to sur-
vive ­under an increasingly watchful regime, especially in the wake of a major
nationalist uprising in 1919. Even as they provided their colonizers with out-
ward compliance, shamans questioned elites’ embrace of heteropatriarchy and
their concern with controlling the nation’s religious traditions. Hwang also
shows that colonial-­period efforts at regulation followed longer histories of
state vio­lence and social displacement, contexts that explain why disaffected
Koreans gravitated to ­these healers.
Rather than being denigrated as a dangerous presence in their colonized
nation, shamanic leaders appeared in another politicized guise as heroically
resistant, even in their very queerness. Hwang thus reveals that Korean ritu-
alists straddled a narrow space among colonial control, cultural erasure, and
nationalist appropriation. Although reviled for not marrying women and ac-
cused of engaging in sexual perversion, well-­known male intellectuals such
as Ch’oe Nam-­sŏn (1890–1957) and Yi Nŭng-­hwa (1869–1945) exploited the
precolonial traditions of t­ hese marginalized ­women to forge a glorious story
of the nation, one that re-­centered ­Korea and Manchuria in a larger, continen-
tal culture of shamanism. Having elevated this Pan-­Korean identity above a
Japan-­dominated ideology of common ancestry, transgender practices, same-­
sex ­unions, and other queer customs now appeared as core attributes of a
proud indigenous culture. If masculinized ­under the guidance of nationalist
intellectuals, this culture could, according to their heteronormalizing agenda,
serve as a bulwark against colonial assimilation. Demonstrating how shamans
negotiated their position and livelihood through archives of official denun-
ciation and cultural appropriation, Hwang highlights the subversive nature of
­these popu­lar ritualists, exposing the power­ful but contradictory dynamics of
colonial rule and nationalist politics.
Like Hwang’s essay on the regulatory anx­i­eties and disruptive practices of
shamanism, John Treat uses the pioneering prose of Yi Sang (b. 1910) to reveal
a similarly troubling dimension about this in(famous) writer and his position
in the queer temporality of a colonized nation. Since his premature death

Introduction | 13
in 1937, scholarly evaluations of Yi have tended to vacillate widely. Whereas
early narratives bemoaned his literary style as embarrassingly individualistic
and thus not representative of serious and collective concerns, l­ater accounts
championed his writing as admirably avant-­garde and thus befitting a Korean
modernist of his day. Seeking to transcend nationalist interpretations, Treat
adopts José Esteban Muñoz’s notion of queer time in a nonidentitarian read-
ing of “Wings,” a short story penned by Yi in 1936. Rather than focus on the
author’s sexual desire or gendered selfhood as the standards by which to assess
his conformity (or lack thereof), Treat highlights the disjoined temporality of
the work itself, which, he argues, exposes an overdetermined concurrence of
postcolonial and queer stylistics. While foregrounding the migratory nature
of this modernist’s prose, he shows how the straight time of colonial moder-
nity, embedded in public icons like the clock of the Seoul train station, is con-
tinually displaced in “Wings,” a title that underscores the author’s peripatetic
movements across the colonial capital of Seoul and the imperial metropolis
of Tokyo. Through such unruly practices, the male narrator “I” and his wife
manage to deviate from a heteronormative life course of monogamous and
reproductive sexuality, a system of power institutionalized by both Japa­nese
colonizers and Korean nationalists. In his nuanced reading of “Wings,” Treat
also suggests that the queer time of the story should not be understood as
a utopian critique of straight time writ large wherein Korean authors are as-
sumed to write only as colonized subjects or in queer time. Rather, he under-
stands Yi’s prose as a vexed encounter between the reproductive futurism of a
colonized nation and the real­ity that most subjects in this occupied territory
existed on the fringes of an alienating system that made liberation nearly im-
possible. However, according to Treat’s analy­sis, that alienation also provided
unconventional writers like Yi with hope for a more unencumbered ­future,
­whether that emancipation arrived on personal or collective terms.
The essential queerness of colonial modernity, defined by seemingly in-
surmountable structures of domination and the uncanny ability of deviant
subjects to reveal its disabling power through utopic expressions, is further
developed in Pei Jean Chen’s examination of “­free love”(yŏnae; renai in Japa­
nese; lian ai in Chinese) in occupied K ­ orea. Building on studies that have
begun to examine the colonial sensibilities and affective under­pinnings of
Japa­nese rule, she argues that literary repre­sen­ta­tions of and public debates
about non-­normative sexuality and gender nonconformity primarily func-
tioned as regulatory mechanisms.40 In her analy­sis of queer expressions ­under
colonial modernity, Chen borrows Elizabeth Povinelli’s notion of the intimate

14  | Introduction
event, which Povinelli conceptualized as encounters between “autological,”
or self-­authored (and thus ­free), and “genealogical,” or discursive (and thus
constraining), forms of knowledge. With this framework, Chen argues that
homosexual (and heterosexual) forms of love w ­ ere dislodged from traditional
paradigms of Confucian kinship and subsequently framed as engagements of
choice, if risky ones that often ended in tragedy. A transculturated and trans-
lated form of liberalism that arrived in K­ orea from the West via Japan, expres-
sions of romantic freedom ­were severely hampered by sexological frames
disseminated ­under a modernizing regime of civilization and enlightenment.
Often described as laboratories of modernity, ­Korea and colonies like it be-
came fertile grounds for the dissemination of genealogical modes of knowl-
edge, whose primary function was regulatory and exploitative rather than self-­
determining and liberatory. To a degree unseen in the metropole, where more
liberal forms of love thrived, colonial discourses on queer desires and other
non-­normative embodiments worked alongside state policies and national-
ist ideologies aimed at managing the gendered and sexualized (dis)abilities of
Korean bodies.41
In her analy­sis of literary and media repre­sen­ta­tions from the 1910s to the
1930s, Chen also demonstrates that male authors spiritualized same-­sex inti-
macies as a way of circumventing what they came to view as “perverted” u­ nder
a scientific paradigm of sexology. But whereas ­these writers framed intimate re-
lationships between men as homoerotic connections of sympathy (tongjŏng)
and as tolerable expressions of nationalist fervor, they often engaged in voy­
eur­is­tic practices of narration that sexualized similar bonds between young
­women. Chen reveals how seemingly liberating (or autological) depictions
of female homoeroticism—­double suicides committed by schoolgirls, for
example—­discouraged adult lesbianism, a life course deemed antithetical to
the (re)productive goals of colonial modernity. In response to repre­sen­ta­tions
of same-­sex relations as deviations from “proper” relations of love, Chen re-
evaluates them as incomplete proj­ects that, even if thwarted expressions of
unruly desires, contained within them subaltern traces of a counterdiscourse.
Often articulated as a backward-­looking nostalgia for their youth or a refusal
to transition from homoerotic bonds to heterosexual marriage, this counterdis-
course appeared as personal tragedies that implicitly questioned normalizing
“traditions” of feminine love narrowly defined as heterosexual, monogamous,
and reproductive in Korean culture.
Launching her analy­sis where Chen ends her discussion of same-­sex sex-
uality, Shin-ae Ha explores the queer underside of ­Korea’s literary world of

Introduction | 15
the late 1930s and early 1940s. As studies of this period have demonstrated,
mobilization for the Asia-­Pacific War led Japa­nese officials to develop new
models of governance and citizenship that could compete with t­ hose of their
­enemy Allies while paving the way for a postwar order.42 Despite increasingly
extensive efforts to integrate despised ­others into an avowedly multiethnic
and postracist empire, officials continued to rely on older methods of re-
source extraction, including heavy industries and munitions and mining, as
well as forced sexual l­abor.43 As historically marginalized subjects, Koreans
and other colonized subpopulations bore the brunt of proving their loyalties
to the Japa­nese emperor.44 Ha’s essay further complicates the uneven effects of
and varied responses to “imperial subjectification” (hwangminhwa) by offer-
ing a feminist analy­sis of Korean lit­er­a­ture produced during this controversial
period. She argues that becoming “Japa­nese” entailed an added burden for
colonized ­women. As military ­mothers, they had far more to lose than their
male counter­parts, whose soldierly ser­vice allowed some of them and their
families to benefit from self-­sacrifice. If the biopo­liti­cal concerns of imperial
subjectification offered Korean men new possibilities for empowerment, this
highly gendered proj­ect of mass mobilization further disenfranchised colo-
nized w­ omen, whose agonizing “choice” to serve as “wise m ­ others and good
wives” exposed deep and irresolvable fissures in war­time iterations of colonial
modernity.
Ha’s postnationalist revision of the war­time period addresses changes in
the cultural significance of same-­sex intimacies between Korean “­sisters.” Al-
though increasingly despised u­ nder the normalizing mandates of mass mobi-
lization, ­these gynocentric relationships, she argues, shed impor­tant light on
female domination and subjectivity during the late colonial period. She criti-
cizes unreflective scholars who, like their patriarchal pre­de­ces­sors ­under Japa­
nese rule, minimized female same-­sex relationships as a transitory phase along
an inevitable path t­oward heterosexual matrimony and reproduction. To be
sure, t­hese biopo­liti­cal imperatives foreclosed liberatory possibilities that
modern education hitherto had offered ­Korea’s New ­Women. Even as mass
mobilization reduced same-­sex love to antisocial practices deemed unpatri-
otic, power­ful memories of all-­female classrooms and dormitories continued
to haunt ­wholesome images of Korean ­women. Exposing the messy under-
belly of propagandistic stories written by two w ­ omen writers, Chang Tŏk-jo
(1914–2003) and Ch’oe Chŏng-­hŭi (1912–90), Ha innovatively excavates the
internal subjectivities of female subjects by disclosing the gender and sexual
norms of imperial subjectification. Furthermore, she reveals the agony of war­

16  | Introduction
time injunctions and the joys of prewar freedoms as a charged threshold at
which ­women entered, if only tentatively, into a hyper-­patriarchal regime that
trivialized gynocentric expressions of modernity as deviant. Throughout this
externalized pro­cess of identification, refusals to follow officially sanctioned
values quietly reemerged in nostalgic memoires of liberation, which, as en-
trenched forms of everyday re­sis­tance, delayed and disrupted the domination
of ­women ­under late colonialism.
Upon liberation in 1945, Korean leaders worked to rehabilitate damaged
kin networks as the basis of establishing a sovereign nation, but the fragile
hegemony of the late colonial period continued into the postliberation pe-
riod.45 Amid internecine conflicts that began as outgrowths of decolonization,
war­time strategies of military defense quickly merged with new Cold War exi-
gencies that, ­after 1948, sought to protect a divided nation with two opposing
economic systems. Even ­after the deadly Korean War, rival states employed
similar strategies of mass mobilization and ideological suasion, with queer-
ness playing a pivotal role on both sides of the 38th Parallel. As the two chap-
ters on postcolonial journalism and film demonstrate, Cold War geopolitics
led to the creation and maintenance of rigid, but not impenetrable, bound­
aries aimed at demarcating the normative and non-­normative qualities of each
state’s citizens and their participation in such impor­tant areas as ­family life,
economic development, and mass culture.
Although given greater license in South ­Korea than in the north, popu­lar
repre­sen­ta­tions of queerness during the period of Park Chung Hee (1961–79)
sought to tame unruly subjects and non-­normative practices at a volatile time
of revolutionary fervor. Addressing cultural productions created and dissemi-
nated during this period, Chung-­kang Kim and I demonstrate the impor­tant
role played by the media in the development of what Jie-­hyun Lim [Yim
­Chi-­hyŏn] calls “mass dictatorship.”46 Coined in the early 1990s at a time when
democracy was rapidly replacing authoritarian socie­ties across the world,
this concept aimed to capture the unexpected ways in which nonelites par-
ticipated in illiberal po­liti­cal formations and, to varying degrees, continued
to do so a­ fter the formal demise of autocracies. Such dictatorial legacies have
been especially pronounced on the peninsula, where the politics of national
division continue to subordinate queer individuals and communities to heter-
opatriarchal and gender-­normative dictates. ­These Cold War conditions and
the self-­disciplinary habits they produced discourage scholars from address-
ing questions of same-­sex sexuality and gender variance, including other­wise
progressive intellectuals who have ­adopted mass dictatorship theory to

Introduction |  17
e­ xplain how authoritarian regimes relied heavi­ly on social cohesion and cul-
tural conformity for their own power. Nor have they devoted adequate atten-
tion to the role of the mass media in manufacturing such forms of consent.47
As Kim and I both demonstrate, popu­lar images of the nation ­under South
Korean dictatorships regularly featured and profited from queer subjects,
while disavowing them in efforts to buttress the heteropatriarchal and cisgen-
der bases of anticommunist development.
In her essay on B-­grade films from the late 1960s and early 1970s, Kim
highlights tensions created by visual repre­sen­ta­tions of gender variance in
this popu­lar but understudied genre.48 Arguing against anatomically binary
notions of sexual difference, she posits that non-­normative embodiments pro-
liferated during Park’s reign—­a period typically studied e­ ither in terms of po­
liti­cal and economic repression by the state and capital or in relation to public
protest movements led by students and laborers. Rather than assume the om-
nipotence of this developmental regime, Kim also shows how female-­dressed
men (yŏjang namja) in comedy films exposed the antihegemonic underside of
mass culture in Cold War South ­Korea. To be sure, Park’s authoritarian gov-
ernment actively regulated the film industry, using the promulgation of laws
and censorship codes to propagate images of the nation that idealized con-
ventional gender norms and ­wholesome sexual roles. However, as in the after-
math of the Korean War, a crisis of patriarchal control and Confucian morality
reappeared during the mid-1960s, an era of social dislocation caused by rapid
industrialization and intense urbanization.49 Rather than simply bemoan fis-
sures in the national body, B-­grade directors creatively exploited them in pro-
ducing comedy films that appealed to the sensibilities of vari­ous audiences,
especially lower-­class laborers moving to cities in increasing numbers.
For example, in Sim U-­sŏp’s Male Kisaeng (1969), the focus of Kim’s essay,
Mr. Hŏ, the male patriarch and a com­pany president, is transformed into an
object of derision by his potent wife. Meanwhile, Mr. Ku, a former employee,
flees to a kisaeng h­ ouse where he becomes a female-­dressed entertainer and
engages in what appears as (but is not) a lesbian relationship with a co-­worker.
However, ­because the audience assumes that Mr. Ku is a biological man mas-
querading as a ­woman, Mr. Hŏ’s attraction to him, captured in a scandalous
scene where the latter gropes the former and requests that the two men spend
the night together, suggests the irrepressibility of queer desires. This homo-
erotic possibility is perhaps best underscored by a scandalous kiss that Mr. Hŏ
bestows on a now gender-­normative Mr. Ku, who returns as a male employee
at Mr. Hŏ’s com­pany. According to Kim’s nuanced analy­sis, what remains for

18  | Introduction
viewers of comedy films such as Male Kisaeng is an irresolvable instance of
“gender trou­ble” wherein heteronormative recuperation and queer subver-
sion intermingle uncomfortably.
My contribution on the historical meanings of female homoeroticism in
authoritarian South ­Korea locates a similar tension between normalizing nar-
ratives of heteropatriarchy and allegedly disruptive subcultures of gynocentric
intimacies. Using newspaper weeklies and other popu­lar accounts published
from the 1950s to the 1980s, I argue that media reports about same-­sex wed-
dings drew on medicalized notions of sexual and gender dimorphism, produc-
ing compelling stories that could entertain a wide range of intrigued readers
while si­mul­ta­neously moralizing them. Repeatedly emphasizing the alarm-
ing novelty (rather than the entrenched tradition) of female-­female ­unions,
­these sensational accounts sought to dissuade ­women who, although perhaps
numerically insignificant, ­were challenging heteropatriarchy by opting out
of this oppressive system, even as they seemed to depend on its most vis­i­ble
symbols. To minimize their cultural protest, media reports and related images
underscored that same-­sex weddings relied on the sartorial and ceremonial
conventions of heterosexual marriage. Refusing to examine the subcultural
meanings of ­these gendered rituals, intrusive journalists strategically deployed
them as epistemological interventions aimed at containing their purportedly
corrosive effects. To this end, they designated male-­dressed partners as “hus-
bands” and their female-­dressed counter­parts as “wives,” a dichotomized pair
that indicated the instability of ­these very categories. In the end, even such
­heteronormative labels—­coincidentally, not the terms that queer ­women used
to refer to their own gendered subjectivities—­could not adequately address
the challenge of female homoeroticism, which a voy­eur­is­tic media was forced
to implicitly admit by describing queer ­women as distinct and even dangerous.
Rather than documenting the subcultural realities of ­these ­women, middle-
brow forms of mass media combined the narrative conventions of pulp fiction
in its secondary exploitation of the female proletariat. In addition to enter-
taining readers through profitmaking strategies, popu­lar reports functioned
as cautionary tales for gendered proj­ects of anticommunist citizen making.
Although largely aimed at the libidinal energies of bourgeois men, their mi-
sogyny was, according to the desexualizing logic of the mass media, driving
mistreated ­women into the arms of their female and American counter­parts.
In ­these alarmist narratives, w­ omen who formed symbolic u­ nions with each
other predictably appear as destined for unhappy lesbian f­ utures. Accounts about
their short and tragic lives thus provided female readers with a moralizing guide

Introduction | 19
for self-­regulation and discouraged them from “veering off track” (t’alsŏn), an
ideological catchword popu­lar during this period. However, when consumed
by “shadow readers,” even such disparaging texts could offer queer ­women
uncanny ways to imagine a community of like-­minded subjects. In an era of
­limited and censored media, ­these popu­lar accounts came to function as veri-
table guides with which the female proletariat and other marginalized readers
could carve out spaces of intimacy and plea­sure in South ­Korea’s public cul-
ture of authoritarian development.

Citizens, Consumers, Soldiers, and Activists in

Postauthoritarian Times

­ hether appearing on the peninsula or in the diaspora, more recent, post-

W
authoritarian expressions of non-­normative sexuality and gender variance
among Korean subjects also depart from (neo-)liberal logics of visibility poli-
tics, h­ uman rights, and multicultural diversity, issues that continue to domi-
nate queer analyses of Western socie­ties. Insofar as our intellectual proj­ect
focuses on the illiberal underside of Korean modernity and its uneven effects
on marginalized subpopulations, this volume resonates with queer-­of-­color
critiques, which have sought to expand the purview of queer studies beyond
the privileged vantage point of white, middle-­class, gay men. Through trans-
national and diasporic approaches, queer-­of-­color critiques have exposed the
subordinated status but insurgent agency of racial minorities who inhabit the
contradictory cracks of liberal socie­ties in North American and Western
Eu­rope.50 We highlight the historical forces and dissident subjectivities of
Korean queers who, although not necessarily articulating their sense of self
only in terms of identity politics, similarly strug­gle for sustenance and survival
in their own national and diasporic communites. As in the West, they are cur-
rently waging ­those strug­gles ­under global cap­i­tal­ist logics of consumerism
and atomization, as well as amid growing threats of vigilante trolls and reli-
gious xenophobes who, in both on-­and off-­line sites, seek to silence, erase,
and even injure social minorities, including ­women, Muslims, and refugees.51
In addition to its alignment with queer-­of-­color critique, this volume draws
on insights from the increasingly vibrant field of Asian queer studies. Al-
though encompassing a wide geo­graph­i­cal area and disparate methodological
approaches, much of this work has also sought to “provincialize” the Western-­
centric foci and nativist proclivities of queer studies. Moreover, Asian queer
studies has questioned the heteronormative assumptions of area studies and,

20 | Introduction
more recently, its ethnonationalist under­pinnings.52 The c­ auses of the emer-
gence of Asian queer studies since the 1990s are multiple and complex. One
impor­tant undercurrent connecting the region is the nearly simultaneous de-
velopment of lgbti organ­izations, film festivals, and po­liti­cal organ­izations
during a period that witnessed the establishment of demo­cratic institutions
across much of Asia and the Pacific. The preconditions for increased visibility
of queer, trans, and intersex communities ­were thus clearly regional and global
in scope.53 Despite obvious transnational connections, scholars trained in an-
thropology, history, lit­er­a­ture, and other humanistic disciplines responded
to ­these transformations by analyzing non-­normative sexuality and gender
variance in local contexts. Conditioned in part by Cold War traditions of area
studies, this research aimed to specify the terminology, temporality, and tex-
ture of queer and transgender communities, often in a single nation-­state. In
recent years, such inquiries have been advancing in increasingly intraregional
directions.54 In addition to countless book chapters and journal articles, one
can now find monographic work in almost e­ very national subfield of Anglo-
phone Asian studies, to say nothing of their Asian-­language counter­parts.55
­These include Japan; the Sinophone states of China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and
Singapore; Indonesia; Thailand; and India.56 By including ­Korea within the
purview of Asian queer studies, this volume is intended as a preliminary but
necessary effort to analyze local manifestations of gender variance and non-­
normative sexuality. As suggested ­earlier, we also aim to expand the temporal
scope of a small but growing field of Korean queer studies that tends to focus
on the recent past (e.g., 1990s forward), often to the detriment of what came
before our current age. Rather than treating ­these faint histories as irretriev-
able or irrelevant to the pre­sent, we seek to draw vital connections between
manifestations of unruly bodies during the (post)colonial era and the current
strug­gles of queer subjects on and beyond the peninsula.
Much research on Asian expressions of same-­sex sexuality and gender
nonconformity has developed in response to Western-­centric arguments
advocating queer globalization as a model suitable for understanding con­
temporary developments across the region. Indeed, it has become near de ri-
gueur for critical scholars to challenge Dennis Altman who, in 1997, argued
that lgbti movements in North Amer­i­ca and Western Eu­rope ­were quickly
spreading to their counter­parts throughout Asia and the Pacific.57 Although
controversial, queer globalization helped spur impor­tant studies on the
subjectivities of sexual minorities who, in part, embraced visibility politics
and ­human rights. Altman’s paradigm also generated productive debates

Introduction | 21
about studying same-­sex sexuality and non-­normative gender in cross-­border
and diasporic modes, especially as they relate to mi­grant subjects residing in
white-­dominated communities of the West.58 Taken together, ­these studies
revealed the interpretive difficulties of analyzing Asian and Pacific forms of
queerness without over-­simplistically adopting ­either a model of imperialist
diffusion or one of nativist re­sis­tance.
As in other regions of the global South, alienating pro­cesses of foreign
intervention, including imperialism/colonialism, military occupation, and
transnational capitalism, have encroached on the diverse populations of Asia
and the Pacific. As Tze-­lan D. Sang has argued about the effects of ­these pro­
cesses, “The complexity of translated modernity in the non-­West means that,
even when a par­tic­u­lar non-­Western space for inquiry is ostensibly identified
as the nation, it is always already shot through with colonial, imperial, transna-
tional, cosmopolitan, global—­whatever we call it—­presence and valence.”59
Concerns about the specter of Western (and, in pre–­World War II Asia, we
might also extend this to Japa­nese) influence on the developing world have
similarly preoccupied many postcolonial critics. Searching for liberating ways
of narrating knotted histories of dominated p­ eoples, they identified unequal
power relationships that had tended to homogenize their own histories. As
Dipesh Chakrabarty articulated this intellectual proj­ect from the perspective
of South Asia, “To ‘provincialize’ Eu­rope was precisely to find out how and
in what sense Eu­ro­pean ideas that w ­ ere universal w­ ere also, at one and the
same time, drawn from very par­tic­u­lar intellectual and historical traditions
that could not claim any universal validity.”60
By contrast, some intellectuals, particularly ­those living and working in
Asia and the Pacific, have responded to the historical predicament of postco-
lonialism and the perceived threat of queer globalization by asserting nativist
accounts of gender variance and non-­normative sexuality. Although a minor-
ity, they argue for the alleged impenetrability of Western categories. Instead,
nativists posit the radical difference of Asian queers in a formula that How-
ard H. Chiang has aptly described as “self-­or re-­Orientalization.”61 In the field
of Chinese studies, for example, Wah-­Shan Chou has boldly suggested that
“the ­family kinship system, rather than an erotic object choice, is the basis
for a person’s identity.”62 Although useful in elucidating local specificities of
homoeroticism in Taiwan, China, and Hong Kong, Chou’s model tends to
treat ­these socie­ties as socially undifferentiated in terms of sex, class, religion,
and generation. By suppressing internal differences, he asserts an unchanging
cultural essence. Moreover, Chou frames his argument in terms of the region’s

22  | Introduction
isolation from, rather than interaction with, the outside world. In this “her-
mit kingdom” paradigm, Chinese socie­ties are analytically sealed off from one
another and from cross-­cultural interactions, as well as from culture areas be-
yond the Sinophone world.63
Even as some scholars adopt nativist models that reject or minimize out-
side forces, many prac­ti­tion­ers of Asian queer studies have sought to re­orient
knowledge from the West and other dominant locations by subjecting it to
a relational and agent-­based analytic of translation. W ­ hether conducted as
ethnographic fieldwork, textual exegesis, or studies of visual or auditory ma-
terials, the translation model recognizes the undeniable power of globalizing
structures (i.e., lgbti identity categories) but emphasizes the ability of local
subjects to actively negotiate ­these transnational forces. For example, Tom
Boellstorff has deployed the technological and cultural connotations of dub-
bing as a framework for understanding the complex subjectivities of lesbian
and gay Indonesians who, he argues, are neither fully voluntaristic nor wholly
dominated by outside messages. As Boellstorff writes, “Just as the range of
possibilities for a dubbed soundtrack is s­ haped by images originating else-
where, so a ‘dubbed’ subject-­position, and the persons who occupy that po-
sition in some fashion, cannot choose their subjectivities as they please.”64
Focusing on the role of foreign films, tele­vi­sion shows, and other mass media,
he also addresses the complex issue of authenticity, which nativist studies of
queer Asia tend to reduce to a function of unchanging traditions. By contrast,
his nuanced ethnography demonstrates how Indonesian consumers resignify
the original meaning of cultural products. Through such mediated pro­cesses
of translation, some (but not necessarily all) individuals, Boellstorff argues, can
also experience “gay,” “lesbi(an),” or other identity categories as au­then­tic—­
even as their non-­normative subjectivities are connected to fractured but in-
fluential discourses emanating from distant socie­ties and cultures including,
but not ­limited to, ­those of the West.65
Using anthropological and other critical approaches to interrogate the
place of queer and transgender subjectivities in con­temporary South ­Korea,
the concluding four chapters similarly focus on actor-­centered and culturally
specific analyses of normative politics ­under neo-­liberal capitalism, postau-
thoritarian democracy, and heteropatriarchal conformism. With the Cold War
still impacting everyday life on the peninsula, t­hese cross-­cutting dynamics
continue to impose collective demands on the population as individual citi-
zens and soldiers while si­mul­ta­neously encouraging personal endeavors as
consumers and activists. ­These studies of postauthoritarian South ­Korea

Introduction | 23
engage with what Michael Warner once termed “homonormativity” in his
analy­sis of assimilationist movements for same-­sex marriage in the U.S.66 For
nearly two de­cades, critiques of heteronormativity in North Amer­i­ca and
Western Eu­rope have occupied the energy of many intellectuals and activists
working in queer studies. As discussed e­ arlier, queer-­of-­color critiques high-
lighted the uneven effects of what David Eng calls “queer liberalism.”67 For
example, Jasbir Puar’s conception of homonationalism challenged unprobed
assumptions about whiteness and citizenship privilege by exposing how gen-
der variance and non-­normative sexuality disempower terrorist subjects in a
globalized world of ­labor migration, mass displacement, and securitized geo-
politics.68 In his pioneering analy­sis of Latinx drag performers, José Esteban
Muñoz proposed the concept of disidentification to underscore how multiply
marginalized subjects transform stigmatized images generated by heteronor-
mativity, white supremacy, and misogyny into an empowering aesthetic of re­
sis­tance and survival that exudes sexiness and glamour.69
While drawing inspiration from ­these studies, the authors in this volume
also adopt provincializing analytics developed in Asian queer studies. We
question ahistorical applications of heteronormativity and homonormativ-
ity, which tend to assume a high degree of atomization and the hegemony
of a rights-­based model of lgbti politics. As Petrus Liu writes, “While US-­
based queer theory enables a rethinking of the relations between the diacriti-
cal markers of personhood—­race, gender, class, sexuality, and religion—­this
queer theory’s conception of social differences remains restricted to a liberal
pluralist culture of identity politics that is distinctively American.”70 To better
capture power dynamics in and between the P ­ eople’s Republic of China and
the Republic of China (Taiwan), a divided nation also separated as a result of
Japa­nese imperialism and the Cold War, Liu explores Sinophone intellectu-
als working in the tradition of what he calls “nonliberal queer theory.” While
recognizing the modularity of lgbti politics as identity, visibility, and con-
sumption, this epistemological framework refuses to accept cap­i­tal­ist global-
ization and ­human rights as the only dominant logic of con­temporary Asian
socie­ties. In a similar vein, Yau Ching has problematized culturally specific
notions of normativity that often appear in discussions of queer liberalism
anchored in Western Eu­rope and North Amer­i­ca. As she writes, “Not only
does that normativity need to be foregrounded and interrogated as ‘varie-
gated, striated, contradictory’ . . . ​, it is also impor­tant to remember that
normativity as a relative ideal might not be accessible for many p­ eople in
most parts of the world.”71 Through a subject-­centered study, she argues that

24  | Introduction
many inhabitants of China and Hong Kong strug­gle to approximate idealized
but power­ful notions of normativity, often as a way of maintaining bonds
of sustenance with f­amily, friends, and co-­workers. Using ethnographic ap-
proaches, Lucetta  Y.  L. Kam, Elisabeth  L. Engebretsen, and other Sinolo-
gists have similarly sought to provincialize antinormative critiques by fore-
grounding the subjectivities of Chinese queers.72 In pursuing “normal” lives,
for example, lesbians express complex desires to sustain the comforting but
demanding bonds of kinship, even as they pursue relationships that challenge
but do not necessarily destroy entrenched structures of heteropatriarchy.73
The prevalence of “contract marriages” between gays and lesbians is one in-
structive example of how East Asian queers, particularly t­hose of the pro-
fessional classes, navigate this knotty situation, relying on conjugal and filial
conventions that privilege men at the expense of ­women.74 Another example
are lala ­house­holds, new kinship formations located outside natal families
wherein young Chinese lesbians “can socialize with each other without the
fear of exposure and public scrutiny.”75
Articulating his ethnography of male homo­sexuality in terms of successive
normativities, John (Song Pae) Cho argues that two contradictory forces of
cap­i­tal­ist development have ­shaped the subjectivities of South Korean gay
men since the 1970s: biopo­liti­cal familialism and neoliberal individualism.
According to this historical account, the heterosexual, nuclear f­ amily, a shift-
ing but enshrined pillar of national life, played an impor­tant role in circum-
scribing how men could express same-­sex desires and forge non-­normative
intimacies. Characterizing the 1970s and 1980s as late developmentalist, Cho
reveals the centrality of a hypermasculine ideology of cap­i­tal­ist growth during
an extended period of military dictatorship. He argues that South K ­ orea’s au-
thoritarian development expressed itself in chrononormative terms, prescrib-
ing “proper” life courses for citizens based on a dimorphic notion of biologi-
cal sex. Highly gendered in its assumptions, this Cold War ideology not only
demanded that men contribute to the national economy through industrial
­labor and military ser­vice, but also beseeched them to abide by its heteropa-
triarchal strictures. As a result, men who harbored attractions for one another
­were ultimately forced to marry ­women and produce male heirs to carry on
­family lines. Discouraged from forming long-­lasting relationships and homo-
sexual identities, most postwar gays managed to engage only in fleeting prac-
tices of “skinship” in military barracks, male dormitories, and movie theaters,
public sites that they transformed into temporary cruising grounds. The Ko-
rean term pogal, an inversion of the word similarly used to denigrate female sex

Introduction | 25
workers of the lower classes (kalbo), best captures this (self-)disparaging and
bourgeois view of ­these shadowy men.76
During the subsequent de­cade of po­liti­cal liberalization and economic
globalization (the mid-­to late 1990s), queer subjects took advantage of new
discursive, technological, and spatial networks to promote more autonomous
selves. But, according to Cho, gay men—­increasingly referred to as iban to de-
note their second-­class status—­tended to focus on finding an “ordinary” lover
rather than engaging in identity politics. ­These expressions signified a deep-­
seated desire to create discrete, middle-­class lives shielded from hetero-­marital
and homophobic pressures, including t­hose that might shame the f­amily
members of “out(ed)” South Koreans. However, rather than understand their
subjectivities as decidedly un-­queer, Cho underscores subject-­oriented mean-
ings of normativity. For him, the very act of finding one another and creating
durable networks of sociality constitute salient dimensions of gay life politics
in con­temporary South ­Korea, even if ­those personal politics have not always
transmogrified into the rights-­based activism that one might expect from a
diffusionist or teleological notion of queer globalization.
Although Cho traces a shift from biopo­liti­cal familialism to atomized in-
dividualism, his discussion of the early twenty-­first ­century underscores how
discourses and practices of heteropatriarchal conformity continue to inflect
neoliberal expressions of the self amid new, alienating forces of stigma against
queer subjects. Perhaps most illustrative of ­these contradictory forces is the
recent phenomenon of gay “bats.” A strategic response to the insecurities
of globalization, t­hese neoliberal men have chosen to retreat from same-­sex
communities and, instead, focused on self-­cultivation and financial security.
However, rather than using ­these resources to seek exile from the heteronor-
mative pressures of ­family life, gay bats, particularly ­those living in costly cities,
have de­cided to remain within the materially and psychologically comforting
confines of consanguineous relations. In sum, the complex imbrication of fa-
milial constraints, individual freedom, and po­liti­cal homophobia reveal that
the path of South Korean gay men cannot be reduced to a progressive story of
increased visibility or enhanced rights, but must be situated within the po­liti­
cal, social, and cultural matrix of successive regimes of Cold War capitalism.
Like Cho, Layoung Shin takes a materialist approach in examining the
gendered practices and embodied subjectivities of queer female youth, an
increasingly precarious sector of South ­Korea’s lgbti population. Seeking to
provincialize Western-­centric discussions of gender conformity and homonor-
mative assimilation u­ nder neoliberal capitalism, she argues that government-­

26  | Introduction
led policies of economic restructuring a­ fter the International Monetary Fund
crisis of 1997 reenshrined the nuclear f­ amily as the basis of personal survival.
Shin’s ethnography demonstrates how ­these socioeconomic transformations
had a particularly negative impact on lower-­class lesbian ­women, who, when
compared with their bourgeois and male counter­parts, ­were forced to rely
on f­amily members for material support. To be sure, the rise of the Korean
Wave, a state-­led response to a downturn in the manufacturing sector by in-
vesting in the media activities of large corporations, provided young ­women
new aesthetic styles with which to refashion their gendered sense of self. But
individual expressions of female masculinity by queer ­women, briefly show-
cased at public sites such as Sinch’on Park, had led by the early 2010s to a
­homophobic backlash among South Koreans. Through such vis­i­ble expressions,
­human rights activism, and exploitative media repre­sen­ta­tions, the public be-
came aware of female homo­sexuality, which they correlated with the noncon-
forming bodies of butch lesbians. Thereafter, queer ­women who harbored de-
sires for one another refashioned themselves in gender-­normative ways or, if
they ­were unwilling to “straighten” their outward appearance, actively avoided
public visibility through more furtive, online interactions.
Rather than locating ­these ethnographic observations in a narrative of
queer liberalism or homonormative assimilation, Shin explains the notable
shift from gender-­variant expressions to a heterosexual style of pre­sen­ta­tion
among lesbian youth in terms of associatively homophobic institutions that
fail to provide ­legal protections for lgbti ­people. Foregrounding local ­causes
of gender conformity, public displays of queerness subject lesbian ­women
to dangerous forms of familial alienation, stigmatizing gazes of social disap-
proval, and precarious experiences of economic misery. Rather than read-
ing young w ­ omen’s desire for invisibility as a depoliticized practice marking
the emergence of homonormative assimilation or queer liberalism in South
­Korea, Shin identifies them as a troubling symptom of a postauthoritarian
system that continues to neglect the emotional and material well-­being of
queer ­people, especially ­those of the lower classes. Through a subject-­centered
analy­sis, she also considers sartorial, tonsorial, and other expressions of nor-
mativity as survival strategies necessary to navigate a society that per­sis­tently
threatens queer w ­ omen with vari­ous forms of harm and loss if they come out
or, worse yet, are outed by a friend, relative, or co-­worker on whom they must
rely for sustenance and support.
While Cho and Shin focus on how financial and emotional insecurity
resulting from the neoliberalization of a global marketplace and the hetero-

Introduction |  27
normalization of local life have informed the complex subjectivities of South
Korean gays and lesbians, the final two chapters emphasize another impor­tant
feature of this postauthoritarian democracy, one that also tends to endanger
the well-­being of queer citizens in the name of national defense and cap­i­tal­
ist accumulation. Although approaching the everyday effects of state vio­lence
through dif­fer­ent narrative and disciplinary styles, Timothy Gitzen and Ruin
both demonstrate the need to route same-­sex sexuality and gender variance
through the collectivizing dynamics of Cold War geopolitics rather than sim-
ply understanding non-­normative expressions as an atomizing function of neo-
liberal identities.77 They examine mandatory military ser­vice and the national
registration system, revealing how ­these institutions have disproportionally
imperiled the livelihoods of gay and transgender soldiers insofar as officials
exploit their sexual and gender nonconformity to deny them the freedom and
protection enjoyed by their heterosexual and cisgender counter­parts.
For his part, Gitzen uses ethnographic observations of gay soldiers and
queer activists to expose an entrenched form of state vio­lence that contin-
ues to weigh on the bodies and minds of recruits whom officials mark and,
at times, even persecute as “deviant.” Although justified as a response to on-
going threats from North ­Korea, the mandatory conscription of young men
dominates the lives of ­these soldiers, especially ­those whose sexual practices
and gendered embodiments fail to conform to military norms. Deploying the
concept of toxic masculinity to describe the homophobic and misogynistic
culture of life on base, Gitzen advances our understanding of the trauma po-
tentially faced by all soldiers. For gay men, this form of state vio­lence is vis-
cerally felt in its unsettling temporality. Calling it “pre-­traumatic stress,” he
theorizes the disabling ways that queer recruits experience the psychological
and somatic burdens of gender and sexual conformity before they enter the
military, not to mention when they perform their ser­vice. Gay soldiers who
unwittingly or knowingly transgress the unspoken rules of gender normativity
are easy targets for bullying. Worse yet, they often find themselves depressed
or suffer from psychological stress, thus frequently becoming the object of in-
tense surveillance by commanding officers and military doctors who explain
their inability to adjust as an issue of individual per­for­mance.
This “transfer of vio­lence”—­the illuminating term that Gitzen uses to ex-
pose the recursive pro­cess of blaming nonconforming soldiers for their inabil-
ity or unwillingness to advance the military’s toxic system of masculinity—­
also extends to soldiers who engage in same-­sex acts. Even as smartphone
applications have increased the ease with which gay men and other sexual

28  | Introduction
minorities can find one another, a top-­ranking official in 2017 encouraged his
subordinates to infiltrate this gps-­based technology to forcibly out soldiers
seeking sexual encounters with other men. Another military witch hunt reap-
peared in early 2019. Using an obscure clause in South K ­ orea’s military penal
code, itself a controversial holdover from the Cold War, the army imprisoned
dozens of soldiers who purportedly engaged in (anal) sex, even though they
met partners during sanctioned periods of leave and in the privacy of off-­base
facilities. Despite activists’ repeated and ongoing attempts to abolish this
discriminatory law, pursuing a gay life can still turn a soldier on his path to
becoming a glorified citizen into a stigmatized criminal and an ­enemy of the
state.
In the final chapter, Ruin, a self-­identified “transgenderqueer” intellectual
and activist, examines the biopo­liti­cal effects of South ­Korea’s resident reg-
istration system while offering liberating ways to deconstruct this alienating
institution for the nonconforming citizens it most negatively affects. Trac-
ing the system’s origins from the Chosŏn Dynasty through the colonial pe-
riod, Ruin argues that resident registration took root during the reign of Park
Chung Hee and led to state-­led vio­lence against individuals accused of har-
boring anticommunist sympathies. Over time, this omnipotent mechanism
of population control became deeply entangled in South ­Korea’s system of
military conscription, ­labor mobilization, ­family registration, and medical
regulation. Insofar as a dimorphic (and, u­ ntil recently, an immutable) concep-
tion of biological sex still structures ­these national institutions, bodies that do
not conform to strict bound­aries between men and w ­ omen face intense scru-
tiny and vari­ous forms of material and psychological suffering.78 Not unlike
the situation of alleged “reds” (ppalgaeng’i) ­after the Korean War, transgender
and intersex South Koreans strug­gle to survive as internal exiles in a postau-
thoritarian society that continues to define itself in rigid terms of anticom-
munist militarism and cisgender heteropatriarchy. The ongoing breakdown of
the South Korean ­family—­evidenced in increasing numbers of single ­women
and divorced ­people as well as a plummeting birth rate, the rise of LGBTI
rights movements, and the influx of foreign brides and mi­grant workers—­has
only exacerbated ­these tensions, with Christian conservatives decrying such
demographic changes as an apocalyptic cause for grave concern and hateful
protest.
Although sympathetic to efforts aimed at abolishing national identification
cards and compulsory fingerprinting, Ruin asks a series of incisive questions
that aim to deconstruct the binary logic of South ­Korea’s sex-­gender system.

Introduction | 29
The lived experiences of transgender p­ eople provide the critical fodder for
interrogating the dehumanizing effects this system—­even ­under a demo­cratic
system that avows to protect the rights of all citizens but does so in highly
uneven and discriminatory ways. For example, military and civil laws have cre-
ated strict bound­aries between men and w ­ omen while medical professionals
take charge of policing the bound­aries between them. Meanwhile, transgen-
der and intersex South Koreans who must inhabit sexed and gendered bodies
disrupt this politicized binary, if only in subtle and unsanctioned ways. For
example, Ruin occupies both male and female positions in how zhe (Ruin’s
preferred gender pronoun) addresses ­family members with terms of appella-
tion. To survive in a rigid environment of gender policing, transgender activ-
ists have sought to change the first digit in the second half of their national
identification numbers. Although seeming to accept the sex-­gender binary
fortified by the resident registration system, Ruin interprets this activist posi-
tion as one aimed at personal survival and psychological well-­being. Consid-
ered in this way, efforts to change one’s registration number seek to guarantee
the rights of transgender ­people to designate their own sense of self within a
sex-­gender system already narrowed by Cold War exigencies, while ­doing so
in a manner that does not rely on definitions determined by military, govern-
ment, and medical authorities.

Conclusion

As Ruin’s fiery appeal makes clear, activism remains an essential but challeng-
ing means of ensuring the humanity and livelihood of transgender p­ eople, gay
soldiers, aspirants to same-­sex marriage, and a wide range of other marginalized
subjects, including the disabled, the poor, and mi­grants. Although obviously
experienced in dif­f er­ent ways based on one’s gender, class, sex, orientation, gen-
eration, location, and more, lgbti South Koreans face innumerable obstacles
in a society in which homophobia, transphobia, toxic masculinity, misogyny,
and other marginalizing pressures cause an alarmingly high number of queers
(and other alienated citizens) to commit suicide or inflict self-­harm.79 Even
­today, when demo­cratic institutions nominally provide a procedural mecha-
nism for voicing one’s needs and wants, being lgbti in South ­Korea entails
much more than visibly manifesting an all-­encompassing identity or engaging
in a rights-­based politics of recognition, especially when such “out and proud”
modes of expression endanger one’s ability to please kin networks, maintain
intimate relationships, and succeed (or even survive) in the l­abor market. That

30 | Introduction
some HIV-­positive South Koreans would—­from a pervasive fear of being
known as infected to and stigmatized by friends, co-­workers, (potential) lovers,
and ­family members—­avoid taking anti-­retroviral medi­cations known to effec-
tively manage their illness (­because treatment requires registration with the na-
tional government) indicates the saddening degree to which a mere diagnosis
can itself lead to premature and preventable deaths. Although not technically
prohibited, public pre­sen­ta­tions of non-­normative sexuality and gender vari-
ance in North ­Korea are anecdotally known to be severely punished for contra-
vening the state’s heteropatriarchal credo of socialist nationalism. Fragmentary
but inconclusive evidence of the death penalty for such be­hav­ior suggests the
necropo­liti­cal consequences of this extralegal policy.80
In the chapters that follow, we address such precarious modes of queer ex-
istence by highlighting how nonconforming subjects have disproportionately
faced state vio­lence, media scrutiny, social stigma, cultural alienation, and eco-
nomic poverty. ­W hether articulated as modern nationalism ­under colonial
rule, anticommunism during the authoritarian period, or national security
in the current era of neoliberal globalization and troll vigilantism, repeated
strug­gles for collective survival on both sides of the 38th Parallel and in the
diaspora have tended to devalue and dehumanize gender variance, same-­sex
sexuality, and other non-­normative life-­forms.81 If we look beyond b­ ehind the
liberal rhe­toric of tolerance and l­egal forms of inclusion that aim to promote
the happiness and welfare of some lgbti communities (but often at the ex-
pense of other social minorities) in Western Eu­rope and North Amer­i­ca, we
­will also discover highly uneven forms of privilege and accessibility to het-
eronormative power. Not unlike their queer Korean counter­parts, mi­grants,
­women, and transgender p­ eople continue to experience intense alienation
and virulent discrimination, even in socie­ties that boast demo­cratic protec-
tions. For example, vulnerable communities living in the United States, often
touted as the “land of the f­ree and home of the brave” and held up by some
South Korean progressives as an inspiration for their own activism, face the
added burden of perpetuators who verbally abuse, physically assault, and bru-
tally murder queer and transgender ­people, especially ­women and ­those of
color.82 The officially sanctioned virulence of the Trump administration has
only made this cruel real­ity all the more apparent. In that sense, the United
States and the K ­ oreas share far more in common than most liberals on both
sides of the Pacific (and across the 38th Parallel) are willing to admit.
Precisely ­because violent state mobilizations, objectifying media practices,
and alienating cultural norms have seriously jeopardized the livelihoods of

Introduction | 31
queer, transgender, and other socially despised subjects, marginalized
communities, where pos­si­ble, have sought to forge spaces of intimacy,
­labor, and plea­sure to protect and sustain their well-­being. Given ­those
basic h­ uman needs and their virtual erasure from narratives about the pen-
insula (and elsewhere), it is worth recalling t­ hese forgotten stories of sub-
ordination, lest similar ones continue to emerge. Since the late nineteenth
­century, vari­ous and overlapping exigencies of collective survival have,
ironically, come to endanger the very existence of “unruly” and “deviant”
Koreans who have not fit normative frameworks of imperial re­sis­tance,
nationalist politics, cap­i­tal­ist power, and other culturally homogenizing
systems of domination and development. With this historical hindsight,
the time has fi­nally arrived for scholars, students, activists, and other
like-­minded allies to recognize the distinctively perverse underside of the
peninsula’s modernity, ­w hether expressed in illiberal or liberal terms or
as something in between t­ hese two ­imagined extremes. It is ­toward this
shared goal of disruptive inquiry and the empowering insights it w ­ ill pro-
duce that Queer ­Korea directs its critical energy.

Notes

1 Their hybrid ensemble combined Prus­sian school uniform, Nehru suit, and the
outfit worn by a queer character in The Rose of Versailles, a Japa­nese shōjo manga.
For insights on the sartorial meanings of their outfits, I thank the respondents to
my Facebook post on Koreanists from August 15, 2016.
2 For an analy­sis of this confrontation, see Joseph Yi, Joe Phillips, and Shin-­Do
Sung, “Same-­Sex Marriage, Korean Christians, and the Challenge of Demo­cratic
Engagement,” Culture and Society 51 (2014): 415–22.
3 I predicted this possibility in my 2013 interview for Arirang Tele­vi­sion. To view it,
see the clip from 17:30 at https://­www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=­vNFXWoi20sU.
On Pak’s controversial statement, see “Seoul Mayor Park Won-­soon Wants Same-­
Sex Marriage in ­Korea as First in Asia,” San Francisco Examiner, October 12, 2014.
For more on the ongoing controversy, see “Seoul Mayor Wants South K ­ orea to
Legalize Same-­Sex Marriage,” KoreAm Journal, October 13, 2014. On the double-­
edged sword of exploiting lgbti-­based consumerism for national purposes, see
Eng-­Beng Lim, “Glocalqueering in New Asia: The Politics of Performing Gay in
Singapore,” Theatre Journal 57 (2005): 383–405.
4 On Korean queer activists’ use of foreign powers to promote their cause, see
Woori Han, “Proud of Myself as lgbtq: The Seoul Pride Parade, Homonational-
ism, and Queer Developmental Citizenship,” ­Korea Journal 58, no. 2 (Summer
2018): 27–57.

32  | Introduction
 5 On this conception of sexual politics as it relates to the current era of globaliza-
tion, see Dennis Altman, “Global Gaze/Global Gays,” glq 3, no. 4 (1997): 417–36.
Even progressive media outlets have presented similarly teleological accounts
about the “lag” in repealing the military’s ban on anal sex, upheld by the Constitu-
tional Courts in 2002, 2011, and 2016. For a narrative of this variety, see “Constitu-
tional Court Upholds Military’s Ban on Sodomy,” Hankyoreh, August 4, 2016.
6 For a co-­produced account of their path to marriage, see Jang Hee-­Sun, dir.,
My Fair Wedding, documentary (Rainbow Factory, Seoul, 2015). That the South
Korean ­family continues to influence the livelihood of its queer offspring can also
be seen in regulations requiring that parents provide consent for their transgen-
der ­children to undertake gender confirmation surgery, even when they are ­legal
adults: Tari Young-­Jung Na, “The South Korean Gender System: lgbti in the
Contexts of ­Family, ­Legal Identity, and the Military,” Journal of Korean Studies 19,
no. 2 (Fall 2014): 361.
7 Heonik Kwon, “Guilty by Association,” Papers of the British Association for Korean
Studies 13 (2011): 89–104. For a sanguine narrative about the rise and fall of
homophobia by association, see Kim-­Cho Kwang-su, dir., Two Weddings and a
Funeral (Generation Blue Films, Seoul, 2011). See also Kim Su-­hyŏn, dir., Life Is
Beautiful (tele­vi­sion series, 2010).
8 On the experience of queer Koreans in the U.S. diaspora, see Jeeyeun Lee,
“­Toward a Queer Korean American Diasporic History,” in Q & A: Queer in Asian
Amer­i­ca, ed. David L. Eng and Alice Y. Hom (Philadelphia: ­Temple Univer-
sity Press, 1998), 185–212; Ju Hui Judy Han, “Incidents of Travel,” in Eng and
Hom, Q & A, 185–212; Ju Hui Judy Han, “Organ­izing Korean Americans against
Homophobia,” Sojourner 25, no. 10 ( June 2000): 1–4; Margaret Rhee, “­Towards
Community: KoreAm Journal and Korean American Cultural Attitudes on Same-­
Sex Marriage,” Amerasia Journal 32, no. 1 (2006): 75–88; Anna Joo Kim, “Korean
American lgbt Movements in Los Angeles and New York,” in Asian Americans:
An Encyclopedia of Social, Cultural, Economic, and Po­liti­cal History, ed. Xiaojian
Zhao and Edward J. W. Park (Santa Barbara, CA: Greenwood, 2014), 683–85. For
a story of a Korean gay man living in Japan, see Nakata Toiichi, dir., Osaka Story:
A Documentary (First Run/Icarus Films, New York, 1994).
9 For accounts by the parents and families of lgbti South Koreans, see Na nŭn
sŏngsosuja ŭi pumonim imnida: Tongsŏng’aeja, yangsŏng’aeja, tŭrensŭjendŏ chanyŏ rŭl
tun pumodŭl ŭi chinsul han iyagidŭl (Seoul: Sŏngsosuja Pumo Moim, 2015).
10 When beginning to occupy public spaces for po­liti­cal protests, East Asian queers,
like their counter­parts in Latin Amer­i­ca and elsewhere across the global South,
often opted for forms of expression that departed significantly from modes of
visibility common in North American and Western Eu­rope but that may have
subjected onlookers to even more potent critiques. For studies of ­these practices
of protest, see Fran Martin, “Surface Tensions: Reading Productions of Tongzhi
in Con­temporary Taiwan,” glq 6, no. 1 (2000): 61–86; Katsuhiko Suganuma, “As-
sociative Identity Politics: Unmasking the Multilayered Formation of Queer Male

Introduction | 33
 Selves in 1990s Japan,” Inter-­Asia Cultural Studies 8, no. 4 (2007): 485–502; José
Quiroga, Tropics of Desire: Interventions from Queer Latina Amer­i­ca (New York:
New York University Press, 2000), esp. 1–29.
11 On the other hand, a survey of more than four thousand lgbti-­identified South
Koreans in 2013 conducted by Ch’ingusai, the South Korean gay men’s ­human
rights organ­ization, found that nearly 60 ­percent of ­those surveyed favored the
institutionalization of same-­sex ­unions, while another 36 ­percent advocated civil
­unions, but only when posed the conditional and future-­oriented question, “If the
following mea­sures regarding same-­sex ­unions ­were to become pos­si­ble, which
one would you choose?”: Ch’ingusai, “The Key Results of the South Korean
lgbti Community Social Needs Assessment Survey,” Ch’ingusai, Seoul, 2014, 24.
12 For more on this issue, see Timothy Gitzen’s chapter in this volume.
13 See, e.g., “Han’guk ŭi ‘tongsŏng kyŏlhon’ hapbŏphwa rŭl wihan ch’ŏt korŭm i sijak
toetta!” Huffington Post ­Korea, July 6, 2015; “Gay ­Couple Sue for Recognition of
Their Same-­Sex Marriage in South ­Korea,” The Telegraph, July 7, 2015.
14 See, e.g., “Same-­Sex ­Couple Seeks to Gain ­Legal Status,” ­Korea Times, Decem-
ber 10, 2013.
15 See, e.g., “Han’guk ŭi ‘tongsŏng kyŏlhon’ hapbŏphwa rŭl wihan ch’ŏt korŭm i sijak
toett!”; “Gay ­Couple Sue for Recognition of Their Same-­Sex Marriage in South
­Korea.”
16 On this case, see Chang Sŏ-­yŏn, “Han’guk esŏ tongsŏng kyŏlhap sosong ŏttŏke
hal kŏsinga?” Tongsŏng kyŏlhap sosong ŭi ŭimi wa kwaje (2013): 4–40; “Hyŏnjik
p’ansa ‘tongsŏng kyŏlhon hŏyong ipbŏp koryŏ haeya,” Daŭm, December 13, 2005.
I thank JB Hur for alerting me to this case and the articles about them. For a
report on South ­Korea’s first(?) public wedding between two men, see “Uri nara
‘pubu’ anin tongpanja imnida: Han’guk ch’ŏt namsŏng tongsŏng aeja kong’gae
kyŏlhon,” Chosŏn Ilbo, March 8, 2004.
17 Petrus Liu, Queer Marxism in the Two Chinas (Durham, NC: Duke University
Press, 2015), 50. For a critical statement of and an intellectual response to this situ-
ation, see Todd A. Henry, “In this Issue—­Queer/Korean Studies as Critique: A
Provocation,” ­Korea Journal 58, no. 2 (Summer 2018): 5–26.
18 See, e.g., Kwiŏ Iron Munhwa Yŏn’guso Moim, ed., Chendŏ ŭi ch’aenŏl ŭl tollyŏra
(Seoul: Saram Saeng’gak, 2008); Kwŏn/Kim Hyŏn-­yŏng, Chŏng Hŭi-­jin, Na
Yŏng-­jŏng, Ruin, Ŏm Ki-ho, eds., Namsŏngsŏng kwa chendŏ (Seoul: Chaŭm kwa
Moŭm, 2011); Kwŏn/Kim Hyŏn-­yŏng, Han Ch’ae-­yun, Ruin, Yu Chin-­hŭi, and
Kim Chu-­hŭi, eds., Sŏng ŭi ch’ŏngch’i, sŏng ŭi kwŏlli (Seoul: Chaŭm kwa Moŭm,
2012); Pak/Ch’a Min-­jŏng, Chosŏn ŭi k’wiŏ: Kŭndae ŭi t’ŭmsae e sumŭn pyŏnt’aedŭl
ŭi ch’osang (Seoul: Hyŏnsil Munhwa Yŏn’gu, 2018); and the essays in ­Korea Journal
58, no. 2 (Summer 2018).
19 Some Korean studies specialists based outside the peninsula have forged close
connections to queer activists in South ­Korea, allowing knowledge produced
through po­liti­cal strug­gles ­there to filter into the Anglophone acad­emy. This
volume seeks to expand ­these intellectual connections. For one example, see Na,

34 | Introduction
 “The South Korean Gender System.” For a foundational text of this sort, see Seo
Dong-­jin, “Mapping the Vicissitudes of Homosexual Identities in South K ­ orea,”
Journal of Homo­sexuality 40, nos. 3–4 (2001): 56–79.
20 To read more on the film festival and art installation, see http://­festival​.­sdaff​.­org​
/­2014​/r­ emembering​-­queer​-­korea/ and http://­kore​.­am​/­san​-­diego​-­asian​-­film​
-­festival​-­remembers​-­queer​-­korea. One of the films, The Pollen of Flowers (1972),
can be viewed with En­glish subtitles at https://­www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​
=­jLvJBBHSRaw. For a bilingual discussion of Siren’s work, see Chŏng Ŭn-­yŏng
et al., Chŏnhwan kŭkjang: Yŏsŏng kukkŭk p’ŭrojekt’ŭ (Seoul: P’orŭm Ei, 2016).
21 For one exception, see Haruki Eda, “Outing North ­Korea: Necropornography
and Homonationalism” (master’s thesis, London School of Economics, 2012).
22 Yi T’ae-­jin, “Was Early Modern ­Korea ­Really a ‘Hermit Nation’?” ­Korea Journal 38,
no. 4 (Winter 1998): 5–35.
23 For a critique of this paradigm, see Bruce Cumings, “Boundary Displacement:
The State, the Foundations, and Area Studies during and ­after the Cold War,”
in Learning Places: The Afterlives of Area Studies, ed. Masao Miyoshi and Harry
Harootunian (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002), 261–302.
24 Anjali Arondekar and Geeta Patel, “Area Impossible: Notes ­toward an Introduc-
tion,” glq 22, no. 2 (2016): 151–71. In the field of Chinese studies, Petrus Liu has
similarly advocated for a necessary dialogue between U.S.-­based queer theory and
Cold War geopolitics: Liu, Queer Marxism in Two Chinas.
25 On the consequences of forgoing pain and loss as foundational structures of queer
life, see Heather Love, Feeling Backward: Loss and the Politics of Queer History
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009).
26 Lauren Berlant, Cruel Optimism (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011). For
a queer analy­sis that offers a bold po­liti­cal imaginary, see José Esteban Muñoz,
Cruising Utopia: The Then and ­There of Queer Futurity (New York: New York Uni-
versity Press, 2009).
27 On the development of nationalist historiography as a postcolonial by-product,
see Henry H. Em, The ­Great Enterprise: Sovereignty and Historiography in Modern
­Korea (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2013).
28 On the question of collaboration in history writing, see Koen De Ceuster, “The
Nation Exorcised: The Historiography of Collaboration in South ­Korea,” Korean
Studies 25, no. 2 (2001): 207–42; Kyu Hyun Kim, “Reflections on the Prob­lem
of Colonial Modernity and ‘Collaboration’ in Modern Korean History,” Journal
of International and Area Studies 1, no. 3 (2004): 95–111. For an account of one
prominent ­woman accused of antipatriotic activities, see Insook Kwon, “Femi-
nists Navigating the Shoals of Nationalism and Collaboration: The Post-­Colonial
Korean Debate over How to Remember Kim Hwallan,” Frontiers 27, no. 1 (2006):
39–66.
29 Pak/Ch’a, Chosŏn ŭi k’wiŏ; Hŏ Yun, “1950 k’wiŏ chang kwa bŏpjŏk kyuje ŭi
chŏpsok: ‘Pyŏngyŏkbŏp,’ ‘kyŏngbŏmbŏp,’ ŭl t’ong han sekshuŏllit’i ŭi t’ongje,”
Pŏp Sahoe 51 (April 2016): 229–50.

Introduction | 35
 30 See, e.g., “Koyongbyŏngdŭl ŭi muri,” Nodong Sinmun, January 24, 2000; “Sesang
usŭm kŏri,” Nodong Sinmun, April 29, 2001; “Kwaei han ‘chŏngch’i munje,’ ” Nodong
Sinmun, August 21, 2003; “Ingan todŏkjŏk bup’ae pijŏnaenŭn chabonjuŭi sahoe,”
Nodong Sinmun, May 28, 2011; “Miguk esŏ sasang ch’oeak ŭi ch’onggyŏk sakkŏn:
100 yŏ myŏng sasangja palsaeng,” Nodong Sinmun, June 14, 2016. For a short story
on the alleged homo­sexuality of American soldiers captured during the 1968
Pueblo Incident, see “P’yŏngyang ŭi nun pora,” Chosŏn Munhak 11 (2000): 1–22. I
thank Benoit Berthelier for providing me with ­these articles. See also “North ­Korea
Slams UN ­Human Rights Report ­Because It Was Led by Gay Man,” Washington
Post, April 22, 2014. On nativist accounts of North Korean purity, see B. R. Myers,
The Cleanest Race: How North Koreans See Themselves—­and Why It ­Matters (New
York: Melville House, 2010). For accounts of “queer” life in North ­Korea, see
“Being Gay in the dprk,” NK News​.­org, November 13, 2013, https://­www​.­nknews​
.­org​/­2013​/­11​/­being​-­gay​-­in​-­the​-­dprk​/­; “A Gay NK Defector’s Journey to Find Love,”
­Korea Herald, May 28, 2015; “North Korean Defector Opens Up about Long-­Held
Secret: His Homo­sexuality,” New York Times, June 5, 2015. For an autobiographical
story of living as a gay man in the dprk, see Chang Yŏng-­jin, Pulgŭn nekt’ai: Chang
Yŏng-­jin changp’yŏn sosŏl (Seoul: Mulmangch’o, 2015).
31 On current associations of queerness with communism, see Judy Han Chu-­hŭi
[ Ju Hui Judy Han], “K’wiŏ chŏngch’i, k’wiŏ chŏngchi’ihak,” Munhwa Kwahak 83
(2015): 62–81. For a documentary critiquing the politicized connections forged
between non-­normative practices and antinationalist sentiments in South
­Korea, see Yi Yŏng, dir., Troublers, documentary (wom Docs, Seoul, 2015).
32 On bureaucratic practices of modern rule on the peninsula, see Kyung Moon
Hwang, Rationalizing ­Korea: The Rise of the Modern State, 1894–1945 (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 2015).
33 On the complex intellectual background of the Eastern Learning movement, see,
e.g., Susan S. Shin, “Tonghak Thought: The Roots of Revolution,” ­Korea Journal
19, no. 9 (September 1979): 204–23; Shin Yong-ha, “Tonghak and Ch’oe Che-­u,”
Seoul Journal of Korean Studies 3 (1990): 83–102; George L. Kallander, Salva-
tion through Dissent: Tonghak Heterodoxy and Early Modern ­Korea (Honolulu:
University of Hawai‘i Press, 2013). For the early feminist movement, see Yung-­Hee
Kim, “­Under the Mandate of Nationalism: Development of Feminist Enterprises
in Modern ­Korea, 1860–1910,” Journal of ­Women’s History 7, no. 4 (Winter 1995):
120–36; Hyaeweol Choi, Gender and Mission Encounters in K ­ orea: New W­ omen, Old
Ways (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009).
34 Andre Schmid, ­Korea between Empires, 1895–1919 (New York: Columbia Univer-
sity, 2002). See also Em, The ­Great Enterprise.
35 On ­these modernizing efforts, see Kim Dong-no, John B. Duncan, and Kim
Do-­hyung, eds., Reform and Modernity in the Taehan Empire (Seoul: Jimoodang,
2006). On other nation-­saving endeavors, see Yumi Moon, Populist Collabora-
tors: The Ilchinohoe and the Japa­nese Colonization of ­Korea, 1896–1910 (Ithaca, NY:
Cornell University Press, 2013).

36  | Introduction
 36 On ­these politics, see Choi, Gender and Mission Encounters in ­Korea; Hyaeweol
Choi, ed., New ­Women in Colonial ­Korea: A Sourcebook (New York: Routledge,
2012). For the position of Korean ­women during the immediate precolonial
period, see Kim, “­Under the Mandate of Nationalism.”
37 For a wide-­ranging study of this period, see Pak/Ch’a, Chosŏn ŭi k’wiŏ.
38 For other studies of the colonial period, not all of which connect queer expres-
sions to larger social or intellectual concerns, see Sin Chi-­yŏn, “1920–30 nyŏndae
‘tongsŏng(yŏn)ae’ kwallyŏn kisa ŭi susajŏk maengnak,” Minjok Munhwa Yŏn’gu 45
(2006): 265–92; Pak Kwan-su, “1940 nyŏndae ‘namsŏng tongsŏng’ae’ yŏn’gu,” Pigyo
Minsokhak 31 (2006): 389–438. See also Layoung Sin’s chapter in this volume.
39 Todd A. Henry, Assimilating Seoul: Japa­nese Rule and the Politics of Public Space in
Colonial ­Korea, 1910–1945 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014), 62–91,
168–203.
40 For ­these approaches to Japa­nese imperialism, see the essays in Positions: East Asia
Culture Critique 21, no. 1 (Winter 2013), a special issued edited by Jordan Sand. See
also Christopher P. Hanscom and Dennis Washburn, eds., The Affect of Difference:
Repre­sen­ta­tions of Race in East Asian Empire (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i
Press, 2016).
41 Theodore Jun Yoo, It’s Madness: The Politics of ­Mental Health in Colonial ­Korea
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2016); Eunjung Kim, Curative Vio­lence:
Rehabilitating Disability, Gender, and Sexuality in Modern ­Korea (Durham, NC:
Duke University Press, 2017), esp. 42–80.
42 See, e.g., Prasenjit Duara, “The Imperialism of ‘­Free Nations’: Japan, Manchukuo,
and the History of the Pre­sent,” in Imperial Formations, ed. Ann Laura Stoler,
Carole McGranahan, and Peter C. Perdue (Santa Fe, NM: School for Advanced
Research Press, 2007), 211–39; Takashi Fujitani, Race for Empire: Koreans as
Japa­nese and Japa­nese as Americans during World War II (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 2011).
43 For a study that follows the nationalist paradigm of cultural erasure (malsal) to de-
scribe how colonized Koreans experienced the Asia-­Pacific War, see Ch’oe Yu-ri,
Ilche malgi singingji chibae chŏng ch’aek yŏn’gu (Seoul: Kukhak Charyowŏn, 1997).
44 For a subject-­oriented analy­sis of colonized Taiwanese, see Leo T. S. Ching, Be-
coming “Japa­nese”: Colonial Taiwan and the Politics of Identity Formation (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 2001).
45 For related studies of this period, see Bruce Cumings, The Origins of the Korean
War, vol. 1 (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1981); Suzy Kim, Everyday
Life in the North Korean Revolution, 1945–1950 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University
Press, 2013).
46 For an overview of this revisionist concept, see Namhee Lee, “The Theory of
Mass Dictatorship: A Re-­examination of the Park Chung Hee Period,” Review of
Korean Studies 12, no. 3 (September 2009): 41–69.
47 For a feminist critique of this male-­dominated paradigm, see Chŏng Hŭi-­jin,
“Han’guk sahoe ŭi chisik saengsan pangbŏp kwa taejung tokjaeron,” in Kŭndae ŭi

Introduction | 37
 kyŏnggye esŏ tokjae rŭl ikkda: Taejung tokjae wa Pak Chŏng-­hŭi ch’eje, ed. Chang
Mun-­sŏk and Yi Sang-­nok (Seoul: Kurinbi, 2006), 403–19. For an exceptional
study of the print media during the Park era, see Yi Sang-­nok, “Pak Chŏng-­hŭi
ch’eji ŭi ‘sahoe chŏnghwa’ tamnon kwa ch’ŏngnyŏn,” in Chang and Yi, Kŭndae ŭi
kyŏnggye esŏ tokjae rŭl ikkda, 335–76.
48 For another related study, see So Kok-­suk, “1960 nyŏndae huban’gi han’guk
pyŏngjang k’omidi yŏnghwa ŭi taejungsŏng yŏn’gu: Pyŏnjang mot’ip’u rŭl t’onghan
naerŏt’ib’ŭ chŏllyak ŭl chungsim ŭro” (PhD diss., Dongguk University, Seoul, 2003).
49 On the fluidity of postliberation masculinities, see Hŏ Yun, 1950 nyŏndae han’guk
sosŏl ŭi namsŏng chendŏ suhaengsŏng yŏn’gu (Seoul: Yŏnnak, 2018); Charles R.
Kim, Youth for Nation: Culture and Protest in Cold War South ­Korea (Honolulu:
University of Hawai‘i Press, 2017), 43–74.
50 For studies central to queer-­of-­color critique, see José Esteban Muñoz, Disidenti-
fications: Queers of Color and the Per­for­mance of Politics (Minneapolis: University
of Minnesota Press, 1999); Roderick A. Ferguson, Aberrations in Black: Toward
a Queer of Color Critique (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2004);
Jasbir Puar, Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times (Durham, NC:
Duke University Press, 2007); Fatima El-­Tayeb, Eu­ro­pean ­Others: Queering Ethnic-
ity in Postnational Eu­rope (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2011).
51 I thank one anonymous reviewer for suggesting the possibility that vigilante
trolls may be seeking to compete with or even displace the globalized regime of
neoliberalism. If that is indeed the case in South ­Korea, such forces have appeared
at a time that lgbti subjects are only just beginning to benefit from the fruits of
liberal inclusion.
52 The following anthologies mark the vibrancy of this field: Chris Berry, Fran
Martin, and Audrey Yue, eds., Mobile Cultures: New Media in Queer Asia (Durham,
NC: Duke University Press, 2003); Fran Martin, Peter A. Jackson, Mark McLel-
land, and Audrey Yue, eds., AsiapacifiQueer: Rethinking Genders and Sexualities
(Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2008); Raquel A. G. Reyes and William G.
Clarence-­Smith, Sexual Diversity in Asia, c. 600–1950 (London: Routledge, 2012).
For an overview of this field, see Megan Sinnot, “Borders, Diaspora, and Regional
Connections: Trends in Asian ‘Queer’ Studies,” Journal of Asian Studies 69, no. 1
(February 2010): 17–31; Evelyn Blackwood and Mark Johnson, “Queer Asian
Subjects: Transgressive Sexualities and Heteronormative Meanings,” Asian Studies
Review 36, no. 4 (2012): 441–51.
53 For a manifesto announcing this po­liti­cal position, see Seo, “Mapping the Vicissi-
tudes of Homosexual Identities in South ­Korea.” On the role of film, see Jeongmin
Kim, “Queer Cultural Movements and Local Counterpublics of Sexuality: A Case
of Seoul Queer Films and Videos Festival,” Inter-­Asia Cultural Studies 8, no. 4
(2007): 617–733. For accounts that historicize the sexual minority movement
more generally, see Youngshik D. Bong, “The Gay Rights Movement in Demo­
cratizing ­Korea,” Korean Studies 32 (2009): 86–103; Hyun-­young Kwon Kim and
John (Song Pae) Cho, “The Korean Gay and Lesbian Movement 1993–2008:

38  | Introduction
 From ‘Identity’ and ‘Community’ to ‘­Human Rights,’ ” in South Korean Social
Movements: From Democracy to Civil Society, ed. Gi-­Wook Shin and Paul Chang
(London: Routledge, 2011). For a wider, regional account, see Josephine Ho, “Is
Global Governance Bad for East Asian Queers?” glq 14, no. 4 (2008): 457–79.
54 On the development of area studies, particularly of East Asia and its critique, see
Miyoshi and Harootunian, Learning Places. For work on what might be called
“intra-­Asian queer studies,” see Ara Wilson, “Queering Asia,” Intersections 14
(November 2006), http://­intersections​.­anu​.­edu​.­au​/­issue14​/­wilson​.­html; Tom
Boellstorff, A Coincidence of Desires: Anthropology, Queer Studies, Indonesia (Dur-
ham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), 181–218; Fran Martin, Backward Glances:
Con­temporary Chinese Cultures and the Female Homoerotic Imaginary (Durham,
NC: Duke University Press, 2010); Howard Chiang, “(De)Provincializing China:
Queer Historicism and Sinophone Postcolonial Critique,” in Queer Sinophone Cul-
tures, ed. Howard Chiang and Ari Larissa Heinrich (London: Routledge, 2014),
19–51; Howard H. Chiang, Todd A. Henry, and Helen Hok-­Sze Leung, “Trans-­
in-­Asia, Asia-­in-­Trans: An Introduction,” tsq 5, no. 3 (August 2018): 298–310;
Todd A. Henry, Japan’s Gay Empire: Sex Tourism, Military Culture, and Memory
Making in Postcolonial Asia-­Pacific (forthcoming).
55 Another indication of the growing prominence and institutionalization of this
subfield is the creation of a Facebook page for queer East Asian studies in 2012
and the establishment of the Society for Asian Queer Studies in 2015 as an affiliate
organ­ization of the Association for Asian Studies. Although not focused on Asian
studies, the Association for Queer Anthropology, formerly known as the Society
of Lesbian and Gay Anthropologists, was founded in 1988 as a section of the
American Anthropological Association.
56 Monographic treatments of Japan include Hideko Abe, Queer Japa­nese: Gender
and Sexual Identities through Linguistic Practices (New York: Palgrave Macmillan,
2010); Sharon Chal­mers, Emerging Lesbian Voices from Japan (London: Routledge,
2014); Gary Leupp, Male Colors: The Construction of Homo­sexuality in Tokugawa
Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997); Jonathan D. Mackintosh,
Homo­sexuality and Manliness in Postwar Japan (London: Routledge, 2010); Mark
McLelland, Male Homo­sexuality in Modern Japan: Cultural Myths and Social Reali-
ties (Richmond, VA: Curzon, 2000); Mark McLelland, Queer Japan from the Pacific
War to the Internet Age (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2005); Gregory M.
Pflugfelder, Cartographies of Desire: Male-­Male Sexuality in Japa­nese Discourse
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999); James Reichert, In the Com­pany
of Men: Repre­sen­ta­tions of Male-­Male Sexuality in Meiji Lit­er­a­ture (Stanford, CA:
Stanford University Press, 2006); Jennifer Robertson, Takarazuku: Sexual Politics
and Popu­lar Culture in Modern Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press,
1998); Katsuhiko Suganuma, Contact Moments: The Politics of Intercultural Desire in
Japa­nese Male-­Queer Cultures (Hong Kong: University of Hong Kong Press, 2012);
J. Keith Vincent, Two-­Timing Modernity: Homosocial Narrative in Modern Japa­nese
Fiction (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012).

Introduction | 39
 On China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Singapore, see Howard Chiang, ed.,
Transgender China (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012); Howard Chiang and
Ari Larissa Heinrich, eds., Queer Sinophone Cultures (London: Routledge, 2013);
Yau Ching, ed., As Normal as Pos­si­ble: Negotiating Sexuality and Gender in Mainland
China and Hong Kong (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2010); Lynette J.
Chua, Mobilizing Gay Singapore: Rights and Re­sis­tance in an Authoritarian State
(Philadelphia: ­Temple University Press, 2014); Elisabeth L. Engebretsen, Queer
­Women in Urban China: An Ethnography (London: Routledge, 2015); Elisabeth
Engebretsen, William F. Schroeder, and Hongwei Bao, eds., Queer/Tongzhi China:
New Perspectives on Research, Activism and Media Cultures (Copenhagen: Nordic
Institute of Asian Studies, 2015); Bret Hinsch, Passions of the Cut Sleeve: The Male
Homosexual Tradition in China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992);
Loretta Wing Wah Ho, Gay and Lesbian Subculture in Urban China (London:
Routledge, 2011); Hans Huang, Queer Politics and Sexual Modernity in Taiwan
(Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2011); Lucetta Y. L. Kam, Shanghai
Lalas: Female Tongzi Communities and Politics in Urban China (Hong Kong: Hong
Kong University Press, 2013); Wenqing Kang, Obsession: Male Same-­Sex Relations
in China, 1900–1950 (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2009); Travis S. K.
Kong, Chinese Male Homosexualities: Memba, Tongzhi and Golden Boy (London:
Routledge, 2012); Helen Leung, Undercurrents: Queer Culture and Postcolonial Hong
Kong (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2009); Liu, Queer Marxism in
Two Chinas; Martin, Backward Glances; Fran Martin, Situating Sexualities: Queer
Repre­sen­ta­tion in Taiwanese Fiction, Film and Public Culture (Hong Kong: Hong
Kong University Press, 2003); Lisa Rofel, Desiring China: Experiments in Neoliber-
alism, Sexuality, and Public Culture (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007);
Tze-­Lan D. Sang, The Emerging Lesbian: Female Same-­Sex Desire in Modern China
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003); Matthew Sommers, Sex, Law, and
Society in Late Imperial China (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2002);
Denise Tse-­Shang Tang, Conditional Spaces: Hong Kong Lesbian Desires and Every-
day Life (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2011); Giovanni Vitiello, The
Libertine’s Friend: Homo­sexuality and Masculinity in Late Imperial China (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 2011); Cuncun Wu, Homoerotic Sensibilities in Late
Imperial China (London: Routledge, 2012); Audrey Yue and Jun Zubillaga-­Pow,
eds., Queer Singapore: Illiberal Citizenship and Mediated Cultures (Hong Kong:
Hong Kong University Press, 2013); Tiantian Zheng, Tongzhi Living: Men Attracted
to Men in Postsocialist China (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2015).
On Indonesia, see Evelyn Blackwood, Falling into Lesbi World: Desire and Dif-
ference in Indonesia (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2010); Boellstorff, A
Coincidence of Desires; Tom Boellstorff, The Gay Archipelago: Sexuality and Nation in
Indonesia (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2005); Michael Peletz, Gender
Pluralism: Southeast Asia since Early Modern Times (London: Routledge, 2009).
On Thailand, see Peter A. Jackson, Dear ­Uncle Go: Male Homo­sexuality in
Thailand (Bangkok: Bua Luang, 1995); Peter A. Jackson, Male Homo­sexuality

40  | Introduction
 in Thailand: An Interpretation of Con­temporary Sources (Elmhurst, NY: Global
Academic, 1989); Peter A. Jackson, Queer Bangkok: 21st ­Century Markets, Media,
and Rights (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2011); Peter A. Jackson and
Gerard ­Sullivan, eds., Lady Boys, Tom Boys, Rent Boys: Male and Female Homo-
sexualities in Con­temporary Thailand (New York: Haworth, 1999); Megan Sinnott,
Toms and Dees: Transgender Identity and Female Same-­Sex Relationships in Thailand
(Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2004).
On India, see Gayatri Gopinath, Impossible Desires: Queer Diasporas and South
Asian Public Cultures (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005); Serena Nanda,
Neither Man nor ­Woman: The Hijras of India (Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 1999);
Gayatri Reddy, With Re­spect to Sex: Negotiating Hijra Identity in South India (Chi-
cago: University of Chicago Press, 2005); Ruth Vanita, Queering India: Same-­Sex
Love and Eroticism in Indian Culture and Society (London: Routledge: 2013).
57 Altman, “Global Gaze/Global Gays.” For early critiques of Altman in queer Asian
and Asian American studies, see Lisa Rofel, “Qualities of Desire: Imagining Gay
Identities,” glq 5, no. 4 (1999): 451–74; Martin F. Manalansan IV, “Diasporic
Deviants/Divas: How Filipino Gay Transmigrants ‘Play with the World,’ ” in Queer
Diasporas, ed. Cindy Patton and Benigno Sánchez-­Eppler (Durham, NC: Duke
University Press, 2000), 183–203.
58 For foundational work in this area, see Arnoldo Cruz-­Malavé and Martin F.
Manalansan IV, eds., Queer Globalizations: Citizenship and the Afterlife of Colonial-
ism (New York: New York University Press, 2002); Inderpal Grewal and Caren
Kaplan, “Global Identities: Theorizing Transnational Studies of Sexuality,” glq 7,
no. 4 (2001): 663–79; Tithne Luibhéid and Lionel Cantù Jr., eds., Queer Migra-
tions: Sexuality, U.S. Citizenship, and Border Crossings (Minneapolis: University of
Minnesota Press, 2005); Martin F. Manalansan IV, Global Divas: Filipino Gay Men
in the Diaspora (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003); Cindy Patton and
Benigno Sanchéz-­Eppler, eds., Queer Diasporas (Durham, NC: Duke University
Press, 2000); Elizabeth A. Povinelli and George Chauncey, eds., “Thinking Sexu-
ality Transnationally,” glq 5, no. 4 (1999): 439–50.
59 Sang, The Emerging Lesbian, 9.
60 Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Eu­rope: Postcolonial Thought and Historical
Difference (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2007), xiii. For a related
intellectual proj­ect rooted in East Asia, and to a lesser extent in Southeast Asia,
see Kuan-­Hsing Chen, Asia as Method: ­Toward Deimperialization (Durham, NC:
Duke University Press, 2010). On responses in South ­Korea, see Em, The ­Great
Enterprise, esp. 138–60.
61 Chiang, “(De)Provincializing China: Queer Historicism and Sinophone Postco-
lonial Critique,” 32.
62 Wah-­Shan Chou, Tongzhi: Politics of Same-­Sex Eroticism in Chinese Socie­ties (New
York: Haworth, 2000), 1.
63 For a collection of works advancing this notion of a Chinese-­speaking
world, see Shu-­mei Shih, Chien-­hsin Tsai, and Brian Bernards, eds.,

Introduction | 41
 S­ inophone Studies: A Critical Reader (New York: Columbia University Press,
2012).
64 Tom Boellstorff, “I Knew It Was Me: Mass Media, ‘Globalization,’ and Lesbian
and Gay Indonesians,” in Berry et al., Mobile Cultures, 25.
65 For another study that underscores the multidirectional sources of queer subjec-
tivities, see Lim, “Glocalqueering in New Asia.”
66 Michael Warner, The Trou­ble with Normal: Sex, Politics, and the Ethics of Queer Life
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999). For an elaboration, see Lisa
Duggan, The Twilight of Equality? Neoliberalism, Cultural Politics, and the Attack on
Democracy (Boston: Beacon, 2003).
67 David L. Eng, The Feeling of Kinship: Queer Liberalism and the Racialization of
Intimacy (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010).
68 Puar, Terrorist Assemblages, xiv.
69 Muñoz, Disidentifications. For other impor­tant work in people-­of-­color critique,
see Ferguson, ­Aberrations in Black.
70 Liu, Queer Marxism in Two Chinas, 7. Similarly, Puar has suggested the limitations
of intersectionality—an analytic predominant in U.S. ethnic studies, but one en-
trenched in regulatory (state-­centered) models of multiculturalism and diversity.
By contrast, she advocates for assemblages as a concept that “moves away from
excavation work, deprivileges a binary opposition between queer and not-­queer
subjects, and, instead of retaining queerness exclusively as dissenting, resistant,
and alternative (all of which queerness importantly is and does), . . . ​underscores
contingency and complicity with dominant formations”: Puar, Terrorist Assem-
blages, 205. For another attempt to de-­idealize oppositional politics as the basis for
queer analytics, see Kadji Amin, Disturbing Attachments: Genet, Modern Pederasty,
and Queer History (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2017).
71 Yau Ching, “Dreaming of Normal while Sleeping with Impossible: Introduction,”
in Ching, As Normal as Pos­si­ble, 1–14.
72 This problematic resonates with recent debates about the normativity of queer
theory. However, to date ­these impor­tant debates remain grounded in the U.S.
acad­emy, bracketed from discussions animating the field of Asian queer studies
and other non-­Western contexts. On ­these debates, see the essays in Differences
26, no. 1 (May 2015), a special issue edited by Robyn Wiegman and Elizabeth A.
Wilson. For a critical rebuttal, see Jack [ Judith] Halberstam, “Straight Eye for
the Queer Theorist: A Review of ‘Queer Theory without Antinormativity,’ ”
Bully Bloggers, September 12, 2016, https://­bullybloggers​.­wordpress​.­com​/­2015​
/­09​/1­ 2​/­straight​-­eye​-­for​-­the​-­queer​-­theorist​-­a​-­review​-­of​-­queer​-­theory​-­without​
-­antinormativity​-­by​-­jack​-­halberstam.
73 Engebretsen, Queer ­Women in Urban China.
74 On this practice, see John (Song Pae) Cho, “The Wedding Banquet Revisited:
‘Contract Marriages’ between Korean Gays and Lesbians,” Anthropological Quar-
terly 82, no. 2 (2009): 401–22; Engebretsen, Queer ­Women in Urban China, 104–23.
75 Kam, Shanghai Lalas, 36.

42  | Introduction
 76 Yangbogal, a related term that one can still hear in South ­Korea ­today, refers to Ko-
rean men who historically crossed as ­women and engaged in sexual relations with
white men, often for money or other material rewards. The term bears a close rela-
tionship to yanggongju (Western whore). In fact, ­these two figures tended to work
in close proximity to each other near U.S. military bases, such as the one next
to It’aewŏn in downtown Seoul. For more on this history, see Ruin, “Kaemp’ŭ
T’ŭraensŭ: It’aewŏn chiyŏk t’ŭraensŭjendŏ ŭi yŏksa ch’ujŏk hagi, 1960–1989,”
Munhwa Yŏn’gu 1, no. 1 (2012): 244–78.
77 For more on the place of geopolitics in queer studies, see Liu, Queer Marxism in
Two Chinas; Arondekar and Patel, “Area Impossible.”
78 For more on the experiences of transgender South Koreans, see Kim Sŭng-­
sŏp, Ap’ŭm i kil i toeryŏmyŏn: Chŏngŭiroun kŏn’gang ŭl ch’aja, chilbyŏng sahoejŏk
ch’aegim ŭl mutta (Seoul: Tong Asia, 2017); Yi Horim and Timothy Gitzen, “Sex/
Gender Insecurities: Trans Bodies and the South Korean Military,” tsq 5, no. 3
(Summer 2018): 376–91.
79 According to a 2013 survey of four thousand lgbti-­identified South Koreans,
28.4 ­percent revealed that they had attempted suicide, and 35 ­percent said that
they had engaged in self-­harm. Of young respondents (eigh­teen and younger),
45.7 ­percent had attempted suicide, and 53.3 ­percent had inflicted self-­harm. In
addition, of ­those who had experienced discrimination or vio­lence due to their
sexual minority status, 40.9 ­percent had attempted suicide, and 48.1 ­percent had
inflicted self-­harm. ­These figures are much higher than ­those of ­people who had
not experienced discrimination or vio­lence, which ­were 20.9 ­percent for suicide
attempts and 26.9 ­percent for self-­harm attempts: Ch’ingusai, “The Key Results of
the South Korean lgbti Community Social Needs Assessment Survey,” 34–35.
80 “North Executes Lesbians for Being Influenced by Capitalism,” ­Korea Times,
September 29, 2011.
81 For the most recent documentation of ­these forms of marginalization, see
“­Human Rights Situation of lgbti in South ­Korea, 2016,” Korean Society of Law
and Policy on Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity, Seoul, 2017, available at
http://­annual​.­sogilaw​.­org. See also Ch’ingusai, “The Key Results of the South
Korean lgbti Community Social Needs Assessment Survey.”
82 On this phenomenon, see Doug Meyer, “An Intersectional Analy­sis of Lesbian,
Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender (lgbt) ­People’s Evaluations of Anti-­Queer Vio­
lence,” Gender and Society 26, no. 6 (2012): 8, 49–73.

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NEWSPAPERS AND MAGAZINES

Chosŏn Ilbo
Chosŏn Munhak
Daŭm

Introduction | 43
The Hankyoreh
Huffington Post ­Korea
­Korea Herald
KoreAm Journal
­Korea Times
New York Times
Nodong Sinmun
San Francisco Examiner
The Telegraph
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52  | Introduction
Part I

UNRULY SUBJECTS
­UNDER COLONIAL AND
POSTCOLONIAL MODERNITY
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 Chapter One

RITUAL SPECIALISTS
IN COLONIAL DRAG
SHAMANIC INTERVENTIONS IN 1920S ­KOREA

Merose Hwang

I 
n July 1920, at a crucial moment in K ­ orea’s history when a repressive colo-
nial regime moved to adopt more persuasive strategies of rule in the bloody
aftermath of the March 1 Uprising (1919), a man by the name of Kim T’ae-
ik unveiled what one newspaper report described as the “mysterious Sowi
Church Guild.”1 At that time, shamans, sorcerers, fortunetellers, female enter-
tainers, and so-­called flower boys (hwarang) w ­ ere gathering to form a guild,
or ­a labor and cultural ­union, so their occupations would be recognized as
a part of a burgeoning field in “traditional” trades.2 They recruited students,
conducted classes, administered exams, provided apprenticeships, and issued
certifications to professionalize “shamanic ­labor.”3 The guild orchestrated cul-
tural per­for­mances and even experimented with avant-­garde theater. Their
shows attracted all types of audiences, from ­house­wives and intellectuals to
colonial officials.4 ­These activities ­were such a successful endeavor that, by the
end of the colonial period in 1945, the Sungsinin Chohap (Spirit Worshipers’
Guild) had expanded to more than sixty affiliated organ­izations nationwide.
The Korean media, which had recently reemerged in the early 1920s ­after a
de­cade of suppression by colonial officials, wasted no time expressing its opin-
ion on this ­matter. One of the biggest newspapers at the time, the Tong’a Ilbo
(East Asia Daily) was determined to get the backstory on how this guild could
become so successful at orchestrating and publicizing its g­ rand rituals. It pur-
ported that t­hese community-­based per­for­mances ­were becoming “wildly
popu­lar,” promoting superstition and effectively reversing ­Korea’s path to mo-
dernity.5 So what was the colonial government ­doing about this impending
disaster? Not much, the East Asia Daily responded, ranting, “­W hether it is a
truth or a lie, the slogan ‘Cultural Rule’ (munhwa t’ongch’i) can be discovered
daily through strange-­looking groups like the Sowŏn Sungsinin Chohap.”6
In this chapter, I introduce the three concepts of “colonial spiritual assimi-
lation,” “shamanic nationalism,” and “colonial drag” to show a triangulation of
colonialist-­nationalist-­spiritualist actors involved in a b­ attle for cultural repre­
sen­ta­tion. Wishing to privilege the vantage point of the spiritual/ritual agents,
I propose that shamans, both as imperial subjects and cultural nationalist
icons, created an antinormative trea­sure trove of queer modern possibility.
Thinking about their ability to rouse a collective memory and assess a shared
consciousness enables me to explore alternative renderings of the politics of
shamanic per­for­mance. The Sungsinin guild’s community theater involved
public rituals of transformation and had the potential to change ­people’s
perception of truth and real­ity. What the colonial media saw as hyper-­and
non-­normative sexualized acts may have been acts of re­sis­tance as shrine pa-
tron impersonators and ethnohistoriographical transgenders operated in an
environment of colonial assimilation and national erasure.
This chapter proposes a queer intervention into Korean history to question
the common position that colonial cultural proj­ects produced ambivalent ef-
fects. My rendition of queer lives in Korean history questions our identitarian
politics by considering a range of historical subjectivities based on intensified
stratification of power u­ nder colonialism. Colonial cosmopolitan dreams of
­Korea’s queer spiritualism have manifest contents in a po­liti­cally unpredict-
able era of cultural rule. To help me bend the conversation on the theoretical
and historical implications embedded in Korean shamanism of the 1920s, I
look to the framework of two impor­tant theorists. First, I picture José Este-
ban Muñoz’s interests in postcolonial performativity and mandate of queer
futurity to help me see why Sungsinin was conducting a backward glance
to a royally shamanic era, using ancient royalty to help enact a f­uture vision
to overcome imperialist and patriarchal nationalist oppression.7 Sungsinin’s
turn to the past was a way to critique the pre­sent and ignite a post-­statist fu-
turity. Colonialist and nationalist arguments against shamans ­were grounded
in hateful charges of their sexual abnormality, such as homo­sexuality, trans-

56  |  Merose Hwang

genderism, or female-­dominant desire, deriving from desires and experiences
of mourning, incest, and even hom­i­cide.8 Sungsinin presented an alternative
to that colonial bi­polar­ity, moving beyond the civilizing impulses to capture
the indigenous subject, venturing into unexpected ave­nues to overcome colo-
nially contingent repre­sen­ta­tions.
Second, I use Petrus Liu’s historical tool of “nonliberal queer theory” to
temper seeing the past through a white, queer studies lens of non-­normative
temporality.9 Laurel Kendall has established the point that gender and sexual
fluidity are part and parcel of Korean shamanic communities.10 Extending this
gender argument to historical subjects, Liu helps me see that their gendered ex-
pressions should not be conflated to con­temporary Western notions of queer
social identity. Following Liu’s caution on white homonormative politics, I
use Kendall’s point on ritual fluidity to argue that during the colonial era, fe-
male shamans had the wherewithal to revert to armored symbols of patriarchy
to meet public demands for hetero-­centrist membership.11 That said, I aim to
reverse the colonial media’s misogynistic impressions of shamans by creating
a space for their shamanic agency and geopo­liti­cal visions. Considering sha-
manic acts as affect, sentiment, embodiment, and sensation adds a dimension
beyond the media’s dull loathing of shamanism, creating a space for shamanic
magnificence in the form of ritual. I seek to entertain lived colonial experience
by finding ingenuity in the methods by which shamans overcame oppression
as they donned sumptuous layers of local, regional, and universal gods, daring
to conjure an alternative geopo­liti­cal order. Queer forms of analy­sis thus allow
me to materialize what has not entered the historical rec­ord, the embodied,
nonrational, collective experiences that are not yet culturally legible.

Colonial Spiritual Assimilation

­ orea’s modernization campaign to manage and regulate religious practices

K
preceded colonialism, but the Japa­nese streamlined government oversight to
radically include administering “folk customs.” From the turn of the ­century,
religious organ­izations throughout ­Korea ­were compelled to work with vari­
ous colonial administrations.12 Starting in 1906, the Japa­nese resident-­general
of ­Korea issued Shūkyō no Gifu ni Kan Suru Kisoku (Regulations on Reli-
gious Activities), placing Japa­nese Buddhist groups in administrative charge
of Korean ­temples. Then, to oversee all religious activity on the Korean pen-
insula more effectively, the Government-­General issued Shūkyō no Senpu ni
Kansuru Kisoku (Regulations on Religious Propagation) in 1915. Throughout

Ritual Specialists in Colonial Drag  |  57

the period of military rule (a term historians refer to t­ oday as representing the
first de­cade of colonial rule in the 1910s), the Government-­General worked to
destroy shrines, confiscate ritual paintings, disperse neighborhood loiterers,
fine, and even incarcerate ritual leaders. Criminalization of decentralized ritual
leaders such as shamans was fueled by long-­standing discrimination against
such ­people, whom government officials viewed alongside fortune-­tellers and
female entertainers (kisaeng) as morally and ethically inept.13 However, the
colonial administration grew increasingly aware that no quantity of police pa-
trols or punitive fines could eliminate K ­ orea’s clandestine network of spiritual
14
patrons and ser­vices. Even with the help of civic neighborhood watch cam-
paigns, the police, colonial administration, local intelligent­sia, and media all
found themselves fighting an impossible ­battle. By the end of the de­cade, it
had become clear that the colonial administration was gradually loosening its
shaman persecution.
Colonial policies of the 1920s presented new challenges and opportunities
for Korean shamans. On March 1, 1919, widespread indigenous uprisings to
overthrow the Japa­nese colonial government ­were quelled through bloody
suppression. What escalated into a global spectacle forced Japa­nese officials
to reconsider how they managed ­Korea and to implement what appeared
as a softer form of “cultural rule.” In terms of security, they first replaced the
old Government-­General administration; then they expanded their surveil-
lance and penal systems throughout the peninsula. They also hand-­selected
members of the native community to advise the new colonial administration
and commissioned them to survey preexisting native policies to integrate the
most effective social regulations. Fi­nally, the imperial government drastically
increased the number of Japa­nese shrines to be erected in ­Korea. Nakajima
Michio argues that the exponential increase in Shintō shrines “shows how
serious the Japa­nese government was about extending its imperial rule over
­Korea.”15
As soon as the Korean printing presses began ­running again, newspapers
complained about how the government’s soft hand would allow shamanism
and Shintōism to take over society. The East Asia Daily was shocked that
“the Government-­General’s cultural politics do not prohibit calling spirits,
chanting sutras, calling shamans and sorcerers and conducting rituals.” Ko-
rean writers w
­ ere, moreover, outraged by the “lack of administrative control”
over shamanic activity, in contrast to its persecution against more “modern”
(perhaps referring to Christian) organ­izations.16 The East Asia Daily accused
Japan of “attempting to establish a new culture” in ­Korea.17 Korean intellectu-

58  |  Merose Hwang

als ­were well aware of the precolonial existence of Shintō in ­Korea and feared
shamanic participation could further colonial assimilation/Japa­nese religious
hegemony against their own nationalist vision.18 In an article titled “To Get
Rid of Shamans,” East Asia Daily responded by reporting that the police w ­ ere
taking an “irresponsibly noninterventionist policy” t­oward what it called
“superstitious” activities, believing that this policy would adversely affect the
Japa­nese colonial promise to promote public health.19 The paper expressed
its position on the policy shift from prohibiting to conciliating popu­lar ritual
leaders by asking the loaded question: “When the police repeatedly feign
ignorance while looking at ­these common ­people, is this a manifestation of
cultural rule?”20 In fact, the colonial administration ushered in an unpre­ce­
dented number of regulations to centralize ritual communities ­under which it
compelled “common ­people” such as shamans to comply.
In this new phase of colonial rule, shamans became “con­spic­u­ous indi-
genes,” a term I use to understand why this subaltern community was s­ ilent
in the mass media and misrepresented in modern ethnographies while they
­were also subalterns actively pursuing their livelihood through experimental
forms of self-­representation. Starting with the first colonial papers, the dai-
lies ceaselessly attempted to shame and even plead with the colonial govern-
ment to maintain its iron fist of l­egal and penal mea­sures against subalterns,
laws that effectively privileged elite, patriarchal religious establishments such
as Christian churches. They feared that flourishing con­spic­u­ous indigeneity
would hinder K ­ orea’s “pro­gress” and that the Japa­nese government would en-
able a “most backward culture” if shamanic organ­izations ­were to be “officially
recognized by police.” It warned that the guild members had “a bad effect and
poison[ed] this society,” calling their indigenous rituals “very deeply rooted,
ordinary, incidental customs.”21 It also asserted that the colonial government
was “allowing Korean society to stagnate and ­people’s laziness to spread into
the ­future.”22 The news dailies reminded their readers that the Japa­nese ­were
not delivering on their promise to “modernize” ­Korea and ­were encouraging
the country’s destruction instead.
Undoubtedly, drastic changes ­were on the colonial horizon. Murayama Chi-
jun (1891–1968) became the first scholar to work ­under the new administra-
tion of cultural rule in K­ orea. Trained as a sociologist with specific emphasis
on criminology, he was appointed to investigate and police religious practices,
prompting additional research to effectively govern over Korean shamans.
For example, Ordinance 386, issued on August 20, 1919, established a Bureau
of Academic Affairs to oversee a Department of Religion and Department of

Ritual Specialists in Colonial Drag  |  59

Research on National Trea­sures.23 ­These offices broadened official recognition
of decentralized spiritual activities, unifying all religious and spiritual practices
­under imperial sanction.24 The colonial government broadened its religious
registries to gain mass cooperation in its public health and sanitation policies
and worked closely with the colonial police. Murayama was assigned to as-
sess Korean thought and character. He based his studies on previous criminal
rec­ords of “dissidents” such as shamans to design more effective mea­sures of
surveillance and control over the peninsula. This administration further es-
tablished a Sociology Department and an Anthropology Department at Seoul
Imperial University, creating a foundation of imperially trained ethnographers
to research K ­ orea’s indigenous practices to “pluck the sprouts” of Korean
25
insurgence.
Like the Sungsinin Chohap, religious journals took advantage of the cul-
tural rule environment to self-­shape their church identities. Meanwhile, the
Japa­nese administration attempted to ­counter religious insurgencies by creat-
ing “conciliatory policies” and by finding “collaborative persons” in each re-
ligious organ­ization.26 ­These new religion policies began to generate fervent
discussions about which organ­izations ­were the most civilized, rational reli-
gions. Despite the lack of written self-­representation, shamanic ritual special-
ists ­were represented ­under a governing branch of indigenous theism, making
them a ­silent, but impor­tant, contender in the religion debate.27 All faiths and
denominations wrote, asserting the modern, rational aspects of their churches
and how “un-­shamanic” they w ­ ere.28 Even Ch‘ŏndogyo Hoewŏlbo (Heavenly
Church Monthly), which stemmed from the Eastern Learning Church, with
its shamanic ele­ments (also known as Tonghak, an anti-­imperial, nationalis-
tic millenarian po­liti­cal and religious movement, founded in the late 1800s),
preemptively forwarded rationalist statements such as, “The nature of religion
is superstitious from start to finish, and, many other religions are ­limited by
this, but namely our religion rightly starts and finishes as a true religion.”29
Kaebyŏk (Creation), a l­ater manifestation of the journal, criticized that “reac-
tionary forces within society” ­were fostering an “anti-­religious movement.”30
Religious journals, ­limited by the constraints of colonial structures and in-
struments, often pitted themselves against one another to gain administrative
­favor in their pursuit for government ­favor.
If the colonial government was looking to find and control the most radical
organ­izations, it needed only to turn to t­ hese church debates. The unilateral
indigenous religious opposition to shamans created certain opportunities for
the colonial administration to bring ­these con­spic­u­ous indigenes into their

60  |  Merose Hwang

fold. Colonizers co-­opting the united opposition to shamans could have been
a way for them to diffuse the radicalized momentum of the March 1 Move-
ment. While token agents of indigenous traditions enjoyed privileges that
came with government sanction, this “finessed” cultural governance undeni-
ably penetrated levels and modes of oppression by allowing K ­ orea’s spiritual
communities to pit themselves against one another.31 What­ever the motive,
the Government-­General provided administrative oversight to help estab-
lish a new Sinhŭng Church that had some sixty dif­fer­ent spiritual factions,
and the Sungsinin cooperative emerged as one of them. Among con­spic­u­ous
shamanic factions, the Sungsinin cooperative was most noticeable ­because its
headquarters ­were in the capital, Seoul, and got on well with the large Japa­
nese settler community in the city.32 They openly participated in Japa­nese
Shintō festivities—­participation the colonial government declared was not a
religious but, rather, a civic act.33 The Korean media exaggerated shamanic
engagement with Shintō to argue that Koreans w ­ ere in danger of becoming
34
Japa­nese. As Sungsinin appeared amenable to mandates of Shintō worship,
Korean intellectuals delegitimized guilds and affinity institutions such as the
Sinni Chonggyo (Divinity Church) in their attempt to resist Japan’s efforts to
create colonial hegemony over ­Korea’s spiritual traditions.
Shamanic po­liti­cal opportunism was not unique to the colonial era. In
fact, a discursive subterfuge for indigenous social customs and spiritual
exchanges between Japan and ­Korea dated at least to the late nineteenth
­century. It would not have been surprising for this shamanic community
to drape itself with Shintō symbols and allegedly to frame its rituals more
generally as sindo (the way of the gods) to break down the barriers between
the Chosŏn (1392–1910) and Meiji ritual worlds. For his part, Tae-­gon Kim
examines how Korean shamans collaborated with Shintō shrines in the late
Chosŏn era.35 Shamanic organ­izations also incorporated the earliest local de-
velopments in Mahayana Buddhist traditions to gain po­liti­cal ­favor.36 Traces
of po­liti­cal and clerical embrace of shamanism can also be found in ancient
Taoist rec­ords.37 The most obvious form of po­liti­cal opportunism can be
found in the second half of the Chosŏn Dynasty. Royal edicts from this time
show the government effectively regulating ­house­hold taxes to increase state
revenue and to reinforce neo-­Confucian ruling ideologies. ­These regulations
directly affected heterodox ritual communities.38 The Chosŏn government
vacillated between ritual practices it deemed proper or improper, includ-
ing permitting and then disallowing rituals that venerated ancient Chinese
Taoist and shamanic deities.39 For fiscal purposes, nonconforming ritualists

Ritual Specialists in Colonial Drag  |  61

provided a tax collection base for the government and incentivized adminis-
trators to enforce shamanic registration and licensure. They allowed shamans
space to or­ga­nize and tolerated shamans’ concentration just outside the gates
of the capital for ­these reasons.40 Korean ritual specialists possessed a long,
complicated relationship with government and state religions much before
Japa­nese annexation.41
Once “shamanism” was imported to K ­ orea as a colonial trope, uninstitution-
alized ritual specialists ­were captured in a new national debate.42 Colonial-­era
intellectuals sustained older neo-­Confucian criticisms of heterodox shamanic
practices while they forwarded an elitist rhe­toric of modernity. Shamanism
was rendered into a colonial condition and used as a scapegoat for national
demise. Although the Korean media framed shamanic organ­izations as a new
phenomenon and saw ­these regulatory practices as a method for the colonial
state to extend its rule, the Japa­nese administration of the 1920s claimed that
it was simply reviving late Chosŏn-­era customary policies.43 But this adminis-
tration undoubtedly contributed to further politicizing shamanism. Religious
studies academics working ­under the colonial administration eagerly married
Korean shamanism to Japa­nese Shintō through their theory of ancient spiritual
affinities. When the Sungsinin Chohap secured shamanism in the ministerial
category of “folk religion,” debates flourished about w ­ hether the Government-­
General should incorporate this outlier community into its religious policy.44
Korean ritual workers registered with Shintō shrines, not as religious affiliates,
but as members of Japa­nese colonial social “custom” and po­liti­cal philosophy,
granting them high visibility and flexibility to conduct their work as cultural
ambassadors.45 In so ­doing, their professions emerged above­ground, validat-
ing their occupations in unpre­ce­dented ways and making them a con­spic­u­ous
target for nationalist elites.

Shamanic Nationalism

The debate over religion of the 1920s generated academic offshoots into Ko-
rean religions and spirituality. The Japa­nese government commissioned two
men, Ch’oe Nam-­sŏn (1890–1957) and Yi Nŭng-­hwa (1869–1945), to aid the
Government-­General’s History Compilation Committee in its creation of a
massive archival proj­ect, Chosŏnsa (Korean History).46 Unlike the highly vis­
i­ble and lowbrow assessments of Sungsinin’s public per­for­mances, Ch’oe and
Yi sat quietly on the po­liti­cal margins as they broadened the scope of Korean
studies in the 1920s. In 1927, they jointly wrote Treatise on Korean Shamanism,

62  |  Merose Hwang

the first such proj­ect to understand Korean history in its entirety through the
lens of shamanism. They defined the path that shamanism studies would take
in a newly developed folklore studies, which generations ­later was assumed
­under anthropology.47
I pose a c­ ouple of questions in this section to better understand the his-
torical significance of this treatise. What was the purpose of using shaman-
ism to understand Korean history? Whose interests did it serve? To be sure, it
benefited colonialists by rendering Koreans as backward and unable to govern
themselves, thereby justifying colonial rule. However, I posit that the treatise
also produced an underexplored effect insofar as it allowed ­these writers to
feel for a nation that the Japa­nese empire was erasing. Th ­ ese men used sha-
manism in an unpre­ce­dented way to mourn and resuscitate a ­dying nation.
Their treatise was a mode of colonial hybrid expression to capture the colony-­
nation, an inherently fragmentary subject, by traversing new universal models
of ethnicity, sexuality, and gender identification.48 I see this move less as the
colonized exercising their Western intellectual pedigree than as their paving
new historical paths to better assess their colonial pre­sent in the 1920s. In ­these
ways, Ch’oe and Yi’s shamanism proj­ect was ultimately a product of their colo-
nized being.
While they expressed loss, Ch’oe and Yi w ­ ere also hopeful, using this highly
vis­i­ble but under-­recorded subject to stir nostalgic longings for masculine days
gone by, to make colonialism ephemeral, and to spark emotions and activate
a call to action for an emancipatory postcolonial f­ uture. The prior statement
on national loss ­under colonialism may not be as surprising as this obser-
vation about ­Korea’s 1920s futurity. ­These scholars started with ­Korea’s pri-
mordial origins rooted in a spiritually shamanic past.49 Then, using intensely
gendered characterizations, they highlighted ­Korea’s unique, continental, and
prehistoric roots. Their proj­ect elided the dangers of shaman-­induced social
regression and colonial assimilation by ingeniously highlighting the nation’s
ethno-­spiritual ­father, angling the conflicted “con­spic­u­ous indigenes” debate
­toward more fruitful possibilities of what Kim Seong-­Nae calls “intellectual
nationalist self-­consciousness.”50
This treatise not only echoed precolonial renderings of ­Korea’s mainland
affinities but also, more pointedly, offered a new kind of “queer continental-
ism” in which a transgendered shamanic history marked K ­ orea’s continental
51
orientations. To analyze their work as part of “queer studies” may suggest
that this approach casts a Western cultural imperialist lens onto yet another
Oriental subject. This criticism could easily be made of Ch’oe Nam-­sŏn’s

Ritual Specialists in Colonial Drag  |  63

contribution—­how his lit­er­a­ture review mostly referenced American social
science publications and how generously he peppered his prose with En­glish
social taxonomies.52 This historical experiment had the potential to push
­Korea out of its colonial “ghetto,” to tinker with continental identities, and to
venture into unchartered global affinities like Nordic shamanism.53
While Ch’oe Nam-­sŏn enjoyed conducting ­these types of thought ex-
periments on universal phenomena, his practical mission was to restore the
Korean nation. He was broadly trained in the Chinese classics and Western
anthropology. He was also responsible for drafting the Korean Declaration of
In­de­pen­dence that spurred the March 1 Movement of 1919. For his role in that
uprising, Ch’oe was imprisoned for two years. Upon his release, he continued
to push politicized academic bound­aries by writing on numerous nationalist
proj­ects of which this shamanism proj­ect was one. This publication caused
an in­ter­est­ing turn of events, as the governor-­general commissioned Ch’oe to
join Yi Nŭng-­hwa and more than a dozen other Korean scholars to work on
the Korean History Compilation Committee.54 Ch’oe appealed to the colo-
nial administration’s interest in Korean history and shamanism studies, even if
his conclusions on Siberian connections destabilized colonialist notions that
­Korea shared ethnic origins with Japan.55
Ch’oe was able to sever K ­ orea’s close association to Japan by suggesting
that ­Korea’s historical roots stemmed away from the Japa­nese archipelago, in
the opposite direction, ­toward the Asian continental interior.56 Inspired by
fieldwork done on a neolithic shamanic tradition that mapped out a northern
transcontinental b­ elt, Ch’oe pointed out the sites along this ­belt that had been
discussed to date:
All the ancient ­peoples of Asia, from the southern parts (Ainu), Japan, the
Ryūkyū Islands, ­Korea, Manchuria, Mongolia, through Central Asia extend-
ing out to Eastern Eu­rope (Eur-­Asia)—(stemming from the Northeast di-
vision of Siberia, extending to the eastern end of the Paengnyŏng Strait to
the western end to the Scandinavian border), lay the basis of spirit worship,
through animism. It is popu­lar for a diviner (or shaman doctor) to perform
a job that is a kind of primordial religion (natu­ral religion, religious sorcery,
ancient faith). This is what scholars call the religion of shamanism.57

Blurring shamanism’s origins along this b­ elt removed Japan’s mono­poly on

­Korea’s evolution, placing Siberian polyge­ne­tic diffusion in its place. What is
more, identifying shamanism in a region indicated that that region was “de-
veloping” and not yet “advanced.” Tying Japan to this b­ elt meant that Japan

64  |  Merose Hwang

could not secure its place ahead of ­Korea ­because shamanic places could not
already be evolved.
The geographic boundary of shamanism was redrafted to create a north-
eastern Asian orientation, using a strategy of queer continentalism to ­counter
Japa­nese imperial diffusionism. Ch’oe considered a par­tic­u­lar group of schol-
arly specialists who had argued that the shamanism they found in some Si-
berian tribes was the only type. In other words, the shamanism that Siberian
ethnographers used as an analytical category to study all indigenous com-
munities should be exclusive to Siberia, and practices outside of t­ hese tribes
­were something ­else entirely. A good example of broad misappropriation can
be found in the Japa­nese colonial model that followed closely the work of
Edward B. Tylor, an En­glish anthropologist who was commonly credited with
founding the field of social anthropology. According to Ch’oe, “The shaman-
ism research of northwest Asia follows the influence of all of Tylor’s animism
theories,” and Ch’oe surmised that ­these scholars “misuse the word ‘spirit.’ ”58
He questioned the cultural “survival” model that Japa­nese anthropologists
borrowed from Tylor’s cultural evolutionism theory to naturalize Japan’s
colonization.
This new shamanic geography was buttressed with a cultural particularity
of transgenderism.59 Korean roots ­were supposedly tied to tribes northeast
of Mongolia and the eastern coast of Siberia. A Korean-­Buryati-­Siberian con-
nection was carefully drawn out according to historical socie­ties with ritual
specialists that had under­gone a “change of sex.”60 Three categories of male
shamans based on Buryati shamanism ­were also found in Korean shamans
as “priests,” “medicine men,” and “prophets.” Ch’oe claimed that Korean sha-
mans ­were originally like Siberian prac­ti­tion­ers in that they ­were both “simi-
lar to the holy man or priest.” ­These three regional cultures ­were connected
through their origins as male-­dominant traditions.
A more recent predominance of female-­to-­male shamans signaled a gen-
dered temporal transition from “paleo” (ku) to “neo” (sin) Siberian practices.
Ch’oe highlighted, “As for the p­ eople of Siberia, the change of sex is found chiefly
among Palaeo-­Siberians, namely the Chukchee, Koryak, Kamchadal, and Asi-
atic Eskimo.”61 In a section entitled “Gender Transformations of Shamans,”
Ch’oe described how ­later Siberian shamans engaged in transgender practices,
using the feminization of men as the first sign of a sovereign nation entering
its decline. According to his assessment, certain men fell into spiritual illness
for which they had no other cure than to cross-­dress and change their gender.
­These men, “by order of the spirits,” entered into homosexual marriages with

Ritual Specialists in Colonial Drag  |  65

t­ hose male spirits. “­These shamans,” he continued, “had a duty to change their
genital organs through some kind of ceremony.”62 Then, their communities
could acknowledge a match between (what some in t­oday’s trans* commu-
nity call) a male-­to-­female ­human and a male spirit and enfold this ­couple as
a conjugal u­ nion between opposite-­sex beings. Transgendered shaman initi-
ates passed as ­women by dressing, talking, and behaving as ­women. ­Under
the guidance of spirits and with the support of their communities, they im-
mediately abandoned their manly responsibilities, quickly mastered ­women’s
­house­hold and communal work, and even entered “female-­only spheres.” For
instance, t­ hese “trans spiritualists” played a central role in places where cismen
­were not permitted, such as the chambers where ­women gave birth.63 They
acted as midwives before, during, and a­ fter ­labor and w ­ ere responsible for the
well-­being of the community at large.
Ch’oe believed that the presence of nonheterosexual practices signaled un-
healthy communities, which he then used to map out colonized territories.
He saw trans-­ritualists less as ­women than as “soft men,” putting himself in the
com­pany of other global researchers of sexology while also positioning him-
self as an outsider to his native community. He remarked on how their com-
munities allowed trans-­spiritualists not only to behave as w ­ omen, but also to
lead “homosexual” lives (disregarding opposite-­sexed spiritual ­unions). The
archives of Siberian and early American expeditions were duplicated to talk
about shamanic homo­sexuality. Ch’oe highlights what he believes are the
most impor­tant aspects of the 1755 writings of Kurasenin Nikov in this way:
“There was much on ­these developments but the point is that ­those rec­ords
of ‘normal homosexualism’ and [sex] ‘change’ (tarŭn) derived from shamanic
inspiration.”64 Ch’oe accepted the long-­standing ethnographic diagnoses of
trans-­ritualists as “ill,” describing this as a “curious phenomenon, a mystical
change of sex” and a “sexual perversion.”65 In addition to pathologizing t­ hese
communities, Ch’oe emphasized that a predominance of “soft men” and their
“feminine habits” constituted recent historical developments, synchronizing
them with recent colonial trends.
Yi Nŭng-­hwa echoed Ch’oe’s masculinist logic to document the nation’s
masculine origin. Best known for his pro-­Buddhism writings, Yi was among
the oldest members of the History Compilation Committee.66 He may have
been less globally minded than Ch’oe, but of the two, he was the more archive-­
driven historian.67 Starting with Tan’gun Ruler, a figure deemed the legendary
founder of Kojosŏn (the first mythical kingdom of ­Korea), Yi believed that
the nation had distinctly male origins ­because Tan’gun was not just the na-

66  |  Merose Hwang

tion’s found­er; he was also the first shaman king and a shamanic god.68 Yi went
on to trace “original” male shamans (nammu) in ancient rec­ords to show that
such men flourished in ­Korea’s golden past.69 ­These men ­were synonymously
called sorcerers (paksu) and flower boys (hwarang). Yi found evidence of
ancient practices where “attractive sons from among the noble p­ eople ­were
selected and dolled up with cosmetics and adornments. Called flower boys,
all the ­people of the country revered and served them.”70 ­These beautifully
masculine shamans ­were considered venerable elders (chonjang) at the top
of the Silla dynastic (57 bce–­935 ce) social hierarchy.71 Yi discovered nu-
merous occasions between the eleventh ­century and the ­fourteenth ­century
when shaman men (mugyŏk) ­were invited to the royal court to conduct “rain
prayers,” a practice that reveals a copacetic relationship between shaman men
and the state.
Like Ch’oe, his co-­author, Yi Nŭng-­hwa proceeded to document the trans-
gender nation’s historical decline. He juxtaposed positive assessments of ven-
erable elders and flower boys with what he claimed ­were more recent femi-
nine forms of shamans. The bulk of Yi’s findings on female shamans derived
from the last dynastic period to show shamanism’s increasing disfavor by the
Chosŏn state. A Ministry of Justice rec­ord from 1482, for example, presented
a ­legal initiative to “increase punishment” against t­hose ­people known as
“feminine flower boys” and “female shamans.” In his estimate, the mounting
criticism of “shaman work” during the Chosŏn Dynasty stemmed from flower
boys “turning girly,” female shamans ­running amok, and increasing factional-
ism in the Chosŏn government. Abundant court rec­ords showed that kings,
queens, and royal families solicited female shamans for rituals and entertain-
ment while the literati attempted to restrict their entry.
Yi identified a time when male shamans ­were becoming emasculated and
argued that this event was the moment that marked when and how the nation
began its decline. He asked his readers to consider a historical basis for the de-
rogatory term hwarangnyŏ (female flower boys), emphasizing that “the com-
mon custom ­these days to call the male shamans flower boys holds a dif­fer­ent
meaning from what the term originally meant.”72 He then said that flower boys
­were not always “one and the same” with female shamans; the term indicated
a historical practice of flower boys colluding with female shamans. Their re-
cent transgender activity was a historical metonym of the masculine Korean
nation reduced to a submissive Japa­nese colony. In a document from 1471,
Yi described how King Sŏngjong’s officials suspected flower boys of engag-
ing in illicit be­hav­ior similar to that of female shamans. Court rec­ords from

Ritual Specialists in Colonial Drag  |  67

February 1503 reported that ­people in Ch’ungch’ŏng, Chŏlla, and Kyŏngsang
provinces recruited a par­tic­u­lar type of male shaman (rangjung) to conduct
ancestor rituals for their families. Provincial governors strug­gled to eradicate
­these types of practices but had ­little success. It was even rumored that male
shamans ­were disguising themselves as ­women to come and go among noble
homes.
Echoing Ch’oe’s continental focus, Yi attached K ­ orea closely to its conti-
nental neighbor, China. The flower boy feminization thus functioned as a cri-
tique of Chinese diffusionism.73 Yi implied that the Chosŏn Dynasty sealed its
fate by blindly mimicking Chinese antiquarianism instead of diverging from
it to move ­toward modernization.74 He transcribed a Chŏlla provincial rec­ord
from 1513 that discussed boys mingling with shamans to illustrate this histori-
cal retrogression:
­ ere are stories about men and w
Th ­ omen lustfully intermingling and acting
lewdly in all sorts of ways, making p­ eople that hear about it afraid as they slap
themselves laughing in plea­sure. Once in a while, a young man who has yet
to develop a beard ­will change into ­women’s clothes and put on makeup and
come and go from p­ eople’s ­houses in the dark of night. The [young men] sit
among the female shamans in the shrine chambers and then seize the oppor-
tunity to trick someone’s wife or d­ aughter. However, this evidence is kept se-
cret and is difficult to expose.75

This document shows that officials speculated about what was ­going on in
­women’s quarters, a space they could not access. If cross-­dressing flower boys
did have this kind of access, one can ask many questions about sixteenth-­
century K ­ orea, such as, “Was the real threat for this petty official men passing
as ­women in the interest of other men?” and “­Were attractive boys dressed
as ­women ­because this aesthetically pleased their spiritual community?” This
document does more than feed our imaginations of neo-­Confucian impropri-
ety; it makes real the possibility that homosocial, gender-­bending practices
existed “on the ground” for hundreds of years leading up to Yi’s time. More
than that, ­these stories of gender transgression ­were ways for Yi to ask his read-
ers to retrace their steps away from their emasculated colonized pre­sent and to
imagine historically a time of national strength and manly beginnings.
Ch’oe Nam-­sŏn and Yi Nŭng-­hwa’s sentimental renditions of a masculine
ancient past presented a glimmer of hope that the nation could be resuscitated.
In contrast, their negative assessments of shamanism in its con­temporary
form was a part of a general hysteria among colonial intellectuals that Korean

68  |  Merose Hwang

society was overly feminized; it produced a logic of gender-­based social
degeneration and resulted in the nation’s succumbing to its foreign ruler.
­Hyaeweol Choi notes about New ­Women during the colonial period, “They
offended or threatened the rigidly constrained sense of Korean nationalism
and patriarchal hierarchy.”76 Gender-­and sex-­non-­normative ­women con-
verged with shamanism as Ch’oe and Yi wrestled to determine who should be
considered positive and negative or conventional and transgressive members
of society. Ch’oe’s Siberian survey and Yi’s Chosŏn history proj­ects made Ko-
rean shamans into “con­spic­u­ous indigenes,” revealing the slippery slope be-
tween forming indigenous solidarity and colonial exoticization.
­These writers i­magined and yearned for a “­whole” nation. While silently
mourning colonization, Ch’oe and Yi used the opportunity of cultural politics
to debut memorials to their nation. In this sense, they occupied a colonial hy-
brid space in which modernity is contingent on premodernity’s (even nonmo-
dernity’s) very existence. Their longing for a precolonial spiritual community
looked to a past that questioned pre­sent conditions and offered hope for alter-
native ­futures.77 Approaching re­sis­tance from this a­ ngle, I propose a nuanced
understanding of colonialism by questioning assertions that, for example, the
Japa­nese prohibited shamanism or that shamanism was their “Orientalist in-
vention.”78 As problematic as Ch’oe and Yi’s treatment of their subjects may be
to us ­today, I want to allow space for colonized agency by showing how ­these
writers paved the path for Korean shamanism studies. They offered a formula
for decolonization by weaving Siberian male-­to-­female transgendering sha-
manic customs into a new collective of continental spiritual comradeship,
prying the peninsula ­free from Japan’s continental grip by personifying a his-
tory that was ethnically, sexually, and culturally un-­Japanese. ­These colonized
intellectuals ­were compelled to produce reactionary proj­ects, using culture to
question the politics of assimilation, ­whether they ­were current Japa­nese poli-
cies or former Chinese forms.

Colonial Drag

As I have suggested, shamanism was used for colonialist and nationalist pur-
poses. ­Here, I suggest a third purpose: ritualists reproduced shamanic tropes
to manipulate and problematize the empire and the nation. While nationalist
newspapers ­were working to keep the embers of the March 1 Movement alive,
they ­were also finding traces of assimilation and imperial devotion. ­These
organ­izations were not only met with colonial “approval.” The East Asia Daily

Ritual Specialists in Colonial Drag  |  69

also claimed that Koreans and Japa­nese alike ­were participating in all levels of
the guild’s administration. In fact, the Japa­nese ­were the ones orchestrating ­these
organ­izations.79 The paper was picking up on the fact that Japa­nese residents in
Seoul w ­ ere drawn to the guild’s activities to the extent that even Japa­nese com-
panies and government workers gave it donations and packed its auditoriums.
By acting out their Shintōness through such imperialist venerations, ­these
ritual experts could si­mul­ta­neously interact with indigenous and foreign
ghosts, scrutinize the social constructions of state-­driven patriarchy, and ma-
nipulate cultural-­spiritual hegemony itself. Guild members went to the main
Shintō shrine, ­Korea Shrine, to venerate Emperor Meiji, a new foreign deity.80
The newspapers reported on ritual fakery and mudang (the most common
name used to refer to female shamans) disguising themselves as Shintō devo-
tees, abusing ­these new policies, and duping colonial authorities. Sungsinin
“thievery,” “criminality,” and “social evils” showed the East Asia Daily that
“­there [­were] no authoritative controls.”81 The paper urged the Ministry of Po-
lice Affairs to seriously reassess its sanctions. ­Because the colonial government
was not providing adequate administrative oversight, the newspapers took it
upon themselves to begin tracking mudang registering at Shintō shrines and
monitoring ­those involved in Shintō worship.
I flip this nationalist accusation of “fakery” on its head by calling what Ko-
rean ritualists w ­ ere ­doing “colonial drag,” which I consider a radical form of
re­sis­tance.82 To access new forms of ritual power, Korean ritualists needed to
acknowledge the most power­ful po­liti­cal figures of their time, such as Amat-
erasu Ōmikami and Emperor Meiji, two deities that represented the official
ideology of a historically unbroken line of the Japa­nese imperial monarchy.83
When the newspapers reported that mudang ­were continuing to “build a
good relationship with the Japa­nese empire,” this accusation posed the dan-
gerous possibility that female shamans ­were acting, pretending, and faking
their devotion.84 Such practices of cultural assimilationism reveal a type of
colonial subjecthood in which tourists might have witnessed an odd show,
act, or per­for­mance. For the ritual community, however, the patronizing of
Japa­nese spirits was not merely a way to embrace the colonizers. It was also an
essential syncretic practice in shamanic ritual pluralism.85 ­These ritual special-
ists ­were expert at recognizing the deities of their con­temporary environment
and encouraging local participation.86 Paying homage to an imperial spiritual
cosmology was more than ambivalent mimicry (a difference that is almost the
same but not quite); ­these young female performers could have been “drag-
ging” their colonizers, relishing the obvious fact that what they w ­ ere ­doing

70  |  Merose Hwang

was “not quite” Japa­nese or Korean, male or female, and pushing the envelope
of gendered-­ethnic identities to fulfill their community’s needs and desires.87
Just as Muñoz considers the politics of drag performers to “strategize survival
and imagine assertions of self in a cultural sphere that is structured to deny vis-
ibility to such bodies” and Judith Butler argues that drag subverts “the distinc-
tion between inner and outer psychic space,” I see Sungsinin’s Shintō patron-
age and avant-­garde experimentation as dragging statist, patriarchal ritualism
for the guild’s own cultural survival.88
Their flexible and inventive nature put shamans in an uneasy position
between spiritual pragmatism and po­liti­cal opportunism, fueling negative
views of shamanism in the 1920s. Painting Shintō-­style shamanic worship as
a kind of parody reveals the participatory nature of cultural policies in which
­people could both join and subvert the very expression of imperial affinity.
­These criticisms showed that colonial identity could be “dragged” and that
colonial policies could be manipulated through parodic imitation and rep-
etition, meaning and value subversion, and heteronormative per­for­mance
in an effort to destabilize truths about one’s own ethno-­spiritual identity.89
Nationalist concerns about mudang skirted around the fact that Sungsinin
members ­were masters of ritual play, driven by an acute awareness of their
ethnically and po­liti­cally diverse audience, acting out expectations of the
obedient subject and giving colonialists what they came for.90 While colo-
nialists may have delighted in what they saw as crude imitations of them-
selves, nationalists railed against the depictions as inauthentic and attempted
to shut ­these ritualists down, addressing universal primordialism as a means
for self-­preservation. Sungsinin demonstrated shamans’ greatest strength to
trespass po­liti­cal barriers to embrace po­liti­cally power­ful religions and syn-
cretize them in ritual commemoration.91
Sungsinin Chohap did more than conduct religious and cultural events. It
engaged in the most modern proj­ects, such as cultural education, professional
licensure, and nonprofit fund­rais­ing and philanthropy. It acquired licenses to
develop local offices, solicited private donors and members, collected dues,
and conducted community work. Although guild members w ­ ere sometimes
accused of accumulating, laundering, and bullying for money, they also of-
fered their ser­vices and resources in times of need.92 When Seoul was hit by
flooding and other natu­ral disasters that left many homeless, Sungsinin put to-
gether fund­rais­ing drives for clothes donation, first aid, and other emergency
relief.93 On ­these occasions, the media praised the guild for its social contribu-
tions and for setting a good example for other organ­izations.

Ritual Specialists in Colonial Drag  |  71

 Unlike freelance mudang who most commonly provided ser­vices that
promised to heal their clients and their families, Sungsinin strategically
strayed from private home-­and neighborhood-­based rituals. (Private rituals
usually involved some form of curative ser­vice that ­violated colonial medi-
cal laws.94) Instead, the guild prioritized large public per­for­mances to recog-
nize impor­tant spiritual birthdays, shamanic anniversaries, auspicious days,
sacred holidays, and the like.95 They pushed the bound­aries of their shamanic
communities by conducting masked dance per­for­mances, avant-­garde the-
ater (mixing shamanic ele­ments with Western theater ele­ments), and more
traditional forms of public rituals (kut). Sungsinin’s events promised excite-
ment, laughter, and a lot of noise. The audiences ­were equally lively, socioeco­
nom­ically varied, and ethnically mixed. To the dismay of Korean elites, t­ hese
events ­were incredibly popu­lar and well supported in the 1920s.96
While they ­were sometimes cast in a positive light, Sungsinin’s ritual spe-
cialists ­were more often chastised b­ ecause they broke gender rules, presenting
radically dissident ways of being.97 Nationalists treated them as female anoma-
lies as a way to steer society ­toward heterosexist norms. The ritual specialists
­were often young ­women but not just that: they had to transcend their cisgen-
der donning of the hats and swords of Korean masculinity, flaunting personas
such as flower boy warriors, Confucian sages, and even the Tan’gun Ruler and
perform ritualized drag in their per­for­mances. Meanwhile, their male ritual
attendants and spouses w ­ ere characterized on the other side of the gender bi-
nary, as effeminate and impotent.98 Often, ritual specialists did not enter into
­human marriage b­ ecause they ­were married and tied to their guardian spirits.
­These w ­ omen claimed to be bound to ser­vice their spiritual partners, a spiri-
tual consummation that could determine the course of their material lives.
­W hether or not they stayed single, divorced, had sex (with members of the
same or the opposite sex), or gave birth ­were decisions that had to be weighed
against the ­will of their anthropomorphic spirits.99 If guardian spirits did not
want their spiritual hosts to engage in h­ uman marriages, the female ritualists
did not see this lifestyle as their liberation from men but, rather, their burden
to be bound to their difficult spirits. If they married, they did so with prac­ti­
tion­ers of other marginalized religions.100 In turn, the print media disregarded
­these spiritual relationships and suspected shamans and their associates of
sexual proclivities or improprieties.101
The media obsession with shamans overlapped with the colonial “­woman
prob­lem,” as both subjects w­ ere affecting the strength of the population.102 Ko-
rean nationalists ­were primarily interested in “their” ­women bearing healthy

72  |  Merose Hwang

c­ hildren, and they believed that shamans hindered this national goal. Ironi-
cally, most ritual ser­vices aimed to support heteronormative expectations of
­family and reproduction. For instance, shamans w ­ ere sometimes considered
good matchmakers, or they gave referrals for p­ eople to find reputable match-
makers. ­Mothers sought out shamans to find suitable opposite-­sex marriage
partners for their ­children. To sever ­these networks, the East Asia Daily pub-
lished an article in 1934 that hoped to “exterminate shamans and sorcerers”
and “gather all fortune-­tellers and matchmakers!” The article grouped p­ eople
who told fortunes through ancestral tablets with ­those who told fortunes on
marriages.103 The Chosŏn Chung’ang Ilbo (­Korea Central Daily) cautioned read-
ers to be on the lookout for shamanic marriages. It told the story of a man and
­woman who w ­ ere “engaged and on the eighth day of the tenth month in the
lunar calendar at the bride’s h­ ouse . . . ​the wedding ceremony was conducted
without incident. But then, around 9:00 pm the fact that the bridegroom was
the son of a shaman was revealed, which greatly startled the bride’s ­family and
caused a huge disturbance. At that point, the bridegroom ran away.”104 The ar-
ticle implored readers to be vigilant of shaman offspring attempting to pursue
“normal” lives, assuming that its readers already knew that such ­children al-
legedly inherited “abnormal” traits from their shaman m ­ others. The East Asia
Daily believed that the “nation’s health” was at risk ­because the police ­were
not ­doing their job to recognize shamans as “unlawful” w ­ omen.105 The East
Asia Daily also noted that “it is a fact that more ­women than men believe in”
shamans.106 But shaman clientele, and even the men associated with shamans,
­were characterized as “violent,” “insane,” “suicidal,” and “murder[ous].” The
East Asia Daily claimed that such abnormalities ­were ­either the cause or the
effect of superstition. While newspapers fought to promote modern networks
for marriage, they just as strongly believed in negative eugenics and birth con-
trol for shamans and their associates, who ­were labeled unhealthy stock.107
The shamanism issue collided with the ­woman question over the public
campaign for “girls’ education.” The Korean media’s steadfast position was
that unqualified ­people such as female shamans acted as experts on “­women’s
work,” and this was a formula for social chaos. This new area of girls’ education
was mostly ­limited to two topics—­home care and childcare—­while organ­
izations such as Sungsinin Chohap ­were training and licensing young ­women
to practice professions outside the home. The East Asia Daily recorded an
increase in well-­paid shamans servicing “high homes and government offi-
cials” in the southwestern part of the peninsula: “Mudang, chŏmjaengi,
sangjaengi, sajujaengi, chakmyŏngjaengi, e­ tc., work by begging money

Ritual Specialists in Colonial Drag  |  73

out of the pockets of ignorant p­ eople. If we add ­these 1,489 men and 1,541
­women in South Chŏlla Province together, the sum of 3,030 can be said to be
big trou­ble.”108
Through this type of work, w ­ omen could become in­de­pen­dently wealthy.
The article suggested that ­these ­women had an “evil influence over the general
public.”109 To resolve this prob­lem, it suggested that young men’s groups w
­ ere
best suited to research and advise the public on ways to eliminate this “new
culture” generated by the Sungsinin Chohap.110

Conclusion

When negative depictions of shamans in the colonial media proliferated, why

did shamans not write in their own defense? ­Until 1920, shamanic ritual spe-
cialists often or­ga­nized informally, and even secretly, ­under constant threat of
locally initiated criminalization.111 Irrespective of which regime was in power,
ritualists labored to enact permanent structural change while they expressed
the importance of local, everyday strug­gles of re­sis­tance.112 Social demand for
shamans was high: when it was impossible to ask the patriarchs of empire,
nation, or families to acknowledge h­ uman injustices, shamanic ritual became
the only method of redress.113 In fact, privileging per­for­mance over script may
have caused a “worldmaking power of disidentification.”114
The lack of self-­authorship did not necessarily limit the shaman com-
munity. Its members ­were not ­silent, empty vessels, encoded into existence
by ­others; as their organ­izing efforts show, they w ­ ere active, public-­social
agents engaged in intimate economies, commodifying their spiritual activity
as value-­producing forms of exchange in the early twentieth ­century. Their
refusal to engage in textual self-­authorship may, in fact, have allowed them
more room to create, mimic, mock, and shape-­shift their po­liti­cal, gender, and
spiritual identities while keeping police officers, technocrats, ethnographers,
and patriarchal nationalists at bay. With their outlaw sensibilities, Sungsinin
Chohap paraded through the front door of cultural policies during the 1920s,
invigorating indigenous spiritual re­sis­tance.115
A final point on this colonial moment is one through which I intersect
with other authors in this book in relation to straight time. The rhe­toric of
modernization promised a path of eventual national maturation. This colo-
nialist linearity can be seen as a form of straight time.116 In this sense, I would
call ritual specialists’ and cultural nationalists’ asynchrony with modernity
and refusal of progressivist history a queer phenomenon. The numerous

74  |  Merose Hwang

ways in which indigenous rituals w ­ ere performed and written shows capital-
ism’s desynchronizing effects in concrete situations.117 The media subjugated,
marginalized, disavowed, and made illegitimate the experiences of indig-
enous ritual agents through a hegemonic development scheme. Just as ritual
specialists could produce an alternative understanding of the past through
a rearrangement of communal plea­sure, historians of shamanism reframed
popu­lar historical consciousness in ways opposite to what Liu sees as “chro-
nonormative organ­ization of ­human bodies ­toward maximum productiv-
ity.”118 The adoptive spiritual community socialized its surrogate families and
interethnic origins through elaborate rituals and ancient texts, often mirror-
ing the most basic unit of traditionally patriarchal social organ­ization, but
sometimes straying from it, establishing a temporal asynchrony with moder-
nity and a queer colonial time.

Notes

1 “Sowi sungsin kyohoe chohap sŏllip cha Kim Tae-ik,” Chosŏn Ilbo, July 2, 1920,
3. Kim Tae-­gon found other­wise that Kim Chae-­hyŏn formed this group: Kim
Tae-­gon, Han’guk musok yŏn’gu (Seoul: Chipmundang, 1981), 456–57. Murayama
Chijun also believed that Kim Chae-hyŏn founded the guild but dates its estab-
lishment to June 1, 1920. He argued that the 1920s was a “golden age” for shamans
and their guild: Murayama Chijun, Chōsen minzoku no kenkyū (Seoul: Chōsen
Sōtokufu, 1938).
2 Hwarang was listed among associates: Tong’a Ilbo, May 22, 1924, 3; Chosŏn Ilbo,
July 5, 1938.
3 Tong’a Ilbo, March 24, 1923, 3; March 5, 1932, 3.
4 Tong’a Ilbo stated that the organ­ization “practice[d] drums, folk instruments and
woodwinds to the extent of devil worship in an established theatre and raised the
curtain on unmentionable ‘erotic pageant’ per­for­mances; first wives go with hus-
bands, many second wives go dressed in all types of attire”: Tong’a Ilbo, March 5,
1932, 3.
5 Tong’a Ilbo, March 24, 1923, 3.
6 Tong’a Ilbo, February 11, 1922, 3; March 24, 1923, 3.
7 José Esteban Muñoz, Cruising Utopia: The Then and ­There of Queer Futurity (New
York: New York University Press, 2009). ­Because such a conversation stems from
my analytical imagination of the past, any misrepre­sen­ta­tion of Muñoz or Liu’s
theories are my errors alone.
8 Yi Yong-­bŏm, “Musok e taehan kŭndae Han’guk sahoe ŭi pujŏngjŏk sigak e taehan
koch’al,” Han’guk Musokhak 9 (February 2005): 151–79.
9 Petrus Liu, Queer Marxism in Two Chinas (Durham, NC: Duke University Press,
2015), 7, 9, 15.

Ritual Specialists in Colonial Drag  |  75

 10 Laurel Kendall, “Of Gods and Men: Per­for­mance, Possession, and Flirtation in
Korean Shaman Ritual,” Cahiers d’Extrême-­Asie 6 (1991–92): 45–63.
11 For a good example of the argument ­toward broad-­reaching heterosexism,
see Gayle Rubin, “Thinking Sex: Notes for a Radical Theory of the Politics
of Sexuality,” in Plea­sure and Danger: Exploring Female Sexuality, ed. Carol S.
Vance (Boston: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1984), 143–78. Laurel Kendall, by
contrast, argues that gender and sexual fluidity are part and parcel of shamanic
communities.
12 ­­These primary source documents are held in the National Archives of South
­Korea: http://­www​.­archives​.­go​.­kr. Takaya Kawase details this in his work on
religion and academic movements in the colonial era. Taehoon Kim further
elaborates that the 1906 policy was meant to regulate Japa­nese missionaries in
­Korea and that the subsequent policy applied more directly to Korean colonial
subjects on the Korean peninsula. Taehoon Kim, “The Place of ‘Religion’ in Co-
lonial ­Korea around 1910: The Imperial History of ‘Religion,’ ” Journal of Korean
Religions 1, no. 2 (2011): 28–30.
13 Kisaeng ­were commonly associated with brothels and prostitution and has
derogatorily meant “whores.” For more on how kisaeng ­were understood during
the colonial period, see Yi Chae-­hŏn, Yi Nŭnghwa wa kŭndae pulgyohak (Seoul:
Chisik Sanŏpsa, 2007), 18.
14 Hŭng-­yun Cho argues that the Japa­nese ­were unsuccessful at eliminating mu-
dang activities from ­Korea ­because they ­were so pervasive. Instead, they worked
at controlling and regulating them: Cho Hŭng-­yun, Mu wa minjok munhwa
(Seoul: Minjok Munhwasa, 2003), 212–13. See also Kim, Han’guk musok yŏn’gu,
45–57.
15 ­­Until 1920, only 107 such shrines existed on the peninsula. Over the next ten years,
297 more shrines ­were unveiled: Michio Nakajima, “Shintō Deities That Crossed
the Sea,” Japa­nese Journal of Religious Studies 37, no. 1 (2010): 26, 29.
16 Tong’a Ilbo, October 3, 1929, 2.
17 Tong’a Ilbo, July 13, 1923, 3; May 22, 1924, 3.
18 As early as June of 1910, the Taehan Maeil Sinbo reported that a “Japa­nese man by
the name of Kokkumushi formed a Sinri Religion and female shamans contrib-
uted five hwan each to him.” This man dis­appeared with the money and the sha-
mans ­were working with a southern regional police department to recover their
money. Taehan Maeil Sinbo, June 26, 1910: 1.
19 Tong’a Ilbo, November 21, 1921, 1.
20 Tong’a Ilbo, May 22, 1924, 3.
21 Tong’a Ilbo, October 3, 1929, 2.
22 Tong’a Ilbo, October 3, 1929, 2–3.
23 Gi-­wook Shin, Ethnic Nationalism in ­Korea: Genealogy, Politics, and Legacy (Stan-
ford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2006), 44. For more on colonial religion
policies, see Ch’oe Sŏk-­yŏng, Ilcheha musongnon kwa singminji kwŏllyŏk (Seoul:
Sŏgyŏng Munhwasa, 1999); Chang Pyŏng-­gil, “Chosŏn ch’ongdokpu chonggyo

76  |  Merose Hwang

 chŏngch’aek,” in Han’guk chonggyo wa chonggyohak (Seoul: Ch’ŏngnyŏnsa, 2003),
217–33.
24 Kōji Ōsawa, “Kokusai bukkyō kyōkai to ‘Toa bukkyō.’ ” Paper presented at the
19th World Congress of the International Association for the History of Religions,
Tokyo, March 28, 2005, 66–78.
25 Chu Yŏng-ha, “Chosŏn ŭi chesa wa sahoe kyohwaron,” in Cheguk Ilbon i kŭrin
Chosŏn minsok, ed. Chu Yŏng-ha, Im Kyŏng-­t’aek, and Nam Kŭn-­u (Sŏngnam:
Han’gukhak Chungang Yŏungang Yŏn’guwŏn, 2006), 162.
26 Buddhist historians have argued that no other East Asian religious order col-
laborated more with Japa­nese imperial policies than did Buddhists (all Mahayana
sects, including Southeast Asian Theraveda sects in the late 1930s): Kawase
Takaya, “Jōdo-­Shinshu no Chōsen fukyō: Bunmeika no shimei?” Paper presented
at the 19th World Congress of the International Association for the History of
Religions, Tokyo, March 28, 2005, 35.
27 Indigenous theism broadly termed sin’gyo.
28 Most religious journals con­ve­niently positioned themselves in opposition to ­these
­silent shamans (often using superstition, or misin, in their binary arguments), re-
vealing their own unstable distance from ­those indigenous practices. The monthly
Our House reiterated a common enlightenment notion that “it is difficult to judge
superstition as religion.” It then asked, “What is superstition? . . . ​[I]t can be said
to be an unreasonable faith . . . ​from one religion to another, all have superstition”:
Kim Chong-­man, Urijip 8 (Fall 1932): 12.
29 Chun-­sŏk (Mishinhae), “Solution to superstition,” Ch’ŏndokyohŏewolbo 7
(February 1911): 22. This monthly bulletin was one of a number of journals
that periodically associated with the colonial-­era Tonghak movement: See Sin
Il-­ch’ŏl, Tonghak sasang ŭi ihae (Seoul: Sahoe Pip’yŏngsinsŏ, 1995), 169–84. See
also Kwangshik Kim, “Buddhist Perspectives on Anti-­religious Movements in the
1930s,” The Review of Korean Studies 3, no. 1 ( July 2000): 58.
30 Kwang-­sik Kim, “Panjonggyo undong e taehan kwanch’al,” Kaebyŏk, Novem-
ber 1925, 2. Kyŏnghyang Chapji was a Catholic magazine that published regular
reports by the Roman Catholic Church and engaged in stories of irrational
shamans.
31 Michael Robinson argues that “finessed” rule was a method for deeper and
broader surveillance during the cultural rule period: Michael Robinson, “Broad-
casting, Cultural Hegemony, and Colonial Modernity in K ­ orea, 1924–1945,” in Co-
lonial Modernity in ­Korea, ed. Gi-­Wook Shin and Michael Robinson (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 52–69.
32 Tong’a Ilbo argued that a Japa­nese expatriate, Komine Kensaku, working ­under the
Korean alias Kim Chae-­hyon, was the founder of Sungsinin Chohap. Tong’a Ilbo,
May 30, 1920. See also note 1.
33 Todd Henry finds that indigenous deities ­were gradually incorporated into Seoul
Shrine and its ­grand festival in 1929 and that Korean participation was not com-
pulsory before the 1930s. “Even ­after the administrative reordering of Keijō and its

Ritual Specialists in Colonial Drag  |  77

 parish organ­ization, Seoul Shrine’s ethnocentric leadership continued to undercut
the Government-­General’s officially stated goal of spiritual assimilation”: Todd A.
Henry, Assimilating Seoul: Japa­nese Rule and the Politics of Public Space in Colonial
­Korea, 1910–1945 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014), 66.
34 For more on colonial religious assimilation, see Ryu Sŏng-­min, “Ilje kangjŏmgi
ŭi Han’guk chonggyo minjokjuŭi,” in Han Il kŭnhyŏndae wa chonggyo munhwa,
ed. Ryu Pyŏng-­dŏk and the Korea-­Japan Religion Research Forum (Seoul:
Ch’ŏngnyŏnsa, 2001), 171–76.
35 Kim Tae-­gon, “Regional Characteristics of Korean Shamanism,” in Shamanism:
The Spirit World of ­Korea, ed. Yu Chai-­shin and R. Guisso, trans. Yi Yu-­jin (Berke-
ley: Asian Humanities, 1988), 119.
36 For more on ancient religious melding of Korean shamanism and Mahayana
Buddhism, see Hyun-­key Kim Hogarth, “Rationality, Practicality and Modernity:
Buddhism, Shamanism and Chris­tian­ity in Con­temporary Korean Society,” Trans-
actions of the Royal Asiatic Society, ­Korea Branch 73 (1998): 41–54.
37 For more on Korean shamanism sharing Taoistic characteristics, see Yu Chai-­shin,
“Korean Taoism and Shamanism,” in Yu and Guisso, Shamanism, 98–118.
38 Shaman regulations ­were enforced by the Chosŏn state from the seventeenth
­century onward. But shaman semiofficial alliances ­were formed as early as the
eigh­teenth ­century and continued to evolve through the twentieth ­century: Im
Hak-­sŏng, “Chosŏn hugi hojŏk charyo rŭl t’onghae pon Kyŏngsangdo mudang
ŭi ‘muŏp sesŭp yangt’ae: 17–19 segi Tansŏnghyŏn ŭi sarye punsŏk,” Han’guk
­Musokhak 9 (February 2005): 47–75.
39 Seoul’s Tongmyo (Eastern Shrine) is a good example of this. The legendary
Chinese Commander Guan Yu (162–219), recognized as a war hero from the
civil war that collapsed China’s Eastern Han Dynasty, became a popu­lar Taoist
deity during the Ming. Guan Yu shrines ­were erected in Chosŏn to symbolize
­Korea’s appreciation of the ­Middle Kingdom. In late Chosŏn, ­these shrines fell
into disfavor, but Korean shamans have embraced the deity, turning him into an
entrepreneur guardian spirit who continues to draw an annual cele­bration among
street peddlers in Seoul ­today. I thank Jun Y. K. Kim of the Royal Asiatic Society
­Korea Branch for conducting this tour on April 13, 2016.
40 For more on historical tax incentives, see Kyung Moon Hwang, Beyond Birth: Social
Status in the Emergence of Modern K
­ orea (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia
Center, 2004). On the physical bound­aries for shaman activity, see Boudewijn Wal-
raven, “Interpretations and Reinterpretations of Popu­lar Religion in the Last De­cades
of the Chosŏn Dynasty,” in Korean Shamanism: Revivals, Survivals, and Change, ed.
Keith Howard (Seoul: Royal Asiatic Society, ­Korea Branch, 1998), 55–72.
41 Sŏ Yang-ja, “Chosŏn sidae ŭi musok,” Kyŏnghyang Chapji 1386, September 1983,
46–49.
42 The terms “shamanism studies” and musokhak emerged ­under colonialism.
43 Isabella Bishop noted that shaman and sorcerer “guilds . . . ​are the Trades Unions
of ­Korea, and the Government has imposed registration on another class”: Isa-

78  |  Merose Hwang

 bella Bird Bishop, ­Korea and Her Neighbours: A Narrative of Travel, with an Account
of the Recent Vicissitudes and Pre­sent Position of the Country, repr. ed. (Seoul: Yonsei
University Press, [1898] 1970), 402.
44 Vari­ous chapters such as the Chehwa Church, Sinri Church, Sŏnghwa Church,
and Yŏngsin Organ­ization emerged throughout the 1920s: Kim, Han’guk musok
yŏn’gu, 456–57.
45 Although state Shintō policy was unique to 1930s colonial rule, un­regu­la­ted
Shintō was a minor practice in ­Korea for nearly three hundred years. The first
Japa­nese Shintō shrine, the Kindo Shrine, was established in 1678 (the fourth
year of Sukjong) in Pusan, ­Korea. The most popu­lar Shintō sect in ­Korea was
known as the Tenri Church. The Tenri denomination of Shintō gained the first
substantial number of Korean converts in 1893 and it had grown to nearly eighty
thousand members by the end of the colonial period: Duk-­whang Kim, A History
of Religions in ­Korea (Seoul: Daeji Monhwa-sa, 1988), 431–34.
46 Commission dates for Ch’oe Nam-­sŏn ­were from 1928 to 1936 and for Yi Nŭng-­
hwa from 1922 to 1938. This proj­ect was criticized for shortening Korean history
to begin with the Three Kingdoms period (57 bce–668 ce) and for glossing over
events that led to colonialism, such as the Sino-­Japanese War of 1894–95.
47 Roger Janelli, “The Origins of Korean Folklore Scholarship,” Journal of American
Folklore 99 (1986): 24–49.
48 Muñoz, Cruising Utopia, 31.
49 Hyung Il Pai, Constructing Korean “Origins”: A Critical Review of Archaeology,
Historiography, and Racial Myth in Korean State-­Formation Theories, Harvard East
Asian Monographs Series (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Asia Center, 2000), 8–9.
50 Chizuko Allen finds Ch’oe’s religious writings a strong testament to his antico-
lonial efforts: see Chizuko T. Allen, “Ch’oe Namsŏn at the Height of Japa­nese
Imperialism,” Sungkyun Journal of East Asian Studies 5, no. 1 (2005): 27–49. Kim
Seong-­Nae further argues that shamanism research developed as “intellectual
nationalist self-­consciousness” ­under colonialism: Kim Seong-­Nae, “Han’guk
ŭi syamŏnijŭm kaenyŏm hyŏngsŏng kwa chŏn’gae,” Han’guk Syamŏnijŭm
Hakhŏe (2003): 87–88. Also see her “Ilje sidae musok tamron ŭi hyŏngsŏng
kwa kundaejŏk chaehyon,” in Chonggyowa singminji Kŭndae, ed. Yun Hae-­dong
and Isomae Junicho (Seoul: Chaekgwa Hamkke), 347–89. (I use Kim Seong-­
Nae’s preferred romanization of her name.)
51 For more on ­Korea’s precolonial continental scholarship, see Andre Schmid,
“Rediscovering Manchuria: Sin Ch’aeho and the Politics of Territorial History in
­Korea,” Journal of Asian Studies 56, no. 1 (February 1997): 26–46.
52 For starters, he introduces the transliterated word “shaamanijŭm” to pre­sent a new
“shamanism” framework to understand ­Korea’s global history.
53 Siobhan Somerville expressed how George Chauncey discussed paradigms
of sexuality that shifted according to changing ideologies of gender in the late
nineteenth ­century: Siobhan Somerville, “Scientific Racism and the Invention of
the Homosexual Body,” in The Gender Sexuality Reader: Culture, History, Po­liti­cal

Ritual Specialists in Colonial Drag  |  79

 Economy, ed. Roger N. Lancaster and Micaela di Leonardo (New York: Rout-
ledge, 1997), 37.
54 In the years following his committee tenure, Ch’oe was deterred from nationalist
proj­ects but he continued to advance the language reform movement, publishing
widely on Korean lit­er­a­ture, history, and culture.
55 For more on this shared origin theory and Japa­nese assimilationism, see Ch’oe
Sŏk-­yŏng, Ilche ŭi tonghwa ideollogi ŭi ch’angch’ul (Seoul: Sŏgyŏng Munhwasa,
1997).
56 An entire issue of Enlightenment Bulletin (Kyemyŏng Sibo) was dedicated to
shamanism studies as his contribution to ­Korea’s ancient lit­er­a­ture. The issue was
broken into two sections. Ch’oe wrote the first section to provide a broad over-
view of global indigenous practices. The most notable characteristic of his essay
“Rec­ords on Shamanism” (Sarman’gyo ch’aki) was its attempt to field shamanism
research comprehensively: Ch’oe Nam-­sŏn, “Sarmŏn kyoch’aki,” Kyemyŏng Sibo,
vol. 19, 1927, 3–51.
57 Ch’oe, “Sarmŏn kyoch’aki,” 1–3. He explored the historical origins ­behind the
homonym syaamŏn, outlining pos­si­ble meanings ­behind its vari­ous translitera-
tions, its original practices, and the gender differences among prac­ti­tion­ers. Each
practitioner was described according to epistemology, sacred articles, types of
ceremonies, and social status within a shamanism hierarchy.
58 Ch’oe, “Sarmŏn kyoch’aki,” 3. Edward Tylor believed that cultural survival was a
phenomenon of modernity as a “survival and a revival of savage thought, which
the general tendency of civilization and science has been to discard” and that
“spiritualism was a ‘survival’ that should not find believers among the middle-­and
upper-­classes, only among the lower.” See Birgit Meyer and Peter Pels, eds., Magic
and Modernity: Interfaces of Revelation and Concealment (Stanford, CA: Stanford
University Press, 2003), 256–57.
59 While the term “transgender” is a direct translation of the primary text, I believe
that gender is a social construction that arises from what medical specialists
consider biological sex, but that gender operates at individual, social, institutional,
and historical levels. What ­people see of a person’s sex or gender (what Tauches
refers to as “secondary sex characteristics”) act as impor­tant symbols of gender
attribution: Kimberly Tauches, “Transgendering: Challenging the ‘Normal,’ ” in
Handbook of the New Sexuality Studies, ed. Steven Seidman, Nancy Fischer, and
Chet Meeks (New York: Taylor and Francis, 2007), 186–92.
60 “Transgender” is typically used as an umbrella term to describe ­people whose
gender does not match the sex category they are assigned at birth. My research
suggests that the term “transgender” is anachronistic to colonial K ­ orea. How-
ever, my sources use terms such as “change of sex” and “sex change” to explain a
history and society of “homosexualism.” They apply early ethnographic models
and taxonomies of “rites of passage” as “traditional” institutions that determined
­people’s identities and social roles. Ch’oe considers gender and sexuality based on
environmental determinism.

80  |  Merose Hwang

 61 Ch’oe mentions ch’eryangsŏng, implying the changing of sex leads to sexual inter-
course between cisgender men. Ch’oe, “Sarmŏn kyoch’aki,” 3.
62 Ch’oe uses the term “change of sex” (sŏng ŭi pyŏngyŏng) to imply that gender reas-
signment was done in some mysterious shamanic ceremonial initiation. Ch’oe,
“Sarmŏn kyoch’aki,” 3.
63 Kristen Schilt and Laurel Westbrook attempt to decenter heteronormativity by re-
placing the concept of “non-­normative” with “cis” as the etymological antonym of
“trans”: Kristen Schilt and Laurel Westbrook, “­Doing Gender, ­Doing Heteronor-
mativity: “ ‘Gender Normals,’ ” Transgender ­People, and the Social Maintenance
of Heterosexuality,” Gender and Society 23, no. 4 (August 2009): 440–64. Instead
of calling ­these ­people “male-­to-­female shamans” or by the original ethnographic
term “soft men,” I credit their spiritual guardians and communities for their suc-
cessful transitions. For lack of a better term, I refer to them as “trans-­spiritualists.”
64 “Change” in this case is permanent and could be considered “trans.” Ch’oe,
“Sarmŏn kyoch’aki,” 3.
65 Armchair researchers such as Ch’oe tended to reject trans-­spiritualists as ­women,
discounting their successful transitions and their contributions to the cisgender
socie­ties that their spiritual communities embraced.
66 For more on his Buddhism publications, see Jongmyung Kim, “Yi Nunghwa, Bud-
dhism, and the Modernization of ­Korea: A Critical Review,” in Makers of Modern
Korean Buddhism, ed. Jin Y. Park (Albany: State University of New York Press,
2010), 91–106.
67 Yi was more than twenty years Ch’oe’s se­nior and lived most of his life ­under a
deteriorating Chosŏn Dynasty. He may have been more po­liti­cally conservative
than his co-­author, but with extensive years ­under Confucian schooling, he was ar-
guably the best equipped to preserve ­Korea’s ancient textual history, which he did
throughout his life. For a general overview of Yi Nŭng-­hwa’s life, see Yi Nŭng-­hwa,
Chosŏn haeŏ hwasa, repr. ed., ed. Yi Chaegon (Seoul: Paengnok, [1927] 1992), 3–4.
68 Much has been written on the Tan’gun research during the colonial era. For a
most in­ter­est­ing study on Tan’gun as an indigenous trope in “shamanism dis-
course” during the Japa­nese colonial era, see Kim Seong-­Nae, “Ilje sidae musok
tamron ŭi hyŏngsŏng kwa kŭndaejŏk chaehyŏn,” in Chonggyo wa singminji kŭndae,
ed. Yun Hae-­dong and Isomae Junichi (Seoul: Ch’aek kwa Hamkkae, 2013),
347–89.
Yi states, “It has been said that Hwan-­ŭwa, the God of Heaven, and Tan’gun
Ruler ­were spirits that came down from the heavens and they ­were ­humans with
divinity. In the olden days, shamans received the ­people’s re­spect ­because they
made sacrifices to the heavens and worshipped the spirits. Accordingly, the titles
of Silla Kings reflected this and in Koguryŏ, their titles became t­ hose of master
shamans.” For this passage, he does not make references to sources to document
the Tan’gun Ruler (Tan’gun Wanggŏm) legends. This may have originated from
textual sources, but this is not cited in his work: Yi Nŭng-­hwa, “Chosŏn mu-
sokko,” Kyemyŏng Sibo, vol. 19, 1927, 10.

Ritual Specialists in Colonial Drag  |  81

 69 Yi was among several Korean scholars inspired by recent archeological dis-
coveries of Unified Silla Dynasty (668–935 ce ) artifacts that erupted a new
subfield of “Tan’gun studies.” Yi’s contemporaries Sin Ch’ae-ho and Ch’oe
Nam-­sŏn wrote most prolifically on Tan’gun studies, but it should be noted
that scholars have discussed the Tan’gun origin story for hundreds of years. For
instance, Yi Ik, the famous reform scholar from the seventeenth ­century, ex-
plored the sacred geography of Paektu Mountain and surrounding environs as
the birthplace of Tan’gun: Yi Ik, Sŏngho sasŏl, trans. Ch’oe Sŏk-ki, 2d repr. ed.
(Seoul: Han’gilsa, 2002), 54–59. A new religion surrounding Tan’gun (known
as Tan’gungyo and Taejonggyo) was created in 1909. For more on this religion,
see Cho Hŭng-­y un, Han’guk chonggyo munhwaron (Seoul: Hyŏndae Sinsŏ,
2002), 200–221.
70 Yi Nŭng-­hwa, “Chosŏn musokko,” Kyemyŏng Sibo, vol. 19, 1927, 10.
71 Ch’ach’aung meant “venerable elders.” For this, Yi studied the Rec­ords of the Three
Kingdoms (Samguk sagi).
72 Yi Nŭng-­hwa, “Chosŏn musokko,” Kyemyŏng Sibo, vol. 19, 1927, 10.
73 Yi’s shamanism research borrowed from a number of studies on hwarang that had
already been published by the time of his treatise in 1927, including in his own
writings on Chibong yusŏl, in Chŏng Yak-­yŏng’s Aŏn kakpi, and in Yi Kyu-­kyŏng’s
Mugyŏk pyŏnjungsŏl, showing that this was a popu­lar topic throughout the 1920s,
as well: Yi Su-­kwang, Chibong yusŏl, ed. Nam Man-­sŏng (Seoul: Ŭ Se Munhwasa,
1994).
74 Kim, “Yi Nunghwa, Buddhism, and the Modernization of ­Korea,” 2010.
75 The year 1513 ce was the eighth of Chungjong’s reign: Yi Nŭng-­hwa, “Chosŏn
musokko,” 17. Yi uses this and another court rec­ord from 1503 to introduce two
categories of male shamans he variously phoneticizes as rangjung. He notes that
they are sometimes also referred to as hwarang.
76 Hyaeweol Choi, New ­Women in Colonial ­Korea: A Sourcebook (New York: Rout-
ledge, 2013), 13.
77 Muñoz, Cruising Utopia, 34.
78 Do-­Hyun Han, “Shamanism, Superstition, and the Colonial ­Government,”
­R eview of Korean Studies 3, no. 1 (2000): 36. For a more nuanced ­treatment
of colonialist rhe­toric and strategies pertaining to shamans, see Ch’oe
­Sŏk-­yŏng, Ilcheha musongnon kwa singminji kwŏllyŏk (Seoul: Sŏgyŏng
­Munhwasa, 1999).
79 Tong’a Ilbo, March 24, 1923, 3. Tong’a Ilbo also reported that Sungsinin Chohap
held eight thousand “shamans who belong to associations” and claimed that
they ­were “controlled by the Japa­nese.” This argument that Japa­nese settlers ­were
importing shamanism into ­Korea is not a new one. Nearly two de­cades ­earlier, in
the dawn of the colonial era, the Taehan Maeil Sinbo often made similar charges.
For the remainder of this section, I leave the term mudang untranslated to specify
the type and pre­sent them within an array of ritual specialists (at the end of this
section) as mentioned in ­these newspapers.

82  |  Merose Hwang

 80 The dailies heavi­ly targeted Sungsinin for its voluntary displays of devotion at this
shrine. Amaterasu Ōmikami was the most prevalent enshrined deity, followed
by Emperor Meiji and Kunitama no Ōmikami: Nakajima, “Shintō Deities That
Crossed the Sea,” 34. For the most thorough treatment of Shintō assimilationism,
see Todd A. Henry, “Spiritual Assimilation: Namsan’s Shintō Shrines and Their
Festival Cele­brations,” in Henry, Assimilating Seoul, 62–91.
81 Tong’a Ilbo, October 3, 1929, 2.
82 As defined by Judith [ Jack] Halberstam, a “Drag King is a performer who makes
masculinity into his or her act (yes, ­there can be male Drag Kings). The Drag King
may make costume into the ­whole of her per­for­mance, or s/he may lip synch or
play air guitar or tell crude jokes about ‘girlies’ and ‘homos’ ”: Judith [ Jack] Hal-
berstam and Del LaGrace Volcano, The Drag King Book (London: Serpent’s Tail,
1999), 36.
83 ­­These two ­were the most commonly worshipped Shintō deities throughout the
Japa­nese colonies.
84 Tong’a Ilbo, October 3, 1929, 2. See also Cho Hŭng-­yun, Mu wa minjok munhwa, 212.
85 Michael Peletz discusses “ritual transvestism” in Southeast Asia in much the same
way that I do ­here, as methods for ­women’s autonomy, social control, ritual
transvestism, gender transgression and transgender, and so on: see Michael Peletz,
Gender Pluralism: Southeast Asia since Early Modern Times (New York: Routledge,
2009).
86 Post-1945 rituals sometimes invoked spirits such as that of General Douglas Mac­
Arthur in ceremonies that directly challenged the U.S. Army Military Govern-
ment in ­Korea. In a similar vein, during the postwar years of the 1970s, the Korean
Anti-­Communist Worshipping Association was or­ga­nized to appeal to the South
Korean Cold War regime: Kim, “Regional Characteristics of Korean Shamanism,”
119.
87 Homi Bhabha, “Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse,”
in The Location of Culture (New York: Routledge), 121–31.
88 Muñoz, Cruising Utopia, 55; Judith Butler, Gender Trou­ble: Feminism and the
Subversion of Identity (New York: Routledge, 1990), 174. Snjezana Zoric has made
a similar argument of dodangje, a Confucian state ancestor ritual that Korean
shamans incorporated into their ritual per­for­mances when it was officially banned
during the colonial period: Snjezana Zoric, “The Magic of Per­for­mance in Korean
Shamanic Ritual—­Gut,” in The Ritual Year 10: Magic in Rituals and Rituals in
Magic, ed. Tatiana Minniyakhmetova and Kamila Velkoborska (Tartu, Estonia:
Innsbruck, 2015), 374–75.
89 Butler’s model of gender per­for­mance and Bhaba’s concepts of colonial hybrid-
ity and mimicry help me understand Korean shamans in Shintō drag as a form of
colonial re­sis­tance: Butler, Gender Trou­ble; Homi Bhabha, “Remembering Fanon:
Self, Psyche and the Colonial Condition,” in Colonial Discourse and Post-colonial
Theory: A Reader, ed. Patrick Williams and Laura Chrisman (New York: Colum-
bia University Press, 1994), 112–24.

Ritual Specialists in Colonial Drag  |  83

 90 Halberstam’s point that “excessive masculinity turns into a parody or exposure of
the norm” helps me see ­these colonized communities experimenting with colo-
nizer fantasies for their own self-­empowerment: Judith [ Jack] Halberstam, Female
Masculinity (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1998), 3–4.
91 For examples of other types of syncretism, see Yu, “Korean Taoism and Shamanism.”
92 An example of the prior is Tong’a Ilbo, December 16, 1927, 5.
93 Cho Hŭng-­yun, Mu wa minjok munhwa, 212–13, 225.
94 Murayama Chijun’s office oversaw the enforcement of public hygiene laws that
monitored unsanctioned medical practices such as shamanic ritual for healing.
“According to the colonial police, shamans ­violated the medical law”: Han, “Sha-
manism, Superstition, and the Colonial Government,” 42.
95 It is unclear ­whether they secretly performed private ceremonies, which may have
been in violation of local ordinances.
96 Tong’a Ilbo, March 24, 1923, 3.
97 A good example of shamans’ social ­trials for not conforming to heteronormative
society is in Laurel Kendall, The Life and Hard Times of a Korean Shaman: Of Tales
and the Telling of Tales (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1988).
98 Travel writers such as Bishop made age-­old comments about effeminized men
who married or associated with shamans as types to “live in idleness on the earn-
ings of his wife”: Bishop, ­Korea and Her Neighbours, 423, 425.
99 The Chosŏn Chung’ang Ilbo (­Korea Central Daily) was “dumbfounded” by a
marriage “scandal” between a Buddhist monk and a female shaman. It warned
“everywhere eyes are on the look-­out for similar kinds of head monks,” April 19,
1935, 7.
100 It claimed, “In Taedongkunbam, a Buddhist man by the pseudonym Yun Sŏk-­han,
the head monk of Tut’a ­temple, took a female mudang, Chŏng Nyŏ-­hwa, as his
wife”: Chungang Ilbo, April 19, 1935, 7.
101 Whenever female shamans ­were involved with male spiritualists, journalists
reveled in lambasting ­women’s spiritual sexual perversion by attaching unfemi-
nine and unvirtuous traits to ­these ritual specialists. Anne McClintock refers
to writings on the sexualization of colonial subjects as “pornotropics”: Anne
McClintock, Imperial Leather: Race, Gender, and Sexuality in the Colonial Contest
(New York: Routledge, 1995), 22.
102 On the “­woman question,” see Choi, New ­Women in Colonial ­Korea. See also Yun
Nan-ji, “Musok kwa yŏsŏng e kwanhan Ilyŏn’gu (master’s thesis, Ehwa Womans
University, Seoul, 1978).
103 Tong’a Ilbo, March 3, 1934, 6.
104 Chosŏn Chung’ang Ilbo, November 27, 1934.
105 It also claimed that the chief of police in North Chŏlla Province was in cahoots with
shamans: Tong’a Ilbo, May 17, 1921, 3. For another example, see November 21, 1921, 1.
106 Kim, Chong-­man, Urijip 8 (Fall 1932): 12.
107 In the 1920s, Korean newspapers increasingly discussed ­women’s reproductive
roles in relation to the colonial population. On the “motherhood discourse,” see

84  |  Merose Hwang

 Chŏn Mi-­gyŏng, “1920 30 yŏndae ‘mosŏng tamnon’ e kwanhan yŏn’gu:
‘Sinyŏsŏng’ e nat’anan ŏmŏni kyoyugŭl chungsim ŭro,” Han’guk Kajŏng kwa
Kyoyuk Hakhoeji 17, no. 2 ( June 2005): 95–112. On ­women and colonial ­labor, see
Chŏng Chin-­sŏng, “Singminji chabonjuŭihwa kwajŏng esŏ ui yŏsŏng nodong ŭi
pyŏnmo,” Han’guk Yŏan’guk 4 (1988): 49–100.
108 Primary sources referenced in the order mentioned are Tong’a Ilbo, June 26, 1929,
2; October 3, 1929, 2; April 9, 1922, 3; and March 5, 1932, 3.
109 Tong’a Ilbo (Kwangju Branch), November 11, 1933, 3.
110 Tong’a Ilbo, July 13, 1923, 3.
111 For more on laws created explic­itly to oppress shamanism, see Martina Deuchler,
The Confucian Transformation of K ­ orea: A Study of Society and Ideology, Yenching
Institute Monograph Series (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), 260.
112 For more on shamanism as a part of colonial collaborationist politics, see Kang
Yŏng-si, Ilje sigi kŭndaejŏk ilsang kwa singminji munhwa (Seoul: Ehwa ­Women’s
University Press, 2008), 161.
113 Much of Kim Seong-­Nae’s work illustrates this point. She has worked with sha-
man communities on redress and reparations from the 1948 Cheju Massacre.
114 Muñoz argues that per­for­mance is a ritual of transformation and that ­these trans-
formations may induce po­liti­cal reformulation: José Esteban Muñoz, Disidentifica-
tions: Queers of Color and the Per­for­mance of Politics (Minneapolis: University of
Minnesota Press, 1999), x, xiv, 13.
115 In 1928, a year ­after Treatise on Korean Shamanism was published, Ch’oe Nam-­sŏn
and Yi Nŭng-­hwa ­were appointed to the Committee on the Investigation of
Korean Antiquities. A few years ­later, Sungsinin Chohap dissolved as quickly and
mysteriously as it had emerged: Kim Tae-­gon, “Han’guk musok yon’gusa sŏsul
pangsik e taehayŏ,” Pigyo Minsok Hakhoe 1, no. 12 (1995): 455–58.
116 In his gorgeous book Cruising Utopia: The Then and ­There of Queer Futurity, Muñoz
argues that, “to live inside straight time and ask for, desire, and imagine another
time and place is to represent and perform a desire that is both utopian and queer.”
I would stress that while mudang grapple in the business of the past, their peculiar
temporality is queer time—­a creative return to the past that historicizes through a
dialectical injunction, one that offers potentiality, promise, ecstasy, and a utopian
horizon: Muñoz, Cruising Utopia, 26–28.
117 Liu, Queer Marxism in Two Chinas, 120.
118 Liu, Queer Marxism in Two Chinas, 123.

Works Cited

NEWSPAPERS AND MAGAZINES

Chosŏn Ilbo
Chosŏn Chung’ang Ilbo
Kaebyŏk

Ritual Specialists in Colonial Drag  |  85

Kyemyŏng Sibo
Kyŏnghyang Chapji
Taehan Maeil Sinbo
Tong’a Ilbo
Urijip

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Ritual Specialists in Colonial Drag  |  89

 Chapter Two

TELLING QUEER TIME

IN A STRAIGHT EMPIRE
YI SANG’S “WINGS” (1936)

John Whittier Treat

The ­here and now is a prison ­house.

—­José Esteban Muñoz, Cruising Utopia

The only ­thing that both­ered me was the

slowness of time.
—­Yi Sang, “Wings”

H
 
egel still convinces us that time, bundled as History, moves inexorably
forward. But we also know that some of us linger b­ ehind, stalled in its
eddies, while o­ thers race ahead thinking they can outrun it. Most of
us strug­gle to stay aware of just what­ever the clock or calendar may insist on
in our quotidian routines. But every­one does t­hese ­things: we inhabit mul-
tiple, overlapping, and contesting times, t­ hose mandated at work and ­those we
manage to steal as leisure. Some are near-­hegemonic: the stages of life we are
told ­will happen to us inexorably; more collectively, the times to which our na-
tion, ­people, ethnicity, or tribe are consigned by the rule of a global legislation
of modernity, development, productivity. Yet at other times we decamp from
the imperfective discipline of enforced time to resist or even sabotage—­from
being purposefully late for a meeting to lying about our true age, betting on
an uncertain ­future, even waging armed strug­gle against “advanced” nations
seeking to impose their timelines for social and economic pro­gress on us.
 And then t­here is queer time. In this essay, I address two t­hings not
ordinarily mapped in tandem—­colonial time and queer time—­because in
scholarly discourse their historical conjuncture is fragile: the nineteenth
­century was already onto the coerced reor­ga­ni­za­tion of everyday life u­ nder
colonization, but it was only in the twentieth c­ entury that we began to think
of the lives of queer p­ eople as analogous, ­under varying regimes of compul-
sory heteronormativity, to that of Asian and African p­ eoples ­under Eu­ro­pean
domination—or, as is my example in this essay, Koreans u­ nder the Japa­nese.
Queer time, or qt, should be seen as “subaltern” in this context and an am-
bivalent challenge to the imposed normativities of many sorts. I argue that
qt has something to teach us about colonial time, and vice versa: that queer
time is no spectral effect of colonial modernity but, in the case of K ­ orea, was
­there from the start.
The chronological sequence of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries
neatly sandwiches the life and ­career of Yi Sang (1910–37), ­Korea’s most cel-
ebrated and castigated modernist writer. Yi sits historically where we might lo-
cate a nexus of the colonial with, or versus, the queer. His entire brief life (his
­career as a writer lasted all of eight years) he played with scandalous names,
including his own.1 Born one week ­after the annexation and raised in the
heart of traditional Seoul (renamed Keijō by the Japa­nese), he was given the
perfectly proper name Kim Hae-­kyŏng at birth but chose a pen name whose
puns, some ribald, are still debated. Most accounts suggest that this eventual
literary modernist par excellence aspired to be an artist at first but would train
as an engineer and architect, and chose his name b­ ecause Japa­nese coworkers
in the architecture section of the Japa­nese Government-­General hailed him, in
the colonial language they shared, as “Yi-­san” or “Mr.  Yi.” But that is not
correct, since we know that he was already calling himself Yi Sang while still a
student at the elite Kyŏngsŏng [Keijō] Advanced Industrial College, the only
Korean among the dozen-­plus students in the architecture department. More
preposterously, one person has suggested that Yi 李 is Japa­nese sumomo (plum
tree), and Sang 箱 is rightly written kan 棺 (coffin), invoking the image of fall-
ing petals alighting atop his resting place in a morbid Romantic image quite
unlike any he deployed in any of his avant-­garde poetry. Still ­others would
read “Yi Sang” as 理想 (ideal)—­again, hardly an association consistent with
his life or his writings. Recently, his name has been read as 已喪 “already dead.”2
We are left with “Yi Sang” as a homonym for the common Korean adjectival
verb isang 異常, often translated as “abnormal” or “odd.” Yi’s first published
poem was in fact entitled “Ijō [isang in Korean] na kagyaku hannō” (An

Yi Sang’s “Wings”  |  91
Abnormal Reverse Reaction, 1931). But for reasons explored l­ater, I render all
yisangs as “queer.”
Via Yi and his signature short story, “Nalgae” (Wings [1936]), I approach
the dialectical workings of colonial and queer times. With apologies, I begin
with this lengthy quote as my demonstration of just how Yi occupied both:
Written squarely in the m ­ iddle of a blackboard more than forty feet long
­were the flesh-­colored numerals “69.” It was a sign with an odd name for a
café, not your typical “Bellflowers” or “Carry Me Home.” A customer who
had entered with his head bowed sat down in a chair and was perplexed
even more.
The chair was extremely low. He was nearly sitting on the floor. Having
fallen back into it with a thud, the customer now noticed the interior was dark
and gloomy, not like other cafés.
When he looked around, he saw the café was not decorated with as much
as a vase of flowers. All ­there was a single oil painting hanging on a wall, a por-
trait of a man with a beard ­shaped like the scabbard of a spear.
While thinking this was a strange café indeed, the customer remembered
the sign “69” he had seen when he entered. He realized that the inscrutability
of the café began with its very name.
“69? Yukku?” the customer mumbled with his head cocked, as if now he
understood.
“That’s it! Yukkuri. It’s Japa­nese for ‘come in and relax.’ ”
A man sitting near the ­counter heard the customer and gave him a wry
look. He had a beard that resembled that of the man in the painting—he must
be the owner of this café. Thinking his expression might be a bit rude, he
changed it to a slight smile.
Why a smile? ­Because the gentle customer who had come up with a cryp-
tic explanation for “69” was tongmunsŏdap—­way off base. Proposing Japa­nese
yukkuri for the mystery was not g­ oing to solve the prob­lem. Interpreting it as
“blowing the bamboo flute and fishing for abalone” might make one think of
a graceful drinking party ­under moonlight, but memories of lines from Li Po’s
poetry would be of no use ­here.
So, just what foolish equation could explain “69”? Equations are equations,
and this one is yin plus yang. The round parts of ­those Arabic numerals ­were
the heads of a man and a ­woman, and the long parts the lower halves of their
bodies. In other words, it was an offensive pictograph of the yin-­yang equation
utterly turned upside down.

92  |  John Whittier Treat

 Moreover, such an insolent, impertinent pictograph was brazenly painted
in flesh colors on the black board. Gentle customers would, to a man, only
think of it as Japa­nese yukkuri—­“Make yourself at home.” Yes, that’s just what
you common ­people would make of it, thought the owner with a scabbard-­
like beard, as he let loose a small grin on his face.3

This extended quote is from Im Chong-­guk (1929–89), whose most impor­tant

work, Ch’inil Munhangnon (Pro-­Japanese Lit­er­a­ture [1966]), exempts Yi Sang,
the bearded man, from condemnation as a collaborationist b­ ecause Yi died
too soon to be put to the test his longer-­lived contemporaries endured during
the ­later years of total war. But nationalists already regarded his dedicated af-
finities with Japa­nese writers such as Yokomitsu Riichi and Anzai Fuyue with
suspicion. If not ch’inil (pro-­Japanese) in any overtly po­liti­cal sense—­his name
does not appear among the 3,090 names in South ­Korea’s notoriously inclu-
sive Ch’inil Immyŏng Sajŏn (Dictionary of Japa­nese Collaborators [2009])—
he was widely regarded during his lifetime as wayward and even heretical in
his repudiation of Korean literary tradition and his substitute embrace of an
apo­liti­cal modernism. ­Under the tutelage of the pioneering poet Chŏng Chi-­
yong, he participated in the opening of Korean poetry to new ideas already
familiar in the West and, less so, in Japan. He quit his government job in 1933
and began his second ­career, not as successful, as a café proprietor. He ­rose
to prominence in 1934 as a member of the Kuinhoe (Circle of Nine) group of
writers, among whom he was prominent for his experiments with Dada and
surrealism, as well as mathe­matics. (Albert Einstein is cited as an influence on
Yi’s concrete poetry.) In the fall of 1936, Yi’s rising fame was ironically cut short
when he, recently married, left his f­amily to travel alone to Tokyo, telling no
one of his plans. That winter, the authorities in Tokyo arrested him for being
an unruly Korean (futei senjin). He was held in a Nishi-­Kanda jail on the ad-
ditional suspicion of having committed thought crimes (shisō-­han). A month
­later, when his chronic tuberculosis worsened, he was transferred with the
help of friends to the Tokyo Imperial University Hospital. He died on April 17
of that year. The Korean consensus maintains Yi Sang’s imprisonment caused
his health to collapse. As the young scholar Ch’oe Chin-­sŏk has recently put
it, “In Tokyo, Yi was a futei senjin before he was a literary modernist.”4 Legend
has it that he died sniffing a lemon, a reference to the Japa­nese modernist Kajii
Motojirō, who himself died of tuberculosis a few years a­ fter writing his famous
story “Lemon” (Remon [1925]) about a fellow consumptive who places one
on a bookstore shelf and fantasizes that it explodes.

Yi Sang’s “Wings”  |  93
 The legend makes a good story, if an overdramatic one. Yi meant to wreak
havoc himself. The words “offensive,” “impertinent,” and “insolent” in Im Chong-­
guk’s quote about him ­were not meant ironically. During his lifetime, Yi was
already attacked as ludicrously narcissistic. The portrait on the walls of Café
69 might have been the ­actual self-­portrait that Yi, who once wanted to be a
painter, submitted to the 1931 Senten juried art exhibition. At the time, the
­national aspirations of the Korean p­ eople ­were largely assumed to be lit­er­a­ture’s
paramount concern ­under the weight of Japa­nese occupation. His long poem
Ogamdo (Crow’s Eye View [1934]) was so unconventional it made some readers
doubt his sanity.5 ­Others merely demanded a halt to its publication a­ fter only
halfway through its intended thirty installments.6 It is still debated ­whether Yi
was a prodigy or just mentally ill.7
With the help of a hostess (kisaeng) whom he met at a hot spring while
convalescing (one of the few times he ever left Seoul), Yi would run a num-
ber of ill-­fated cafés (including one called Chebi in Korean, or Tsubame in
Japa­nese; literally, “swallow,” but also slang for a young gigolo) in both Ko-
rean Insadong and Japa­nese Honmachi, neighborhoods north and south of
the dividing line of the Ch’ŏnggye Stream. When his health started to fail,
he abandoned his day job as an architect and dedicated himself to writing
poetry, short stories, and essays. He became K ­ orea’s homegrown Bohemian
dandy, with long hair and a beard; he was as fond of bowties as any East Asian
“modern boy,” and his life was criticized, including a­ fter liberation, as liber-
tine and corrupt. ­There ­were rumors that he used narcotics; attended orgies;
and engaged in bigamy and, possibly, bisexuality. One American writer called
him ­Korea’s “darker conscience, a drug addicted, tubercular poète maudit.”8
Closer to home in K ­ orea, the critic Kim U-­chang said that all of the “degen-
erative pro­cesses of Korean society” could be seen in Yi Sang’s “atomic indi-
vidualism of alienation and anomie” and even called him an artist with “no
social constituency.” Kim writes, “In Yi Sang, alienation of the artist in colo-
nial society is brought to a quin­tes­sen­tial expression,”9 thereby rendering Yi a
spurious by-­product of baneful Japa­nese influences, someone who retreated
from words into inorganic numbers (69?) and technical symbols and vocab-
ulary (equations?) in his concrete poetry and elsewhere.10 Referring to Yi as
“half-­caste,” Kim concludes that, “like Yi Sang’s coffee-­house, his stories, . . . ​
express contradictions of the acculturated colonial man suspended between
the abstract freedom of a man released from feudal obligations and the ulti-
mate constraint of colonialism that fosters this freedom and at the same time
renders it meaningless.”11

94  |  John Whittier Treat

 But eventually Yi would be credited with greater agency by critics and even
resurrected as preternatural proof of modern Korean lit­er­a­ture’s ability to pro-
duce a daring bête noire only two de­cades ­after Ch’oe Nam-­sŏn initiated the
proj­ect of a modern Korean poetry. Since 1977, t­ here has even been a presti-
gious literary prize named ­after him. For a long time, the question was asked
­whether Yi was “premature” for ­Korea, but the answer ­today seems to be no.12
Chris Hanscom is not mocking Yi when he says his “unkempt hair and white
shoes . . . ​befitt[ed] young artists desiring the elusive modern.”13 It also is a key
part of Yi’s pre­sent rehabilitation that his “queerness”—­white shoes, ­really?—
is grounds no longer for criticism but for cele­bration. Combing the modern
East Asian canon for signs of queerness is a popu­lar academic sport nowa-
days.14 When evidence is found, it propels China, K ­ orea, and Japan into the
post-­heteronormative world with the newly coined cultural capital of sexual
perversity. Yi Sang easily pre­sents himself as such a candidate and has, as a re-
sult, become something of a poster boy for K ­ orea’s modern literary precocity,
if in the implicit comparative context of Japan and the West.
Almost twenty years ago, Walter Lew gave us this newly valorized Yi Sang
in his impor­tant and wide-­ranging essay “Jean Cocteau in the Looking Glass:
A Homotextual Reading of Yi Sang’s Mirrors Poems.” Lew begins by noting
that the wide range of literary influences on Yi—­“ranging from Li Po, Jean
Arthur . . . ​and Maxim Gorki to Kōda Rohan . . . ​and fellow poet Chŏng Chi-­
yong,” just to start—­“(dis)appears throughout Yi Sang’s work.”15 He uncannily
anticipates what (dis)appears in criticism of that same work: the homoerotic.
Lew chooses to focus, originally, on Yi’s crafty “collaboration” with Jean Coc-
teau, just the kind of literary collaboration Wayne Koestenbaum described as
having “the lovely aura of contraband”:16
Reading Yi Sang in relation to Cocteau helps disengage heterosexualist as-
sumptions that have crippled studies devoted to an author who wrote that,
no m
­ atter how exhausted, he should “stand forth bravely and even if alone be-
come something special far beyond male vs. female.” . . . ​[W]hen . . . ​the ob-
ject of affection was another man, Yi Sang needed to resort to poetic puzzles
and innovative encodings grafted almost imperceptibly from the characters,
scenes and symbols in homoerotically shaded works by such authors as Coc-
teau, Wilde, and Robert Lewis Stevenson.17

Lew is not interested in “outing” a homosexual Yi Sang, but he is cognizant

of the lacunae of any mention of the homoerotic in the copious criticism of
his work and that of other Korean writers. It could have been, Lew says, Yi’s

Yi Sang’s “Wings”  |  95
well-­known devotion to Cocteau that was “the most ‘homosexual’ relation in
Yi Sang’s life.” The two men never met in person (they just missed each other
in Tokyo), but Lew persuasively argues that Yi was acquainted with Cocteau’s
work via the Japa­nese translations that circulated in K
­ orea. Lew’s gaze is not
focused on Yi the author as much as it is on critics before Lew who, despite
what is “so temptingly implied in previous studies,” now won­ders ­whether
“their authors have already long shared the secret that apparently cannot be
published.”18 What Lew discloses is not Yi’s problematic sexuality but, rather,
literary history’s studied nondisclosure of the “homotextual.”
­There are plenty of ways to mine Yi Sang’s poetry for traces of the queer.
­Here is one example: in “Poem No. 2” of Crow’s Eye View, Yi writes,
when my ­father dozes off beside me i become my ­father and also i become my
­father’s ­father and even so while my f­ ather like my ­father why do i repeatedly
my ­father’s ­father’s ­father’s. . . . ​when I become a ­father why must i lopingly
leap over my f­ather and why am i that which while fi­nally playing all at once
my and my ­father’s and ­father’s ­father’s and my ­father’s ­father’s ­father’s roles
must live?19

Lew interprets this passage as expressing “anxiety about departing from the
uniform successions of patriarchal descent.”20 Fair enough, but beyond that
I can offer a specifically queer mechanism as work, as well: the stutter-­like
­repetition of “­father” recalls Lauren Berlant’s insight in her book Cruel Op-
timism (in an expression of utopianism to which I return at the end of this
essay) that “repetition, heavi­ly marked as a pro­cess of reading and rereading,
has a reparative effect on the subject of an unwieldy sexuality. The queer ten-
dency of this method is to put one’s attachments back into play and plea­sure,
into knowledge, into words. It is to admit they m ­ atter.”21 Like the passionate
reiteration of a lover’s name during sexual intercourse, the anaphora in Yi’s
poem homoeroticizes what Lew would call the Oedipal, rendering the “strug­
gle” as incest with the f­ather instead of the ­mother. But that is not the road
Lew, writing long before Berlant, chose to follow. Lew instead focuses on the
frequency of mirror imagery—­often the major motif—in Yi’s work, especially,
but not exclusively, in the poetry. The voice in the poem or story approaches
his image in the mirror, aware that it is himself, but is frustrated in his attempt
to enter into or even just converse with the image: “The narrator finds it dif-
ficult to survive without his reflection in view, [but] the mirror that transmits
the reflection is also a wall that prevents the two from shaking each other’s
hands.”22 Lew has an agenda h­ ere, and it is an Oedipal one of his own. Previ-

96  |  John Whittier Treat

ous scholarship (e.g., by Kim Yun-­sik, Yi Ŏ-­r yŏng, and Im Chong-­guk, the
critics to whom Lew filially dedicates his essay) reads this “split self ” in one
of three rote ways: psychoanalytically, as the narrator works out his Oedipal
strug­gle; anticolonial (“nationalist or Korean self vs. colonized self ”); or the
ideal versus the mundane in “the very fact of self-­consciousness.”23 What this
scholarship does not imagine, Lew writes, is
two other traces of alterity and doubling in Yi Sang’s work: 1) its intensely sub-
merged desire for or adoration of other male figures, and 2) its intertextual re-
flection of works by other authors and artists that make striking use of mirror
symbolism. In the pre­sent article, ­these two traces are integrated in an analy­sis
of the mirror poems’ “homotextuality,” elaborated as a desired, textual male
Other (or tain) ­behind the glass of Yi Sang’s mirrors, cleverly disguised as a
Self-­contained “I in the mirror.”24

What scandalizes Lew is not Yi Sang but the “absence throughout Korean lit-
erary history scholarship in general of discussions of male gayness,” including
of how the mirror poems, despite their debt to a writer as fey as Cocteau, “are
drained of their homoerotic suggestiveness, . . . ​hiding a male object of desire
whose true name cannot be uttered”—­even the case of Poem No. 9 in Crow’s
Eye View, where Yi’s line, “In my bowels I feel the weighty barrel of the gun and
its slippery mouth against my tightly shut lips,” is reduced ­after Korean critics’
pained peregrinations to “a conceit of solitary heterosexual onanism.”25
It seems unfair to chide Korean critics too harshly for this lapse. It is surely
more a reading of Lew’s moment and our own than it is of previous genera-
tions. It has not been that long since Melville, Forester, and Sōseki have been
“queer,” ­either. This is a new proj­ect for critics. And who knows what as yet un-
named “paradigms” we are not seeing in Yi Sang’s work as we read him ­today.
But Lew’s essay is surely a step forward, if by that we mean he has expanded
the contexts in which we are f­ ree to read Yi without shame or embarrassment,
for the writer or ourselves. Still, in my estimation, Lew continues to commit,
as did e­ arlier scholars, to a certain congruency of identity between Yi and his
texts when he thematizes “forbidden love or unattainable gay desire” in them
as the poetically masked and critically unmentionable elephant in the room
“­because of the social taboo on public gay relations.”26 Yi was known for being
autobiographical in his work, but that is not the overlap that ­matters: it is the
location of homoerotic or queer desire in the enunciated subject (in Yi—­that
is, the first-­person familiar pronoun na [I], which is often taken to be the
writer himself) in the verse or prose.

Yi Sang’s “Wings”  |  97
 Like Lew, I am not focused on Yi Sang’s “debauched” (Lew’s word) sexual-
ity, or on Yi Sang the h­ uman being at all, what­ever his orientation.27 What I
want to do is approach the queer in the signifier “Yi Sang,” specifically the short
story “Wings,” as a monologue said to be the first literary work in ­Korea to
use stream-­of-­consciousness narration. “Wings” has been the subject of many
cogent readings in the West, as well as in ­Korea, such as the historian Henry Em’s
ideological take on it some years ago. Em describes the difficult language of
the story (actually, it is one of Yi’s easier works to read) as symptomatic of the
“writer ­under colonial rule,” but ­those symptoms echo ­those of the closeted
homosexual. Yi’s is “the language of a dismembered discourse incapable of
communicating openly, venturing out from its hiding places to express, only half
coherently, ideas and urges it must keep repressed,” Em writes. “I suggest that
‘Wings’ can be read as an allegory of how an entire generation of intellectuals
sought to survive in a colonial setting by becoming entirely private, shielding
themselves with self-­deceptions ­until even that became impossible.”28
I return to what is si­mul­ta­neously “queer” and “anticolonial” in Yi’s signa-
ture story to suggest that many self-­nominated queers are recognizably “post-
colonial” themselves, but first I want to interrogate two critical concepts of
relatively recent vintage but useful applicability. Th ­ ese concepts—­those of
straight time and queer time—­have the advantage of provisionally releasing
us from the inevitably psychological regime of “desire” (and its inevitable
home in the putative biographeme of an anthropologized subject) to migrate
elsewhere—to the movement of p­ eople, “queer,” “straight,” or other­wise, through
time or­ga­nized in often incommensurable chronotropes, including the “devi-
ant” or “perverted.”
I date the parlance of “straight time” and “queer time,” conjoined ­because
homosexuals inhabit both, to Judith [ Jack] Halberstam’s In a Queer Time
and Place: Transgender Bodies, Subcultural Lives (2005). Unhelpful in learning
anything outside Western cultures, Halberstam nonetheless gives us some-
thing with which to work, beginning with the commonplace observation that
“queerness of time and space develop, in part, in opposition to the institu-
tions of ­family, heterosexuality, and reproduction.”29 No argument h­ ere: gay
­people often lead lives, certainly in their spare time, with small regard for the
schedules of the majority. “On time” for us can mean no more than an hour
or two late, as anyone who has scheduled a brunch for gay men can attest. But
more seriously, qt (pun intended) also refers to the truncated life spans my
generation of gay men in the United States came to half expect. Years ago, hav-
ing to take your azt at precisely timed intervals struck many as particularly

98  |  John Whittier Treat

irksome. Wristwatch alarms would go off in movie theaters and restaurants
at inopportune “times.” You could not skip any of your pills; it was one of the
traumas of living by straight time in our gay lives. Somehow being “on time”
has always reeked of the Law of the ­Father and his rules. “In acclimatizing to
the discourses and demands of new treatment regimens, gay men with hiv
experienced a significant shift in their experience of temporality,” writes Kane
Race. “We have all had to rearrange our daily living schedules to fit the drugs
in at the right time and dosage,” he quotes Michael Flynn as saying. “­Going
out to dinner, meeting friends for a drink, staying away from home or partying
all night long now have to be carefully planned like a military operation.”30 In
other words, our gay compliance with ­those regimens is as compulsory as any
Korean colonial subject’s obedience might once have been, and both disrupt
the normal hours of the day and night.
Every­thing that clocks and calendars tell us is already straight time, if not
quite how Halberstam means it. What is the “queer” in “queer time,” exactly?
For nonreproductive queer p­ eople, ­there is no “our c­ hildren’s lives” or our
“grandchildren’s lives,” expressions that are reserved for straight time. But the
point lies elsewhere. Queer time is more than a ­simple failure to picture time
beyond our immediate selves, and it often expresses itself as a positive aes-
thetic. ­There is modernism, for example. Baudelaire was involved with “the
transient, the fleeting, the contingent,” and so is the “queer.”31 And so was
Yi Sang, for whom Modernism and Baudelaire ­were so impor­tant. “I saun-
tered aimlessly ­here and ­there,” Yi writes through his narrator in “Wings,”
“not knowing why I was ­doing this.”32 My point is that all sorts of us live in
qt. Drug addicts (Yi Sang was rumored to have been one) do, for instance,
­because they exist in “rapid bursts” of time that are perceived as “immature
and even dangerous.”33 But qt is also a hopeful, liberating place to be. “Queer
time for me,” writes Halberstam,
is the dark nightclub, the perverse turn away from the narrative coherence of
adolescence—­early childhood—­marriage—­reproduction—­childrearing—­
retirement—­death, the embrace of late childhood in place of early adulthood
or immaturity in a place of responsibility. It is a theory of queerness as a way
of being in the world and a critique of the careful social scripts that usher even
the most queer among us through major markers of individual development
and into normativity.34

Halberstam goes further, quite nearly alighting on utopia, which I would argue
is always the subtext of our discussion of qt. “One of my central assertions

Yi Sang’s “Wings”  |  99
has been that queer temporality disrupts the normative narratives of time
that form the base of nearly e­ very definition of the h­ uman in almost all of our
modes of understanding.”35 That includes the conventionally “heterosexual”
and “homosexual.” Halberstam asks us to detach queerness from sexual iden-
tity. This is one of the reasons that the term “queer” is of quite ­limited ap-
plicability, but let us put that aside for the moment. Halberstam prefers we
understand it as not a way of having sex, but as having a way of life, which must
be more unnerving to some. This is how Yi Sang, if he was not queer then,
certainly is now—­remembering that, in Korean straight time, he is annually
awarded as a literary prize.
Halberstam quotes the gay poet Mark Doty: “All my life I’ve believed with
a ­future which constantly diminishes but never vanishes.”36 But it was left to
the late José Esteban Muñoz, in Cruising Utopia: The Then and ­There of Queer
Futurity, to take up queer time and provocatively toss it into the ongoing con-
troversy about gay ­people and the prospect of a ­future, debated most by the
psychoanalytical team of Lee Edelman (in his influential No ­Future: Queer
Theory and the Death Drive [2004]) and Leo Bersani (in his even more influ-
ential Homos [1996]). They theorized what Muñoz dismisses as “the so-­called
thesis of antirelativity,” with which ­people more sanguine about our ­futures,
such as Berlant and Muñoz, take issue.37 All we get from Edelman and com­
pany are t­ hose “­little deaths” that come with our sexual climaxes, and that is
not much, Muñoz figures.
Po­liti­cal hope fails queers b­ ecause, like signification, it was not originally made
for us. It resonates only on the level of reproductive futurity. Instead, Edelman
recommends that queers give up hope and embrace a certain negation en-
demic to our abjection within the symbolic. What we get in exchange . . . ​is a
certain jouissance. . . . ​Edelman’s psychoanalytic optic reveals that the social is
inoperable for the always already shattered queer subject.38

Muñoz believed we can do better than this. His queer f­uture is not Doty’s
“vanis­hing” one. It looms large and ever pre­sent as an aura. It is an “ideality”
we have yet to reach and may never. But we feel it “as the warm illumination
of a horizon imbued with potentiality,” as we must, since our “­here and now
is a prison ­house,” and “the ­future is queerness’s domain.”39 “Queerness,” as
Muñoz defined it, “is a longing that propels us onward, . . . ​that ­thing that lets
us feel this world is not enough, that indeed something is missing.” This is
how many of us milling around in queer time already imagine, if not always
experience, the world. Following Ernst Bloch, Muñoz writes, “In our everyday

100  |  John Whittier Treat

life abstract utopias are akin to banal optimism. . . . ​Concrete utopias are the
realm of educated hope.”40 And ­under conditions of compulsory heterosexu-
ality, queers are nothing if not schooled.
Edelman and ­others have insisted that ­because gay ­people do not repro-
duce unassisted, we lack the enabling possibility of a f­uture time, which is
the province of the child. We know what he means, surely ­every time an suv
double stroller forces us off the sidewalk in our gay neighborhoods, to use
Muñoz’s example. But some queers, if not Edelman, have come up with a solu-
tion, which is to have “families” a­ fter all. Elsewhere, I have argued that t­ here
is no concept of “same-­sex marriage” without an implicit child, even if it is
apparitional: “What makes all marriage heterosexualist and materialist is the
imaginary of the child, ­whether he or she is ­really ­there or not. Heterosexu-
alist b­ ecause that is what reproduction is (­until we clone, and perhaps still
then), and materialist b­ ecause that is what production is. . . . ​The child, then,
is always the object of desire, what­ever one does in bed.”41 Yi Sang had plenty
of opportunity to do so, but he did not make any babies to our knowledge.
Yes, he was married (multiple and overlapping times), but he could hardly be
said to have inhabited straight time. What Muñoz would immediately call out
as queer would be the ways Yi wrote, over and over again, about Seoul and
Tokyo (never ­Korea and Japan) as his “apparitional” utopias: poems about a
Seoul with tall buildings that hardly existed,42 essays about a Tokyo that dis-
appointed him as soon as he got t­here. Taken to the site of Japan’s most re-
nowned modern theater, the Tsukiji L ­ ittle Theater, Yi thought it looked like “a
badly designed coffee shop,” a low-­camp comment if ­there ever was one.43 “If
straight time tells us that ­there is no ­future but the ­here and now of our every-
day life,” reasons Muñoz, then “queerness is utopian, and t­ here is something
queer about the utopian.”44 Muñoz borrows Theodor Adorno’s definition of
utopia as “the determined negation of that which merely is.”45 We should keep
that in mind as we read t­ hese excerpts from Yi’s essay “Tokyo” (Tong’gyŏng
[1936]):
I had ­imagined that the Marunouchi Building—­better known as Marubiru—­
would be at least four times bigger than this “Marubiru,” something impressive.
If I went to Broadway in New York, I might feel the same disappointment—­
anyway, my first impression of Tokyo was: “This city reeks of gasoline!”
The Ginza is just a book of vanity. If you ­don’t walk around ­here, you appar-
ently lose your right to vote. When ­women buy new shoes, they have to come
­here and tread the Ginza’s sidewalks before boarding a car.

Yi Sang’s “Wings”  |  101

 The Ginza in the daytime is more than a l­ittle ugly ­because it is the skel-
eton for the Ginza at night. The twisted, poker-­like iron that forms the frame of
the winding neon sign saying Salon Spring is disheveled like the permanent
wave of a bar girl who has been up all night.46

Yi’s utopian hopes once invested in Tokyo are, upon arrival, immediately de-
ferred: first to New York, and then to somewhere beyond that. “I’ve made it to
Tokyo fi­nally. What a disappointment,” Yi wrote in 1936 in a letter from Japan.
“Tokyo is a waste of a place.”47 Midway through “Tokyo,” notes John Frankl, “[Yi]
recites the names of all ­those who had bragged about having been to Tokyo . . . ​
while casually relieving himself in an under­ground toilet in Kyōbashi.”48
Yi, no more than any of us, is required to detail what our utopia would be;
all we need, to return to Adorno, is to make a “determined negation of that
which merely is.” When Yi visits the Ginza during the wrong time (straight
time?) of day and is hardly seduced by its w ­ omen, that is enough to tell us
what Yi dreams of is not ­these ­things in his h­ ere and now but something on
Muñoz’s “horizon imbued with potentiality.” Certainly, it is reasonable to read
this essay as the inevitable encounter of the colonized intellectual with the
colonizers’ metropole, and it has been many times.49 But at this juncture, I
want to try to connect queer time with “colonial” time and place each in a
symmetrical, if not necessarily equidistant, relationship with the prospect of
a queer/postcolonial utopia, my own, admittedly utopian move in the midst
of what, for occupied K ­ orea, ­were hardly ripe conditions for e­ ither sexual or
national sovereignty.
I have assistance. Muñoz wrote that he understood “queerness as being
filled with the intention to be lost.” Soon thereafter, he said, “Freedmen escap-
ing slavery got lost too, and this is a salient reverberation between queerness
and racialization.”50 Yi Sang springs to mind, but not just Yi Sang the modern-
ist, the Baudelairean flâneur “intending to be lost” whom Yi’s friend and fellow
author Pak T’ae-­won described so well in his own work. The flâneur is not a
man of the crowd, Walter Benjamin told us. “He is already out of place.”51 Yi
might have wandered a Seoul he ­imagined to be Paris (or Tokyo), but Yi Sang
the futei senjin was ­really lost in the phenomenal Japa­nese heartland, hardly
able to recognize the famous landmarks of modernity he had pictured as so
much grander. He was racialized, too, as a Korean “already out of place” in
the center of the Japa­nese empire—­and therefore, I suggest, queer: wandering
Tokyo during the day the way other men might cruise the piers at night, risk-
ing arrest for being in the wrong place at just the right time.

102  |  John Whittier Treat

 Fredric Jameson’s essay “Modernism and Imperialism” is of use to us ­here
and ­will only momentarily distract us from the question of queer time, if not
its relationship to the colonial. Jameson contends that imperialist novels do
not have to be about empires per se, and seldom are. It is the form of the novel
that conforms to imperialism, not necessarily its broadcast theme. And that
form, in his examples of it, is not only modernist but also intensely po­liti­cal.
“The structure of imperialism,” he writes, “makes its mark on the inner forms
and structures of that mutation in literary and artistic language to which the
term modernism is loosely applied.”52 We may find that this is pertinent to
Korean lit­er­a­ture.
Jameson’s model is James Joyce’s Ulysses and the peripatetic appointments
and encounters of Leopold Bloom over the course of a single day in Dublin in
1904, at the time a city ­under En­glish rule. Like Seoul, the Irish looked east to
what Dublin was not but what some wished it might be: London. In Jameson’s
retelling, the most canonical modernist novel of our time restages British im-
perialism, but via the peculiar quotidian wanderings of the half-­Jewish Leop-
old Bloom, himself indifferent to the question of Irish nationalism in a city rife
with it. Jameson sees the novel’s ideological work as impossible to comprehend
without exposing to view the imperial architecture that keeps the roof up:
[I]n Ulysses space does not have to be made symbolic in order to achieve clo-
sure and meaning: its closure is objective, endowed by the colonial situation
itself. . . . ​In Joyce, the encounter is at one with Dublin itself, whose compact
size anachronistically permits the new archaic life of the older city-­state. It is
therefore unnecessary to generate an aesthetic form of closure distinct from
the city, which in First World modernism must be imposed by the vio­lence of
form upon this last at compensation.53

I take Jameson to mean that the “modernism” of Ulysses was already guaran-
teed by its provincial Dublin setting; that it assumed its aesthetic form, its
“closure,” by virtue of its quasi-­peripheral spatial position within British im-
perialism. I make a similar claim for Yi Sang’s “Wings,” set in provincial Seoul,
a city Yi may have regarded as no more than a “quiet farming village.”54 I also
argue that time is a structural vector that makes this story queer, just as space
renders it modernist, and just as literary history has elected it one of the great-
est logs of Korean duress ­under Japa­nese rule.
I turn to Yi Sang’s “Wings” to link the queer with empire and propose an
accord of postcolonial and queer readings of the story. Accurately if tersely
summarized as the first-­person account of “the ­mental life of an alienated

Yi Sang’s “Wings”  |  103

intellectual who confines himself to his dark room except for frantic night
time walks around the center of Seoul,” “Wings” easily invites the expected
analy­sis as the narrative of (1) the antiheroic “superfluous man” familiar in
modern lit­er­a­ture; and (2) the dispossessed colonial man at home nowhere
whom we encounter in writers from Frantz Fanon and William Conrad to
V. S. Naipaul and Chinua Achebe.55 ­These readings are all loosely “existential”
in that they take the plight of the protagonist as a protracted, unsuccessful at-
tempt to wrest au­then­tic Being from the social fetters that bind him. But that
is too ­little and too much with which to credit the story, one I do not take to
be philosophical or abstract in the least.
“Wings” begins with a first-­person narrator (na) addressing us in the nar-
rative pre­sent (-­o). Some sections of the story switch to the narrative past
(-­śda), but it is a ­mistake to make too much of that other than to suggest that
the narrator at times moves epistemically closer to the reader (the non-­past
aspect) and sometimes steps back (the past). In e­ ither instance, the narrator
never cedes his point of view; the story is strictly confined to his own, claus-
trophobic consciousness, although irony frequently undermines any reader’s
trust in his perceptions and judgment. Th ­ ere is no dialogue in the story, only
reported memories, impressions, and speculation. As Em notes, it is no more
than a “­silent soliloquy.”56
Na, twenty-­six, tells us he is happy (yuk’wae), but we immediately won­
der why. His mind is a “white sheet of paper,” the life he lives with a ­woman
(yŏin)—­possibly his wife (anae)—is “alienated from the strategies of love.”
Na imagines he has a f­ uture: “I again plan a life with a w
­ oman,” but that f­ uture
57
­will never arrive. They have neither c­ hildren nor jobs. The two share a divided
room in a tenement (House No. 33) that is home to eigh­teen other families, all
of whom lead lives consistent with his “­woman’s” probable profession, pros-
titution. The hours every­one keeps are the opposite of how “normal” ­people
might live:
­ ere is no sun, for they look away from the sun. They block the sun’s way into
Th
the rooms u­ nder the pretext of airing their stained bedding quilts on the wash
line ­under the eaves.
They take naps in the dusky rooms. D ­ on’t they sleep at night? I do not
know. I never know ­because I sleep both day and night. In the daytime, House
No. 33 of eigh­teen families is very quiet.
It is quiet only in the daytime. At dusk, they take their bedding quilts in.
With the lights on, the eigh­teen rooms are brighter than they had been in the

104  |  John Whittier Treat

 daytime. The sound of opening and closing the sliding doors continues to the
late hours. They become busy. (9)

Na loves his w ­ oman, but, to demonstrate it, he removes himself from her daily
life, which, while hardly governed by industrial capitalism’s time-­keeping
regime (though that of her clients might be), is still highly rationalized and
scheduled. Na’s own daily life, undistracted by work, is distinguished only by
its tedium, a keyword in more than a few of Yi’s other works; the narrator ­here
is “bored to the bones by its ordinary events” (8). Naps, a willful suspension of
time, take up much of his day. This is already a withdrawal from the vigorous
tempo of the colonial city, a retreat into something his sloth enables: a life ded-
icated to the private space of his own thoughts stalled in time. “Every­thing was
all right as long as I was allowed to loaf day a­ fter day. That I could idle in the
room fitting like a well-­tailored suit to my body and soul was a con­ve­nient and
comfortable situation to be in, an ideal atmosphere far apart from the worldly
speculations of happiness or unhappiness. I like that environment” (11). That
Na does not work for wages raises the question of ­whether queer time is only
available to ­those outside the requirements of cap­i­tal­ist colonial time, the
product of leisure time unequally distributed on the basis of class. (Working-­
class gay men do not ordinarily have two-­hour brunches in the m ­ iddle of their
workweek.) But Na’s daily life cannot properly be called “leisure,” ­because it
is in no way earned entertainment, or a respite from mandated ser­vice: he
unhappily ­labors in his alienated and abject lethargy.
Still, Na’s womb-­like isolation in his “absolute shelter” is not ­free of his
­woman’s work-­related interruptions. In fact, they obey their own set schedule.
At home during the day he may cower on his side of their room’s divide, idle
and clueless. He can go days without eating; weeks without shaving. But at
night, when men visit his ­woman and leave money (Why do they do that, he
won­ders?), he must leave to wander the streets u­ ntil he thinks it is prudent to
return. He prays “for time to flee like a shot arrow” (27), but it does not. He
cruises the city in loitering-­time deemed “wasteful” but, if one is a gay man
looking for sex, “strategically opportunistic.”58 “I sneaked out of my room,”
says Na, “while my wife was out” (21), as if he w­ ere, in ­today’s parlance, on the
dl (down-­low).
At the same, Na is grateful for what his w­ oman does for him, including the
meals she brings him like clockwork to eat alone on his side of the room, and
for the spending money she leaves at the head of his bed. He is the adult de-
pendent of a ­woman in the workforce, a fact over which he remains in denial.

Yi Sang’s “Wings”  |  105

“Does she have a job?” he asks himself more than once (16). He tries to pro-
voke her one day by dumping her silver coins into the latrine, but to no avail.
She simply replaces the money, though he can think of no way to spend it. He
neither earns nor purchases; he is wholly purposeless and thinks of himself
as “a lump like a pillow” (15). Their “relationship,” writes Em, “is one that is
structured around a strict segmentation of time and space. The daytime is for
childlike play and the eve­ning for adult business.”59 Another way to look at it
might be: Na ­will never witness or acknowledge to himself the primal, hetero-
sexual scene of the commissioned “adult business” on the other side of his thin
curtain ­because it does not occur in his inverted time.
One night, Na does not return to the room quite late enough, and he inter-
rupts the ­woman entertaining a male guest. L ­ ater, he apologizes, but the next
morning she is nowhere to be found. Her comings and g­ oings seem nearly
random. He goes out himself that night, determined to stay away long enough
to avoid the embarrassment he caused the previous eve­ning. By this point in
“Wings,” normal (straight) time is completely vacated. His ­woman may wash
her face at exactly eleven ­every morning, but for Na ­there is only “dark” and
“light.” P ­ eople are away when they should be at home, and they are asleep
when they should be awake, and vice versa. Na is worried that he ­will not
know the hour and mistakenly return home too soon, so he makes a point
of checking the tall clock tower outside the central train station (figure 2.1),
which, he reasons, is obliged to be exact: “The clock t­ here kept more accurate
time than any other clocks” (30–31). “­After I made sure by the big clock at
Gyeongseong [Kyŏngsŏng in Korean; Keijō in Japa­nese] Station that it was
­after midnight, I headed for home” (28).
The clock tower was one of the most notorious structures built by the
Japa­nese in Seoul. Like the clocks installed throughout modern empires, the
imposition of twenty-­four-­hour punctuality enabled the regulation of produc-
tive time and disciplining of a subject population being or­ga­nized for work in
colonial modernity. The clock in general, according to Elizabeth Grosz, “im-
poses rather than extracts a unity and ­wholeness through homogenization and
reduction.”60 The station’s clock tower thus represents the epitome of colonial
time, which I also call straight time. Na needs the clock to tell when a new
day starts so that he can go home and try to resume a “normal” schedule. But
home time—­queer time—is unpredictable. Na can never be sure when his
­woman ­will be working at entertaining. Nor can he be sure what his woman/
wife is actually d­ oing with her guests. Na’s m
­ ental and bodily health suffer
­under the mounting stress and fatigue.

106  |  John Whittier Treat

Figure 2.1 ​Clock tower on Seoul train station.

The next night, the w­ oman encourages Na to stay out even ­later than usual.
This time, he takes refuge at a café within the train station proper:
What I liked about the place was that the clock t­ here kept more accurate time
than any other clocks anywhere. So I did not have to face any misfortune of
returning home too early, mistaken by a stupid clock. I sat with nothingness
in a booth and sipped a cup of hot coffee. Amid their busy hours, the passen-
gers seemed to enjoy a cup of coffee with relish. They would gaze at a wall as
if in deep thought, sipping the coffee in a hurry, and then they would leave.
It was sad. But I truly loved that sadness about that place, something I cher-
ished more than the depressing atmosphere of other street-­side tea rooms.
The occasional shrill screaming of the train hoots sounded more familiar and
intimate to me than Mozart. (30–31)

Ruled over by the most punctual of clocks, passengers have their modern
drink in a modern café, only to rush off when a modern steam whistle an-
nounces their modern trains’ departures. Na, the only customer in the café
without a “modern” task to perform, finds it sad yet appealing. He lives in both
their straight time and his own queer time. Is it a coincidence that, in the West,

Yi Sang’s “Wings”  |  107

large railway stations appear in the late nineteenth-­century cityscape at the
same time as does the modern phenomenon of the homosexual? As the so-
ciologist Henning Bech has observed, they both “concentrate the city. . . . ​All
the ele­ments are ­there, compacted and condensed within a delimited space:
the crowd, the constant flux of new p­ eople, the mutual strangeness and indif-
ference.”61 But Seoul’s train station, with its arrivals and departures, schedules
colonial time as precisely as it organizes transit’s geo­graph­i­cal space. Neither
is of concern to Na. Traveling nowhere and with hours to kill, he can sip his
coffee slowly and contemplate—­cruise—­his utopia.
Still, he returns home too soon and again interrupts his ­woman in her half
of their quarters. He wakes the next day with a fever and consequently pays a
price: the medicine his wife feeds him each day may be sleeping pills, keeping
Na sedated in bed for a month and thus further taking him outside normal
time: “Did she want me to die gradually?” (36). As usual, Na is unsure. Rather
than confront her, he roams the city for hours, eventually finding himself on
the top of the Mitsukoshi department store (like the station and its clock
tower an icon of Japa­nese modernity; the only proper names in all of “Wings”
are ­those for the train station and this store). ­There he recollects the “twenty-­
six years” of his life (38). The crowds he sees on the street below remind him
of the goldfish confined in the fishbowl for sale in the rooftop’s garden store.
He reflects that he and his ­woman are similarly trapped in their own, alienated
relationship: “We ­were like a lame ­couple, destined not to harmonize with
each other’s gait. I did not need to summon any logic to justify her be­hav­
ior or mine. ­There was no need for any defense. We would stumble on and
on, truth and misunderstanding on their own separate ways. Was that not the
usual way?” (39).
His thoughts are interrupted when a loud siren announcing noon fills the
air. “It was a glorious noon, p­ eople vigorously whirling around amid the com-
motion of glass, steel, marble, money and ink”—­all the trappings of colonial
Seoul’s, and the global modern’s, straight time. The action of Yi’s story ends
­here, with Na imagining wings he once had but are now only the “deleted
phantasms of hope and ambition” (39). The reader is left to imagine w ­ hether
the hero leaps off the roof of the Mitsukoshi to his death or not, although the
momentum of the story leads many critics to assume he does and, moreover,
that his jump symbolizes Yi’s desire to leave Seoul for the promised land (shin-
tenchi) of Tokyo.62 That unsettled question—no work of modernist Korean
lit­er­a­ture has a conclusion as debated as this one63—­does not interest me as
much as does the intrusion of that loud siren into Na’s melancholy musing. It

108  |  John Whittier Treat

is like a summons issued to him to return to straight/colonial time and leave
his queer time ­behind, but rather than do so, he makes the most dramatic of
exits. The last lines of “Wings” read as if verse:
I ­stopped my pace and wanted to shout.
Wings, spread out again!
Fly. Fly. Fly. Let me fly once more.
Let me fly just once more. (40)

Poetry perhaps, but read prosaically by critics. “Wings” is the title of the story,
and someone surely needed to “fly,” be it off a building or on Yi Sang’s ferry
­ride to Japan. But with no evidence other than the fact Yi (like his fellow mod-
ernists) was an avid cineaste, I won­der ­whether he saw Paramount’s s­ ilent film
Wings, released u­ nder the title Tsubasa in Japan and K ­ orea, where it made the
64
film journal Kinema Junpō’s ten-­best list for 1927. Starring Clara Bow—­who
epitomized the “modern girl” for her East Asia fans—it is the story of a love
triangle (two military men and one w ­ oman) set during World War I. Noted
in film history not only for its innovative cinematography and its Acad­emy
Award for Best Picture, it contains the brief cameo of a lesbian c­ ouple in a
Paris nightclub and is the first film ever to feature one man kissing another
on the lips. It is hard to imagine that Yi Sang missed this picture. It was as
scandalous—­queer?—­for the time, as his writings would be soon enough.
Yi Sang, like his fictional character in “Wings” and the cinematic airman in
Wings, died young. Nineteen thirty-­seven was not a “happy” year for Koreans,
but worse would follow. In her study When the ­Future Dis­appears, Janet Poole
begins with the line that the “question of time lies at the heart” of her book. She
argues that the last de­cade of the Japa­nese occupation, including the years of
“total war” that Yi never experienced, “was fueled by the sense of a disappear-
ing ­future and the strug­gle to imagine a transformed pre­sent.”65 This reminds
me of the debate among American queer theorists, among them Edelman and
Muñoz, about futurity and the prospect of gay lives within it. Edelman insists
that such t­hings (­children, po­liti­cal power, a sense of life beyond ourselves)
are not for us, and Muñoz ­counters that we have to rework our understand-
ing of “utopia” to ensure that we can lay claim to dif­f er­ent t­ hings, queer ­things,
for ourselves: “Queerness is utopian, and ­there is something queer about the
utopian.”66
It is tempting to read “Wings” as an allegory of all Koreans u­ nder colo-
nialism, as Em and ­others have. And why not? But ­there are contexts other
than the nationalist-­historical at work, too. “Modern Korean literary history

Yi Sang’s “Wings”  |  109

criticism,” notes John Frankl, “is often a totalizing account as all experience on
the peninsula as ‘Korean,’ and in which t­ here is l­ ittle or no room for individual
experiences and proclivities.” I hesitate to endorse the view that “Wings” is
allegory, ­because it makes the narrator all Koreans. I prefer to regard the nar-
rator as singularly queer—­surely what, with Frankl, we can circumspectly call
a “proclivity”:
Korean writers ­under Japa­nese colonial rule are often judged not on their works’
artistic merits but on their purported national consciousness or resistance—­
however cryptic—to foreign governance. When works are not overtly uncon-
cerned with the Korean ethnonation’s predicament ­under foreign domination
and oppression, their crypto-­nationalist allegorical meanings are liberally ex-
cavated by critics. When no such readings are pos­si­ble, the writers are excori-
ated for their lack of national consciousness. Yi Sang is stuck squarely in the
­middle of this binary.67

Allegory has to be allegory of something, and that something ordinarily un-

folds in straight time. May I propose a compromise that allows us an antico-
lonial and queer reading all at once? And not one in which one is “collective”
and the other “individual,” but one in which events unfold in multiple frames?
This returns us to the fulcrum of time, their time and/versus our time—­time
that is structural (heterosexual, imperial) and subjective (queer, colonial).
Where an anticolonial reading would tend to render the narrator’s story tragic,
though brave, I see in it something positive and brave, in the spirit of Muñoz’s
recasting of death drive–ridden melodrama as our prospective gay farce.
­Earlier in this essay, when I mentioned Berlant’s seemingly oxymoronic
“cruel optimism,” I promised a return to utopianism in my conclusion. By
that I meant a “happy ending” with no guarantee it would be convention-
ally “happy” at all: only simply not this. Utopia might lie in that “negation”
of every­thing ­here and now, even in the nihilistic taking of one’s own life by
leaping off a building. For the first time, a­ fter all, Na may be making a resolute
decision. We cannot pretend to know w ­ hether what follows his decision is, in
the end, better than what he was facing as an alternative. And if it is not, then
­there w­ ill be another utopia to imagine in the queer times to come, but “not
yet,” as Muñoz would append.
“Chrononormativity,” an idea formed in the wake of that of hetero-­and
homonormativity, is a concept one might think has universal currency.68 But
Halberstam uses the idea to say that “in Western cultures, we chart the emer-
gence of the adult from the dangerous and unruly period of adolescence as a

110  |  John Whittier Treat

desired pro­cess of maturation . . . ​and pathologize modes of living that show
­little or no re­spect for longevity.”69 The prob­lem with Halberstam’s “we” aside,
­there is no reason to accept the qualification “in Western cultures” as anything
other than a conceit for an unfamiliarity with any ­others. I would propose
that Yi Sang’s “Wings,” read with attention to the par­tic­u­lar history of colonial
­Korea in the 1930s, demonstrates much the same point. Just as Yi’s story repu-
diates the “reproductive futurism” (Edelman’s term) of both heterosexuality
and nationalism, Halberstam’s invocation of a stretched-­out “adolescence” is
Na’s attenuated, childlike dependence on his w ­ oman; it is moreover the imma-
turity that, ascribed to K­ orea, served as a rationale for Japa­nese imperialism.
The contribution, also an amendment, that “Wings” conceivably makes to
queer theory is to see qt as something hardly definable solely against hetero-­
chrononormativity, but something produced through the queer encounter
with other chrononormativities, including the modern colonial. To Tom
Boellstorff ’s definition of straight time as “­shaped by linked discourses of het-
eronormativity, capitalism, modernity, and [the linear, millenarian framework
of] apocalypse,” we ­will add the discourse of colonialism, and to queer time
its refusal.70 The point of this cannot be to decide that Yi Sang’s “Koreanness”
is a subset of queerness on account of some uncanny, shared morphology. That
would only affirm the universality of the West against the particularity of every-
where ­else. In my view, it also masks the historical fact that our talk of queer-
ness is the result of the historical experience that produced modernity, the
nation-­state, capitalism, the industrial revolution, and colonial expansion—­
and, with them, the homosexual, too.
“It is worth trying to counterfeit yourself,” Yi Sang writes in “Wings.” “Your
creation would be sublime and con­spic­u­ous among the ordinary ­things you
have never seen” (8). Could anything be more queer? Do queer p­ eople not
have to believe this to endure in places and times straight p­ eople design for
themselves without us in mind? But it is also what Fanon said in as many words
about living in French Martinique and Achebe said about his Nigeria u­ nder
the heel of the British. When Yi fi­nally made it to Tokyo and found the city
thoroughly “counterfeit,” he was reacting not as a queer person but as a subject
of its East Asian empire. But, then again, what queer person would not want
the object of his desires to disenchant him, over and over again, b­ ecause the
­future must be endlessly deferred, never now and always “not yet”? In recent
years, queer theory has made much of failure as a way of being in the world.
“Failing,” writes Halberstam in a book dedicated to the topic, “is something
queers do and always have done exceptionally well.”71 New York, Yi Sang

Yi Sang’s “Wings”  |  111

wrote near the end of his life, would surely disappoint him just as much as
Tokyo.72 But he would be very much at home ­there.

Notes

1 Sano, “Kankoku modanizumu no isō,” 31.

2 Sone, “The Mirror Motif,” 201.
3 Im, “Yi Sang,” 49–50.
4 Ch’oe, “Kindai o dassuru,” 44.
5 Kawamura, “Yi Sang no Keijō,” 5.
6 Yi, “Yi Sang no shi,” 128.
7 Saegusa, “Yi Sang no modanizumu,” 117.
8 Stephens, The Dramaturgy of Style, 197.
9 Kim, “The Situation of the Writers ­under Japa­nese Colonialism,” 7–8.
10 Henry Em points out, Yi uses the number 18 elsewhere as a homonym for Korean
slang sippal (“fuck”): Em, “Yi Sang’s Wings Read as an Anti-­Colonial Allegory,” 111.
See also Yi, “Nalgae,” 344–45, n7.
11 Kim, “The Situation of the Writers ­under Japa­nese Colonialism,” 9.
12 Chō, Chōsen—­kotoba—­ningen, 338.
13 Hanscom, “Modernism, Hysteria, and the Colonial Double Bind,” 620.
14 For more on anachronistically “queer” readings of Korean fiction, see Treat, “In-
troduction to Yi Kwang-­su’s ‘Maybe Love.’ ”
15 Lew, “Jean Cocteau in the Looking Glass,” 119.
16 Koestenbaum, Double Talk, 8.
17 Lew, “Jean Cocteau in the Looking Glass,” 120.
18 Lew, “Jean Cocteau in the Looking Glass,” 121.
19 Yi Sang, “Crow’s-­Eye View,” 80.
20 Lew, “Jean Cocteau in the Looking Glass,” 122.
21 Berlant, Cruel Optimism, 123.
22 Lew, “John Cocteau in the Looking Glass,” 122.
23 Lew, “Jean Cocteau in the Looking Glass,” 124.
24 Lew, “Jean Cocteau in the Looking Glass,” 125.
25 Lew, “Jean Cocteau in the Looking Glass,” 130–32, 136.
26 Lew, “Jean Cocteau in the Looking Glass,” 140.
27 Lew, untitled essay, 72.
28 Em, “Yi Sang’s Wings Read as an Anti-­Colonial Allegory,” 105–6.
29 Halberstam, In a Queer Time and Place, 1.
30 Race, Plea­sure Consuming Medicine, 32, 113.
31 Race, Plea­sure Consuming Medicine, 2.
32 Yi, “The Wings,” 21.
33 Race, Plea­sure Consuming Medicine, 4–5.
34 Halberstam, in Dinshaw et al., “Theorizing Queer Temporalities,” 182.

112  |  John Whittier Treat

 35 Halberstam, in Dinshaw et al., “Theorizing Queer Temporalities,” 152.
36 Halberstam, in Dinshaw et al., “Theorizing Queer Temporalities,” 2.
37 Muñoz, Cruising Utopia, 11.
38 Muñoz, Cruising Utopia, 91.
39 Muñoz, Cruising Utopia, 1.
40 Muñoz, Cruising Utopia, 3.
41 Treat, “Returning to Altman,” 276–77.
42 Kawamura, “Yi Sang no Keijō,” 11.
43 Sano, “Kankoku modanizumu no isō,” 92.
44 Muñoz, Cruising Utopia, 22, 26.
45 Muñoz, Cruising Utopia, 64.
46 Yi, “Tokyo,” 96, 98.
47 Chō, Chōsen—­kotoba—­ningen, 339; Choi, “Seoul, Tokyo, New York,” 133.
48 Frankl, “Distance as Anti-­Nostalgia,” 43.
49 See, e.g., Kim, “Sŏul kwa Tong’gyŏng sai.”
50 Muñoz, Cruising Utopia, 72–73.
51 Benjamin, “Some Motifs in Baudelaire,” 174.
52 Jameson, “Modernism and Imperialism,” 44.
53 Jameson, “Modernism and Imperialism,” 91.
54 Chō, Chōsen—­kotoba—­ningen, 339.
55 Poole, When the ­Future Dis­appears, 44; Kim, “The Situation of the Writers ­under
Japa­nese Colonialism,” 9.
56 Em, “Yi Sang’s Wings Read as an Anti-­Colonial Allegory,” 106.
57 Yi, “The Wings,” 7. Hereafter, page numbers from this work are cited in parenthe-
ses in the text.
58 See Nguyen Tan Hoang, in Dinshaw et al., “Theorizing Queer Temporalities,” esp.
192.
59 Em, “Yi Sang’s Wings Read as an Anti-­Colonial Allegory,” 108.
60 Grosz, “Thinking the New,” 18.
61 Bech, When Men Meet, 158–59.
62 Ch’oe, “Kindai o dassuru,” 33.
63 Jung, Nikkan kindai bungaku no kōsa to danzetsu, 68.
64 For the complete list, see http://­www​.­kinenote​.­com​/­main​/­award​/­kinejun​/­y1928​
.­aspx. I thank Aaron Gerow for this reference.
65 Poole, When the ­Future Dis­appears, 1.
66 Muñoz, Cruising Utopia, 1.
67 Frankl, “Distance as Anti-­Nostalgia,” 40.
68 Elizabeth Freeman defines chrononormativity as “the use of time to or­ga­nize indi-
vidual ­human bodies ­toward maximum productivity”: Freeman, Time Binds, 3.
69 Halberstam, In a Queer Time and Place, 4, emphasis added.
70 Boellstorff, “When Marriage Fails,” 228.
71 Halberstam, The Art of Queer Failure, 3.
72 Yi, “Tokyo,” 96.

Yi Sang’s “Wings”  |  113

Works Cited

KOREAN- AND JAPANESE-­LANGUAGE SOURCES

Chō Shōkichi. Chōsen—­kotoba—­ningen. Tokyo: Kawade Shobō, 1989.

Ch’oe Chin-­sŏk [Chie Jinsoku]. “Kindai o dassuru: Ri Seki ‘kentai’ ron.” Shakai Bun-
gaku, no. 42 (2015): 32–47.
Im Chong-­guk. “Yi Sang—­Yo o sakasa ni ikita hito.” Koria Hyōron 29, no. 294 (Decem-
ber 1986): 49–58.
Jung Baeksoo [Chŏng Paek-su]. Nikkan kindai bungaku no kōsa to danzetsu—­nikō
tairitsu ni kōshite. Tokyo: Akashi Shoten, 2013.
Kawamura Minato. “Yi Sang no Keijō—1930 nendai no ‘bungei toshi’ Seoul.” Chōsenshi
Kenkyūkai Ronbunshū, no. 30 (October 1992): 5–23.
Kim Yun-­sik. “Sŏul kwa Tong’gyŏng sai.” In Yi Sang yŏn’gu, 143–72. Seoul: Munhak
Sasangsa, 1987.
Saegusa Toshikatsu. “Yi Sang no modanizumu—­Sono seiritsu to genkai.” Chōsen
Gakuhō, no. 140 ( July 1991): 131–78.
Sano Masato. “Kankoku modanizumu no isō—­Yi Sang no shi to Anzai Fuyue o me-
gutte.” Shōwa Bungaku Kenkyū, no. 25 (1992): 31–43.
Yi Bok-­suk. “Yi Sang no shi ni okeru moderniti—­sono danzetsusei ni tsuite.” Hikaku
Bungaku Kenkyū, no. 52 (October 1987): 128–39.
Yi Sang. “Nalgae.” In Yi Sang munhak chŏnjip—­Sosŏl, ed. Kim Yun-­sik, 318–47. Seoul:
Munhak Sasangsa, 1991.

ENGLISH-­LANGUAGE SOURCES

Bech, Henning. When Men Meet: Homo­sexuality and Modernity, trans. Teresa Mesquit
and Tim Davies. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997.
Benjamin, Walter. 1968. “Some Motifs in Baudelaire,” trans. Harry Zohn. In Illumina-
tions, ed. Hannah Arendt, 157–202. New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1968.
Berlant, Lauren. Cruel Optimism. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011.
Boellstorff, Tom. “When Marriage Fails: Queer Coincidences in Straight Time.” glq
12, nos. 2–3 (2007): 227–48.
Choi Won-­sik. “Seoul, Tokyo, New York: Modern Korean Lit­er­a­ture Seen through Yi
Sang’s ‘Lost Flowers,’ ” trans. Janet Poole. ­Korea Journal 39, no. 4 (Winter 1999):
118–43.
Dinshaw, Carolyn, Lee Edelman, Roderick A. Ferguson, Carla Freecero, Elizabeth
Freeman, Judoth Halberstam, Annamarie Jagose, Christopher Nealon and
Nguyen Tan Hoang. “Theorizing Queer Temporalities: A Roundtable Discus-
sion.” glq 13, nos. 2–3 (2007): 177–95.
Em, Henry. “Yi Sang’s Wings Read as an Anti-­colonial Allegory.” In Muæ: A Journal of
Transcultural Production, ed. Walter K. Lew, 104–11. New York: Kaya Production,
1996.

114  |  John Whittier Treat

Frankl, John M. “Distance as Anti-­Nostalgia: Memory, Identity, and Rural ­Korea in Yi
Sang’s ‘Ennui.’ ” Journal of Korean Studies 17, no. 1 (2012): 39–68.
Freeman, Elizabeth. Time Binds: Queer Temporalities, Queer Histories. Durham, NC:
Duke University Press, 2010.
Grosz, Elizabeth. “Thinking the New: Of ­Futures Yet Unthought.” In Becomings:
Explorations in Time, Memory, and ­Futures, ed. Elisabeth Grosz, 15–28. Ithaca, NY:
Cornell University Press, 1999.
Halberstam, Judith [ Jack]. The Art of Queer Failure. Durham, NC: Duke University
Press, 2011.
Halberstam, Judith [ Jack]. In a Queer Time and Place: Transgender Bodies, Subcultural
Lives. New York: New York University Press, 2005.
Hanscom, Christopher P. “Modernism, Hysteria, and the Colonial Double Bind: Pak
T’aewon’s One Day in the Life of the Author, Mr. Kubo.” Positions 21, no. 3 (Sum-
mer 2013): 607–36.
Jameson, Fredric. “Modernism and Imperialism.” In Nationalism, Colonialism, and
Lit­er­a­ture, ed. Terry Ea­gleton, Fredric Jameson, and Edward W. Said, 43–66. Min-
neapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1990.
Kim, Uchang [Kim U-­chang]. “The Situation of the Writers ­under Japa­nese Colonial-
ism.” Korean Journal 16, no. 5 (May 1976): 4–15.
Koestenbaum, Wayne. Double Talk: The Erotics of Male Collaboration. New York:
Routledge, 1989.
Lew, Walter K. “Jean Cocteau in the Looking Glass: A Homotextual Reading of Yi
Sang’s Mirror Poems.” In Muæ: A Journal of Transcultural Production, ed. Walter K.
Lew, 118–47. New York: Kaya Production, 1996.
Lew, Walter K. Untitled essay. In Muæ: A Journal of Transcultural Production, ed. Wal-
ter K. Lew, 71–73. New York: Kaya Production, 1996.
Muñoz, José Esteban. Cruising Utopia: The Then and ­There of Queer Futurity. New York:
New York University Press, 2009.
Poole, Janet. When the ­Future Dis­appears: The Modernist Imagination in Late Colonial
­Korea. New York: Columbia University Press, 2014.
Race, Kane. Plea­sure Consuming Medicine: The Queer Politics of Drugs. Durham, NC:
Duke University Press, 2009.
Sone, Seunghee [Sone Sŭng-hi]. “The Mirror Motif in the Crow’s Eye View
(Ogamdo) Poems.” Seoul Journal of Korean Studies 29, no. 1 ( June 2016):
193–217.
Stephens, Michael. The Dramaturgy of Style: Voice in Short Fiction. Carbondale: Southern
Illinois University Press, 1986.
Treat, John Whittier. “Introduction to Yi Kwang-­su’s ‘Maybe Love’ (Ai ka, 1909).”
Azalea 4 (2011): 315–27.
Treat, John Whittier. “Returning to Altman: Same-­Sex Marriage and the Apparitional
Child.” In ­After Homosexual: The Legacies of Gay Liberation, ed. Carolyn D’Cruz
and Mark Pendleton, 265–81. Perth, WA: University of Western Australia Press,
2013.

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Yi Sang. “Crow’s-­Eye View,” trans. Walter K. Lew. In Muæ: A Journal of Transcultural
Production, ed. Walter K. Lew, 80. New York: Kaya Production, 1996.
Yi, Sang. “Tokyo,” trans. Michael D. Shin. In Muæ: A Journal of Transcultural Production,
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Yi, Sang. “The Wings,” trans. Ahn Jung-­hyo. In The Wings, 7–40. Seoul: Jimoondang,
2001.

116  |  John Whittier Treat

 Chapter Three

PROBLEMATIZING LOVE
THE INTIMATE EVENT AND
SAME-­SEX LOVE IN COLONIAL ­KOREA

Pei Jean Chen

 I
n the face of vari­ous social and po­liti­cal transformations, the leading intel-
lectuals of East Asia addressed the prob­lem of modernity in relation to Con-
fucianism in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.1 This resulted
in the revolution of the social system and po­liti­cal formation, the liberation
of individuals from traditional kinship relations, and advocacy of modern
education and civilization. When “love” emerged as a social phenomenon
in twentieth-­century East Asia, it coincided with the discourses of “civiliza-
tion,” “modernization,” and “nation building.”2 It soon became naturalized as a
transparent, universal value and emerged as a dominant narrative that defined
­people’s social relationships. Thus, to examine the construction of modern
love is to further reveal the dominant ideology that created and divided dif­
fer­ent social subalterns.
­Korea also experienced drastic changes from a traditional social system
to a modern colonial one during the late nineteenth ­century. The reform of
marriage (­free marriage) and new forms of intimate relationships (­free love)
played an impor­tant role in the development of modern society and literary
production. Between 1910 and the 1930s, debates on ­free marriage and ­free
love in ­Korea centered on social reforms and the civilizing proj­ect.3 While
the experience of love was an impor­tant moment to rediscover oneself in
the pro­cess of modernization via colonial power, the colonized w ­ ere caught
up between the demands of individual autonomy and social constraints that
structured the binary division of colonial power. Anthropologist Elizabeth
Povinelli terms this situation “intimate events” in her study of settler colonies
in the United States and Australia. She elucidates how “intimate events” might
have functioned in a colonial situation by tracing how conceptions of love
are produced at the intersection of individual freedom and social bondage.4
Applying this understanding to colonial K ­ orea, the dual forces from the in-
dividual and the social result in an emancipation-­oppression mechanism that
operated in the name of love, one that underscores the pervasive yet largely
unacknowledged infusion of colonialism into Korean culture.
To better understand this historical situation, I examine public debates and
literary repre­sen­ta­tions about love as intimate events produced during trans-
formative moments of the early twentieth ­century. More impor­tant, I discuss
how the notion of same-­sex love operates within colonial conceptions of ro-
mantic love. I also unveil the internal contradictions of and challenges to the
institutionalization of love in advancing “civilization”—­that is, in the name of
equality, liberation, and progressiveness.

The Institutionalization of Modern Love

When examining the emergence of the modern concept of love, it is impor­

tant to emphasize the transnational and translational features of this cultural
phenomenon. It is also impor­tant to revisit the dif­fer­ent phases of love dis-
courses. First, the emergence of modern love in colonial ­Korea, which paral-
leled the development of the “new novel” (sin sosŏl), was built on the idea
of ­free marriage (chayu kyŏrn) in the enlightenment period (1876–1910).
This was a time when Japa­nese imperial power expanded and started to in-
vade Asia. It aroused Koreans’ sense of patriotism and led to vari­ous social
reforms during the late nineteenth c­ entury and into the new c­ entury. As the
cultural and literary scholar Kwŏn Podŭrae argues, “Throughout the 1900s,
love became a public value ­under the influence of Chris­tian­ity and patriotism,
as Chris­tian­ity preached the ethics of love, and devotion and passion for the
state w­ ere strongly encouraged in the formation of the nation-­state.”5 During
this period, “love” had ­little to do with sexual or romantic desires.6 According
to Kwŏn, the En­glish word “love” can be translated as yŏnae or sarang in Ko-
rean; the significant difference between the two is that:

118  |  Pei Jean Chen

 the [translated] word yŏnae only connotes the love between man and ­woman.
The love of God, h­ umans, parents, or friends is not yŏnae. . . . ​The word
­sarang . . . ​is widely known, coming from the Korean word sarang hada, and has
a deep-­rooted meaning of “to think of ” or “to feel.” . . . ​­After the importation of
Chris­tian­ity, the idea that sarang meant the love of God became widespread. In
the 1900s, the word was also used in the field of national discourse. . . . ​Sarang
first became legitimized in the backdrop of God and Nation.7

Kwŏn thus distinguishes yŏnae from sarang to focus on the development of

the term yŏnae and its connection to romantic love.
Furthermore, a­ fter the occupation of ­Korea by Japan in 1910 and the failure
of the March  1 In­de­pen­dence Movement of 1919, a passion for educational
and cultural reform emerged in public media and coincided with vari­ous dis-
cussions on yŏnae. During this phase, yŏnae gained popularity and gradually
formed its core meaning of romantic love, but it was already embedded in the
ideology of nation building. It thus possessed a paradoxical structure of being
liberating and repressive at the same time. In their research, Chŏng Hye-­yŏng
and Yu Chong-­yul argue that “virginity” played a dominant role in the dis-
course of love in which “spiritual love” replaced carnal desire. They explore
literary writings by leading intellectuals and novelists whose works illustrate
how carnal relationships between men and w ­ omen led to tragedy and con-
demned them having lost their virtue, thereby securing the spiritual form of
the relationship.8 Influenced by Eu­ro­pean scholarship and Japa­nese transla-
tions of Western works, ­these intellectuals and writers devoted a considerable
amount of writing to the reformation of marriage and the advocacy of ­free
love. For example, East Asian socie­ties at that time shared highly influential
ideas about love from such figures as the Swedish feminist Ellen Key (1849–
1926) and her work Love and Marriage, whose En­glish edition was published
in 1911. This impor­tant text for early twentieth-­century feminist movements in
Japan and the West was the basis for many social critics’ ideas on love, mar-
riage, and motherhood.9
Observed from a considerable number of public critiques on w ­ omen’s
liberation written by male intellectuals, ­women ­were treated in a paradoxi-
cal manner. While promoting w ­ omen’s social rights, education, and ­free ­will,
leading intellectuals disqualified w ­ omen from pursuing self-­autonomy and
thus reproduced the patriarchal subjugation of w ­ omen. In this way, they ad-
vocated love while criticizing New ­Women. For example, the Korean writer
and literary critic Kim Tong-­in’s “Kim Yŏn-­sil chŏn” (The Story of Kim Yŏn-­sil

Problematizing Love  |  119

[1939]) is believed to have been written based on the famous New ­Woman
Kim Myŏng-­sun.10 In it, he criticizes the New ­Woman by stating that “the
love (yŏnae) she comprehends is nothing but ‘intercourse.’ Lit­er­a­ture is love,
and love cannot be separated from intercourse. . . . ​She learned this idea of
love from Ellen Key and Kuriyagawa Hakuson.11 . . . Kim Yŏn-­sil, who was
born in ­Korea, does not know what yŏnae means.”12 What Kim suggested
­here is that New ­Women blindly pursued the fashion of love but ­were inca-
pable of understanding the civilizing and spiritual soul of it. This kind of cri-
tique, however, is at odds with the “­free” nature of love that ­these intellectuals
promoted for their p­ eople.
Throughout the period when Confucianism was criticized and nations
built, discourses on modern love vacillated between the ideological tendency
of cultivating w­ omen as new national subjects and reinforcing traditional and
regulative ideas about them. Even though arguments on love in this period
dealt directly with universalized sexual desire, ­women ­were usually doubly
characterized as old and new in media critiques or literary works (i.e., kisaeng
and New ­Woman, traditional ­mother and rebellious ­daughter), and they usu-
ally failed in the realm of the modern f­ amily (for being too ignorant or ending
up taking their lives through suicide). The promotion of “wise m ­ other, good
wife” during the colonial era shows how ­women’s given gender role and sub-
ordinated position w ­ ere never redeemed by the liberation of love or sex.13 One
might then ask: Who is qualified to pursue modern love, and what is wrong
with love when it is associated with sexual intercourse? To be more specific,
what is the relation between love and sex in the discourses of modern love?
To answer ­these questions, it is helpful to revisit the historical construction of
modern love and sex in Japan, ­Korea’s colonizer.
The cultural and literary critic Saeki Junko has analyzed the impor­tant
role of “love” in Japan’s enlightenment and its influence on modern lit­er­a­
ture since the Meiji period (1868–1912).14 According to Saeki, the Victorian
concept of love, which emerged in the Meiji period and was translated in
hiragana as rabu and as the Chinese character ai, came to replace iro, which
existed outside marriage as a form of sexual desire/act in the Edo period
(1600–1868). Furthermore, ai, which is often used in conjunction with ren
to create the compound term renai, refers to romantic love and accentuates
a spiritual relationship rather than carnal desire. For Japa­nese writers ­after
1885, the modern form of “love” was a vital ele­ment and was used to radically
transform the relationships between the men and ­women by promoting a
spiritual form of love and repressing carnal desires/sexual acts in their writ-

120  |  Pei Jean Chen

ings. Writers at that time, including Tsubouchi Shōyō (1859–1935), Ozaki
Kōyō (1868–1903), and Mori Ōgai (1862–1922), subscribed to the separation
of the soul and flesh or body and celebrated pure and ideal love, as opposed
to iro, a relationship that involved physical contact or desire. In this way,
the separation of love and sex (or of spirit and flesh) helped generate the emer-
gence of “modern sex.” As Kōjin Karatani elucidates, “modern sex” should
be considered a “new” form of sex, with its existence produced through
repression.15
The Japa­nese experience of modern love greatly influenced the develop-
ment of love in colonial ­Korea, as the two countries shared a transnational
mode of translation. According to Kwŏn, the term yŏnae was used in 1910 in
Ch’oe Nam-­sŏn’s partial translation of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables (1862).
­There, the term yŏnaedang (lit., love gang, or romance chaser) appears to
describe the character who “loves flowers, plays the flute, and writes vulgar
songs. He has compassion for ­people, feels sad for ­women, smiles at ­children,
and bears strong hatred against the revolutionaries’ beheading of noblemen.”16
It should be noted that Ch’oe’s Korean translation, published in the literary
magazine Sonyŏn (Youth [1908–11]), which he helped found, derived from a
Japa­nese translation, not the French original. The term yŏnaedang was thus
­adopted from a Japa­nese creation. A similar situation can be found in other
literary translations. The term yŏnae first appeared in connection to romantic
love in the serial novel Ssangongnu (Tears of the Twin Jade). This novel was
published in the Maeil Sinbo (Daily News) in 1912–13 with the catchphrase,
“I would teach you that the yŏnae of young men and w ­ omen is an extremely
sacred t­ hing.” A sentence similar to “yŏnae is a sacred t­ hing” is also found in
Changanmong (Long and Regrettable Dream [1913]), which Ch’oe also penned
and serialized in the same newspaper. It should be noted that ­these two novels
­were all published ­under the name Cho Chung-­hwan and are adaptations of
the Japa­nese novels Ono ga Tsumi (One’s Own Sin [1899–1900]), by Kikuchi
Yuho, and Konjiki Yasha (The Golden Demon [1897–1902]), by Ozaki Kōyō.
The Golden Demon is a translation of the En­glish novelist Bertha  M. Clay’s
Weaker Than a ­Woman (1878).17
To some extent, ­these translations inherited the spiritual notion of love
from Meiji culture. But the result of the circulation of ­these translated nov-
els and of yŏnae, the term for romantic love, means that they are multilayered
and multitextual. For example, the perceptions of Long and Regrettable Dream
­were represented in the following advertisement for the publication notice of
the serial novel:

Problematizing Love  |  121

 A New Novel (Sin Sosŏl), Changanmong

– It is not a usual novel.

– It portrays ­human nature and social conditions.
– How can anyone not cry while reading this?18

The advertisement introduces Cho Chung-­hwan’s translation as “A New

Novel.”19 The under­lying ideology of the new novel, especially as a method to
“enlighten” Korean ­people, influenced Cho’s intention to translate The Golden
Demon, as well as his hope of offering the spiritual food to young ­people.20
Scholarship on Cho Chung-­hwan’s translation of The Golden Demon has illus-
trated the differences between the original Japa­nese and the Korean transla-
tion and established the popularity of both novels in colonial ­Korea.21 What I
want to highlight ­here is that Cho’s translation of Japa­nese popu­lar novels em-
bodies the intersection of modern love, translation activities, and the practice
of the new novel in a local context. And more impor­tant, the localization of a
foreign text can be achieved only when both the spiritual (desire to be mod-
ern) and the material (equipped with modern technologies) are ready to serve
the modernization of a nation. Both the translation/adaption and the original
influenced the local literary and social contexts of colonial K­ orea. Specific evi-
dence of this phenomenon can be seen in the creation of Yi Kwang-­su’s Chae-
saeng (Rebirth [1924–25]), which illustrates how “love” obtains its exchange
value through transcultural communication and the growth of capitalism.22
Furthermore, when Japa­nese writers developed the modern concept of
love in Japa­nese lit­er­a­ture, they could not avoid tracing the connotations of
each character in the Japa­nese language.23 However, this linguistic negotia-
tion was absent in the translations of love in colonial ­Korea. The prob­lem of
translation revolves around the unquestioned equivalence between dif­fer­ent
languages and concepts. In other words, colonial intellectuals borrowed the
Japa­nese renai and a­ dopted the term yŏnae to translate the equivalent concept
from Japa­nese and Western sources without negotiating; this argument can
be applied to other new concepts as well.24 I argue that this con­ve­nience of
unswerving adoption of the modern Japa­nese invention of love, which was
mediated by the shared linguistic source of Chinese characters, led to the
naturalization of this concept as a transparent and universal value. In the case
of colonial ­Korea, the full embrace of “love” without social or linguistic ne-
gotiations signifies the colonial ambivalence that the colonized desired to be
modern even as they failed to be so—­that is, they sought to overcome colo-
nial real­ity but ­were, in fact, incapable of action. To some extent, the shared

122  |  Pei Jean Chen

experience of love functions in bridging the gap between dif­fer­ent classes and
genders in Korean society and ­Korea’s relations with imperial powers.
Accordingly, the concept of love remained more aspirational than real
in colonial ­Korea.25 Regardless of ideological or sexual differences, most
scenarios of modern love constructed at that time agreed that the experi-
ence of love was based on an individual’s own choice.26 However, “choice,”
as Kath Weston argues in her queer reading of kinship, “is an individualistic
and, if you w­ ill, bourgeois notion that focuses on the subjective power of an
‘I’ to formulate relationships to p­ eople and t­ hings, untrammelled by worldly
constraints.”27 Weston implies, then, that to privilege “choice” as the core of
kinship is to privilege ­those with the fewest bodily differences and local at-
tachments that would preclude the full exercise of this autonomy. An investi-
gation of social and literary discourses on romantic love thus reveals a modern
formation of love-­sex that manifests an emancipation-­oppression mechanism
wherein Koreans invariably experienced the ambivalence of a modernity
largely reinforced by colonial power.
This argument is supported by the social phenomenon of same-­sex love.
In the next section, I illustrate how same-­sex love exposes the paradox and
dilemma of the civilization pro­cess and is of vital importance in its exceptional
status of securing normatively intimate and social relationships. As Povinelli
elucidates, we (might) all have freedom to participate in the intimate event,
“­unless you happen to be, or are considered to be, a w ­ oman, a homosexual,
not white.” This shows “the imaginary of the intimate event is always disrupted
and secured by the logic of exception.”28 This phenomenon can be seen in how
colonial society allowed certain groups, such as schoolgirls, to engage in same-­
sex love to keep young ­people away from heterosexual intercourse and thereby
celebrated spiritual civilization. At the same time, same-­sex love was medical-
ized, with sex education aiming to promote reproductive relationships.

Repre­sen­ta­tions and Temporalities of Same-­Sex Love

The  Japa­nese terminology for same-­sex love  first appeared as a  Japanese-­

coined Chinese character (wasei kango), dōseiai, in the 1920s.29 In many ways,
the formation and transformation of the Japa­nese term dōseiai had an influ-
ence on the Korean concept of tongsŏng’ae. Modern knowledge was imported
from Japa­nese and Eu­ro­pean sexology to ­Korea ­after the annexation. Exam-
ples such as Richard von Krafft-­Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis (1886), which
was translated into Japa­nese in 1913, and Sakaki  Yasusaburō’s (1870–1929)

Problematizing Love  |  123

Seiyoku kenkyū to seishin bunsekigaku (Studies of Sexual Desire and Psycho-
analysis [1919]) introduced same-­sex love as sexual perversion to East Asian
socie­ties. ­After 1910, the Korean word compounds for same-­sex love, includ-
ing tongsŏng’ae, tongsŏng yŏnae, and tongsŏnggan ŭi sarang, replaced premodern
terms, such as “male colors” (namsaek). ­These terms coexisted in the transla-
tions of foreign works and w ­ ere used to reference same-­sex love and homo-
30
eroticism. However, from the second half of the 1920s to the 1930s, the term
tongsŏng’ae began to predominate, especially in reference to same-­sex love be-
tween ­women. It should be noted that the emergence of the term tongsŏng’ae
at this time does is not tantamount to the existence of homosexual subjects
or a lesbian identity as we know them ­today. But the emergence of the term
does indicate the power of naming. In this sense, to trace the temporality, lan-
guage difference, and referents of terminologies is to locate sociohistorical
specificity, as well as the diachronicity and the synchronicity, of ­these modern
concepts.
­These conceptual points can be observed from the following examples
from colonial K ­ orea. When it first emerged during the 1910s, same-­sex love
was quickly pathologized and medicalized. As the Korean doctor  Chŏng
Sŏk-­tae once stated, “ ‘Sexual desire’ is basically between dif­fer­ent sexes and
does not exist between the same sex. When it happens between the same sex,
every­one would identify it as a disease. It is called ‘sexual desire between the
same sex,’ or, in other words, ‘same-­sex love.’ ”31 In his essay on sexual desire,
Chŏng normalized sexual desire between heterosexuals and medicalized its
same-­sex counterpart. ­These views ­were common among medical experts
and other intellectuals during this period. Kim Yun-­kyŏng, for example, lik-
ened same-­sex be­hav­ior to perverted sexuality such as rape, bigamy, and kinky
abuse that resulted in sexual disease and hom­i­cide.32 Such medical narratives
denied autonomy or agency to ­those who ­were deemed ill or “perverted” sub-
jects. Th­ ese medical narratives ­were complicit with vari­ous social institutions,
such as pedagogy, family/marriage, and medical science, to name a few, all of
which aimed to normalize “sex” as “a natu­ral sexual desire between men and
­women.” Clearly, the aim of ­these discourses was to exclude diverse sexual
forms from idealized practices of reproductive heterosexuality. Along with
masturbation and sexually transmitted diseases such as syphilis, same-­sex love
was viewed as a sexual be­hav­ior that did not lead to reproduction and was thus
of ­little use to empire building and military power.
Paradoxically, however, ­there was one part of colonial socie­ties where same-­
sex love was permitted: the spiritual love between schoolgirls. This viewpoint

124  |  Pei Jean Chen

of “female-­exclusive same-­sex love” can be seen in statements such as, “When
talking about tongsŏng’ae, I think it is more imaginable and reasonable to
think of ­women, though the strange and even pathological phenomenon can
also be found between men. . . . ​­Today, I think the general impression is that
tongsŏng’ae is an exclusive possession of ­women.”33 The writer Yi Sŏk-un pro-
duced this statement from his reflection on double suicide between w ­ omen
34
that took place in colonial ­Korea. His use of terms such as sŏngyok (sexual
desire), pyŏngjŏk (pathological), and sŏng ŭi toch’ak (sexual perversion) shows
his knowledge of sexology. Therefore, his discussion of tongsŏng’ae u­ nder
conditions of modernity aimed to pathologize and categorize it as an uncon-
ventional form of normative love. Yi ­later introduced same-­sex culture in the
second part of the essay, in which he discussed the terms namsaek and oip-
chaengi (womanizer), which ­were sexual practices men used to secure their
power and fame during the Chosŏn Dynasty (1392–1910).35 His tracing of a
modern tongsŏng’ae through the premodern namsaek resonates with Saeki
Junko’s observation of the Japa­nese iro to ai, which also represented a clear
rupture between spiritual and carnal practices.
­Later, the writer and reformer Kim Yŏ-je (1895–1968) wrote a long essay
in which he discussed same-­sex love cultures in vari­ous countries (includ-
ing Amer­i­ca, Egypt, ­England, France, Germany, and Italy), focusing on the
specific cultural context of each society. With a broad understanding of the
subject, Kim calls the public’s attention t­oward same-­sex love by explaining
that “it is not just a psychological or medical issue, but also an educational
and social one.”36 Interestingly, Kim differs from Yi’s interest in exploring the
cultural history of namsaek and tongsŏng’ae and instead states, “Considering
that we still can see that the words namsaek and tongsŏng yŏn’ae exist in our so-
ciety, we can presume the malady of this unsolved prob­lem.”37 He continues,
“Although it is a fact that tongsŏng yŏn’ae is an expression of h­ uman nature,
for the full development of both male and female sexes and the balance of
sexual life, antisocial instincts such as tongsŏng yŏn’ae need to be controlled
and converted, no m ­ atter what. We have to keep working hard on this.”38 What
both Yi and Kim suggested in their lengthy essays is that the phenomenon
of tongsŏng’ae should be regulated to secure a healthy society. The tragedy
(suicide and crime) and perversion (deviant desire and immorality) associ-
ated with tongsŏng’ae suggest that same-­sex love was, for them, exceptional to
normative love and social order.
Terms such as namsaek and tongsŏng’ae embody specific cultural references
to colonial ­Korea and the modernization of its language and individual

Problematizing Love  |  125

subjects during this period. This cultural specificity requires special consider-
ation. As discussed in the previous section, the transformation of sexual desire
from carnal to spiritual, the civilizing ideology, and the practices of translation
and literary production all influenced the discourse and construction of the
concept of love and are all thus indispensable for understanding the discourse
of same-­sex love. As we observed from the terms namsaek and tongsŏng’ae,
­there was also an explicit gender difference in the development of same-­sex
intimacy between men and that between ­women.
In the following section, I argue that male-­male intimacy in the 1910s
and female same-­sex love during the 1920s and 1930s ­were all strongly spiri-
tualized to avoid the mentioning of sexual acts; however, male writers often
depicted erotic scenes in the repre­sen­ta­tion of female-­female intimacy.
The gender difference shows that the female sex and body ­were of ­great
significance to the regulative mechanism of love. Furthermore, depictions
of male and female same-­sex love in popu­lar media and literary repre­sen­
ta­tions appeared as “incomplete proj­ects.” I thus propose to read same-­sex
love not merely as a failed version of love and modernization but, rather,
as a counterdiscourse that opposed the totalization of dif­fer­ent forms of
life. To this end, I conclude by suggesting that same-­sex love be viewed as
an impor­tant site to explore alternative possibilities for “queer modes of
life” in Korean history.39

Male Same-­Sex Love as Civilizing Spirit: Sympathy

Before repre­sen­ta­tions of female same-­sex love came to preoccupy the mass

media in the 1930s, male same-­sex love appeared in the literary writings of
colonized intellectuals during the 1910s.40 As scholars have demonstrated,
­these discourses of love ­were underwritten by two po­liti­cal impulses. The first
arose out of critiques of traditional social relationships, especially the Confu-
cian social order. Marriage and ­family ­were thus targeted for reform in the lib-
eration of modern individuals. The second was to cultivate the individual for
the civilization proj­ect by enhancing spiritual love while diminishing physical
desire. However, as I show in the following discussion, “love” between the
male protagonists had l­ittle to do with sexual desire; it was, instead, focused
on spiritual caring or sympathy (tongjŏng), with love always remaining an in-
complete proj­ect.
In his short novel Tongjŏng ŭi nu (Tears of Sympathy [1920]), for example,
the writer and art critic Paek Ak states:

126  |  Pei Jean Chen

 In the relationship of B and I, t­here is an attraction of love; we spiritually
comfort each other. Even when we cannot see each other for just one day, the
thought of seeing the other becomes stronger, and the mind is confused. I just
feel sorry about B’s situation and express my sympathy, and B feels my sympa-
thy and love. He accepts them, and his love ­toward me naturally grows. . . . ​But
from a third person’s point of view, our relationship would be called same-­sex
love (tongsŏng’ae).41

Among literary works depicting “love” between men, Paek’s is the only one
that mentions the term tongsŏng’ae, which he equates to the broad idea of sym-
pathetic love. As Yi Chŏng-­suk argues, “For the difficulty of the nation, the
emotional solidarity that enables ‘sympathy’ is necessary, and it is stabilized
and realized by the relationship of ‘same-­sex love’ in the form of ‘friendship.’ ”42
Yi makes this argument by examining several literary works by Paek Ak, Yi
Kwang-su, and ­others. She uses ­these works to highlight sympathy as a rhe-
torical device for the fulfilment of enlightenment, and that impulse coincides
with same-­sex love in discovering the national spirit.
As Kim Hyŏn-ju argues, this effort to promote the national spirit was not
just aimed at the creation of new subjects, such as the individual and the na-
tion; it sought to produce a new view of culture and lit­er­a­ture and a revolt
against colonial power.43 The politics of sympathy in modern Korean lit­er­a­
ture certainly resonated with the idea of spiritual civilization in the 1910s. Yi
Kwang-su once expressed his thoughts on the subject, writing:
What is called sympathy signifies that my body and mind are concerned with
the position and situation of o­ thers, as well as t­hose persons’ thought and
be­hav­ior. In fact, among the noble qualities of ­human beings, it is the most
noble. Sympathy is in direct proportion to the development of spirit (which is
the development of humanity). . . . ​The higher the development of spirit, the
individual or nation ­will have deep thoughts of sympathy, or the contrary.44

This emphasis on sympathy, as Sŏ Yŏng-­ch’ae argues, shows that “Yi

Kwang-su tried to connect his protagonists’ inner strug­gles with the passion of
enlightenment to save Korean p­ eople in need and who w ­ ere hungry.”45 Most
of the characters in the literary works produced around this time ­were young
men who suffered unhappy childhoods, and that trauma turned into sorrow
and loneliness.46 The remedy was thus usually expressed through companion-
ship, friendship, or love. Literary critic Kim Yun-­sik comments on the features
in Yi Kwang-­su’s works as “the consciousness of an orphan” and “the symptom

Problematizing Love  |  127

of being hungry for love,” which he equates to the shared experience of young
­people in Yi’s generation.
However, I emphasize that the catastrophic nature of same-­sex love de-
picted by Yi Kwang-su highlights the incomplete proj­ect of enlightened civi-
lization and nation building. During the 1910s, Yi Kwang-su produced several
short pieces of fiction that dealt with same-­sex love.47 His intertextual short
novels Ai ka (Maybe Love [1909]) and Yun Kwang-­ho (Yun Kwang-ho [1917]),
are evidence of this incomplete proj­ect of love. Scholarship on ­these two nov-
els has focused on their colonial complexity through a close reading of racial
dimensions and the ambivalence of colonial intellectuals.48 This scholarship
highlights how racial differences between Koreans and Japa­nese brought
about an imbalanced flow of desire.49 According to ­these analyses, Korean
youth embraced and, at the same time, resisted colonial desire, which was thus
a mixed feeling of being civilized while also being colonized. In the two nov-
els, the Korean protagonists Mun-­gil and Kwang-­ho’s love for and surrender to
the colonizers, Misao and P, resonate with Frantz Fanon’s notion of the men-
tality of the “man of color to become a white man” and with what Ashis Nandy
terms the “intimate ­enemy,” both of which are forms of self-­colonization.50
Nonetheless, the colonial ambivalence manifest in t­ hese works is obscured
by their same-­sex thematics. The reception of Yun Kwang-­ho shows that
­people at that time disapproved of same-­sex love, which resulted in suicide. Yi
Kwang-­su’s con­temporary Pak Yŏng-­hŭi clearly identified the story as lost love
from a man (namsaek ŭi silyŏn), not a ­woman. Even as he compared this de-
sire to the sadness of a lost love, Park described this “unpleasant atmosphere
of namsaek” as even stranger.51 Yi himself also clarified this point, saying that
although “Yun Kwang-­ho is based on a true story,” he avoids revealing his iden-
tity to protect the person’s reputation.52 ­These comments show that same-­sex
love was well recognized by readers, as it had already gained notoriety during
the late 1910s. Notwithstanding the negative connotation of same-­sex love in
­these comments, the terms tongjŏng (sympathy) and aejŏng (affection) appear
several times in Yun Kwang-­ho, much as ai was repeatedly used in Maybe Love
when the Korean protagonist strug­gled with his innermost feelings t­ oward a
Japa­nese man in a monologue of self-­doubt. The Korean protagonist’s practice
of jŏng (a wider scope of emotions and love) in accusing his Japa­nese counter-
part of being mujŏng (heartlessness) and causing silyŏn (lost love) represents
self-­reflection and empowerment. As John Treat nicely puts it, it is “an intro-
spective change in the protagonist’s character, and with it the manufacture of a
modern, interiorized self.”53 In both novels, the catastrophic nature of love and

128  |  Pei Jean Chen

the suicidal tendencies of the protagonists symptomize the desperate state of
mind of colonial intellectuals while generating reflection on the proj­ects of
colonization and modernization. Literary writings on male same-­sex love thus
show that the pro­cess of constructing sexual/power relations is not just related
to the order between male/female, heterosexual/homosexual, but should also
include colonizer/colonialized and nation-­building/political subversion.

Female Same-­Sex Love and Queer Modes of Life

Contrary to the purely spiritual way in which male writers wrote about male-­
male relationships in the lit­er­a­ture discussed ­earlier, the depiction of female
same-­sex relationships by male writers was closely related to eroticism, thus
revealing a gender hierarchy in their conception of same-­sex love. For exam-
ple, in Yi Kwang-­su’s Mujŏng (Heartless [1917]), Wŏl-­hwa, a famous kisaeng,
became the female protagonist of Yŏng-­ch’ae’s mentor when Yŏng-­ch’ae’s
mentor had to sell herself to save her ­family. The two became intimate:
Once, when Wŏl-­hwa and Yŏng-­ch’ae came back from a party late at night
and had slept together in the same bed, Yŏng-­ch’ae put her arms around Wŏl-­
hwa in her sleep, and kissed her on the mouth. She laughed to herself, “So
you have awakened as well,” she thought. “Sadness and suffering lie ahead of
you.” She woke Yŏng-­ch’ae. “Yŏng-­ch’ae, you just put your arms around me
and kissed me on the mouth.” Yŏng-­ch’ae buried her face in Wŏl-­hwa’s breasts,
as though [she] were ashamed, and bit her white breasts. “I did it b­ ecause it
was you,” she said.54

Yi Kwang-su thus employs female-­female eroticism to replace Yŏng-­ch’ae’s

sexual desire ­toward men.55
A similar depiction can be found in Yi Hyo-­sŏk’s Kaesalgu (Wild Apricots
[1937]), in which two w ­ omen of dif­fer­ent social classes engaging in female
homoeroticism: “She had fallen for the Seoul ­woman in the same way that
Chae-su had. She felt fortunate to have been born a w ­ oman so that she could
wait on such a beauty who all of the village’s men desired. . . . ​Sometimes,
when she prepared a bath for the Seoul ­woman, and while scrubbing her white
back, Chŏm-­sun was overwhelmed by the desire to hold that beautiful body
against hers.”56 Male writers took the ­middle ground in replacing carnal desire
between men and w ­ omen, which was erased in modern lit­er­a­ture, and love
with female same-­sex eroticism. Also, when they associated female subjects
with eroticism, they disqualified ­women in the pursuit of modern love; thus,

Problematizing Love  |  129

­ omen failed in the proj­ect of civilization and nation building. This tendency
w
is similar to Kim Tong-­in’s depiction of New ­Women that I discussed ­earlier.
Despite that, many more repre­sen­ta­tions of female same-­sex love placed em-
phasis on the spiritual relationship.
In repre­sen­ta­tions by w
­ omen, female intellectuals emphasized the lofty
sentiment of sympathy and veiled the possibility of sexual desire. The article
“Yŏryu myŏngsa ŭi tongsŏngyŏn’ae gi” (Stories of Same-­Sex Love of Female
Celebrities), published in the magazine Pyŏlgŏn’gon (Another World) in
1930, featured four New ­Women: Hwang Sin-­dŏk, a journalist; Hŏ Yŏng-­suk,
a gynecologist and Yi Kwang-­su’s wife; Yi Tŏk-yo, a Christian activist; and an
anonymous fourth ­woman.57 ­These New ­Women ­were interviewed about their
experience of “same-­sex love” in their high school years, with the text or­ga­nized
as a first-­person narrative of each interviewee. In their narratives, same-­sex
love was a shared experience and trend during the ­women’s schooldays, and
it emerged from sympathy and caring for one another. Hwang Sin-­dŏk wrote:
­ ere should be no one who has not experienced same-­sex love during a girl’s
Th
school days. I myself experienced it many times. When recalling it, many in­
ter­est­ing ­things come to mind. I was very close to a friend from T’aech’ŏn
when studying in Sungŭi Girls School. The friend was an orphan and lived in
poverty. It might have been the sympathy ­toward her situation in the begin-
ning, but then the seedling of loving emotions grew. . . . ​This was my very first
experience of same-­sex love. Although I was very close to many other friends
thereafter, I never experienced this kind of pure love.58

Hŏ Yŏng-­suk wrote:
I had many experiences of same-­sex love when studying at Chinmyŏng School
when I was approximately fourteen or fifteen years old, as many ­others did.
When I was studying at Paehwa Girls School, I had many in­ter­est­ing experi-
ences with the wife of a current professor at Central General High School
named Kim Kyŏng-­hŭi. . . . ​Since she lived in the dormitory and I was at
home, we could only meet once a week in the church. I waited and waited
­until the day came; we w­ ere so happy and had lots of t­ hings to talk about with
each other when we met. . . . ​One more person was a se­nior named Pae Yŏng-­
sun at Chinmyŏng School. She was very adorable to me. . . . ​One day when I
heard the ŏnni (older s­ ister) whom I deeply loved was in love with another
person, I became so angry that I seized the ŏnni, cried out loud, and said to her
that if she refused to break up with the other person, I would die. Anyway,

130  |  Pei Jean Chen

 I was extremely jealous. Also, when the ŏnni got married, I was so heartbroken
that I wailed bitterly.59

Several points are repeated in Hwang’s and Ho’s narratives: the popularity of
same-­sex love at girls’ schools,60 the purity of that love, and scenes of girls’
dormitories and churches. ­These points illustrate what I argued previously—­
namely, that the Western/Christian concept of love impacted the discourse
of love in early twentieth-­century East Asia and that it set spiritual love apart
from physical desire or sexual be­hav­ior as a symbol of civilization.
A con­spic­u­ous repression of physical desire or sexual be­hav­ior can be ob-
served in Yu’s narrative. Yu’s story is similar insofar as it mentions the life ex-
periences at girls’ schools, scenes of the dormitory, and the mixed emotions
of love and sympathy. However, Yu revealed a detail from her past experience
that disgusted her:
The way she likes me, compared to my love t­oward her, is somehow more
scary. It is not about P’s face or body or her love for me. To me, it is just about
her hand. In the night or daytime, when I looked at her hand, I suffered from
fatigue ­because it looks so scary and creepy; I could not bear it. In the night,
before we sleep together, her hand came to me; it just made me feel like a big
snake attacking me, and thus very creepy and scary. Even now when think-
ing about her, the hand comes to my mind first. The hand and foot [of one
person] are so ugly that t­here was no love between c­ ouples. . . . ​Oh my, her
hand!61

Even though she did not expose her full name, Yu wrote the longest account
and recounted more negative thoughts than the ­others. The problematic
“hand” raises the question of the repression of physical desire. At the end of
Yu’s narrative, she states that the hand she experienced was scarier than a “dev­
il’s hand” in a movie. One can easily connect the hand with the sexual be­hav­ior
between two w ­ omen, revealing how Yu made the experience something evil
and disavowed it.
New ­Women’s practice of same-­sex love was often located in Christian
schools and churches.62 New ­Women intellectuals in colonial ­Korea played an
extremely complex social role. They embodied the hope that knowledge can
bring individuals (and even the nation) t­ oward civilization. For them, the ex-
perience of love was one way to release individuals from traditional social rela-
tions and lead them ­toward the proj­ect of modernization. However, colonial
modernity also ­limited the New ­Woman, who, as a new modern subject and

Problematizing Love  |  131

cultural construction, became a site for the display of knowledge-­power. The
text quoted e­ arlier shows both the construction (the determined experience
of love) and the destruction (the experience is gone for good) of the self. One
should ask: Why is that pure love never experienced again?
In addition to similar ele­ments in their narratives, the experiences of same-­
sex love all started and ended during a certain period of the girls’ high school
days. In contrast to the sustainable, reproductive relationships of heterosexu-
ality, the relatively short period of spiritual same-­sex love relationship func-
tions as a “backward glance,” as Fran Martin has discovered in con­temporary
Chinese repre­sen­ta­tions.63 Female same-­sex relations in a w ­ oman’s youth are
thus represented as both cherished (mostly celebrating its pure emotion) and
forcibly given up (to become qualified as an adult citizen). Accordingly, while
this narrative encodes critical queer agency, its proliferation also reflects the
social prohibition of adult lesbianism. Returning to the article mentioned
­earlier, Ho remembered her failure to maintain or argue for the relationship
with the ŏnni when she got married, and Ho had nothing to do but think about
death while she herself married Yi Kwang-su. In the same manner, Hwang had
advocated love between husband and wife in a dif­fer­ent interview published
­earlier. Most same-­sex love prac­ti­tion­ers thus “gave up” pure love and moved
on to the next stage of their lives. One might ask: What if they wanted to keep
the relationship and fight against mainstream expectations? The answer is not
a positive one, at least in terms of what public rec­ords tell us.
What we can find are tragic examples, such as the double suicide commit-
ted by Hong Ok-im and Kim Yong-ju in 1930:
At 4:45 pm on April 8, [1930], ­there ­were two young females who committed
suicide by jumping in front of a high-­speed train at Yŏngdŭngp’o Station. One
of the victims was Hong Ok-im, a twenty-­one-­year-­old student at Kyŏngsŏng
Iwha School; her ­father is Doctor Hong. The other was Kim Yong-ju, a se­nior
student at Tongdŏk Girls Se­nior High School (who is married to the elder son
of a wealthy ­family; her ­father is Kim Tong-­jin, who runs a bookstore). The
reason for their suicide is not yet clear.64

As the media often reported on the phenomenon of double suicides (chŏngsa)

at that time, their deaths became a sensation and sparked contentious de-
bates.65 A search of databases and archives brings up the Japa­nese term dōsei
shinju and the Korean term tongsŏng’ae chŏngsa, both of which mean “same-­
sex [love] double suicide.” Th
­ ese terms began to circulate in the public media
in the 1920s. In addition, double suicide was the key incident that brought

132  |  Pei Jean Chen

female same-­sex love to public attention. Almost all of the reported incidents
of same-­sex ­couples ­were female pairs, in contrast to Yi Kwang-­su’s depiction
of solo suicides by male figures. The high visibility of female same-­sex (love)
double suicide reveals society’s interest in w­ omen, who w ­ ere targeted as the
site for colonial society to develop regulative ideas.
Accordingly, the critiques of female same-­sex love and double suicide cen-
tered on “­women questions” and the regulation of modern female subjects.
Generally speaking, reports on female same-­sex double suicide incidents fea-
tured a diverse range of modern female subjects. Even nonsexual romantic
friendships between ­women could elicit the allegedly unnatural act of mutual
self-­destruction. The titles of related articles tended to highlight their pro-
fessions, such as “Double Suicide of Two Barmaids” and “Female Workers
of Same-­Sex Love.”66 Barmaid (chakbu) and female worker (yŏjikkong) ­were
neologisms that represented the advent of ­these female professions at that
time. The cause of female same-­sex double suicide discussed in the public
media concentrated on “marriage issues”: ­women ­either wanted to escape
from marriages or ­were unhappy in their marriages (e.g., ­because of an age
gap with their husbands or quarrels with ­family members). In the case of
the double suicide mentioned e­ arlier, the two educated young w ­ omen ­were
from middle-­class backgrounds: the doctor’s ­daughter was still single, while
the other w­ oman, the ­daughter of an intellectual, was married to a soldier in
the air force.
The incident occurred in 1931, and widespread media coverage produced
much discussion and writing related to issues of suicide. Media circles l­ater
defined it as a “same-­sex love double suicide.” They identified the cause of the
tragedy as the pessimism of one of the ­women and the unhappy marriage of
the other. Nonetheless, critics drew attention less to the personal situations
and private lives of the young w ­ omen themselves than to the incident’s nega-
tive influence on teen­agers and the larger society. Criticism of, compassion for,
and condemnation of the incident converged on the following points: (1) the
decline of filial piety and righ­teousness due to individualism; (2) solutions
that families and schools can take to prevent this kind of tragedy; (3) critiques
of arranged marriages; (4) methods for preventing ­mental illness; and (5) warn-
ings not to overlook the prob­lem of same-­sex love and chastity. Yun Ch’i-ho, a
Korean social reformer, presented yet another cause, suggesting that the trag-
edy was caused by “pessimism” and that “the excessively sentimental novels of
Japa­nese writers—in which the heroines are never happy u­ nless they kill or
commit suicide—­are ­doing much harm to educated Korean girls.”67

Problematizing Love  |  133

 Although ­these critiques connected the incident to social institutions, they
failed to grasp the core of the issue. As with the cases of schoolgirl romances,
the incon­ve­nient truth of ­these social issues is nothing other than the “im-
possible futurity” of same-­sex love. This is the opposite of what Lee Edelman
terms “reproductive futurism,” by which he means a po­liti­cal notion about
the f­ uture. By contrast, queerness “should and must redefine such notions as
‘civil order’ through a rupturing of our foundational faith in the reproduction
of futurity.”68 The impossible ­future reflected in double suicides and same-­
sex love shows the limits of ­free love itself. This freedom is conditional and
restricted to spiritual romance, whereas “true” love leads to a reproductive
relationship.
The lived experiences of ­these colonial ­women—­their narratives of same-­
sex desire as strug­gle, depression, and death—­offer me the possibility to con-
sider re­sis­tance not only through w­ omen’s nostalgia for their youth and their
refusal to grow up, but also through the tragedies that are repeated in virtually
­every story. This excessive dysphoria should not be considered passivity, or an
internal prohibition, but should instead be understood as re­sis­tance through
the repetition of subaltern voices. As Jennifer Robertson has suggested, “Les-
bian double suicides and attempted suicides w ­ ere predicated on—­and both
used and criticized as a trope for—­a revolt against the normalizing functions
of ‘tradition’ (qua the ‘Good Wife, Wise ­Mother’) as sanctioned by the civil
code.”69 Hence, the under­lying logic of discourses on love, especially its regu-
lative ideas about ­women, is further problematized through the investigation
of female same-­sex love and suicide. Fi­nally, ­these lived experiences in the past
teach us that if modern love in colonial K­ orea was typically framed in terms of
a dominant imagination of monogamous, heterosexual, and reproductive rela-
tionships, same-­sex love and double suicide created alternative practices with
which to think about that oppressive history. Th ­ ese subaltern voices speak to
and inter-­reference each other while challenging and revising dominant pasts
and enabling an alternative alliance of queer modes of life.

Conclusion: ­Toward the Decolonization of Love

In the ­middle of 2012, a musical per­for­mance titled K’ongch’ilp’al Saesamnyuk

(lit., gossiping for trifles) debuted in Seoul; it used as its theme the female
same-­sex double suicide that, as discussed ­earlier, took place in Seoul in
the 1930s. According to an interview with the writer and the composer, the
musical was inspired by the “verdant and pure love” they found in the inci-

134  |  Pei Jean Chen

dent. The work does not aim to make any social statement; instead, it pre­sents
a story “just about love.”70 Yet, the definition of love in ­today’s dictionary still
suggests that intimate relationships should be exclusively between members
of the opposite sex and that the f­uture of that love is ultimately marriage.71
Although enlightening civilization and national ideology are not directly im-
posed on the meaning of love ­here, the tendencies of compulsory heterosexu-
ality, marriage as the ultimate goal, and the targeting of w ­ omen as objects for
regulation are inherited from notions of love that developed during the colo-
nial era.
In this chapter, I have pointed out how colonialism and nationalism w ­ ere
interconnected in complex ways and how they helped shape the development
of modern sexuality and love in occupied ­Korea. As demonstrated ­earlier, the
discourse of love as an intimate event s­ haped ideas about the modern self,
gender differences, and literary modernity, while one’s “liberation” si­mul­ta­
neously create conditions for oppression. This return to love restages ques-
tions concerning the trajectories of civilization and modernity, which closely
relate to histories of coloniality. I have argued that the discourses of f­ ree love
and sexology contributed to the emergence of modern (national/sexual) sub-
jects u­ nder the specific historical context of colonial K
­ orea. In so d­ oing, I prob-
lematized the notion of modern love to shed light on the false consciousness
of love being equal and ­free. Although love is often perceived as universal and
applicable to all members of society and even to all h­ uman beings, other forms
of love (i.e., same-­sex love) are disavowed. To be more specific, the paradox
­here is that the universality of love must always be maintained and secured
by the logic of “exception.” ­After all, although ­these “­others” embody the con-
tradictions of modernization, they are of g­ reat importance to the mainstream
ideology of colonialism and nation building. To put it differently, “­others” are
not an obstacle to the realization of modernization or nation building but are
necessary for ­these proj­ects.
Symbolic others are not prerequisites to maintain the homogeneity of a
society or nation but to ensure the alliance between dominant powers. For
example, ­those who have venereal disease, have had an abortion, have engaged
in prostitution, have committed (love/double) suicide, or ­were involved in
other kinds of “perverted” sexualities (including same-­sex love) are disquali-
fied in the practice of modern love wherein colonialism, patriarchy, capitalism,
and heterosexuality are already in alliance to secure reproductive relationships,
gender divisions, markets, and military force to build the empire/­nation.72 In
so ­doing, ­these “­others,” although they existed before “modern love” emerged,

Problematizing Love  |  135

­ ere generated from the discourses of love, and thus became a normative
w
standard. In the pro­cess, ­these subjects ­were named, summoned, and divided
for the new social system or social relations (and the vari­ous power mecha-
nisms ­behind them) in which regulatory techniques are even more delicate
and comprehensive. Nonetheless, the examples of same-­sex love and love
suicides during colonial times and the recollection of the colonial incident
in the con­temporary musical per­for­mance represents the very being of sexual
subalterns that enables a direct critique of the false equality of love. Once sub-
alterns overcome the division by their own power alliance, they w ­ ill be able to
revise this oppressive history.

Notes

1 In Japan, for example, Fukuzawa Yukichi (1835–1901) defended the new educa-
tion against criticisms of surviving Confucians and offered his thoughts on
social relations and morality. In ­Korea, Yi Kwang-su (1892–1950) severely
criticized the rigidity of the Confucian moral code and ­Korea’s “reliance” on
Chinese culture as barriers preventing ­Korea from “progressing.” He stated
that “lit­er­a­ture in the past, ­whether prose or poetry, remained strictly within
the bound­aries of Confucian morality.” In his famous novel A Madman’s Diary,
Lu Xun (1881–1936) condemned the oppressive nature of Chinese Confucian
culture as a “man-­eating” society where the strong devour the weak. The mad-
man’s reading of ancient texts to discover evidence of cannibalism is a parody of
traditional Confucian scholarship: Fukuzawa Yukichi, “Tokuiku Ikan,” Fuku-
zawa Yukichi Zenshû 5 (1959): 349–64; Yi Kwang-su, “What Is Lit­er­a­ture?” trans.
Rhee Jooyeon, Azalea 4 (2011): 293–313; Lu Xun, “Kuangren Riji,” Xin Qingnian,
May 1, 1918.
2 For the scholarship on this topic, see Mark J. McLelland and Vera C. Mackie, eds.,
Routledge Handbook of Sexuality Studies in East Asia (New York: Routledge, 2015);
Michiko Suzuki, Becoming Modern ­Women: Love and Female Identity in Prewar
Japa­nese Lit­er­a­ture and Culture (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2009);
Sabine Frühstück, Colonizing Sex: Sexology and Social Control in Modern Japan
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003); Kwŏn Podŭrae, Yŏnae ŭi sidae:
1920 nyŏndae ch’oban ŭi munhwa wa yuhaeng (Seoul: Hyŏnsil Munhwa Yŏn’gu,
2003); Sŏ Chi-­yŏng, Yŏksa e sarang ŭl mutta: Han’guk munhwa wa sarang ŭi kyebo-
hak (Seoul: Isup, 2011); Kō Ikujo, Kindai Taiwan joseishi: Nihon no shokumin tōchi
to “shinjosei” no tanjō (Tokyo: Keisō Shobō, 2001); Haiyan Lee, Revolution of the
Heart: A Genealogy of Love in China, 1900–1950 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University
Press, 2007).
3 Prior to the emergence of discourses on ­free marriage and ­free love, marriage
issues, including early marriage and the remarriage of ­widows, ­were legally

136  |  Pei Jean Chen

 reformed ­under the Kabo Reforms in 1894, and thus changed traditional social
relationships.
4 According to her conception, the intimate event is a hierarchical pyramid of gov-
ernance in which the relationship between the colonizer and the colonized as well
as between dif­fer­ent genders and social classes is recalibrated through discourses
of love that blur relational lines. Connecting this social hierarchy to practices
of colonial governance and modernization is a deeply personalized proj­ect of
achieving normatively acceptable relations over oneself and ­others: see Elizabeth
Povinelli, The Empire of Love: ­Toward a Theory of Intimacy, Genealogy, and Carnal-
ity (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2006), 3–4.
5 Kwŏn, Yŏnae ŭi sidae, 204.
6 Kwŏn, Yŏnae ŭi sidae, 218. Kwŏn makes this argument by examining eminent new
novels written in the 1900s, such as Yi In-­jik’s Tears of Blood (Hyŏl ŭi nu [1906]),
in which the protagonist, Ong-­nyŏn, is in a marriage that is neither a traditional
arrangement nor ­free and romantic.
7 Kwŏn, Yŏnae ŭi sidae, 15–16.
8 Chŏng Hye-­yŏng and Yu Chong-­yul, “Kŭndae ŭi sŏngnip kwa ‘yŏnae’ ŭi palgyŏn:
1920 nyŏndae nat’anan ‘ch’ŏnyŏsŏng’ sŏngnip kwajŏngŭl chungshim ŭro,” Han’guk
Yŏndae Munhangn Yŏn’gu 18 (December 2005): 227–51.
9 According to Michiko Suzuki’s research, the two central aspects of modern love
ideology as articulated in the work of Ellen Key can be delineated as follows.
First, love is integral to female selfhood, a pro­cess of self-­development ultimately
leading to one’s true identity. In her view, both the individual and the h­ uman
race can become ­whole and attain completion through love. Second, love is both
a spiritual and a sexual experience that completes the individual. Key’s point is
that true love, rather than following a hierarchical framework in which spiritual
or platonic love is superior to sexual love, must combine both ele­ments. This idea
of love became an ideal that helped to define and shape sex/gender difference
and equality. Although men ­were understood to experience love first through
sexual desires and ­women ­were perceived to feel spiritual love before awakening
to sexual love, both men and ­women had to experience spiritual and sexual love in
order to pro­gress and attain a modern self: see Suzuki, Becoming Modern ­Women,
13–14.
10 Sŏ, Yŏksa e sarang ŭl mutta, 229.
11 Kuriyagawa Hakuson (1880–1923) was a Japa­nese writer and literary critic, whose
Modern Views on Love (Kindai no ren aikan, 1922) was widely circulated and trans-
lated in East Asia.
12 Kim Tong-in, “Kim Yŏn-­sil chŏn,” 33–34.
13 See Hyaeweol Choi, “Wise ­Mother, Good Wife: A Transcultural Discursive
­Construct in Modern ­Korea,” Journal of Korean Studies 14, no. 1 (2009): 1–34.
14 For more on state technologies of love in the regulation of marriage, kinship, and
reproductive health, see Sonia Ryang, Love in Modern Japan: Its Estrangement from
Self, Sex and Society (London: Routledge, 2006).

Problematizing Love  |  137

 15 Kōjin Karatani, Origins of Modern Japa­nese Lit­er­a­ture (Durham, NC: Duke Uni-
versity Press, 1993), 79.
16 Requoted from Kwŏn, Yŏnae ŭi sidae, 192.
17 Bertha M. Clay was born Charlotte Mary Brame (1836–84).
18 Maeil Sinbo, May 9, 1913, 3.
19 The emergence of the new novel or new fiction (sin sosŏl) was grounded in the
enlightenment era and gained its momentum through the growing distribution
and circulation of newspapers. Scholarship such as Han’guk sinsosŏl chŏnjip (The
Complete Collection of Korean New Novels [1968]) defines 1900–17, the time
from the first appearance of Yi In-­jik’s novel to Yi Kwang-­su’s Mujŏng, as the era of
the new novel.
20 Cho Chung-­hwan himself wrote an essay to express his thoughts on the transla-
tion of both Japa­nese novels: One’s Own Sin and The Golden Demon. To set the
novels in ­Korea, he changed the background setting and the names of the charac-
ters to fit the colonial context: see Cho Chung-­hwan, “Pŏnyŏkhoego, Changan-
mong kwa Ssangongnu,” Samch’ŏlli, September 1, 1934, 234.
21 For a detailed discussion on Cho’s translation/adaptation, see Pak Chin-­yŏng,
“Ilchae Cho Chung-­hwan kwa pŏnan sosŏl ŭi sidae,” Minjong Chunhaksa Yŏn’gu
26 (2004): 199–230.
22 Yi Kwang-­su’s Chaesaeng (Rebirth) was serialized in 218 installments in Tong’a
Ilbo from November 9, 1924, to September 28, 1925. My discussion ­here is
based on the original publication. The notable relationships among The Golden
Demon, Long and Regrettable Dream, and Rebirth are illustrated in Sŏ Yŏng-­
ch’ae, “Chagi hŭisaeng ŭi kujo: Yi Kwang-su ŭi Chaesaeng kwa Ojak’i Koyo ŭi
Kŭmsaegyach’a,” Minjok Munhwa Yŏn’gu 58 (2013): 207–42. Yi’s con­temporary
Kim Tong-in also pointed out that Chaesaeng was heavi­ly influenced by The
Golden Demon: see Kim Tong-in, “Ch’unwŏn yŏn’gu 7,” Samch’ŏlli, July 1, 1935,
263–64.
23 According to Saeki Junko and Yanabu Akira, in Edo lit­er­a­ture, the nature of love
was expressed with dif­fer­ent words like iro (eros), koi (attraction/passion), and jŏ
(sentiment/emotion). But when sexual relationships ­were described, iro was most
commonly used. In the late Meiji period, the words ai and renai began to replace
iro in lit­er­a­ture when referring to romance between lovers that went beyond the
sexual. When the purely spiritual aspect of the relationship was emphasized, the
En­glish term rabu (love) was used in katakana: see Saeki Junko, “Iro” to “ai” no
hikaku bunkashi (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1998), 7–31; Yanabu Akira, Ai (Tokyo:
Sanseido, 2001).
24 ­­These new concepts include “freedom,” “equality,” “revolution,” and “civilization,”
to name a few.
25 Kim Ki-­jin commented on the speculative nature of the famous En­glish statement
“love is best.” As he writes, “Though ­there are some guys who have the leisure to
say ‘love is best,’ saying that yŏnae is a kind of emotional game and product of
the bourgeoisie is a prejudice against life. Though it might be right to say this in

138  |  Pei Jean Chen

 some situations, it does not give the full picture. To ­humans who live in the ruins
of the mind or in the pathetic majority, ­there are so many ­people hungry for love.
If [sarang] has a certain condition and ideal, it is close to ‘perfection.’ If so, eventu-
ally ‘sarang’ is nothing but a means of living. ­People who say rŏbu isŭ pesŭtŭ (love
is best) are crazy. ­There is the sarang of fantasy. And a sarang as real as the ideal
kind of sarang exists, too. ­There, the distance between fantasy and ideal is far”:
Kim Ki-­jin, “Maŭm ŭi p’ehŏ, kyŏure sŏsŏ,” Kaebyŏk, December 1, 1923, 132.
26 Suh Ji-­young [Sŏ Chi-­yŏng], “Collision of Modern Desires: Nationalism and Fe-
male Sexuality in Colonial ­Korea,” Review of Korean Studies 5, no. 2 (2002): 111–32.
27 Kath Weston, Families We Choose: Lesbians, Gays, Kinship (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1991), 110.
28 Povinelli, The Empire of Love, 191–93.
29 According to the Japa­nese sociologist Furukawa Makoto, it is not easy to deter-
mine when the compound dōseiai was used for the first time, but it likely appeared
around 1922 in a sexological text. Moreover, before dōseiai was established as the
mainstream term for same-­sex love or desire, compounds like “dōsei no ai,” “dōsei
no ren,” and “dōsei renai” appeared in public media during the 1910s. It should be
noted that ­these compounds replaced existing terms like nanshoku (male colors)
and mainly referred to male-­male eroticism in the 1910s. ­Later, it came to cover all
love between the same sex. Then, gradually, during the 1930s, it came to specify
female-­female relationships and sex and love: See Furukawa Makoto, “Dōsei ‘ai’
kō,” Imago 6, no. 12 (1995): 201–7; Furukawa Makoto, “Sexuaritii no henyō: Kindai
Nihon no dōseiai o meguru mittsu no kōdo,” Nichibei Josei Jaanaru 17 (1994):
29–55; Gregory M. Pflugfelder, Cartographies of Desire: Male-­Male Sexuality in
Japa­nese Discourse, 1600–1950 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999).
30 See Sin Ji-­yŏn, “1920–30 nyŏndae tongsŏng (yŏn)ae kwallyŏn kisa ŭi susajŏk
maengnak,” Minjok Munhwa Yŏn’gu 45 (2006): 265–92.
31 Chŏng Sŏk-­tae, “Sŏngyok ŭi saengni wa simni,” Pyŏlgŏn’gon, February 1, 1929, 64.
32 Kim Yun-­kyŏng, “Sŏngkyoyuk ŭi chuch’ang,” Tonggwang, March 5, 1927, 27.
33 See Yi Sŏk-un, “Tongsŏng’ae mandam,” 2, Tong’a Ilbo, March, 17, 1932.
34 The same-­sex double suicide Yi referred to in the article was committed by Hong
Ok-im and Kim Yong-ju in April 1931. I discuss this incident ­later.
35 The original content says, “It is said that the flourishing of tongsŏng’ae reached
its zenith in the Chosŏn period. It was known as namsaek and, in that period, it
served as a weapon and form of capital in the pursuit of success, like the practice
of corrupt officials’ scheming to offer up their beloved wives to their superiors in
exchange for bureaucratic advancement. Among the civil and military yangban, it
was, of course, common practice, but even if one had no ability, by submitting to
the thrall of namsaek one could easily obtain a coveted official appointment and
so-­called worldly success and fame. With re­spect to all this, I have no documents
and cannot provide any concrete examples, but namsaek in the Chosŏn period
was prob­ably more or less on par with the ‘male sexuality’ that played such a ­great
role in the culture of ancient Greece. In the Chosŏn period, the term o-­ip-­changi

Problematizing Love  |  139

 referred not to men who chased ­after ­women but in fact to men who chased ­after
men. We cannot help but be surprised that the term is said to have referred to men
who engaged in such activity. In the ­future, ­after thorough study, I would like to
write more about the in­ter­est­ing tongsŏng’ae among men in this period”: quoted in
JaHyun Kim Haboush, ed., Epistolary ­Korea: Letters from the Communicative Space
of the Chosŏn, 1392–1910 (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009), 243–44. It
should be noted that the term o-­ip-­changi is transliterated from 오입창이 and was
used by Yi Sŏk-un in the original script. ­Today, it is usually referred to as 오입쟁이.
36 Like many other intellectuals, Kim tends to mobilize vari­ous modern social insti-
tutions to address the issue by stating that “simply condemning tongsŏng yŏn’ae as
a dirty custom or darkness of the fin de siècle is our attitude. But, I think trying to
study the subject with scientific ways and treat it with a fair attitude is necessary.
Parents, ­needless to say, and educators, religions, scholars of law, intellectuals and
writers should understand the issue better”: see Kim Yŏ-­je, “Tongsŏng yŏn’ae,”
Chogwang, March 1, 1937, 288–94.
37 Kim, “Tongsŏng yŏn’ae,” 294.
38 Kim, “Tongsŏng yŏn’ae,” 294.
39 Judith [ Jack] Halberstam, In a Queer Time and Place: Transgender Bodies, Subcul-
tural Lives (New York: New York University Press, 2005).
40 I thank Gabriel Sylvian for his introduction and suggestion of several texts related
to male-­male same-­sex love that are discussed in this section.
41 Paek Ak, “Tongjŏng ŭi nu 1,” Hakjigwang, January 26, 1920, 179.
42 Yi Chŏng-­suk, “1910–20 nyŏndae ŭi ‘tongsŏngae’ mot’ip’ŭ sosŏl yŏn’gu,”
Hansŏng’ŏi Munhak 26 (2007): 371.
43 Kim Hyŏn-ju, “Munhak yesul kyoyuk kwa tongjŏng,” Sanghŏ Hakbo 11 (2004):
167–94.
44 Yi Kwang-su, “Tongjŏng,” Ch’ŏngch’un, December 1, 1914, 57–58.
45 Sŏ Yŏng-­ch’ae, Sarang ŭi munbŏp: Yi Kwang-su, Yŏm Sang-­sŏp, Yi-­Sang (Seoul:
Minumsa, 2004), 167.
46 Hatano Setsuko, Yi Kwang-su, “Mujō” no kenkyū: Kankoku keimō bungaku no hikari
to kage (Tokyo: Hakuteisha, 2008), 303.
47 ­­These works include Yi Kwang-su, “Ai ka,” Shirogane Gakuhō, December 1,
1909; “Sonyŏn ŭi piae,” Ch’ŏngch’un, June 16, 1917; Yi Kwang-su, “Ŏrinbŏsege,”
Ch’ŏngch’un, July 26, September 16, and November 16, 1917; Yi Kwang-su, “Pang-
hwang,” Ch’ŏngch’un, March 16, 1918; Yi Kwang-su, “Yun Kwang-ho,” Ch’ŏngch’un,
April 16, 1918; Yi Kwang-su, “H Kun ege,” Ch’angjo, July 25, 1920. See Yi, “1910–20
nyŏndae ŭi ‘tongsŏngae’ mot’ip’ŭ sosŏl yŏn’gu,” 366. Some of them are recognized
by the literary critic Kim Tong-in as featuring same-­sex love: See Kim, “Ch’unwŏn
yŏn’gu 2,” 146–49.
48 See the discussions in Kwŏn, Yŏnae ŭi sidae, 6; John Whittier Treat, “Introduction
to Yi Gwang-­su’s ‘Maybe Love’ (Ai ka, 1909),” Azalea 4 (2011): 318; Yi, “1910–20
nyŏndae ŭi ‘tongsŏngae’ mo’ip’ŭ sosŏl yŏn’gu,” 374. Yim Ŭn-­hŭi, “T’alchu hanŭn
sŏng, han’guk hyŏndae sosŏl,” Han’guk Munhak Iron Kwa Pip’yŏng 47 (2010): 237.

140  |  Pei Jean Chen

 49 The beauty of the appearance and voice of Misao and P ­causes Mun-­gil and
Kwang-­ho’s inferiority. The background of ­these short pieces is a school in
Tokyo. Misao in Ai Ka is clearly identified as Japa­nese, while P in Yun Kwang-ho
is not racially identified. I follow Yi Sŏng-­hŭi’s observation to identify P as pos-
sibly Japa­nese due to his physical superiority over Yun Kwang-ho ­here: see Yi
Sŏng-­hŭi, “Yi Kwang-su ch’ogi tanp’yŏn nat’anan ‘tongsŏngae’ koch’al,” Kwanak
ŏmunn Yŏn’gu 30 (2005): 267–89. However, one might argue that the other pair,
Kim Chun-­wŏn, and a young Japa­nese man, are presented as an opposite example
in the fiction: Chun-­wŏn was a “beautiful boy” (bishōnen), with whom the young
Japa­nese man crazily fell in love. In both cases, beauty in appearance wins over
talents, while the former is inherent and the latter is acquired. I tend to read this as
a racial symbol.
50 “By loving me [a white ­woman] proves that I am worthy of white love. I am loved
like a white man. I am a white man”: see Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth
(New York: Grove, 1968), 63. See Ashis Nandy, The Intimate ­Enemy: Loss and
Recovery of Self ­Under Colonialism (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1983).
51 See Pak Yŏng-­hŭi, “Munhaksang ŭro pon Yi Kwang-su,” Kaebyŏk, January 1, 1925,
86.
52 See Yi Kwang-su, “Nae sosŏlgwa model,” Samch’ŏlli, May 1, 1930, 64.
53 Treat, “Introduction to Yi Gwang-­su’s ‘Maybe Love,’ ” 320.
54 Quoted in Ann Sung-hi Lee, Yi Kwang-su and Modern Korean Lit­er­a­ture: Mujong
(Ithaca, NY: Cornell East Asia Program, 2005), 148. For more discussion on the
depiction of same-­sex relationships in Yi Kwang-­su’s writings, see Han Sŭng-ok,
“Tongsŏngaejŏk kwanjŏm esŏ pon mujŏng,” Hyŏndae Sosŏl Yŏn’gu 20 (2003):
7–29. For other depictions on schoolgirls’ same-­sex love during colonial times, see
Ko Bŏm, “Yŏja ŭi ilsaeng,” Pyŏlgŏn’gon, February 1, 1933; Yi Kwang-su, “Aeyok ŭi
p’ian,” Chosŏn Ilbo, May 1–­December 21, 1936.
55 Right before the depiction of same-­sex eroticism between the two ­women, one
can find the following description: “Yŏng-­ch’ae had also begun to feel a longing
for the male sex. Her face grew hot when she faced a strange man, and when she
lay down alone at night, she wished that ­there was someone who would hold
her”: see Lee, Yi Kwang-su and Modern Korean Lit­er­a­ture, 148.
56 Yi Hyo-­sŏk, Wild Apricots (Seoul: Lit­er­a­ture Translation Institute of ­Korea,
2014), 11.
57 In the article, readers can tell the first and last characters of the fourth interviewee
from the text only as “Yu 0-­jun”; the ­middle character of the name is veiled: see
“Yŏryu myŏngsa ŭi tongsŏngyŏnae gi,” Pyŏlgŏn’gon, November 1, 1930, 121.
58 “Yŏryu myŏngsa ŭi tongsŏngyŏn’ae gi,” 120.
59 “Yŏryu myŏngsa ŭi tongsŏng yŏnae gi,” 121. The term ŏnni literally means older
­sister in Korean as used among both girls and ­women; it often signifies an
­intimate relationship between two females.
60 The schools mentioned ­here are missionary schools established between 1903 and
1906 and which ­were the pioneers of modern education for ­women. The same-­sex

Problematizing Love  |  141

 love culture in girls’ schools is common knowledge: see “Yŏhaksaeng sŭk’ech’i”
[Sketch], Yŏsŏng, July 1, 1937. For example, an article observes, “Love, this ­thing is
mainly between schoolgirls, also the students in the dormitory. In their relation-
ships, the one who tends to be masculine would be called cchkakp’ae (partner or
companion) in this kind of love. To speak of it with a fashion term would be what
is called tongsŏng’ae.” The author listed several schools’ names to show its popular-
ity: see “Yosae ŭi Chosŏn sinyŏja,” Sinyŏsŏng, November 1, 1923.
61 “Yŏryu myŏngsa ŭi tongsŏngyŏnae gi,” 122.
62 For more on same-­sex love among New ­Women, see Sŏ, Yŏksa e sarang ŭl mutta,
213–22.
63 See Fran Martin, Backward Glances: Con­temporary Chinese Cultures and the Female
Homoerotic Imaginary (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010).
64 Extract from “Ch’ŏngch’un tu yŏsŏng ŭi ch’ŏldo chasal sakkŏn kwa kŭ pip’an,”
Sinyŏsŏng, May 1, 1931.
65 When I searched on the keyword chŏngsa in the Tong’a Ilbo, nearly ten thousand
news items emerged from the colonial period. For more on the phenomenon
in colonial K­ orea, see Kwŏn, Yŏnae ŭi sidae, 185–93; Sŏ, Yŏksa e sarang ŭl mutta,
251–66. A shared experience among East Asian socie­ties, much scholarship has
been written on same-­sex love and its subjects, especially love suicide in Japan:
see Suzuki, Becoming Modern ­Women; Jennifer Robertson, “­Dying to Tell: Sexu-
ality and Suicide in Imperial Japan,” in Queer Diasporas, ed. Cindy Patton and
Benigno Sánchez-­Eppler (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2000), 38–70;
Jennifer Robertson, Takarazuka: Sexual Politics and Popu­lar Culture in Modern
Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998). See also Pflugfelder, Car-
tographies of Desire.
66 See “Chakbu tu myŏng ŭi chŏngsa,” Sidae Ilbo, May 6, 1924; “Tongsŏngae ŭi
yŏjikkong,” Tong’a Ilbo, August 28, 1937.
67 Yun’s opinion was shared by other public critiques, such as “Chŏngjo kyŏngsi ŭi
sosŏl chŏngsa tongsŏng’ae ŭi yech’an ŭn pulga,” Tong’a Ilbo, September 14, 1938.
68 Lee Edelman, No ­Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive (Durham, NC: Duke
University Press, 2004), 16–17.
69 Robertson, “­Dying to Tell,” 65.
70 For details of the interview, see Kim Tae-­hyŏng, “Se yŏja ga mal hanŭn 1930
nyŏndae ‘Chinjja chayu’ yŏnaesa, myujik’ŏl k’ongch’ilp’al saesamnyuk,” The Han-
kyoreh, July 3, 2012, http://­www​.­hani​.­co​.­kr​/­arti​/­culture​/­music​/­540762​.­html.
71 For example, the definition of yŏnae is “man and ­woman who long for or love
each other,” and the usages suggested by the dictionary are “She married a diligent
student ­after three years of dating” and “We got married ­after six years of dating.”
The dictionary referred to ­here is the Korean Standard Dictionary, issued by the
National Institute of the Korean Language, http://­stdweb2​.­korean​.­go​.­kr​/­main​
.­jsp. Data used in this chapter ­were collected on April 13, 2017.
72 ­­These subjects ­were listed in Kim, “Sŏngkyoyuk ŭi chuch’ang.” I discuss this essay
in the previous section.

142  |  Pei Jean Chen

Works Cited

NEWSPAPERS AND MAGAZINES

Ch’angjo
Ch’ŏngch’un
Chogwang
Chosŏn Ilbo
Hakjigwang
The Hankyoreh
Kaebyŏk
Maeil Sinbo
Pyŏlgŏn’gon
Samch’ŏlli
Shirogane Gakuhō
Sidae Ilbo
Sinyŏsŏng
Tong’a Ilbo
Tonggwang
Xin Qingnian
Yŏsŏng

JAPANESE-­LANGUAGE SOURCES

Fukuzawa Yukichi. “Tokuiku Ikan.” Fukuzawa Yukichi Zenshû 5 (1959): 349–64.

Furukawa Makoto. “Dōsei ‘ai’ kō.” Imago 6, no. 12 (1995): 201–7.
Furukawa Makoto. “Sexuaritii no henyō: Kindai nihon no dōseiai o meguru mittsu
no kōdo.” Nichibei Josei Jaanaru 17 (1994): 29–55.
Hatano Setsuko. Yi Kwang-su, “Mujō” no kenkyū: Kankoku keimō bungaku no hikari to
kage. Tokyo: Hakuteisha, 2008.
Kō Ikujo. Kindai Taiwan joseishi: Nihon no shokumin tōchi to “shinjosei” no tanjō. Tokyo:
Keisō Shobō, 2001.
Saeki Junko. “Iro” to “ai” no hikaku bunkashi. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1998.
Yanabu Akira. Ai. Tokyo: Sanseido, 2001.

KOREAN-­LANGUAGE SOURCES

Chŏng Hye-­yŏng, and Yu Chong-­yul. “Kŭndae ŭi sŏngnip kwa ‘yŏnae’ ŭi palgyŏn: 1920
nyŏndae munhake nat’anan ‘ch’ŏnyŏsŏng’ sŏngnip kwajŏngŭl chungshim ŭro.”
Han’guk Yŏndae Munhangn Yŏn’gu 18 (December 2005): 227–51.
Han Sŭng-ok, “Tongsŏngaejŏk kwanjŏm esŏ pon mujŏng.” Hyŏndae Sosŏl Yŏn’gu 20
(2003): 7–29.
Kim Hyŏn-ju. “Munhak yesul kyoyuk kwa tongjŏng.” Sanghŏ Hakbo 11 (2004): 167–94.

Problematizing Love  |  143

Kwŏn Podŭrae. Yŏnae ŭi sidae: 1920 nyŏndae ch’oban ŭi munhwa wa yuhaeng. Seoul:
Hyŏnsil Munhwa Yŏn’gu, 2003.
Pak Chin-­yŏng. “Ilchae Cho Chung-­hwan kwa pŏnan sosŏl ŭi sidae.” Minjong Chun-
haksa Yŏn’gu 26 (2004): 199–230.
Sin Ji-­yŏn. “1920–30 nyŏndae tongsŏng(yŏn)ae kwallyŏn kisa ŭi susajŏk maengnak.”
Minjok Munhwa Yŏn’gu 45 (2006): 265–92.
Sŏ Chi-­yŏng [Suh Ji-­young]. Yŏksa e sarang ŭl mutta: Han’guk munhwa wa sarang ŭi
kyebohak. Seoul: Isup, 2011.
Sŏ Yŏng-­ch’ae. “Chagihŭisaeng ŭi kujo: Yi Kwang-su ŭi chaesaeng kwa ojak’i koyo ŭi
kŭmsaegyach’a.” Minjok Munhwa Yŏn’gu 58 (2013): 207–42.
Sŏ Yŏng-­ch’ae. Sarang ŭi munbŏp: Yi Kwang-su, Yŏm Sang-­sŏp, Yi-­Sang. Seoul: Mi-
numsa, 2004.
Yi Chŏng-­suk. “1910–20 nyŏndae ŭi ‘tongsŏngae’ mot’ip’ŭ sosŏl yŏn’gu.” Hansŏng’ŏ
Munhak 26 (2007): 359–78.
Yi Sŏng-­hŭi. “Yi Kwang-su ch’ogi tanp’yŏn nat’anan ‘tongsŏngae’ koch’al.” Kwanag
ŏmun Yŏn’gu 30 (2005): 267–89.
Yim Ŭn-­hŭi. “T’alchu hanŭn sŏng, han’guk hyŏndae sosŏl.” Han’guk Munhak Iron kwa
Pip’yŏng 47 (2010): 231–57.

ENGLISH-­LANGUAGE SOURCES

Choi, Hyaeweol. “Wise ­Mother, Good Wife: A Transcultural Discursive Construct in

Modern ­Korea.” Journal of Korean Studies 14, no. 1 (2009): 1–34.
Edelman, Lee. No ­Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive. Durham, NC: Duke
University Press, 2004.
Fanon, Frantz. The Wretched of the Earth. New York: Grove, 1968.
Frühstück, Sabine. Colonizing Sex: Sexology and Social Control in Modern Japan. Berke-
ley: University of California Press, 2003.
Halberstam, Judith [ Jack]. In a Queer Time and Place: Transgender Bodies, Subcultural
Lives. New York: New York University Press, 2005.
Karatani, Kōjin. Origins of Modern Japa­nese Lit­er­a­ture, trans. Brett de Bary. Durham,
NC: Duke University Press, 1993.
Kim Haboush, JaHyun, ed. Epistolary ­Korea: Letters from the Communicative Space of
the Chosŏn, 1392–1910. New York: Columbia University Press, 2009.
Lee, Ann Sung-hi. Yi Kwang-su and Modern Korean Lit­er­a­ture: Mujong. Ithaca, NY: Cor-
nell East Asia Program, 2005.
Lee, Haiyan. Revolution of the Heart: A Genealogy of Love in China, 1900–1950. Stanford,
CA: Stanford University Press, 2007.
Martin, Fran. Backward Glances: Con­temporary Chinese Cultures and the Female Homo-
erotic Imaginary. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010.
McLelland, Mark J., and Vera C. Mackie, eds. Routledge Handbook of Sexuality Studies
in East Asia. New York: Routledge, 2015.

144  |  Pei Jean Chen

Nandy, Ashis. The Intimate ­Enemy: Loss and Recovery of Self ­under Colonialism. Delhi:
Oxford University Press, 1983.
Pflugfelder, Gregory. Cartographies of Desire: Male-­Male Sexuality in Japa­nese Discourse,
1600–1950. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999.
Povinelli, Elizabeth. The Empire of Love: ­Toward a Theory of Intimacy, Genealogy, and
Carnality. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2006.
Robertson, Jennifer. “­Dying to Tell: Sexuality and Suicide in Imperial Japan.” In Queer
Diasporas, ed. Cindy Patton and Benigno Sánchez-­Eppler, 38–70. Durham, NC:
Duke University Press, 2000.
Robertson, Jennifer. Takarazuka: Sexual Politics and Popu­lar Culture in Modern Japan.
Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998.
Ryang, Sonia. Love in Modern Japan: Its Estrangement from Self, Sex and Society. Lon-
don: Routledge, 2006.
Suh Ji-­young [Sŏ Chi-­yŏng]. “Collision of Modern Desires: Nationalism and Female
Sexuality in Colonial ­Korea.” Review of Korean Studies 5, no. 2 (2002): 111–32.
Suzuki, Michiko. Becoming Modern ­Women: Love and Female Identity in Prewar Japa­nese
Lit­er­a­ture and Culture. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2009.
Treat, John Whittier. “Introduction to Yi Gwang-­su’s ‘Maybe Love’ (Ai ka, 1909).”
Azalea 4 (2011): 315–27.
Yi Hyo-­sŏk. Kaesalgu [Wild Apricots], trans. Steven D. Capener. Seoul: Lit­er­a­ture
Translation Institute of ­Korea, 2014.
Yi Kwang-su. “What Is Lit­er­a­ture?” trans. Rhee Jooyeon. Azalea 4 (2011): 293–313.
Weston, Kath. Families We Choose: Lesbians, Gays, Kinship. New York: Columbia Uni-
versity Press, 1991.

Problematizing Love  |  145

 Chapter Four

FEMININITY ­UNDER
THE WARTIME SYSTEM
AND THE SYMPTOMACITY
OF FEMALE SAME-­SEX LOVE

Shin-ae Ha
TRANSLATED BY KYUNGHEE EO

Same-­Sex Love: Remembering Girls’ Schools

and the Peculiar Custom of “­Sisters”

Pak T’ae-­wŏn’s “Minyŏdo” (Portrait of a Beauty [1939]), serialized in the lit-

erary magazine Chogwang (Morning Light), takes its readers “some fifteen,
sixteen years back,” urging them to remember certain rather peculiar cultural
practices that took place in the inner quarters of girls’ schools.1 The novella
begins with a subsection titled “P’ungsok” (Customs), in which Pak pro-
vides a detailed description of “matchmaking tours.” Guided by professional
matchmakers, well-­to-do ladies in elaborate, pomade-­styled hairdos roamed
the hallways of girls’ schools in the hopes of spotting “good wife material” for
their sons.2 The second (and perhaps more in­ter­est­ing) custom he describes
is the practice of same-­sex love between girl students, commonly referred to
by girls as ssisŭt’a (­sister) relationships.3 Judging from Pak’s literary sketches
of ­these two very disparate customs, girls’ schools in 1920s colonial K ­ orea
­were a place full of contradictions and ambivalence, a space in which two
distinct temporalities collided. This space was vulnerable to the intrusion of
a premodern gaze as represented by the would-be mothers-­in-­law who ­were
f­ree to “wander around its corridors and thrust their heads inside classroom
win­dows” without any admonition from the faculty.4 At the same time, it was
also a space in which the modern concept of sisterhood was born, a new form
of intimacy that enabled girls to swear they would “never marry, and instead
love each other eternally.”5
Preexisting scholarship on same-­sex love between girls in the colonial pe-
riod, however, emphasizes that the phenomenon was contained within the
par­ameters of schools and dismissed by its contemporaries as a transient
phase along the longer arc of female maturation. The common argument is
that the ephemerality of ­these relationships makes them qualitatively dif­fer­ent
from homo­sexuality in the con­temporary sense, which is more of a fixed sex-
ual orientation and identity category.6 In such studies, same-­sex love amounts
to ­little more than a fash­ion­able trend within schoolgirl culture in the 1920s,
the proof of which was that, ­after graduation, most female students who had
partaken in such relationships eventually married men and had c­hildren.
Published in the 1930 November issue of the magazine Pyŏlgŏn’gon (Another
World), an article titled “Yŏryu myŏngsa ŭi tongsŏngyŏn’ae gi” (Stories of
Same-­Sex Love of Female Celebrities) more or less corroborates such an in-
terpretation. The article is a collection of short memoirs by female socialites of
the time, such as Hwang Sin-­dŏk, Hŏ Yŏng-­suk, and Yi Tŏ-­gyo. It begins with
Hwang Sin-­dŏk’s claim that “­there ­were only a handful of w ­ omen who had
not experienced same-­sex love at least once during their student years,” which
illustrates just how widespread the practice of same-­sex love was among girls
at the time.7 Hŏ Yŏng-­suk, moreover, reminisces about how her emotions for
“my beloved Miss Kim” ­were “far more passionate than any romance between
men and ­women could ever be.”8 Nevertheless, all of the contributors had al-
ready transitioned into the role of wife and m ­ other long before the article was
published. It comes as no surprise, then, that female same-­sex love in this pe-
riod was often condoned as a transient emotion that would “easily and rapidly
dissipate.”9 Regarded e­ ither as a vicarious plea­sure for girls to indulge in while
“resisting the temptation to get romantically involved with boys” or an oppor-
tunity to develop their “emotional sensibilities” before meeting potential male
partners, same-­sex love between girls was deemed a “relationship that is virtu-
ally harmless.”10 Despite its remarkable prevalence, therefore, very few consid-
ered female same-­sex love a consciously gendered social practice that could
threaten heterosexual social norms. It was assumed that same-­sex-­loving girls
would also eventually become subsumed ­under the gaze of a matchmaker,
peering imperiously through the win­dow of their schools.

Femininity Under the Wartime System  |  147

 Although same-­sex love remained safely within the bound­aries of sexual
normativity in t­ hose times, much is lost when con­temporary scholars remain-
ing uncritically faithful to such historical perceptions, limit the phenomenon
to a form of adolescent experimentation or a mere practice run for hetero-
sexual romance. In other words, the unique qualities of the relationship
remain woefully invisible when it is treated simply as a rite of passage for
“sexually ignorant” girl students who w ­ ere forbidden to have heterosexual sex
­until marriage.11 The famous Yŏngdŭngp’o train suicide of the early 1930s is
one historical event that deserves to be reevaluated in this regard. An article
published in 1931 in Another World illustrates how deeply troubled and fasci-
nated the public was by the double suicide of Kim Yong-ju and Hong O-­gim.
This was perhaps more so b­ ecause Kim and Hong ­were “well-­educated young
­women from highly reputable families” who fit comfortably within the cat-
egory of New ­Women. Both recent gradu­ates from the prestigious Tongdŏk
Girls’ School, the two ­women ­were “quite intimate” during their schoolgirl
years but w ­ ere not necessarily known as same-­sex lovers. ­After graduation,
however, Kim was married off against her ­will into the ­family of “Sim Chŏng-­
t’aek, the famous Tongmak millionaire,” while Hong, who was famous for hav-
ing “started the fad of same-­sex love at the school” and boasted a “long chain of
same-­sex lovers,” fell into a bout of depression a­ fter not only being betrayed by
her male lovers but also witnessing her own ­father’s extramarital affairs. The
article suggests that t­ hese events ­were what enticed the two young w ­ omen to
“rapidly develop into passionate lovers.” W ­ hether confined within a “tyranni-
cally premodern” marriage or anguished by “unfaithful” men who roam the
“red light districts,” the only “mild consolation” available to ­these ­women was
each other.12 Kim and Hong’s relationship, then, appears to be less of a prac-
tice run for heterosexual marriage than a reaction against or an escape from
the patriarchal social order that they w ­ ere forced into through heterosexual
dating and marriage.
Through same-­sex relationships, moreover, young w ­ omen ­were able to
maintain ties to modern cultures and lifestyles that they had been exposed to
within the institutional space of girls’ schools. Kim and Hong, for instance, are
pointedly remembered as having spent their days together wandering around
parks, movie theaters, or other urban spaces that they had frequented dur-
ing their student years.13 Meanwhile, journalistic descriptions of their suicide
betray a keen interest in certain details of their death scene: the image of a
fast-­approaching train and their Western-­style skirts billowing b­ ehind them
as they jumped.14 This goes to show that the very way the two w ­ omen staged

148  |  Shin-ae Ha
their own deaths was a statement of their strong self-­identification with mo-
dernity. Same-­sex relationships such as Kim and Hong’s thus reveal the female
desire to remain within the space of the “modern,” outside the patriarchal so-
cial order. Through the romantic bonds and communities that they developed
with one another, ­women managed to reaffirm their identities as modern in-
dividuals. In sum, same-­sex love in the case of Kim and Hong was not in any
sense a gratuitous and transitional phase for sexually ignorant adolescent girls;
it was, rather, a serious relationship that two ­women consciously and deliber-
ately chose to develop between themselves.
To return to Pak T’ae-­wŏn’s “Portrait of a Beauty,” one discovers in the
story a relationship of same-­sex love that serves a similar liberatory function
to that of Kim and Hong. At first, the female protagonist, Nam Po-­bae, is
resistant to the idea of same-­sex love and dismisses the romantic advances
of an elder girl student, Chŏng Kyŏng-su. Amused by how “even her name
sounds masculine,” Po-­bae refuses to answer a love letter from Kyŏng-su,
delivered in an “envelope patterned with flowers” and lovingly signed,
“From your ­sister.”15 Meanwhile, Po-­bae is troubled by the sudden return
of her ­father, who had previously abandoned his wife and ­children. With a
“countenance glistening with greed,” he demands that Po-­bae leave home to
accompany him to Manchuria, with the ulterior motive of “selling over his
­daughter to traffickers.”16 Po-­bae, who is sixteen, feels increasingly threatened
not only by the intrusive gaze of the aforementioned matchmakers peering
in through the classroom win­dows but, more appallingly, by her own ­father
waiting at the school gate to “snatch her by the wrist” and drag her off to Man-
churian traffickers.17 In that moment of peril, Po-­bae’s thoughts drift back to
Kyŏng-su, the older girl whom she had consistently ignored, and she finds
herself seized by a sudden pang of “nostalgia” and “affection.”18 When she is
forced to quit school for fear of being captured by her f­ ather, Po-­bae ends up
seeking refuge in a same-­sex romance with Kyŏng-su. Through this relation-
ship, Po-­bae overcomes the despair of having had to leave school ­because
of the looming threat of abduction. Even as she jumps at the mere sight of a
“random man on the street, for fear of his being her f­ ather,” Po-­bae manages
to recover a sense of freedom that she had experienced during her schoolgirl
years.19 What same-­sex love holds for Po-­bae is the allure of a new and so-
phisticated lifestyle, an alternative to the dismal f­ uture that her “repulsive and
frightening” f­ ather has in store for her.
The flower-­embossed love letter that Po-­bae receives from her “­sister” is
an invitation not only to a same-­sex relationship but, perhaps more impor­

Femininity Under the Wartime System  |  149

tant, also to modernity itself. In other words, it is not just any love, but mod-
ern love, that the two girls aspire to indulge in together. Even though she
has already lost her status as a schoolgirl, Po-­bae regains her membership
in modern society by taking part in a romantic coupling with Kyŏng-su.
And unlike heterosexual relationships that often entail the danger of ­either
becoming ensnared in a feudal f­ amily structure or ending up as a married
man’s mistress, same-­sex love functions as a platform in which the girls
can jointly construct their identities and fulfill their desires as “modern
­women.” Thus, the two w ­ omen’s oath never to marry must be decoded as an
articulation of the female ­w ill to remain modern ­women forever. It can be
said, then, that same-­sex relationships of this period blossomed at the in-
tersection between w ­ omen’s aspirations t­ oward modernity and their desire
to escape the mandates of a patriarchal social order. It is crucial, therefore,
to acknowledge the multiple layers of desire hidden beneath the common
belief that same-­sex love between girls was a socially undisruptive practice
run for heterosexual mating.
The tragedy of the Yŏngdŭngp’o train suicide incident and the tale of Nam
Po-­bae, however, beg the question: How sustainable ­were the liberatory
spaces created through same-­sex romance during the early 1930s? Or, to put
it more bluntly, how long could girls such as Po-­bae have remained safe from
the ill intentions of their ­fathers? To answer this question, one must take a
closer look at the changes that took place in public discussions of same-­sex
love. In an essay published in 1937 titled “Same-­Sex Love,” for example, the
poet and educator Kim Yŏ-je claims that same-­sex love is an “antisocial in-
stinct” that must be “controlled and neutralized through proper treatment.”20
The antagonistic stance that Kim takes ­toward same-­sex love in the essay is
rather surprising, especially when one compares it with news articles from the
1920s that condoned same-­sex love between girls as a harmless phenomenon.
It also differs significantly from the lighthearted testimonies of female social-
ites who openly boasted in the early 1930s about their “gleaming track rec­ord
of same-­sex romance.”21 It is evident that by the late 1930s, public discourse
surrounding same-­sex love had already taken a radical departure from that of
the years preceding it.
This abrupt discursive shift coincided with the onset of the total war era,
a time in which all social resources ­were channeled into military efforts led
by the divine emperor-­patriarch. ­Women ­were subsumed u­ nder the ideol-
ogy of motherhood, for their primary role in the war was to “produce a new
generation of fighters for the nation.”22 In this new social order, same-­sex love

150  |  Shin-ae Ha
between ­women had no grounds for existence and soon became a target of
social derision. Negative perceptions of same-­sex love in relation to moth-
erhood are exemplified by the following joke in Pak Yŏng-­hŭi’s serialized
novel Pallyŏ (Companion): “Some same-­sex ­couples even end up having full
intercourse, . . . ​but at least they ­will not have to worry about birth control.”23
At a time when reproductive ­labor was considered a sacred duty for war­time
­women, it was only natu­ral that same-­sex love was shunned as an antisocial
act. And since frugality and a command economy constituted the backbone
of the war­time system, the common practice of exchanging flower-­patterned
envelopes and gold rings between s­ isters was considered a sinful indulgence
originating from Western capitalism. It is not difficult to imagine what might
have become of Kim Yong-ju and Hong O-­gim had they survived their suicide
attempt, or of Nam Po-­bae had she been captured by her greedy f­ ather. They
would have found themselves in a society where same-­sex love was proclaimed
hazardous and therefore subject to patriarchal control. U ­ nder the surveilling
eyes of the imperial state, ­these ­women would have had very few options avail-
able to them other than being forced into the role of “military ­mothers.” In-
deed, this was a time in which the numerous ­sisters of the previous de­cades
­were called on to become hyŏnmo yangch’ŏ (wise ­mothers and good wives) of
the empire. What meaning, then, did their experiences of modern girlhood
and same-­sex love have in such circumstances, and how ­were ­those experiences
remembered or forgotten?
For ­women trapped in the imperial war­time system, collective memories
of same-­sex love became a symptom of their repression, signifying their
desire for a modernity that had become off-­limits to them. The same-­sex
love they had witnessed and personally experienced during their school-
girl years became a “dreamy, romantic and exciting” memory that stood
in stark contrast to the grim real­ity facing them.24 In this regard, it is no
coincidence that, just as colonial Korean femininity was becoming mobi-
lized for the imperial war, Pak T’ae-­wŏn wrote a novella about a female
character who aspired to escape her menacing f­ ather by engaging in a rela-
tionship of same-­sex love. It also explains why so many female authors who
had to reckon with their newly imposed identity as imperial subjects chose
to write about female characters whose old memories of sisterly solidarity
led them to question their loyalty to the empire. In the next sections of this
chapter, I examine repre­sen­ta­tions of same-­sex love in the literary work of
female writers of the total war era to gain insight into the lives and interi-
ority of w­ omen during this period. I also contemplate same-­sex love as a

Femininity Under the Wartime System  |  151

literary trope of female re­sis­tance against the patriarchal social order of the
war­time system.

The Way of the Empire: Memories of Narcissism

The imperial proj­ect was always already a gendered one insofar as ­women
­were singled out to fulfill the role of military m ­ others or “warriors on the
home front.” It is impor­tant to remember, moreover, that the transformation
of colonial Korean ­women into female imperial subjects was predicated on
their disavowal of a modern self-­identity. ­After the outbreak of the Asia-­Pacific
War (1937–45), the empire propagated a binary logic between the East and the
West, promoting the former as a “civilization of morality” that stood against
the “materialism and greediness” of the latter.25 The “seductive sheen” of West-
ern modernity was treated as a threat whose “desirability could lead p­ eople
­toward voluntary enslavement” and must therefore be subject to regulation.26
­Women ­were considered especially prone to contamination and ­were chas-
tised for their traitorous preference for foreign goods and lifestyles. At a rally
hosted by the Korean Association of War­time Patriots in 1942, for example,
the writer Mo Yun-­suk condemned Anglo-­American civilization for its “he-
donism and individualistic world-­view” and outlined a litany of its “Satanic
crimes.”27 Listing all of the temptations she had fought off throughout her
lifetime as a ­woman, she bemoaned, “[The West is] the land of fragrances,
the land of m ­ usic, the land of movies, the land of youthfulness, the land of
spirit, the land of money. . . . ​For how long have they seduced the good young
men and ­women of the East? And how deeply have the ­women in our country
yearned to have a taste of all they possess?”28 Even as Mo takes a reprimanding
stance, a feeling of nostalgic wistfulness ­toward modernity and all the “fra-
grances, ­music, movies, youthfulness, spirit and money” of which it consists
resonate in her language. In other words, the very qualities of the West that
Mo derides in her speech ends up summoning memories of consumption and
plea­sure that she and her audience presumably enjoyed in their youth.
Shuttered inside the par­ameters of the empire’s command economy, w ­ omen
no longer enjoyed the modern goods and resources that had been available to
them during the previous de­cades. Female aspirations for expensive Western
dresses, hair perms, and heavy makeup ­were now considered “indulgent” and
“disgraceful” proclivities that had to be “rooted out at once.”29 ­Women ­were
also expected to give up their “penchant for wasting money on movie-­going
and loitering around the city streets” and instead invest “what­ever extra wŏn

152  |  Shin-ae Ha
they had on government bonds.”30 In her speech, Mo Yun-­suk insisted that
this not be considered a loss, since w ­ omen would soon be given the opportu-
nity to “realize their potential outside the home, thanks to the new world” that
the war would create.31 What she did not mention, however, is that this “new
world” was one in which w ­ omen would have to disown the female solidar-
ity they had formed with one another as students and instead retreat into a
patriarchal social order. Meanwhile, the self-­sacrificial ­mothers of the ancient
Confucian sage Mencius (372–289 bce) and the Chosŏn Dynasty scholars
Chŏng Mong-ju (1337–92) and Yi Yul-­gok (1536–84) ­were summoned as ideal
female figures whom ­women should aspire to emulate.32 The ­grand task was
for ­women to embody their newly appointed identities as “Asian w ­ omen,”
meaning that they should bury their past aspirations for modernity and be
content to dress themselves in h­ umble monpe (baggy) pants as they marched
down the virtuous way of the empire.33
As such, the construction of Korean w ­ omen’s identity as female “imperial
subjects” not only required a racial transformation from Korean to Japa­nese,
but also a cultural regression from a modern to traditional womanhood. This is
­because in the case of ­women, allegiance to the Japa­nese spirit meant that they
had to perform the feminine ideal of being wise ­mothers and good wives. Un-
like men, their imperial subjecthood hinged on a retreat from colonial moder-
nity to a more traditional way of life. The “imperialization” of w ­ omen ­under
the war­time system was not simply a linear pro­cess of transforming Koreans
into Japa­nese subjects; it was a much more complex and multilayered pro­cess
in which Korean ­women had to forfeit their modern femininity to embody the
traditional womanhood sanctioned by the state.34 For this reason, the study of
colonial identity formation ­under the war­time system requires careful atten-
tion to “culture” as another crucial variable.
In the case of w ­ omen, we must consider that the transformation of one’s
cultural identity might have posed a bigger threat than the shift in one’s ra-
cial or national identity. For ­women, imperialization entailed a complete
restyling of gendered traits, habits, and lifestyles that they had cultivated
throughout their lifetimes. As Ch’oe Yŏng-­hŭi points out, the impact of im-
perialization on a colonial subject’s sense of self varied widely depending
on the subject’s gender, age, and social status, especially in socie­ties such as
colonial ­Korea, where practices of gender segregation and social discrimina-
tion based on gender hierarchies remained strongly intact.35 This observation
leads us to ask: What might have been the bigger f­ actor for a colonial female
subject’s re­sis­tance to the empire: her loyalty to the nation or her infatuation

Femininity Under the Wartime System  |  153

with modernity? It is impor­tant to note how, during the total war period,
which was when the proj­ect of imperialization was enforced at a breakneck
pace, ­women fought most fiercely against new “cultural” policies, especially
the new dress code regulation that mandated that they wear monpe pants in
public spaces.36 Many colonial Korean w ­ omen rejected the ordinary monpe
and instead used Western fabric and high-­heeled shoes to create a “fash­ion­able
(haikara) monpe look with a touch of Western chic.”37 In this case, ­women
rebelled against the empire’s call out of allegiance not to their ethnic identity
but, rather, to their cultural identity as modern ­women.
Looking at w­ omen’s literary writing of the period, we see how this prob­lem
of cultural identity caused narrative fissures that cannot be explained away
with a monolithic focus on the nation-­empire binary. In Korean w ­ omen’s writ-
ing in the 1942–44 period, for example, which was when the war effort was
at its peak, a host of female characters curiously emerged who looked back
wistfully to their schoolgirl years. Why, at this point in history when they had
already long settled into their roles as military ­mothers and warriors on the
home front, did ­women suddenly idealize their girlhood as a type of paradise
lost? And why w ­ ere ­these ­women writers, who other­wise faithfully reproduced
the war propaganda fed to them by the imperial state, suddenly beholden to
phantom images of their girlhood ­sisters? Th ­ ese questions lead us back to the
intimate relationship between girls’ schools and modernity: educational in-
stitutions ­were the main means through which girls in colonial K ­ orea became
38
integrated into modern public spaces and discourses. W ­ omen’s memories of
their schoolgirl years, then, are equivalent to their memories of the “modern”
and signify a latent desire to recover their modern selfhood. ­Because modern
femininity as a specific mode of conduct was now prohibited by the imperial
state, ­women had gradually come to deny their past gendered identities as “er-
roneous ways” or “deviant thoughts” of their youthful years.39 The ghost of
the ­sister who returned to haunt w ­ omen’s writing about the total war period,
however, points to w ­ omen’s attachment to their long-­lost modern selves and
their guilt for having had to deny this crucial aspect of their identity.
The return of this repressed self can be understood as a type of symptom
that reveals how colonial Korean w ­ omen ­were still subconsciously attached
to the modern femininity that they had performed in their younger years,
despite having long been exposed to imperialist discourses of womanhood.
Chang Tŏk-­jo’s “Haengno” (The Journey [1944]) is a short story that shows
precisely how this inner contradiction surfaced in the thoughts and be­hav­ior
of ­women, even ­those who had already publicly pledged to walk the “way of

154  |  Shin-ae Ha
the empire.” Written in Japa­nese, the story was published in Short Stories from
the Peninsula, an anthology that featured the work of colonial Korean writers
with strong propagandist undertones. At a surface level, “The Journey” ap-
pears to be a celebratory tale of the transformation of colonial w ­ omen into
military ­mothers of the empire. It begins with an unnamed female protagonist
who boards a southbound train with her son to visit her parents in Taegu. The
ostensible purpose of the trip is to nurse her bedridden ­father back to health,
but the train ­ride from Seoul to the southern countryside exhibits another
symbolic meaning as well. Early in the story, the narrator remarks how the
destination of this train might as well be considered the metropole rather than
Pusan, since the train connects directly to a ferry line from Pusan to Shimono-
seki. The protagonist’s trip south, then, can also be understood as a meta­phor
of her inner journey ­toward the space of the empire. Once they arrive at their
destination, the protagonist and her son are welcomed by “imperial flags rip-
pling like waves and military songs echoing vibrantly across the sky,” and ­will
thereby meta­phor­ically be reborn as loyal m ­ other and soldier to the empire.40
The journey that they take in this story, therefore, not only signifies the physi-
cal train r­ ide itself but also a pro­cess of their identity transformation into im-
perial subjects.
As the protagonist begins this internal pro­cess of imperialization, she is ini-
tially struck by an emotion that is, curiously, a type of girlish melancholy. Her
train is nearly empty of passengers due to the grim atmosphere of war. As she
sits gazing listlessly out the win­dow, she spots an old w ­ oman slowly spread-
ing out rice hulls in the sun. Struck by the contrast between the high speed of
the train she is riding and the old w ­ oman’s static demeanor, the protagonist
recalls a host of private memories that also remain frozen outside the whirl-
wind of present-­day warfare. The memories are none other than ­those of her
schoolgirl years, memories of “field trips to the ancient capitals of Kyŏngju
and Puyŏ” and “the name of a friend whose face she can no longer remember.”
As she sits with t­ hese “forgotten memories of her maiden years,” she feels “her
heart fill with fondness and longing.”41 What is the meaning of this melan-
choly that seizes her at the cusp of her embrace of imperial subjecthood? Why
does she heave a “heavy sigh” as “a ­woman who has already sped through her
thirties and is now at the onset of her forties,” peering back into her past?42
Even as she is aboard a train that is chugging ­toward the metropole at high
speed, it is evident that this w ­ oman from colonial K ­ orea holds a peculiarly
strong attachment to the past, perhaps b­ ecause, as a w ­ oman nearing forty, her
schoolgirl years w ­ ere the only period in her life during which she fully dwelled

Femininity Under the Wartime System  |  155

in the space of the modern. The text indicates that, for the previous ­couple
of de­cades, the protagonist has had to exist as ­either “­mother to Yŏng-ok and
Yŏng-­ch’ŏl” or as “Mr. Han’s wife” and ­will, moreover, soon be initiated into
the sacred role of military ­mother once she enters the space of the empire.43
So as she heaves that heavy sigh, she strug­gles to remind herself of the Ko-
rean proverb, “The body may age, but the soul stays forever young,” but to
no avail.44 She is already fully aware of the fact that once she completes the
internal pro­cess of imperialization, ­there ­will no longer be a chance for her to
recover the modern self she was in her maiden days. The girlish melancholy
that marks her journey into the empire can be understood as a type of wistful-
ness or grief for this lost self.
Interestingly, the desire for modernity that defined the protagonist’s girl-
hood manifests itself through feelings of adoration that she had held t­ oward
one of her classmates, Yun Ae-ra. “Famous among classmates for her beauty,
musical talent and eloquence,” Ae-ra had become “a celebrity writer ­after grad-
uating from a college in the metropole”—­and thus, for the protagonist, an ob-
ject of identification, as well as the very embodiment of modern femininity
that the protagonist aspired to emulate.45 As a “fierce advocate for w ­ omen’s
rights” with “liberal views on marriage,” the girl was once the representative
of her peers, who ­were ­eager to embrace more modern conceptions of wom-
anhood.46 For the protagonist, Ae-ra was thus a role model whose very life
trajectory perfected modern discourses of womanhood. Even a­ fter she had
long been conventionally married and integrated into the patriarchal social
order, the protagonist’s memories of Ae-ra had repeatedly incited within her a
desire to recover her past modern self. Interestingly, ten or so years ­earlier, the
two ­women had experienced a chance encounter inside the same southbound
train. The protagonist remembers how elegant her s­ ister looked “in a short
bob cut,” holding in her “fair and soft arms” a lovechild whom “she planned to
return to its natu­ral ­father.”47 Arguing for w
­ omen’s rights of self-­preservation,
Ae-ra had emphasized to the protagonist that “we ­women must put our own
lives first, no ­matter what the sacrifice may be.” This had made the protago-
nist’s face turn pale from embarrassment for her own parochial belief that “a
­mother should never relinquish her role as the child’s primary caregiver, no
­matter what the circumstances may be.”48
But almost as if to answer to the protagonist’s nostalgic mood, Ae-ra walks
into her train car precisely when she was lost in her memories of girlhood and
asks, “Excuse me, but a­ ren’t you Sun-­dŏk? Kim Sun-­dŏk?”49 The protagonist’s
given name, Sun-­dŏk, which no one had called her since her girlhood, is re-

156  |  Shin-ae Ha
vealed for the first time in the story, perhaps allowing the female protagonist
one last encounter with a long-­forgotten self before it vanishes forever. But in
the ten years since they had last met, Ae-ra had shockingly transformed into a
“Buddhist nun with a cleanly shaved head.” Wearing “a traditional black tunic
(turumagi), straw sandals (chip’sin), and a pair of deep green glasses,” Ae-ra
displays a ­humble demeanor that no longer had anything to do with the mod-
ern femininity she had so fashionably embodied in the past.50 Recounting her
past to Sun-­dŏk, Ae-ra laments how she “had been betrayed by [her] lover,
and shunned by society” and at one point had even “thrown herself on railway
tracks to die.”51 Ae-­ra’s confession takes us back to the harrowing image of Kim
Yong-ju and Hong O-­gim’s suicide, for whom death was a final resort against
the oppressive patriarchal order. The fact that Ae-­ra’s rebellion against patriar-
chal society had ended in complete social ostracization and a life that hovers
“somewhere between the living and the dead” must have undoubtedly been a
harsh real­ity check for colonial Korean ­women readers who ­were reluctant to
­wholeheartedly submit to the empire.52 The text seems to suggest that the only
conclusion left for Sun-­dŏk is to embrace her duties as a military ­mother and
become a good role model for her prodigal friend.
­There must, however, be a deeper analy­sis of the two ­women’s reunion on
the train and what the writer may have intended to portray through this scene.
­After hearing about Ae-­ra’s past, Sun-­dŏk encourages her friend to “break out
of her old shell and embrace” her womanly duty to “raise good ­children.”53
­Because of this ele­ment, the story seems to follow the conventions of the “pen-
itent ­woman” narrative, thereby justifying previous critiques of “The Journey”
as a story by a female collaborator who “internalized the imperialistic ideolo-
gies of Japan.”54 Nevertheless, I argue that the relationship between the two
­women must be treated as a narrative layer distinct from any propagandist
intention of the text. If the text had singularly intended to pre­sent a propagan-
dist message, why does Sun-­dŏk respond to the empire’s interpellation with
a strange girlish melancholy instead of steadfast enthusiasm? One must not
forget that within the enclosed space of a girl’s school, Sun-­dŏk and Ae-ra had
once shared intense attachments and dreams for a better f­ uture. What might
Sun-­dŏk ­really have felt when she reencountered this impor­tant figure from
her past, who had once been the ideal of femininity that she so deeply wished
to embody?
To answer ­these questions, one must pay more attention to the narra-
tive of same-­sex love and modern femininity that lies beneath the story’s
more prominent propagandist message. Even though they had not met in

Femininity Under the Wartime System  |  157

a de­cade, the two ­women obviously do not perceive each other as military
­mothers and failed citizens. Rather, each sees in the other the image of a
­sister she had dearly loved during her girlhood. In other words, Ae-ra calls
out to Sun-­dŏk using her given name ­because she instantly recognizes in the
middle-­aged ­woman “remnants of her girlish features.”55 Likewise, despite
her past idol’s decrepit appearance as a Buddhist nun, Sun-­dŏk gazes into
Ae-­ra’s “eyes flashing ­behind her deep green glasses” and finds herself think-
ing that “they are still quite beautiful.”56 The social logic of the empire thus
falls into the background as the two ­women jointly summon their girlhood
memories.
The relationship between the two female characters, moreover, ends up
creating vari­ous narrative fissures in the patriotic message of the text. ­Toward
the end of their reunion, for example, a repentant Ae-ra proclaims that she
­will renounce the “individualistic, liberal and Anglo-­American thoughts”
that led her to “pursue only her selfish desires.”57 Instead, she w ­ ill “live a new
life for the nation” by being loyal to her “womanly duties . . . ​on the home
front.”58 During this impassioned speech, Sun-­dŏk suddenly interrupts her
beloved friend and asks, “Then ­will you leave the monastery and return to
secular life?”59 This deeper interrogation into Ae-­ra’s private life as a w ­ oman
seems rather out of place, as it is irrelevant to the ideological function of her
repentant speech. Ae-ra dismisses this question, answering, “Yes. But that is
not what is impor­tant ­here.”60 ­W hether she ­will return to a secular lifestyle is
beside the point, at least within the propagandist context of the story. Having
de­cided to “turn away from all frivolities of life and yearn only for the truth,”
Ae-ra firmly concludes that “as long as one’s heart is in the right place, the
body ­will naturally follow.”61 What is impor­tant within the logic of the empire
is ­whether her heart is rightly focused on patriotism, regardless of ­whether she
chooses a religious or secular lifestyle.
The primary interest for Sun-­dŏk, however, is ­whether Ae-­ra’s body ­will re-
gain the modern femininity that Sun-­dŏk once so fervently desired to emulate
but now must relinquish. It is apparent that the abject appearance of present-­
day Ae-ra arouses in Sun-­dŏk a fear that, once she fully embraces military
motherhood, she w ­ ill also end up losing what­ever remnants of modern femi-
ninity that she had been clinging to over the years. Although Sun-­dŏk asks
Ae-ra ­whether she ­will return to a secular life, the question is, in a way, directed
to herself as well. If Sun-­dŏk now forfeits her modern feminine identity for the
sake of imperial motherhood, w ­ ill she still be able to “renounce the cloth” and
recover her old self one day? If, like the proverb about the eternally youthful

158  |  Shin-ae Ha
soul at the beginning of the story, she manages to keep her heart in a girl-­like
state, ­will she be able to find her way back to her past self someday? What be-
comes evident at this point is Sun-­dŏk’s reluctance to lose her self-­identity and
her desire to remain within the space of the modern. Her reunion with Ae-ra
makes evident that modernity is still much more appealing than any vague
imperialist ideals for ­women on the home front.
Nevertheless, the train w­ ill soon arrive at Taegu station, where “imperial
flags ­ripple like waves, and military songs echo vibrantly across the sky.”62
­Here Sun-­dŏk ­will get off the train and accept her role as a military ­mother who
sends “her s­ ilent blessings from afar” to her soon-­to-­be-­drafted son.63 Know-
ing this, Sun-­dŏk sheds “hot tears” as she encourages her friend (and perhaps
herself) to “keep on with life.”64 But is the way of this “life” to be imperial or
modern? Meanwhile, Ae-ra remains seated on the train, which is still making
its figurative journey ­toward the empire. Clutched in her hand is a letter of
endearment from her son, whom she had abandoned as an infant. Left b­ ehind
on the train are Sun-­dŏk’s hesitance, nostalgia, and memories of a hidden self
that can be accessed only with an affectionate calling of her given name. Along
with the girlish melancholy that Sun-­dŏk had felt in the e­ arlier pages of the
story, the surfacing of ­these emotions shows how the singular narrative of im-
perialist propaganda is bound to be intruded on by the complexities of life and
­human desire.
“The Journey,” therefore, is as much a product of the female desire for mo-
dernity as it is a rec­ord of imperialist discourse, a fluctuating space in which
propaganda and modern desires intersect. The figure of the ­sister constantly
threatens the seemingly unshakable imperialist narrative. In spite of the mass
propagation of imperialist ideology during the war, it exposes how w ­ omen
­were still quite resistant to new gender roles that the empire imposed on them.
It also urges us to question facile critiques of female writers of the war­time
period who allegedly “sympathized with the call for mass mobilization” to
attain “social prestige” or “female liberation” within the imperial order.65 On
the contrary, the text reveals that more than anyone e­ lse, ­women themselves
­were already acutely aware of what the empire was demanding they give up.
Self-­identification as an imperial subject required an annihilation of the mod-
ern self, which meant that imperialization was closer to the repression of the
female subject than to her liberation. What lies under­neath the seemingly
impenetrable language of propaganda is colonial w ­ omen’s anxiety for their
­future and a concomitant nostalgia for the past. It is perhaps only natu­ral,
then, that we see the figure of the s­ ister emerge from the past, constantly

Femininity Under the Wartime System  |  159

delaying and disturbing the pro­cess of imperialization that colonial Korean
­women are expected to undergo.

­Woman as Symptom of ­Woman: The Injured Female

Body and the Return of the Repressed

I begin this section by returning briefly to Pak T’ae-­wŏn’s “Portrait of a Beauty.”

What might have happened to Nam Po-­bae, who was struggling to escape
from her menacing f­ ather and an oppressive, patriarchal system? In my read-
ing of “The Journey,” ­women’s memories of same-­sex love ­were symptomatic
of their attachment to a modern femininity and grief for its impending loss. In
the case of Sun-­dŏk, nostalgia for her schoolgirl years was the last ­thing that
held her back from passing into the realm of the empire. For ­women who had
already under­gone the pro­cess of imperialization and settled into their roles
as military ­mothers, however, their desire to reconnect with a modern self was
much more severely repressed, though perhaps never completely rooted out.
In this section, I examine another short story in which this repressed female
desire for modernity emerges in a more covert, symptomatic form. While “The
Journey” deals with the internal pro­cess of imperialization through the spatial
meta­phor of the train, Ch’oe Chŏng-­hŭi’s “Yŏmyŏng” (Daybreak [1942]) pre­
sents a colonial female character who has already accepted her place within
the imperial order as a militant ­mother.
Compared with “The Journey,” the world depicted in Ch’oe’s story is one in
which colonial subjects are u­ nder much higher pressure to l­ abor visibly for the
imperial cause. Unlike Sun-­dŏk, who stands perpetually at the threshold of
imperialization, the female protagonist in “Daybreak” is introduced as some-
one who is already quite accustomed to the surveilling eye of the empire. She
does not vocalize any sort of attachment to her past life ways or express dis-
satisfaction with her current ones. While same-­sex love in this story is also
connected to a desire for modern femininity and the urge to escape from the
patriarchal imperial order, it is repressed to the extent that it surfaces not in the
form of conscious emotional responses (such as Sun-­dŏk’s girlish melancholy
or wistful sighs) but through the coded language of vari­ous nonverbal signs.
Curiously enough, “Daybreak” also begins with the sudden return of a ­sister
from the past. It is the night of New Years’ Eve in the sixteenth year of the
Shōwa period (1941), and the female protagonist, Ŭn-­yŏng, is heading home
from the busy streets of Chongno. Just as she is about to board a streetcar, she
sees someone reaching out and grabbing her hand. Ŭn-­yŏng is deeply affected

160  |  Shin-ae Ha
by this unexpected encounter with He-­bong, an old friend from her schoolgirl
years. “Gazing into the face of ” her captor, Ch’oe writes, the protagonist finds
herself wondering “­whether she is in a dream.”66 Once she realizes that it is
indeed He-­bong, Ŭn-­yŏng joyously clutches her hand “with even greater force
than that of her friend.”67 Though the two w ­ omen had not seen each other
in a de­cade, as schoolgirls they had once been close enough for every­one to
think they w ­ ere a same-­sex ­couple. The narrator describes how, on graduation
day, they “locked each other in their arms and wept for hours in an obscure
corner of their classroom . . . ​for, without each other, they thought they would
simply die.”68 But Ŭn-­yŏng’s happiness at reuniting with He-­bong, whom “she
had once loved more than anyone ­else in the world,” quickly dissipates ­after
hearing He-­bong’s comment: “Your face has lost all its glow! Only your lips
retain some traces of your former prettiness.”69 Ŭn-­yŏng instantly recoils at
this remark, which she finds to be “the most depressing ­thing she has heard in
years.”70 Compared with Sun-­dŏk in “The Journey,” whose reunion with her
long-­lost ­sister had stirred up feelings of tender nostalgia, Ŭn-­yŏng ends up
feeling a strange wariness and gloom. Ŭn-­yŏng’s appearance has changed not
only ­because of aging but also b­ ecause her identity has shifted from schoolgirl
to imperial female subject, which is why she cannot help but feel hypersensi-
tive to He-­bong’s comment about her looks.
As someone who knew Ŭn-­yŏng before her integration into the imperial
order, He-­bong becomes a potential threat who can expose her past and dis-
rupt her current ways of life. Ŭn-­yŏng’s fear of exposure is by no means mere
paranoia; the story makes it clear that the surveilling eyes of the imperial state
have indeed infiltrated even the most intimate quarters of her life. Her home
is in Hwanggŭmjŏng, the central area of colonial Seoul, and is therefore ­under
the tight grip of war­time discipline. Her own ­children pose an even bigger
threat as fledgling imperial subjects who, in Ŭn-­yŏng’s eyes, “are as devoted
as anyone can ever be.”71 Like prison guards, they discipline their ­mother by
monitoring her ­every move and “reprimanding her for the smallest shortcom-
ings.”72 At a movie theater, for example, they ask her why she “­will not cheer
and display her happiness” while watching news footage of imperial soldiers’
hurrahs.73 During the Lunar New Year holiday, moreover, she fears that her
­children may scold her for being wasteful with her cooking while “soldiers on
the front are shivering in the cold with no rice cakes to eat.”74 When she com-
plains about the cold weather, they declare she is spoiled and ungrateful com-
pared with the “soldiers’ real strug­gles on the war front” and announce that, in
the ­future, they ­will enforce “a penalty of one chŏn” ­every time she complains

Femininity Under the Wartime System  |  161

about the cold.75 Ŭn-­yŏng has nowhere to escape from the patriarchal social
order, not even in the safety of her own home, due to the surveillance of her
­children, who are on the way to becoming offspring of the empire. The only
option left for her is to fully accept her identity as a female imperial subject,
“cleanse” herself of all useless “feelings,” and “try her best to keep up with”
her patriotic c­ hildren.76 The narrator describes her internal strug­gles to “make
herself as clean a slate as her ­children” and how she is struggling to meet her
­children’s demands to walk the “way of light.”77 This preoccupation with self-­
refashioning is most likely why Ŭn-­yŏng had not felt motivated to reconnect
with any of her old classmates prior to her reunion with He-­bong.78 The wari-
ness and re­sis­tance she shows against revealing her past or her true feelings,
then, can be understood as a kind of survival tactic ­under imperial rule.
But why is Ŭn-­yŏng so blue, especially at a point in her life when it seems
that she has fi­nally achieved self-­coherence, purged herself of all feelings from
her past, and successfully met the expectations of her ­children? And if the im-
perialization of ­women is something the text intends to promote to its read-
ers, why does it describe her as a forlorn w ­ oman whose face has lost its glow
instead of giving her the beaming countenance of a female imperial subject?
­After her remark about Ŭn-­yŏng’s changed appearance, He-­bong insists they
have much to catch up on and ushers her friend into a nearby café. The reader
may safely assume that He-­bong is bound to pry under­neath Ŭn-­yŏng’s new
façade as imperial subject and examine the kinds of damage and distortion
that have been done to her old identity. And as someone who still remem-
bers Ŭn-­yŏng’s past, He-­bong ­will naturally strive to recuperate the glimmer
of prettiness she has detected in Ŭn-­yŏng’s lips.
The two ­women’s conversation at the café thus consists of a complex layer
of subtexts in which unspoken signs between old lovers are woven into the
explicit propagandist message of the story. At a surface level, the scene is a
­simple contrast between an ideal female character who has already settled into
her role as a military ­mother and an “unenlightened ­woman” who “has not
yet found the righ­teous path.”79 In this type of reading, both “Daybreak” and
“The Journey” are essentially educational narratives of an enlightened pioneer
and a repentant follower. For example, when He-­bong takes a skeptical stance
­toward Pan-­Asian ideology, Ŭn-­yŏng reminds her of the “blood and spirit
of the East” that courses through her Asian body and stresses that she must
therefore withdraw her loyalty to the “Western educators who had nurtured
her.”80 And along with her one billion Asian b­ rothers and ­sisters, Ŭn-­yŏng en-
joins, He-­bong must “roll up [her] sleeves” and join the imperial cause. She

162  |  Shin-ae Ha
says, “Armed with their Bibles and opium, Westerners have invaded all corners
of the East. . . . ​[Y]ou must wake yourself from their sorcery and magic spells,
and realize the way in which they have cheated and exploited you.”81 Through
this passionate speech, which is as good as any Pan-­Asian propaganda gets,
Ŭn-­yŏng reconfirms her own transformation into the Asian ­woman the em-
pire has demanded she become.
But despite the unequivocal nature of Ŭn-­yŏng’s ideological language,
­there is something about her character that makes her seem rather unstable
and at risk: in her attempt to condemn the empire’s enemies, Ŭn-­yŏng ends
up canceling out her own past. In other words, Ŭn-­yŏng’s own days as a young
student also come ­under fire, for she was also brought up by Western educa-
tors and enchanted by the sorcery and magic spells of Western modernity. It is
only through a complete alienation of the self from her own girlhood desires
for modernity that Ŭn-­yŏng can safely perform her role as an imperial subject
without contradiction. Ironically, however, the very stage for this per­for­mance
is the modern space of a “brightly lit café in which the news of the imperial ar-
my’s victory is blaring out from the radio.”82 Against this backdrop, Ŭn-­yŏng’s
forlorn face is itself a cypher that holds vari­ous contradictory meanings: it is
at once a ­battle scar of the injury inflicted on her past identity, proof of her
ideological conversion to imperialism, and the cause of her current state of
depression.
With “eyes full of compassion,” He-­bong still manages to discover traces
of Ŭn-­yŏng’s former prettiness that lie beneath ­these complex layers and
thereafter attempts to communicate with Ŭn-­yŏng outside the linguistic par­
ameters of imperialist ideology.83 When Ŭn-­yŏng argues that it is her duty to
“lead wayward ­women ­toward the righ­teous path . . . ​even if it means drag-
ging them along by force,” He-­bong questions where exactly this “righ­teous
path” leads.84 Even if Pan-­Asian prosperity “is the obvious goal that awaits us,”
she points out, “­don’t we have a moral obligation to remember the love and
kindness we received” from our Western educators?85 She then pleads with an
“earnest face” that, although she knows what she must do for the greater good
for the empire, “I cannot help but be held back by my long-­held habits and
lifestyles.”86 With a “wistful countenance,” moreover, He-­bong reminds her
friend of the Western principal at their girls’ school as well as their En­glish
teacher, Mrs. Wŏn, and argues that “not all Western p­ eople are bad.”87 ­Here,
He-­bong’s role as antagonistic interlocutor is twofold: first, she exposes logi-
cal errors of the West-­versus-­East dichotomy within Pan-­Asian discourse;
and second, she attempts to revive Ŭn-­yŏng’s memories of the self prior to

Femininity Under the Wartime System  |  163

imperialization. Had they not been the prime beneficiaries of modernity as
students? Had they not enthusiastically interpellated each other as objects
of modern love and together indulged in the modern lifestyle of wandering
around parks and movie theaters? Through ­these implicit questions, He-­bong
reminds Ŭn-­yŏng of a desire for modernity that she was forced to sacrifice for
the fictional ideal of a Pan-­Asian empire.
He-­bong attempts to conjure within Ŭn-­yŏng feelings of nostalgia ­toward
their shared schoolgirl years, a “Western-­style world” that has now receded
into the past. Unsurprisingly, the memories of modernity that He-­bong pre­
sents to Ŭn-­yŏng feel much more natsukashii (endearing) than the f­uture
of Pan-­Asia that Ŭn-­yŏng offers.88 Ŭn-­yŏng suddenly feels “her head being
clouded over” by “dreamy, romantic and exciting” memories of her girlhood,
and a desire to “revert” back to modernity emerges.89 Hastily reminding her-
self that “she must not openly speak of her feelings in front of He-­bong,” Ŭn-­
yŏng strug­gles to recollect herself by silently vowing “not to think of anything,
and try [her] best to forget every­thing” related to her past.90 Through ­these
painstaking efforts at self-­indoctrination, Ŭn-­yŏng barely manages to keep her
identity intact as an imperial w ­ oman. Unlike in “The Journey,” the world de-
picted in “Daybreak” is one in which the tight leash of the patriarchal social
order prohibits female subjects such as Ŭn-­yŏng from displaying even a slight
moment of hesitance, let alone express any type of nostalgia or grief ­toward
her past identity. At a time when ­women feel compelled to forget every­thing
and transform themselves into clean slates, the nostalgia that He-­bong con-
jures is “nothing more than cheap sentimentalism” that must be “rooted out
from one’s head at once.”91 The only legitimate option available to w ­ omen
was to become militant ­mothers whose “sole purpose in life is to make their
­children happy.”92 In this way, ­women’s memories of the past are treated as
something unspeakable, almost as if to persuade them into believing that their
girlhood never existed.
While this eradication of modern femininity leads to the creation of a pe-
culiar void within the symbolic order of the empire, modern femininity ends
up asserting its presence through this very void. In other words, the gloomy
­faces of imperial ­women such as Ŭn-­yŏng’s are symptomatic of the empire’s
inability to grant them full subjecthood. As psychoanalytic theory reminds us,
“What was foreclosed from the Symbolic returns in the Real of the symptom,”
and this symptom arises “where the cir­cuit of . . . ​symbolic communication
was broken” in the form of a “stain which cannot be included in the . . . ​social
bond network.”93 When the cir­cuit of modern femininity formed by w ­ omen’s

164  |  Shin-ae Ha
same-­sex relationships is broken and replaced with a new Pan-­Asian world
order, a stain appears on the injured bodies of colonized w ­ omen, though they
themselves may not even be aware of what it is they have lost. This stain, or the
deprivation of femininity from ­women’s bodies, not only exposes the sham of
imperial subjecthood, but also becomes the cause of their depression. Even
within a propagandist text such as “Daybreak,” the figure of the fallen s­ ister
reemerges as a narrative stain, threatening to collapse the logical coherence of
the imperial worldview. The symptom, moreover, is “a kind of prolongation of
the [broken cir­cuit] by other means” and a “coded, cyphered” message that “is
addressed to the big Other.”94 Ŭn-­yŏng’s glowless face, then, is the symptom
that attests to the painful elimination of her femininity, exposing hidden feel-
ings of grief and anguish ­after having been subsumed ­under the patriarchal
order. But more than that, it is presented to the reader as a nonverbal code
loaded with covert meanings: first, it shows how under­neath her façade as a
loyal imperial w ­ oman, Ŭn-­yŏng is still attached to the female solidarity she
experienced in a same-­sex relationship; and second, it warns its readers of the
fact that the path t­ oward imperial womanhood begins with a violent erasure
of one’s past.
What, then, are we to make of the character of He-­bong, who exists in the
story as the primary witness of Ŭn-­yŏng’s symptoms? As the conversation at
the café nears its end, Ŭn-­yŏng “leans into the t­ able so far that her face almost
touches He-­bong’s” and vehemently asks her friend, “Do you understand now,
He-­bong?”95 The story ends with He-­bong’s obedient answer: “I understand. I
understand it better coming from you.”96 But what might Ŭn-­yŏng’s old lover
­really have been thinking as she “quietly gazed at Ŭn-­yŏng’s tight face,” look-
ing “neither impressed nor annoyed” by Ŭn-­yŏng’s didactic speech?97 What
we might guess is that He-­bong, who is remembered by Ŭn-­yŏng as having
been a “remarkably intelligent” girl, sees something beyond the propagandist
message that Ŭn-­yŏng strug­gles to deliver.98 It is none other than Ŭn-­yŏng’s
sad and lackluster face that sends a warning message that unknowingly contra-
dicts the empire’s ­orders—­namely, the fact that the only way to survive as an
imperial subject is through the complete erasure of one’s past identity.
“Daybreak” must therefore be read as an ambivalent text that offers two
parallel subtexts that end up canceling each other out. Although the overall
theme of the story is explic­itly propagandist, the image of the injured female
body (face) is coded with desires/signifiers that contradict the imperialist
intentions of the text. The homogeneity of empire’s official voice is broken
by the image of a (forbidden) collusion with a s­ ister. Bodily signs and facial

Femininity Under the Wartime System  |  165

expressions, moreover, function as nonverbal signs delivering a message that
opposes the propagandist language of the empire. Despite the didactic format
of her speech, the ultimate message that Ŭn-­yŏng conveys to her “unenlight-
ened” old lover is not to transform herself into an imperial w ­ oman but, rather,
to escape while she can from the call of the empire.
The ambivalent nature of the character of Ŭn-­yŏng in “Daybreak” is reflec-
tive of the inner conflict that w ­ omen in colonial K ­ orea experienced during
the war. It reveals how imperialization was never a fully attainable goal for
­women. Even ­those like Ŭn-­yŏng who seemed already to have completed the
pro­cess of identity transformation often found themselves transported back
to the starting line, hesitating and reluctant to proceed. Stuck at the crossroads
between their past identities and pre­sent obligations, ­women secretly nursed
an urge to flee the patriarchal order, waiting to be triggered by something as
trifling as an encounter with a s­ ister on the street. Unleashed through this en-
counter are memories of a past self that had once openly desired and embod-
ied modern femininity. Despite the intensification of the imperial social order
­under the war­time system, ­these memories leave ­behind indelible stains on
the f­aces of imperial ­women who ­were pledging their loyalty to the empire.
The memories make unexpected returns in the form of symptoms, suddenly
grabbing w ­ omen’s hands on the busy streets of Chongno, urging them to “re-
nounce the cloth.” “Daybreak” attests to the power of such memories, as they
held the potential to threaten the very foundations of the imperial social order.
Sustained only through a temporary and ultimately futile suppression of such
unstable ­factors, the promise of imperial subjecthood to colonial w ­ omen was,
therefore, always bound to be broken.

The Way of the Empire and the Coded Unconscious

Previous scholarship on war­time ­women writers has mostly examined their

work in relation to the categories of the nation and empire. The writings of
Chang Tŏk-jo and Ch’oe Chŏng-­hŭi, for example, have often been treated
simply as a means to illustrate “the extent to which ­women of the colonial
period had internalized” Japan’s imperialist ideologies.99 However, readings
that focus solely on the categories of the nation and empire tend to ignore
other crucial f­ actors, such as gender, culture, customs, lifestyles, and “the way
in which ­these ­factors intersect with one another.”100 The result has been lin-
ear, teleological readings that are grounded in a s­ imple dichotomy between
collaboration and re­sis­tance. In this essay, I have used culture as an alternative

166  |  Shin-ae Ha
framework that can allow us to move beyond the question of pro-­Japanese
collaboration and the nation-­versus-­empire binary and, instead, access the
hidden layers of meaning within ­women’s writing of the period. As a type of
culture, trend, and custom that w ­ ere constitutive of modern Korean w ­ omen’s
identities, I consider same-­sex love a keyword that can help us read into their
interiority. Such an alternative reading reveals the crisis of cultural conversion
that confronted ­women of colonial ­Korea and how conflicted they felt as they
prepared their transformation into the role of traditional Asian w ­ omen that
the empire demanded of them.101
­Women’s imperialization during the war­time era is often thought to have
been motivated by a desire to achieve female liberation, ­either through
the elevation of their social status or increased participation in the public
sphere. Indeed, Mo Yun-­suk provides a good example of how some female
intellectuals seem to have considered the war an opportunity for colonial
Korean ­women to advance their social standing. In her famous speech, she
beseeched ­women to “become faithful wives and daughters-­in-­law of the na-
tion, even if it means turning away from your real families-­in-­law.”102 Many
scholars have criticized Mo Yun-­suk and her female contemporaries for “per-
ceiving ­women’s liberation as a simplistic power strug­gle between ­women
and men” and for becoming a “mere pawn in the larger scheme of imperialist
gender politics” by “promoting w ­ omen’s rights in isolation and without a
deeper consideration of its complex relationships with sexuality, ethnicity
and class.”103 I argue, however, that it is precisely t­hese types of readings
that fail to grasp the complexities of ­women’s identity reconstructions ­under
the imperial war­time system. Imperialization was not a monolinear pro­cess
of transforming colonial Korean ­women into imperial subjects; it also in-
cluded the pro­cess of cultural conversion in which ­women ­were forced to
trade in their modern femininity for a traditional womanhood sanctioned
by the state. This multilayered pro­cess of war­time identity formation is pre-
cisely what exposes the limits of a nation-­versus-­empire binary approach
and calls for a textual analy­sis that considers cultural identity as a third
­factor. Such an analy­sis illustrates the fact that the modern femininity, as
well as the national identity, of colonial Korean ­women was excluded in the
pro­cess of imperialization. It also reveals how the liberation of w ­ omen that
colonial female subjects allegedly pursued through their identity transfor-
mation was, in fact, much closer to female repression. That imperial ­women
would gladly and willingly have accepted imperial subjecthood for the sake
of self-­interest is thus rather unlikely.

Femininity Under the Wartime System  |  167

 Just like the “modern boys” of colonial ­Korea who strug­gled to maintain
their dandy lifestyles during the war, ­women remained attached to modern
femininity, even if they might already have succumbed to the call of empire.
The life and writings of Kim Hwal-­lan, the first Korean principal of Iwha Yŏjŏn
(Ewha ­Women’s Professional School) and a common example of a female
collaborator of the period, offers a good case in point. When U.S.-­Japanese
relations soured in the spring of 1939, Alice Appenzeller was forced to leave
colonial ­Korea ­after being dismissed from her post as the sixth principal of
Ewha. Even though she was well aware of Pan-­Asianism’s anti-­Western stance
as well as the fact that the “imperial government was looking at the situation
with a hawk’s eye,” a resolute Kim paid her re­spects to Appenzeller, “who so
lovingly planted the seeds of life for her Korean d­ aughters,” by accompany-
ing Appenzeller all the way to the port of Inch’ŏn.104 In her autobiographical
writings, Kim looks back on how the anti-­Western/antimodern policies of the
total war period affected education in colonial K ­ orea. It is in­ter­est­ing to see
how she uses the expression “sorrowful punishment” to describe the school’s
banning of En­glish as an “­enemy language” and the Ministry of Education’s
open condemnation of Ewha for having been “an enclave of American mis-
sionaries.”105 ­These episodes reveal how even a well-­known female imperial
subject such as Kim Hwal-­lan still held deep attachments to Western moder-
nity.106 They also illustrate the internal conflicts w
­ omen experienced ­because
of the empire’s ban on modern customs, lifestyles, and identities. A study of
the war­time system must therefore take into consideration multiple social
­factors, such as religion, custom, and culture, rather than focus solely on the
standoff between nation and empire. In turn, womanhood ­under the war­time
system must not be understood as a static product of imperialism but, rather,
as an unstable, heterogeneous, and fluctuating identity that is formed at the
intersection of imperialism, coloniality, and culture.
This essay has demonstrated how the war­time imperialization policies
posed as big a threat to colonial Korean w ­ omen’s modern identity as it did to
their national identity. It has also illustrated how collective memories of mod-
ern femininity and female solidarity made an unexpected return within state-­
sanctioned propagandist narratives through the figure of s­ isters, which func-
tioned as a potential source of female re­sis­tance against the empire. Memories
of schoolgirl same-­sex love in ­women’s writing sheds light on how not only
ethnic nationalism but also ­women’s desires for modern femininity held the
potential to mobilize colonial Koreans against imperialization policies. E ­ ither
by clinging to the skirts of w­ omen hesitating at the threshold of imperializa-

168  |  Shin-ae Ha
tion or urging them to return to their previous modern selves, ­these memories
emerge from propagandist narratives in symptomatic form, driving female
characters to e­ ither fight or take flight from the patriarchal order of the empire.
Although propagandist texts w ­ ere designed to pre­sent visions of a Pan-­
Asian ­future, what we find in the stories of schoolgirl same-­sex love couched
within ­these texts are desires for a modern identity that can be attained only
through a return to the past. It was not the state-­sanctioned ideal of “Asia”
but that of the “modern” that still captivated the hearts of colonial Korean
­women. Stories of same-­sex love led to the unexpected conclusion that mo-
dernity (rather than nation, empire, or war) is an apt keyword through which
we might tap into the true interiority of war­time military ­mothers. In other
words, while the importance of sociopo­liti­cal events launched in the name of
the nation or empire must not be underestimated, any comprehensive study
of femininity ­under the war­time system must begin with a clear understand-
ing of the centrality of modern cultures in ­women’s lives. What we ultimately
see in the characters in “The Journey” and “Daybreak,” therefore, are ­women’s
desires to reconnect with such modern cultures and to recuperate female soli-
darities formed through their experience of same-­sex love, which constituted
a crucial aspect of ­women’s gendered identity ­under the war­time system.

Notes

This chapter was originally published in Korean as Ha Sin-ae [Shin-ae Ha],

“Chŏnsi ch’ejeha ŭi yŏsŏngsŏng kwa chinghu rosŏ ŭi tongsŏng’ae,” Pangyo Ŏmun
Yŏn’gu, no. 32 (2012): 389–424.
1 Pak, “Minyŏdo,” 261.
2 Pak, “Minyŏdo,” 261.
3 Pak, “Minyŏdo,” 264. H ­ ere Pak describes other neologisms attached to the practice,
such as “beloved big ­sister” (sarang ŏnni) and “beloved ­little ­sister” (sarang tongsaeng).
4 Pak, “Minyŏdo,” 261.
5 Pak, “Minyŏdo,” 313.
6 Chŏn, Kyŏngsŏng chasal k’ŭllŏp, 197.
7 “Yŏryu myŏngsa ŭi tongsŏng yŏnaegi,” Pyŏlgŏn’gon, November 1930, 120.
8 “Yŏryu myŏngsa ŭi tongsŏng yŏnaegi,” 120.
9 Hyŏn Ru-­yŏng, “Yŏhaksaeng kwa tongsŏng yŏnae munje,” Sin Yŏsŏng, Decem-
ber 1924, 22–25.
10 So Ch’un, “Yottae ŭi Chosŏn sinyŏja,” Sin Yŏsŏng, November 1923, 58.
11 Hyŏn, “Yŏhaksaeng kwa tongsŏng yŏnae munje,” 22–25.
12 Pok Myŏn-­a, “Kŭ yŏjadŭl ŭn oe ch’ŏldo chasal ŭl hayŏnna? Hong Kim yang yŏja,
Yŏngdŭngp’o ch’ŏldo chasal sakkŏn humun,” Pyŏlgŏn’gon, May 1931, 18.

Femininity Under the Wartime System  |  169

 13 “Ch’ŏllo ŭi isŭl toen iryun ŭi mulmangch’o 5,” Chosŏn Ilbo, April 17, 1931.
14 “Hongsu wa nokhan ŭl sirŭn ch’unp’ung! Ch’ŏngch’un yang yŏsŏng ch’ŏldo
chŏngsa,” Tong’a Ilbo, April 10, 1931.
15 Pak, “Minyŏdo,” 265, 272.
16 Pak, “Minyŏdo,” 286, 292.
17 Pak, “Minyŏdo,” 293.
18 Pak, “Minyŏdo,” 302–3.
19 Pak, “Minyŏdo,” 303.
20 Kim Yŏ-je, “Tongsŏng yŏnae,” Chogwang, March 1937, 286–94.
21 “Yŏryu myŏngsa ŭi tongsŏng yŏnaegi,” 120.
22 Kim, Yŏsŏng ŭi kŭndae, kŭndae ŭi yŏsŏng, 57.
23 Pak Yŏng-­hŭi, “Pallyŏ,” Samch’ŏlli Munhak, April 1938, 51. This novel was left un-
finished ­after the publication of its second installment in the magazine Samch’ŏlli
Munhak.
24 Ch’oe Chŏng-­hŭi, “Yŏmyŏng,” Yadam, May 1942, 81.
25 Chosŏn Imjŏn Pogukdan (Association of War­time Patriots in Chosŏn), “Pando
chidoch’ŭng puin ŭi kyŏljŏn poguk ŭi taesajahu!” Taedong’a, March 1942, 94.
26 Chosŏn Imjŏn Pogukdan, “Pando chidoch’ŭng puin ŭi kyŏljŏn poguk ŭi
­taesajahu!” 94.
27 Chosŏn Imjŏn Pogukdan, “Pando chidoch’ŭng puin ŭi kyŏljŏn poguk ŭi taesa-
jahu!” 114.
28 Chosŏn Imjŏn Pogukdan, “Pando chidoch’ŭng puin ŭi kyŏljŏn poguk ŭi
­taesajahu!” 113.
29 Chosŏn Imjŏn Pogukdan, “Pando chidoch’ŭng puin ŭi kyŏljŏn poguk ŭi taesa-
jahu!” 103, 110. ­After the National Total Mobilization Law was passed in 1938, the
Korean branch of the National Spiritual Mobilization Federation introduced the
Regulations on Citizens’ Standards of Life during States of Emergency, legislation
that actually included certain dress codes for ­women, such as a ban on ­women’s
“hair perms as well as other extravagant beauty products and clothing”: An, “Ilche
mal chŏnsi ch’ejegi yŏsŏng e taehan pokjang t’ongje,” 6.
30 Chosŏn Imjŏn Pogukdan, “Pando chidoch’ŭng puin ŭi kyŏljŏn poguk ŭi taesajahu!” 99.
31 Chosŏn Imjŏn Pogukdan, “Pando chidoch’ŭng puin ŭi kyŏljŏn poguk ŭi taesa-
jahu!” 112.
32 See Hŏ, Yŏng-­sun, “Yŏsŏng kwa mosŏng’ae,” Yŏsŏng, September 1938, 36–39;
Song, Sin Saimdang.
33 The successful installment of the new (war­time) system was considered to
depend upon the full eradication of female vanity from society; conversely,
what­ever lifestyles and be­hav­iors that went against the war effort ­were often
condemned as manifestations of female vanity. Th ­ ere already exists a strong
misogynistic ele­ment in the term “vanity” itself, as it was a ­wholesale denounce-
ment of liberal and individualistic modern female identity in general: Kwŏn,
Yŏksajŏk p’asijŭm, 200.
34 Kwŏn, Yŏksajŏk p’asijŭm, 164.

170  |  Shin-ae Ha
 35 Ch’oe, “Ch’inil munhak ŭi tto tarŭn ch’ŭngwi,” 393–94. It is also impor­tant to
remember that colonial Koreans may very well have not based their sense of self-­
identity solely on nationality: Shin and Robinson, “Introduction,” 15.
36 The “Monpe Enforcement Campaign,” which began in August 1944, prohibited
­women who ­were not wearing monpe pants from boarding buses/streetcars and
entering municipal buildings/public assembly halls: An, “Ilche mal chŏnsi ch’ejegi
yŏsŏng e taehan pokjang t’ongje,” 11–12.
37 An, “Ilche mal chŏnsi ch’ejegi yŏsŏng e taehan pokjang t’ongje,” 26. Transcription
from a 1945 oral interview with Nam Chŏnghŭi, a student at Kyŏngsŏng ­Women’s
Professional School.
38 It was through girls’ schools that young ­women ­were given a chance to move
beyond the courtyards, kitchens, and dens of their homes and develop a sense of
their modern identity. It was also within the space of ­these schools that girls came
to familiarize themselves with “Western” lifestyles, resources, and values: Mun,
“Konggan ŭi chaebaech’i wa singminji kŭndae ch’ehŏm,” 276–78.
39 Chang, “Haengno,” 100.
40 Chang, “Haengno,” 103.
41 Chang, “Haengno,” 92.
42 Chang, “Haengno,” 92.
43 Chang, “Haengno,” 93.
44 Chang, “Haengno,” 92.
45 Chang, “Haengno,” 94.
46 Chang, “Haengno,” 94.
47 Chang, “Haengno,” 95.
48 Chang, “Haengno,” 96.
49 Chang, “Haengno,” 93.
50 Chang, “Haengno,” 93.
51 Chang, “Haengno,” 97.
52 Chang, “Haengno,” 97.
53 Chang, “Haengno,” 99–100.
54 Chang and Kim, “Yŏsŏng chakka sosŏl esŏ pon naesŏn ilch’e changch’i,” 186–87.
55 Chang, “Haengno,” 94.
56 Chang, “Haengno,” 93.
57 Chang, “Haengno,” 100.
58 Chang, “Haengno,” 101.
59 Chang, “Haengno,” 101.
60 Chang, “Haengno,” 101.
61 Chang, “Haengno,” 101.
62 Chang, “Haengno,” 103.
63 Chang, “Haengno,” 104.
64 Chang, “Haengno,” 104.
65 Yi, “Yŏsŏng haebang ŭi kidae wa chŏnjaeng tongwŏn ŭi nolli,” 265; Yi, “Singminji
esŏŭi yŏsŏng kwa minjok ŭi munje,” 80.

Femininity Under the Wartime System  |  171

 66 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 76.
67 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 76.
68 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 77.
69 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 76–77.
70 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 76.
71 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 82.
72 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 81.
73 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 82.
74 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 83.
75 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 84.
76 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 81–82.
77 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 82.
78 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 76.
79 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 79.
80 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 80.
81 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 80.
82 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 78.
83 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 77.
84 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 79.
85 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 79.
86 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 80–81.
87 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 81.
88 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 81.
89 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 81.
90 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 81.
91 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 81.
92 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 82.
93 Žižek, The Sublime Object of Ideology, 79, 82.
94 Žižek, The Sublime Object of Ideology, 79.
95 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 82.
96 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 82.
97 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 79–81.
98 Ch’oe, “Yŏmyŏng,” 79.
99 Sim, Han’guk munhak kwa seksyuŏllit’i, 253.
100 Kim, “  ‘Pŏmju usŏnsŏng’ ŭi munje wa Ch’oe Chŏng-­hŭi ŭi singminji sigi sosŏl,”
225.
101 A textual analy­sis that foregrounds same-­sex love and modern ­women’s culture
may appear to be rather peripheral compared to ones that focus on nationhood,
imperialism, or politics. However, “the view that culture is an effervescence, a de-
rivative of movements in social and po­liti­cal structures,” shuts down more mean-
ingful conversations about culture as an analytical tool. Rather than to see culture
as something that “cannot account for t­ hings, at least not impor­tant ­things . . . ​
[but] can only be accounted for,” it is crucial to “recognize that culture was being

172  |  Shin-ae Ha
 formed and fought over and that history was being made in the pro­cess”: Wells,
“The Price of Legitimacy,” 196.
102 Chosŏn Imjŏn Pogukdan, “Pando chidoch’ŭng puin ŭi kyŏljŏn poguk ŭi taesa-
jahu!” 114.
103 Yi, “Yŏsŏng haebang ŭi kidae wa chŏnjaeng tongwŏn ŭi nolli,” 268; Yi, “Singminji
esŏ ŭi yŏsŏng kwa minjok ŭi munje,” 80.
104 Kim, Hwal-­lan paksa somyo, 72.
105 Kim, Kŭ pit sok ŭi chagŭn saengmyŏng, 161–63, also quoted in Yim, “Singminji
yŏsŏng kwa minjok/kukka sangsang,” 63–66.
106 Kim Hwal-­lan, along with many of her female contemporaries, treats Western
modernity as interchangeable with Chris­tian­ity.

Works Cited

NEWSPAPERS AND MAGAZINES

Chogwang
Chosŏn Ilbo
Pyŏlgŏn’gon
Samch’ŏlli Munhak
Sin Yŏsŏng
Taedong’a
Tong’a Ilbo
Yadam
Yŏsŏng

KOREAN-­LANGUAGE SOURCES

An T’ae-­yun. “Ilche mal chŏnsi ch’ejegi yŏsŏng e taehan pokjang t’ongje: Momppe
kangje wa yŏsŏngsŏng yuji ŭi chŏllyak.” Sahoe wa Yŏksa 74 (2007): 5–33.
Chang Mi-­kyŏng and Kim Sun-­chŏn. “Yŏsŏng chakka sosŏl esŏ pon naesŏn ilch’e
changch’i: Ch’oe Chŏng-­hŭi ‘Maboroshi no heishi’ wa Chang Tŏk-jo ‘Haengno’
rŭl chungsim ŭro.” Ilbonŏ Kyoyuk, no. 51 (2010): 183–95.
Chang Tŏk-jo. “Haengno,” trans. No Sang-­nae. In Pando chakka tanp’yŏnjip, ed.
Chosŏntosŏch’ulpanchusikhoesa, 89–104. Seoul: Cheienssi, 2008.
Ch’oe Kyŏng-­hŭi [Choi Kyoung-­hee]. “Ch’inil munhak ŭi tto tarŭn ch’ŭngwi: Chendŏ
wa ‘Yagukch’o.’ ” In Haebang chŏnhusa ŭi chaeinsik, vol. 1, ed. Lee Yŏnghun,
387–433. Seoul: Ch’aeksesang, 2006.
Chŏn Pong-­gwan. Kyŏngsŏng chasal k’ŭllŏp. Paju: Sallim Ch’ulp’ansa, 2008.
Kim Hwal-­lan. Kŭ pit sok ŭi chagŭn saengmyŏng. Seoul: Iwha Yŏdae Ch’ulp’anbu,
1965.
Kim Hwal-­lan paksa somyo. Seoul: Iwha Yŏdae Ch’ulp’anbu, 1959.
Kim Kyŏng-il. Yŏsŏng ŭi kŭndae, kŭndae ŭi yŏsŏng. Seoul: P’urŭnyŏksa, 2004.

Femininity Under the Wartime System  |  173

Kim Pok-­sun. “ ‘Pŏmju usŏnsŏng’ ŭi munje wa Ch’oe Chŏng-­hŭi ŭi singminji sigi
sosŏl.” In Ilche malgi ŭi midiŏ wa munhwa chŏngch’i, ed. Sanghŏhakgoe, 253–94.
Seoul: Kip’ŭnsaem, 2008.
Kwŏn Myŏng-­a. Yŏksajŏk p’asijŭm. Seoul: Ch’aeksesang, 2005.
Mun Yŏng-­hŭi. “Konggan ŭi chaebaech’i wa singminji kŭndae ch’ehŏm.” In Han’guk
ŭi singminji kŭndae wa yŏsŏng konggan, ed. T’ae Hye-­suk, 163–88. Seoul: Yŏiyŏn,
2004.
Pak T’ae-­wŏn. “Minyŏdo.” In Han’guk kŭndae tanp’yŏn sosŏl taegye, vol. 9, ed.
T’aehaksa, 261–319. Paju: T’aehaksa, 1988.
Sim Chin-­gyŏng. Han’guk munhak kwa seksyuŏllit’i. Seoul: Somyŏng Ch’ulp’an, 2006.
Song Yŏng. Sin Saimdang. Seoul: Tongyangkŭkchang, 1945. (Reprinted as “Sin Saim-
dang.” In Haebang chŏn kongyŏn hŭigokjip, vol. 2, ed. Lee Jae-­myŏng, 289–358.
Seoul: P’yŏngminsa, 2004.)
Yi Sang-­kyŏng. “Singminji esŏ ŭi yŏsŏng kwa minjok ŭi munje.” Silch’ŏn Munhak 69
(February 2003): 54–82.
Yi Sŏn-ok. “Yŏsŏng haebang ŭi kidae wa chŏnjaeng tongwŏn ŭi nolli.” In Ch’inil mun-
hak ŭi naejŏk nolli, ed. Park Yun-­jŏng, 239–72. Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2003.
Yim U-­gyŏng. “Singminji yŏsŏng kwa minjok/kukka sangsang.” In Han’guk ŭi singminji
kŭndae wa yŏsŏng konggan, ed. T’ae Hye-­suk, 41–77. Seoul: Yŏiyŏn, 2004.

ENGLISH-­LANGUAGE SOURCES

Shin, Gi-­Wook, and Michael Robinson. “Introduction.” In Colonial Modernity in ­Korea,

ed. Gi-­Wook Shin and Michael Robinson, 1–20. Cambridge, MA: Harvard Uni-
versity Press, 1999.
Wells, Kenneth M. “The Price of Legitimacy: ­Women and the Kŭnuhoe Movement,
1927–1931.” In Colonial Modernity in ­Korea, ed. Gi-­Wook Shin and Michael Robin-
son, 191–220. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999.
Žižek, Slavoj. The Sublime Object of Ideology. London: Verso, 2008.

174  |  Shin-ae Ha
 Chapter Five

A FEMALE-­DRESSED MAN
SINGS A NATIONAL EPIC
THE FILM MALE KISAENG AND
THE POLITICS OF GENDER AND
SEXUALITY IN 1960S SOUTH ­KOREA

Chung-­kang Kim

 A
tall man with a muscular body loves knitting, needlework, and d­ oing
laundry. Provoking the abhorrence of his com­pany president due
to his effeminacy, he is fired. Working in a kisaeng ­house in female
masquerade to make ends meet, he eventually becomes its most popu­lar en-
tertainer. Still beset with guilt over his “immoral” lifestyle, he abandons his
newfound profession to marry his girlfriend and begins a proper life as a cos-
metics salesman.
This is the storyline of the comedy film Namja kisaeng (Male Kisaeng),
produced as part of a boom in the genre of what I call “gender comedy films”
in late 1960s South K ­ orea. The film title attracts audiences’ immediate atten-
tion to the kisaeng figure—­a female entertainer in premodern K ­ orea who
served men—­and to kisaeng’s link to a man, stimulating their curiosity. De-
spite ­these films’ technical flaws and stock plot ele­ments (typically focusing
on poor and rural men and ­women who overcome the adversities of modern
urban life to find love and a ­family), the audiences loved them. Male Kisaeng’s
director, Sim U-­sŏp, who directed more than thirty films between 1968 and
1970, was particularly prolific in this genre. Many of his films went on to set
box office rec­ords, particularly Namja singmo (Male Maid), which brought
in more than 120,000 p­ eople in its first two weeks of screening in Seoul and
saved the famous but financially struggling Shin Film from bankruptcy.1
­These comedy films often exposed audiences to queer motifs, such as cross-­
dressing, gender-­role reversal, and homo­sexuality, and they displayed diverse
sexual themes of male sexual impotence and sadomasochism.2 Although it
is hard to call ­these films “queer” insofar as they don’t consciously question
an essentialist notion of identity politics, they challenge the normalcy of gen-
der and sexual categories and practices.3 One can tell that this form of South
Korean popu­lar culture was brimming with what Judith Butler has called
“gender trou­ble.”4
What is more par­tic­u­lar about the production of ­these films is that they were
made during the dictatorial regime of President Park Chung Hee (1961–79).
Park’s regime has been described as “developmental” in the sense that it set
economic prosperity as the most significant national agenda, implementing
vari­ous economic, educational, and ­legal policies that ­were meant to expe-
dite export-­led development. Although the po­liti­cal and economic aspects
of this regime, along with Park’s seemingly omnipotent rule and the counter-­
insurgent social and po­liti­cal movements to his economic policies have been
thoroughly investigated,5 we know far less about the social interactions and
cultural dynamics of this regime. In fact, it is only recently that historians and
other scholars have begun to pay attention to how the “technology of govern-
ment” not only operates from the top down but also permeated the capillaries
of ­people’s everyday lives during this regime.6 Feminist scholarship has been
particularly productive in this regard, employing the lens of gender and sexu-
ality to explore the ways in which public policies interacted with private life to
consolidate the male-­centered regime of Park’s militarized developmentalism.
They have demonstrated that normative structures supporting this regime
­were premised on family-­oriented definitions of gender and sexual identi-
ties that constructed the male as the “pillar of industry” and the female as the
“homemaker.”7
But the mode of feminist analy­sis that focuses on this separation of male
and female roles has had the unintended side effect of reinforcing a hetero-
normative gender binary, and it does not adequately explore the multiplicity
of marginalized sexualities during the Park regime. Also, it contributes to a
focus on the omnipotence of this regime and its system. ­These analyses tend
to concentrate on state-­sponsored vio­lence, such as the national promotion
of prostitution near American military bases and sex tourism for Japa­nese
visitors, without paying enough attention to the marginalized voices of his-

176  |  Chung-­kang Kim

torical actors who worked in ­those industries.8 To provide more balance to
the history of gender and sexual norms during this era, this chapter explores
how the ideological recuperation and cultural appropriation of diverse queer
repre­sen­ta­tions in the comedy films of the late 1960s provide evidence for the
multiple “state effects” of this developmental regime and the extent to which
it relied on assumptions about the biological essentialism of sex to establish its
gendered cap­i­tal­ist order.9
I draw inspiration from Michel Foucault’s discussion of how the govern-
mentality of modern Eu­ro­pean states crucially relied on the control of sexual-
ity and how the proliferation of discourses of sexuality worked to constitute
a regime of truth around sex as a mode of biopolitics.10 As in the Cold War
United States, where discourse targeting homo­sexuality as a national threat
was common, controlling sex was fundamental to the disciplining and nor-
malization of p­ eople’s bodies and lives in Cold War South K ­ orea.11 ­People of
non-­normative or perverse sexualities w ­ ere rhetorically demonized as e­ ither a
serious threat to the goals of anticommunism or an inferior cultural influence
that might contaminate healthy national morality and culture.12
I view B-­grade gender comedy films as one of the few existing cultural
win­dows through which to discuss the gender and sexual politics of the Park
Chung Hee regime. This gender and sexuality politics firmly buttressed the
heteropatriarchal and capitalistic developmental system of the Park regime, yet
its expression deviates from such ideology at the same time. Paying attention
to the large number of gender comedy films that contained “queer” or gender-­
dissonant ele­ments in the 1960s, I ask how an ideology of national develop-
ment based on sexual normalcy historically intruded into society and culture
through this visual medium. Government regulation of sex through specific
production codes, censorship, and subsidization of “good quality” (yangjil)
films functioned as state apparatuses to control gender and sexuality politics
during the Park Chung Hee regime of the 1960s. I also argue that gender com-
edy films produced in late 1960s South K ­ orea ­were complex cultural texts that
revealed a liminal space between the heteronormative codes of mainstream
national culture and the potentially transgressive codes of a marginalized
sexual subculture. Resisting the impulse to see popu­lar films as simply a mani-
festation of the state’s top-­down ideological force, as many cultural historians
have tended to do, I view them as a dialectical site of cultural strug­gle between
hegemonic and antihegemonic power.13 While the idealized image of f­amily
based on normative gender roles helped to regulate sexuality by functioning
as a disciplinary and self-­regulatory power, it always met both contestation

A Female-­Dressed Man Sings a National Epic  |  177

and re­sis­tance. Queer repre­sen­ta­tions in gender comedy films are but one ex-
ample of this contestation.

Cinema as Part of the Ideological State Apparatus

Between 1950 and 1953, the Korean War brought massive physical destruc-
tion, the intensification of an ideological strug­gle between the now po­liti­
cally divided North ­Korea and South ­Korea, and irreparable psychological
damage to the Korean ­people. The country’s first president, Syngman Rhee
(1948–60), relied on colonial bureaucracy and Cold War politics to exer-
cise his authoritarian control, and anticommunism prevailed as the ultimate
form of ideological power. Initially, this technique of using film as a means
of achieving ideological aims was developed by the Japa­nese colonial gov-
ernment during the Asia-­Pacific War and continued in postcolonial South
­Korea. ­After liberation, Korean-­language films could attract much larger
audiences; thus, the government could disseminate state propaganda more
efficiently.
In terms of regulating gender and sexual morality, the Ministry of Culture and
Education first announced limitations on the f­ ree expression of sexual themes
in public per­for­mances in 1957. It prohibited the depiction of “sexual vulgar-
ity” such as “incest,” “immoral intercourse,” “rape, sexual passion, sexual urges
and perversion,” and “the normalization of prostitution,” as well as “violent
and lewd kissing, hugging, and other suggestive postures.”14 For the first time
in Korean history, the state thus set out to define the nature of a “proper” sex-
ual relationship between men and ­women.
­These criteria actually had the temporary effect of blocking the growing
production of popu­lar films that had displayed gender inversion in postwar
South Korean society. Before the new production codes came into effect,
sexually power­ful ­women ­were often depicted in Korean films. For example,
Chayu puin (Madame Freedom [1956]), a melodrama that told the story of
a middle-­class ­house­wife’s affair, provoked controversy among intellectuals
­because of its alleged contravening of sexual morality. Other films described
the luxurious lives of prostitutes serving American gis (yanggongju), depict-
ing ­these ­women as symbols of a purportedly threatened gender order. This
sex inversion was largely due to the war experience when many ­women had to
work outside of the home to make ends meet.15
­After Park Chung Hee’s military coup in 1961, the state became even more
active in regulating film through the promulgation of laws and censorship

178  |  Chung-­kang Kim

codes. ­After seizing power, the Park government consolidated private film
companies into an industry and standardized film production. ­Under the 1962
Yŏnghwabŏp (Film Law) and its 1963 revision, the government forced more
than sixty film companies to merge into six, with the goal of replicating the
Hollywood studio system. Each com­pany had to produce fifteen or more films
per year to be eco­nom­ically ­viable.16 As vari­ous cultural historians have ar-
gued, the films of this period tended to display highly ideological themes and
motives and thus lacked artistic quality.17 State-­controlled film production
was also responsible for propagating idealized images of the nation that nor-
malized conventional gender and sexual roles.18 By controlling the content of
feature films, the government sought to impose a normative vision of sexuality
that made the f­amily a metonym for the nation. The government began to
produce so-­called culture films (munhwa yŏnghwa), such as family-­planning
films (kajok kyehoek yŏnghwa) that encouraged Koreans to reduce f­ amily size,
while o­ thers promoted a new model of the modern nuclear ­family.19 Mean-
while, the depiction of “sex” in feature films and per­for­mances was strictly
regulated.
Most films made in the early 1960s mimicked the narratives, styles, and
techniques of classic Hollywood films and focused on the theme of an emerg-
ing urban ­middle class. A distinctive motif of many films from the early 1960s
was how a happy home could overcome the crisis of patriarchal authority that
had been destroyed by the Korean War. Films such as Romaensŭ ppappa (Ro-
mance Papa [1960]) and Samdŭng kwajang (A Petty ­Middle Man­ag­er [1960])
depicted the mutual love and support of ­family members as central plot de-
vices and generally ended on the happily optimistic note of the f­amily con-
quering all.20 The depiction of the everyday strug­gles of middle-­class patri-
archs and the emerging lifestyles of the younger generation w ­ ere particularly
popu­lar themes. They ­were visualized as evidence of the growing centrality of
family-­based morality in the nation.
Nonetheless, given the inevitable gap between ­these idealized images of
happy middle-­class life and the everyday strug­gles of ­people who ­were almost
entirely responsible for the costs of their own social reproduction during this
period,21 the ­actual impact of such ideological depictions is uncertain. The
happy images of ­family life in state-sponsored films and other forms of media
in the early 1960s presented a stark contrast with the abject poverty of the
vast majority of South Koreans a­ fter the Korean War.22 Even if they w ­ ere not
propaganda, strictly speaking, ­these films still played an instrumental role in
disseminating idealized images of ­wholesome familial and national subjects.

A Female-­Dressed Man Sings a National Epic  |  179

They also reflected the concerns of ­those desperate to escape the poverty of
the post–­Korean War era.23

Burgeoning Sexual Subcultures and

the Production of Gender Comedy Films

It was not ­until the late 1960s that the theme of patriarchal and ­family crisis
would reappear in Korean popu­lar cinema. Public approval of ­these new films
was exemplified in the unpre­ce­dented popularity of the melodrama Miwŏdo
tasi hanbŏn (­Bitter, but Once More [1969]), which drew on one of the most
popu­lar themes of the period by depicting an extramarital affair between a
married man and an innocent country girl. Unlike the focus on the nuclear
­family in ­earlier filmic allusions to the crisis of patriarchy, new films relied on
themes of the troubled middle-­class ­family, extramarital affairs, male sexual
impotence, and repre­sen­ta­tions of queerness. Among B-­grade movies, the gen-
der comedy was the fastest genre growing in the second half of the 1960s.24
Seemingly removed from the ideological manipulation of idealized depictions
of the f­amily of the early 1960s, transgressive gender comedy films enjoyed
their heyday between 1968 and 1971.
Before analyzing this emerging genre, it is impor­tant to understand the his-
torical and economic conditions that helped to produce this thematic shift
­toward the production of gender comedy films. According to the film historian Yi
Yŏng-il, the first gender comedy, Yŏja ka tŏ choa (I Prefer Being a W­ oman [1965]),
attracted almost thirty thousand viewers in Seoul. But the peak of the popularity
of ­these gender comedies did not arrive u­ ntil the late 1960s with the production
of Male Maid. The success of Male Maid introduced new comic themes into the
film industry and sparked a series of sequels and copycats, including Namja mi-
yongsa (Male Hairdresser [1968]), Male Kisaeng, T’ŭkdŭng pisŏ (Top Secretary
[1969]), and Namja singmo II (Male Maid II [1970]). Although Sim U-­sŏp had
been working as a film director since the late 1950s, he only became famous with
the popularity of ­these films in the late 1960s. His quick turnover time and sparing
use of film (the most significant part of the production cost) made him particu-
larly popu­lar with production companies. When I interviewed him in 2004, he
told me that it took him only a week to make a film.25 Sim’s enormous commer-
cial success led other film directors to complain that he was pressuring them to
make films with ever lower bud­gets and shorter production schedules.26
Gender comedy films ­were popu­lar due not only to the dexterous hands
of their directors but also to the transformation of film-­viewing culture made

180  |  Chung-­kang Kim

pos­si­ble by the rapid increase of the urban population in Seoul in the late
1960s. Although the Park government had promised economic development
for the entire nation ­after seizing power in 1961, the unevenness of national
development by the late 1960s, especially between the urban center and the
countryside, had produced increasing social unrest. Demographic pressure
exacerbated the situation. From 1968 to 1970, Seoul’s population grew by more
than 15  ­percent as young adults fled agricultural areas.27 Far exceeding gov-
ernment projections, the population of the city jumped from 2.4 million in
1960 to 5.8 million in 1970.28 High inflation and unemployment also became
prob­lems in urban areas, leading to the creation of large slums. Young adults
without families ­were numerous among the three million ­people (one-­third
of Seoul’s population) who lived in dilapidated housing proj­ects known as
pŏlt’ong (beehives).29 To accommodate the needs of this impoverished popu-
lation and ease the housing crisis, experts called for the development of sub-
urbs. By the 1970s, 10 to 15 ­percent of Seoul’s population had been transplanted
to the suburbs. Urban neighborhoods such as Chongmyo, a red-­light district,
lost up to 55 ­percent of their population to twelve new suburban centers cir-
cling the old city center.30
The demand for entertainment grew in tandem with this burgeoning urban
population. Film production went up from approximately one hundred films
a year in 1960 to approximately two hundred between 1968 and 1971.31 The size
of cinema-­going audiences also increased dramatically, from approximately 58
million in 1961 to more than 171 million in 1968; ­there was a 20 ­percent in-
crease between 1962 and 1966, with growth peaking in the early years of the
1970s. Much of this growth was confined to the cheap theaters located in the
suburbs. For example, in 1970, seven million of the eighty-­five million visits to
cinemas ­were to second-­run theaters, which used both low admission prices
and easy accessibility to attract audiences.32 While first-­run theaters retained
their prestige, second-­run theaters began to exploit their commercial strength
by demanding greater flexibility in booking new films.33 All of this meant that,
in the late 1960s, urban and suburban audiences in South ­Korea had far more
opportunity to see newly released films than they ever had before.34
The producers of gender comedy films took advantage of ­these new
­moviegoing possibilities to boost their profits. ­After the success of Male Maid,
Sim went on to make Male Kisaeng for Shin Film and Male Hairdresser for
Yŏnhap Productions.35 Although neither film attracted as many ­people as
Male Maid, which was released in the first-­run Kukje Theater, both managed
to be commercially successful b­ ecause of their low production costs and the

A Female-­Dressed Man Sings a National Epic  |  181

 Figure 5.1 ​Newspaper advertisement for Male
Kisaeng in Kyŏnghyang Sinmun, December 30,
1968.

cheap theater rental fees of the day. Male Kisaeng, for instance, was distributed
to five second-­run theaters just before New Year’s Day (figure 5.1). The film’s
advertising blurb, “Watch a famous film in your neighborhood,” makes it clear
that the distributor was targeting the so-­called second-­runners of Yŏngdŭngp’o
(Seoul Theater), Yongsan (Yongsan Theater), Myŏngdong (­Korea Theater),
Chongno (Tongdaemun Theater), and Ch’ŏngnyangni (Tongil Theater). In
addition to highlighting the con­ve­nience of not having to travel to a first-­run
theater in the city, distributors emphasized their low admission cost (90 wŏn,
compared with 130 wŏn at a first-­run theater).36

182  |  Chung-­kang Kim

 The emphasis on the low cost of gender comedy films as a chief selling point
contributed to critics’ tendency to regard them as lowbrow “cheap films” suit-
able only for common ­people in second-­run theaters. By 1968, articles in tab-
loid weekly magazines such as Weekly Han’guk, Sunday Seoul, Weekly Chosŏn,
Weekly Chung’ang, and Weekly ­Woman provided film reviews and analyses to
appeal to the tastes of popu­lar culture.37 Beginning publication in 1964, t­ hese
magazines featured many pages of celebrity gossip, sex stories, and sensual
photo­graphs that did not often appear in major newspapers and magazines,
thus helping to ensure that gender comedy films and B movies in general be-
came fixtures of urban subculture.38 What we might therefore call lowbrow
popu­lar culture was not entirely the product of economic stratification but
was at least partly formed out of the initiative of a new subculture exercising
its powers of consumption.39

Gender Trou­ble in Male Kisaeng

The films made for this newly emerging moviegoing culture catered to the
tastes of second-­run theater audiences and the lives of ­people who had re-
cently moved to Seoul.40 For example, Male Kisaeng, the archetype for ­these
films, tells the story of a man from a rural area who, unable to find job in Seoul,
turns to male-­to-­female masquerade to make ends meet. Instead of featuring
urban development and middle-­class imagery, gender comedy films seemed
to revel in the atmosphere of panic about the breakdown of ­family in the late
1960s. It was particularly common to portray the gritty real­ity of lower-­class
­women’s lives—­a feature of urban life that was rarely represented in the ­grand
narratives and po­liti­cal rhe­toric of the Park regime. As the film titles suggest,
the protagonists of t­ hese films ­were often men from the countryside, yet these
films also reflected the lives of lower-­class ­women who lacked an educational
background or marketable skills to achieve a comfortable middle-­class ex-
istence.41 Despite their contributions to the economy, they ­were generally
viewed as a threat to the nation’s family-­based social and economic system.42
In gender comedy films, t­hese working-­class ­women in the ser­vice industry
­were depicted si­mul­ta­neously as the source of most “gender trou­ble” and the
entertaining subject of a voy­eur­is­tic gaze.
Male Kisaeng also provides a compelling description of the complicated sit-
uation between South K ­ orea’s national development and the troubled f­ amily
in this period. With its recently urbanized audience in mind, the film begins
with a scene of the rural protagonist, Ku T’ae-ho, first entering Seoul.43 Male

A Female-­Dressed Man Sings a National Epic  |  183

Kisaeng was the third in Sim’s film series; viewers had already followed Ku
in Male Maid and Male Hairdresser. As in the previous two films, the camera
in Male Kisaeng, which adopts Ku’s point of view, pans across mannequins in
clothing stores, urban theaters and cultural centers, and modern town­houses.
The film thus portrays the confusion of a country bumpkin adrift in a new and
complex urban setting. Two contrasting spaces become central to the plot: the
­family home and the kisaeng h­ ouse. In contrast to the Park regime’s projection
of an idealized patriarchal ­family, the ­family portrayed in Male Kisaeng is one
in which the wife wears the pants. The ­house­wife, played by To Kŭm-­bong,
an actress known for her wild and sexy image, keeps her husband, Hŏ, the
overachieving president of Tongsin Cashmere, u­ nder tight surveillance; she
squanders his money and even physically assaults him. The patriarchal f­ ather
figure is thus transformed into a henpecked husband and an object of deri-
sion. Meanwhile, Hŏ’s former employee, Ku, has failed to make a living as a
male ­house­maid and hairdresser ­after losing his job at Tongsin Cashmere.
Both men flee to the kisaeng ­house, one as a patron and the other as an em-
ployee. Ku overcomes his moral reservations and begins masquerading as a
female kisaeng. ­W hether as a refuge from a wild wife or the last resort in the
face of economic necessity, the kisaeng ­house is the site of sexual promiscuity
and one that quickly leads to gender trou­ble.
The most troubled space of Male Kisaeng is the kisaeng h­ ouse itself, where
both male protagonists, Ku and Hŏ, nimbly cross gender and sexual bound­
aries. When a kisaeng mocks Ku for his masculine appearance, he responds
by trying to win over his co-­workers with a fictional justification for his
­career choice: “Who wants to be a kisaeng? Like o­ thers, I just wanted to be
a good h­ ouse­wife. But that was not to be. Instead, I fell in love with a col-
lege student. Our relationship developed u­ ntil his parents, disapproving of my
lower-­class background, quickly put an end to our relationship.” Having told
his story in a manner typical of popu­lar melodramas, soap operas, and weep-
ies, the ­women’s genres of popu­lar culture, he starts to cry, compelling the
other kisaeng w­ omen to cry along with him and accept him into their female
community. This scene likely elicited much laughter from the audience, who
would have reveled in Ku’s ability to masterfully exploit melodramatic genres.
But when Ku starts trying to befriend the other kisaeng as fellow w ­ omen, the
film’s queer subtext becomes clear. Having been accepted as a ­woman by
the other kisaeng, Ku starts to date one of them, Chŏng-mi. Since Chŏng-mi
is the only one who knows that he is a man, his close relationship with her
appears as lesbian desire, a misperception that Ku does nothing to dispel.

184  |  Chung-­kang Kim

He even goes as far as to say, “Yes! We are involved in a same-­sex love affair
[tongsŏng yŏnae]!”44
Ku’s oscillation between male and female personas further complicates the
picture of his sexuality, an effect that was heightened by Ku Pong-­sŏ’s star char-
acter. Famous for his masculine and handsome but funny persona, the actor
Ku could provoke laughter with a ­simple effeminate gesture.45 Even when he
was in full drag with heavy makeup and a long wig, the audience was never
confused about Ku’s male gender. The minor gender dissonance of the film’s
plot is thus never allowed to develop into full-­blown gender subversion.
In contrast to Ku, the character of Hŏ, the com­pany president and hen-
pecked husband, is depicted as possessing a strong and hidden homosexual
desire. Hŏ, who had initially fired Ku b­ ecause of his discomfort with Ku’s ef-
feminacy, ends up falling in love with him, not recognizing him as Ku in his
new disguise as a ­woman. Despite his stated hatred of the “womanly man,” Hŏ
is attracted to a manly ­woman who, he says, reminds him of his first love in a
kisaeng ­house. In Hŏ’s case, therefore, the kisaeng h­ ouse becomes a refuge
from his fixed gender and sexual identity as a heterosexual man.
Hŏ’s queerness emerges at the beginning of the film when he asks the bar
madam ­whether she has a “new face.” An employee who had been playing the
guitar briefly dis­appears and returns disguised as a w­ oman. This (wo)man with
full makeup and wig wears a red bikini covered by a see-­through black veil.
Watching with lustful eyes as this presumably female body starts to dance to
exotic ­music, Hŏ reveals the dubiousness of his heterosexuality. The gender-­
bending effect is heightened, and Hŏ’s queer desire for a male-­to-­female body
is reinforced when the dancer removes his/her veil to reveal the heavi­ly made-
up face and body of the man who had just dis­appeared.
In depicting the repeated efforts of Hŏ to seduce Ku, the film intensifies the
transgressive pleasures of an ambiguous queer sexuality. For instance, in one
­hotel room sequence, Hŏ gropes Ku’s body and asks him to spend the night.
­Because the audience knows that Ku is a man masquerading as a female, this
scene confronts us with the spectacle of two men about to have sex. How-
ever, the sexual tension quickly dissipates when Ku wilily eludes Hŏ’s grip.
Although framed in terms of Hŏ’s antics to win Ku’s love, a certain pleas­ur­able
tension of homoerotic possibility remains.
Even ­after the two characters return to their gender-­normative selves at the
end of the film, they are not depicted as entirely straight. In the final scene,
Ku, now working as a cosmetics salesman, confesses to Hŏ that he was the
­woman to whom Hŏ was attracted. Angered by Ku’s revelation, Hŏ yells at

A Female-­Dressed Man Sings a National Epic  |  185

Ku. But when Ku starts to cry and explains that it was economic necessity that
drove him to a life as a male kisaeng, Hŏ forgives him. ­After offering to take
Ku back as an employee, Hŏ kisses him impulsively, a scene that is captured in
a provocative close-up. The ostensible recuperation of the two characters into
gender-­normative selves is instantly rendered fragile, and viewers come to re-
alize that their queer selves cannot be easily “straightened out.” The film thus
oscillates between acts of subversion and recuperation, producing the overall
effect of an unstable mix of gender trou­ble.
­These examples of queer pleasures provide evidence for the subversive po-
tential of gender comedies. As Butler has argued, gender parodies are poten-
tially subversive of dominant notions of gender and sexuality.46 This observa-
tion may be particularly true in the context of po­liti­cally repressive regimes.
Indeed, the Park regime’s strenuous efforts to normalize gender divisions and
the heteronormative ­family established the firm rhetorical bound­aries that the
film Male Kisaeng could exploit through parody. As Marjorie Garber argues,
acts of drag/transvestism and same-­sex desire, and homo­sexuality, can trans-
gress strictly biological definitions of sex and create a certain jouissance.47 Ku’s
drag and the same-­sex desire of Hŏ subvert the conservative norms of gender
and ­family while providing intense plea­sure to the audience.

State Effect: Censorship and the Discourse

of High and Low Culture

B-­grade movies thus constituted a subversive space ­under the authoritarian

and gender-­normative regime of Park Chung Hee. This space of sexual freedom
shrank, however, when the government instituted its repressive censorship of
sexual expression. As discourses about troubled sexualities proliferated, state
power penetrated into everyday modes of conduct, and the normative sexual
culture of South ­Korea fragmented into categories of high/proper/healthy
and low/improper/depraved sexuality.48 The South Korean government re-
garded 1960s subculture—­that is, anything associated with drugs, hippies,
gangsterism, prostitutes, and the non-­normative gender/sexual ele­ments in
gender comedy films—as low culture and sought to purge it from the nation.
Following President Park’s announcement of a “purification movement” to
stem the rising tide of lowbrow popu­lar culture during the late 1960s, vari­ous
popu­lar dramas and radio programs immediately became targets of govern-
ment censorship.49 Repre­sen­ta­tions of gangsterism, prostitution, and drugs
in popu­lar culture also became recategorized as “unhealthy national culture”

186  |  Chung-­kang Kim

(nara wa sahoe e ak’yŏnghyang ŭl mich’inŭn hŏdahan pijŏngsangjŏk hyŏnsang).50
In its Detailed Enforcement Plan for the Purification of De­cadent Culture, the
government specified acts and entities that ­were regarded as lying outside the
perimeters of a moral visual culture, including the visualization of “the half
or fully naked body of a ­woman,” “pornography,” and “homo­sexuality.” De-
picting such ­things in film was thought to disrupt the country’s “moral order
and customs.”51 In rejecting this vulgar culture as a manifestation of perverted
Western influences, the government ­adopted a strongly nationalistic tone.
The journalist Cho P’ung-­yŏn wrote that “sex morality in the West and our
sex morality cannot be the same.”52 Sexual scenes of a “man’s tongue being
inserted into a ­woman’s mouth” or “a ­woman’s toes being sucked by a man”
­were mercilessly deleted by government censors as part of this new moral
environment,53 and the directors and producers of films such as Ch’unmong
(Spring Dreams [1967]), Pyŏk sok ŭi yŏja (­Woman in the Wall [1969]), Naesi
(A Eunuch [1968]), and Nŏ ŭi irŭm ŭn yŏja (Your Name Is W ­ oman [1969])
became subject to arrest and inspired moral controversies, all ­because of overt
sexual expressions or deviant sex in their films, which w­ ere often called vulgar
films (ŭmhwa).54
The film director Yu Hyŏn-­mok was even charged for making vulgar films
due to the indecent exposure of a naked female body for six minutes in Spring
Dreams. Appeals by the film’s director and producer w ­ ere subsequently denied,
and a 30,000 wŏn ($300) fine was imposed.55 In the ruling, the judge stated
that the film contained “morally disgusting scenes” that corrupted “healthy
and normal persons.”56 The context for such rulings is evident in statements
of the director of the Bureau of Public Information, Hong Ch’ŏn, who insisted
in 1966 that films should be “bright” (pakko) and “constructive” (kŏnsŏljŏgin)
­because the nation was still technically at war with North ­Korea. In such an
environment, explicit scenes of sex or nudity ­were seen as subversive acts
undermining South ­Korea’s anticommunist spirit.57
­These repressive mea­sures provoked protests among both intellectuals and
the filmmaking community, although the contestations ­were stratified by class.
Many so-­called A-­grade filmmakers and journalists ­were less focused on resist-
ing government censorship than they ­were on demanding fair and transparent
standards.58 They complained that B-­grade movies enjoyed a “­free pass” from
government censors while A-­grade films ­were mercilessly censored. For in-
stance, Odae pokdŏkbang (Grand­father’s Real Estate Agency [1968]) managed
to pass government censors despite its lowbrow sexual content.59 Newspapers
such as Chosŏn Ilbo argued that this B movie, which “raised the eyebrows of

A Female-­Dressed Man Sings a National Epic  |  187

ordinary ­people,” should be censored. Many filmmakers complained, “­Isn’t it
ridicu­lous that B movies with vulgar titles such as Female Room (Yŏja ŭi pang)
or Male Kisaeng should not be censored while more ‘innocent’ films like Dark
Clouds (Mŏkkurŭm) and Wife’s ­Sister (Ch’ŏje) are?”60 Public criticism of the
Bureau of Public Information responsible for t­hese censorship standards
intensified with the increasing amount of non-­normative sexual repre­sen­ta­
tion in B movies. In a 1970 review of Korean films, cultural critic Yun Ik-­sam
criticized gender comedy films for displaying “a disproportionate number of
female gangsters” and “female-­masquerading men.” He complained, “­These
films poison the minds of good citizens and turn them into ‘drug addicts.’ ”61
The meta­phor of drugs highlighted the supposed unhealthy but seductive
qualities of ­these illicit gender transgressions.
The ultimate effect of such censorship was to draw a clear boundary be-
tween high and low cultures. While intellectuals and A-­grade filmmakers be-
lieved that protecting freedom of expression was impor­tant even in a nominal
demo­cratic society such as Park Chung Hee’s military dictatorship, they ­were
unwilling to support this freedom of expression for lowbrow culture, which
they considered beyond the pale of proper civility. So strong was this moral
boundary making between ­these two cultures that the actor Ku Pong-­sŏ, a
fixture of the Male series of films, admitted to me that he did not want them
included in his filmography. He regretted taking roles in B movies b­ ecause the
films ­were never positively received by the film critics, and he was accordingly
never regarded as a good actor.62
Despite t­ hese attitudes ­toward B movies, it is clear that their directors and
producers also had to accommodate themselves to the government’s surveil-
lance system. For example, when the film Male Kisaeng was first submitted
to the Department of Culture and Public Information, its officials asked for
the insertion of “and” between the words, “male” and “kisaeng,” ­because the
title “Male Kisaeng” was unacceptable. To a censorship committee composed
mostly of men, the idea of a man ­going to a kisaeng ­house sounded acceptable,
but not the idea of a male kisaeng. As a result, Male Kisaeng was released ­under
the original title Namja wa kisaeng (Man and Kisaeng) in 1969 (figure 5.2).63
Such acts of accommodation and compromise within B movies w ­ ere also
vis­i­ble in the practices of taesak and hwasak—­that is, the deletion of dialogue
and the deletion of entire scenes. Together, they constituted the notorious
“double” censorship of films at the levels of both the scenario and the fin-
ished product. Given that films such as Male Kisaeng w ­ ere heavi­ly subjected to
taesak and hwasak, it is difficult to conclude that B movies emerged entirely

188  |  Chung-­kang Kim

Figure 5.2 ​Censored script for Male Kisaeng. Courtesy of the Korean Film Archive.

unscathed from censorship, as many con­temporary critics seemed to believe.

Nevertheless, Sim U-­sŏp and Ku Pong-­sŏ both believe that the films in the
Male series w­ ere rarely subjected to heavy censorship. The term “heavy” is key
­because the director used vari­ous tactics and strategies to avoid the most op-
pressive acts of censorship, although he could not avoid them altogether.

Incongruous Moments in B Movies

The presumption that censorship was always and absolutely repressive is be-
lied by the fact that filmmakers developed vari­ous techniques to avoid it.64 As
Thomas Doherty has argued for Hollywood, in its attempt to regulate, state

A Female-­Dressed Man Sings a National Epic  |  189

censorship can inadvertently help to create a new language for film.65 Similar
filmmaking practices ­were routinely performed by Korean film directors. For
example, to suggest sexual intercourse, directors ­either used a close-up of a
man’s back or the sound of a moaning ­woman. To suggest fellatio, the direc-
tor of Spring Dreams showed a w ­ oman in a dentist’s chair with saliva dripping
from her mouth. Despite the film’s mounting sexual tension, created through
ever more frequent close-­ups of the female body, its sexual content is ulti-
mately disavowed when all is revealed in the end to be nothing but a dream
in the film. Such film techniques managed to portray sex in ways hidden from
the surface of the script.
In addition to the use of allegory to deal with sensitive sexual m
­ atters, more
overt strategies to fool the censors ­were common. For instance, the prolific
film director of the 1960s, Kim Su-­yong, deliberately added sexually explicit
scenes that he knew would be censored as a smokescreen for the ones he ac-
tually wanted to keep. Yu Hyŏn-­mok also took advantage of the controversy
generated by government censorship to boost audience turnout for A Eunuch,
which depicted homo­sexuality between court ladies in the Chosŏn Dynasty
(1392–1910). As a result, the film managed to succeed at the box office despite
the critics’ protestations against its lowbrow content. Th ­ ese tactics, although
not always successful, illustrate the myriad ways in which film directors navi-
gated the censorship system during this period.66
Another way for directors of B movies to navigate the censorship system
was by superficially meeting the government’s quality standards. The govern-
ment had combined its censorship policies in the 1960s with efforts to impose
the concept of “good” cinema. Good films ­were defined as ­those supporting
the national policies of anticommunism, for instance, and they w ­ ere expected
to include vari­ous public messages even though they ­were not propaganda per
se. This necessity led directors to comment that if they wanted to avoid govern-
ment censorship, they just needed to make “erotic films with anticommunist
themes.”67 Nonetheless, including direct anticommunist messages was difficult
for directors who made films such as melodramas, historical dramas (often set
in premodern ­Korea), and thrillers with a more structured causative narra-
tive and with more suspense. In contrast, B-­movie action films and comedies
could incorporate such moments ­because their stories ­were less plausible. For
instance, one of the popu­lar themes of action films was catching North Ko-
rean spies and becoming a millionaire overnight. Th ­ ese films often included
an incongruous moment when a character disrupted the “fourth wall” of the
filmic diegesis to preach the glories of the nation. Th­ ese transformations of

190  |  Chung-­kang Kim

the medium of film into a didactic national epic earned ­these films the repu-
tation of being lowbrow quality films by the film critics, although they w ­ ere
precisely the same features that made the government assess the film as “good.”
An example of t­hese dynamics of incongruity appear in Male Kisaeng.
When a male customer asks Ku to sing and dance, he mounts the stage and
breaks into a song with the following message: “How foolish you husbands
are! Do you r­ eally have that much money? If not, drink a glass of ice ­water and
cleanse your stomachs. Then go home and take care of your families while you
think about what you can do for the nation!” Ku is addressing two dif­fer­ent
audiences: the bar regulars in the film’s diegesis and the film’s audience in the
theater. ­There are innumerable other examples of such forms of dual address.
In Male Hairdresser, Ku again preaches to female customers about the value of
national cosmetics products and thus explic­itly promotes the government’s
“Movement to Support National Production.” While treated as comic, such
jarring moments of incongruence, which might have been motivated by the
desire to avoid censorship, also ended up reinforcing the national develop-
ment plan.
Inserting such incongruous moments into a film text inevitably involved
a gendered dimension. At the end of Male Kisaeng, Ku tells the wives of the
husbands who frequented the kisaeng h­ ouse how to perform their roles: “In
order to serve your husband properly, the first ­thing to keep in mind is ‘ser­vice.’
So is the second ­thing as well as the third.” In this scene, Ku’s male-­to-­female
persona becomes an opportunity for him to preach to the ­women about how
to perform the femininity that he is only mimicking. The moral voice of Ku
asking for both the f­athers to return to their homes and the h­ ouse­wives to
properly perform their motherly/wifely roles thus served to bolster the state’s
goal of national development. Although the narrative structure of the film
centers on the breakdown of the f­amily as well as gender norms and sexual-
ity, the film ultimately concludes that it is still impor­tant to keep the ­family
system intact and insists that only a healthy ­family can provide the basis for
national development. Further compromising the subversive nature of Ku’s
male-­to-­female per­for­mance in Male Kisaeng is the fact that, once he reverts to
his own male identity, he becomes extremely rational and self-­controlled. In
the final scene, for instance, Ku reflects on his experience in the kisaeng ­house
and tells his girlfriend, “I realized that man should be faithful and sincere to his
own f­ amily.” In response, she says, “Why ­don’t we try to live clean and healthy
lives even though it is just the two of us?” Through such scenes of ideological
reassertion, the film reifies the normative images of proper citizen and f­ amily.

A Female-­Dressed Man Sings a National Epic  |  191

 In a personal interview in 2004, I asked Sim U-­sŏp, the director of Male
Kisaeng, to comment on the didactic moments in his films. Contradicting
the assumptions of many scholars that ­these films ­were a ­simple reflection of
the government’s control over the filmmaking pro­cess, he replied that they
reflected his own views of ­family.68 His answer can be read as support for the
nation’s family-­centered ideology, or it can be read as a reflection of his desire to
elevate B movies to a higher status as social satire through a critique of the dark
sexual underside of the Korean nation. But he could not provide an answer
to why he put such excessive emphasis on the country’s “dark side.” When I
asked him about the kind of films he wanted to make in the f­ uture, he replied
that he wanted to make a film about the secretive sex lives of high school girls.
­W hether he wants to make such films to support sexual freedom for South
Korean schoolgirls or to criticize them remains uncertain. In the case of gen-
der comedy films, it is also uncertain what lessons the audience of B movies
drew from such didactic messages. The intentions of film directors such as Sim
notwithstanding, one ­thing is clear: such moments of incongruity managed to
describe the marginalized sexual cultures that other­wise would have remained
invisible.

Conclusion: Repre­sen­ta­tions of the (In)vis­i­ble

This chapter has explored how normative sexuality was constructed ­under
the regulatory regime of the early Park Chung Hee era and how such norma-
tive images changed during the late 1960s in response to shifting audiences
and economic circumstances. By analyzing the appearance of “queerness”
in Male Kisaeng, this chapter has discussed the subversive nature of popu­lar
forms of entertainment as sites for the exploration of non-­normative sexu-
ality and gender variance. Although Park Chung Hee’s authoritarian regime
remains infamous for its oppressive control of gender and sexuality, the repre­
sen­ta­tions of queerness in gender comedies illustrate how the tastes of a new
suburban audience ­were incorporated into the dominant national culture. To
cater to ­these tastes while still staying ahead of the censors, the directors and
producers of t­ hese films developed new filmic techniques of storytelling and
repre­sen­ta­tion. Gender comedy films often employed purposefully incongru-
ous scenes, for instance, which paradoxically combined the narratives of na-
tional propaganda with repre­sen­ta­tions of non-­normative sexuality and thus
served the goals of both entertainment and didactic messaging. As we have
seen, ­under Park Chung Hee’s rule, the convergence of emerging intellectual

192  |  Chung-­kang Kim

discourses on sex and the direct intervention of the state through censorship
laws contributed to the stratification of national culture into high/normal/
healthy and low/abnormal/depraved streams. Given ­these divisions, the use
of incongruity in gender comedy films can also be viewed as a tactic of direc-
tors and producers of B movies to navigate the repressive censorship policies
of a highly authoritarian society. Survival strategies and tactics made it pos­si­
ble for them to carve out a liminal space of non-­normative sexual expression
within the seemingly omnipotent heteronormative culture of South ­Korea’s
development regime.
The stratification of national culture into such a high-­low binary was en-
tangled with the cultural politics of representing marginal ele­ments of South
­Korea’s social life during this developmentalist period. In December 1969, for
example, Chosŏn Ilbo published a documentary report about a transsexual
man, Kim, who eerily mirrored the plot of the Male film series. According to
this report, the man first discovered his sexuality while experimenting with
other boys when he was twelve. A ­ fter being kicked out of his f­amily, Kim
worked for several years as a male maid, male kisaeng, and male hairdresser.69
The films in the Male series of the late 1960s thus ­were not only imaginative
repre­sen­ta­tions of the queer body; they also spoke directly to the lives of mar-
ginalized sexual subjects such as Kim, who had to resort to such practices of
gender-­bending and l­abor within the shadowy realm of a subcultural sexual
economy to survive.
Even ­after the emergence of the gay and lesbian movement in South K ­ orea
in the 1990s, it is still difficult to find sexual minorities represented as anything
but outsiders in mainstream culture. The B movie and its description in yellow
journalism could thus be said to have provided a valuable win­dow into the
liminal space of queer sexuality, a space that conservative society continues
to disavow.

Notes

This essay is a slightly revised version of an article originally published as Chung-­

kang Kim, “Nation, Subculture, and Queer Repre­sen­ta­tion: The Film Male
Kisaeng and the Politics of Gender and Sexuality in 1960s South ­Korea,” Journal
of the History of Sexuality 24, no. 3 (September 2015): 455–77. Copyright © 2015 by
the University of Texas Press. All rights reserved.
1 ­­Because South ­Korea operated ­under an indirect distribution system from
the ­middle of the 1960s to the early 1990s, it is difficult to determine exact
­statistics on audience numbers. However, considering that the population of

A Female-­Dressed Man Sings a National Epic  |  193

 Seoul was 2.5 million in the late 1960s, the film seems to have been a remarkable
box office hit. It is often said that if the theatrical opening of a film (kaebonggwan)
had an audience of 100,000, the production cost would be covered. For detailed
studies of the old Korean film distribution system, see Kim Mi-­hyǒn, ed., Han’guk
yŏnghwa paegŭpsa yŏn’gu (Seoul: Korean Film Commission, 2003), 14–28.
2 ­­There ­were many comedy films with queer motifs. The following films and
scenarios are contained in the Korean Film Archive: Chang Il-ho, dir., Ch’onggak
kimch’i (Taehan Yŏnhap Yŏnghwa, 1964), script; Im Kwŏn-­t’aek, dir., Namja nŭn
anp’allyŏ [Man Is Not for Sale] (Taewŏn Yŏnghwasa, 1963), script; Kim Ki-­p’ung,
dir., Yŏja ka tŏ choa [I Prefer Being a ­Woman] (Yŏnbang Yŏnghwasa, 1965), script;
Kim Hwa-­rang, dir., Salsari mollatjji? [Salsari, You ­Didn’t Know?] (Asea Film,
1966), Korean Film Archive, D0159, dvd; Kim Ki-­p’ung, dir., Manjŏman popsida
[Let Me Just Touch] (Yŏnbang Yŏnghwasa, 1966), script; Sim U-­sŏp, dir., Namja
singmo [Male Maid] (Shin Film, 1968), Korean Film Archive, D0317, dvd; Sim U-­
sŏp, dir., Namja miyongsa [Male Hairdresser] (Yŏnhap Yŏnghwasa, 1968), Korean
Film Archive, D0183, dvd; Sim U-­sŏp, dir., Namja kisaeng [Male Kisaeng] (Shin
Film, 1969), Korean Film Archive, dkd012965, vod; Sim U-­sŏp, dir., Namja
singmo II [Male Maid II] (Saehan Film, 1970), vhs.
The diversity of subjects may have been related to a boom in movies with sex-
ual themes at this time. See, e.g., Kim Su-­yong, dir., Chuch’ajang [The Parking Lot]
(Kŭkdong Film, 1969), scenario; Yi Hyŏng-­p’yo, dir., Nŏ ŭi irŭm ŭn yŏja [Your
Name Is ­Woman] (Asea Film, 1969), script; Kim Su-­yong, dir., Sibaljŏm [The
Beginning Point] (Yŏnbang Yŏnghwasa, 1969), vhs; Chu Tong-­jin, dir., Sarang
hanŭn maria [Lovely Maria] (Yŏnbang Yŏnghwasa, 1970), script; Ch’oe Kyŏng-ok,
dir., Ae wa sa [Love and Death] (Anyang Yŏnghwa, 1970), script; Chu Tong-­jin,
dir., Manim [Madam] (Yŏnbang Yŏnghwasa, Sambu Production, 1970), vhs; Yi
Hyŏng-­p’yo, dir., Pijŏn [Queen’s Palace] (T’aech’ang Hŭng’ŏp, 1970), script; Yi
Hyŏng-­p’yo, dir., Pang ŭi purŭl kkŏjŭo [Please Turn Off the Light] (T’aech’ang
Hŭng’ŏp, 1970), scenario; Sin Pong-­sŭng, dir., Haebyŏn ŭi chŏngsa [Sex at the
Beach] (Tongyang Yŏnghwa Hŭng’ŏp, 1970), scenario; Hwang Hye-mi, dir., Ch’ŏt
kyŏnghŏm [The First Experience] (Pohan San’ŏp, 1970), script; Yi Hyŏng-­p’yo,
Purŭn ch’imsil [Blue Bedroom] (Asea Film, 1970), scenario.
3 “Queer film” usually refers to films that ­were produced from the early 1990s in
Western nations and contain a clear intention to problematize the essentialist
approach of gender and sexuality: see Alexander Doty, “Queer Theory,” in The Ox-
ford Guide to Film Studies, ed. John Hill (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998),
148–51.
4 Criticizing the formulation of gender as a monolithic and singular construc-
tion, Judith Butler emphasizes that non-­normative sexual practices challenge the
stability of gender: Judith Butler, Gender Trou­ble: Feminism and the Subversion of
Identity (New York: Routledge, 1999), 1–25.
5 This type of scholarship often focuses on state-­led economic plans and hegemonic
sociopo­liti­cal structures as the driving forces of the nation-­state: see, e.g., Acad­

194  |  Chung-­kang Kim

 emy of Korean Studies, ed., 5.16 kwa Pak Chŏng-­hŭi chŏngbu ŭi sŏllip (Seongnam,
South ­Korea: Acad­emy of Korean Studies Press, 1999); Kang Man-­gil, Han’guk
chabonjuŭi ŭi yŏksa (Seoul: Yoksa Pip’yŏng, 2000); Eun Mee Kim, Big Busi-
ness, Strong State: Collusion and Conflict in South Korean Development, 1960–1990
(Albany: State University of New York Press, 1997). ­Others focus on the recalci-
trant and dynamic counterhegemonic movement of minjung (the masses). For an
excellent overview of the counterhegemonic minjung movement in South ­Korea,
see Hagen Koo, ed., Korean Workers: The Culture and Politics of Class Formation
(Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2001).
6 The concept of “technology of government” is outlined in Michel Foucault, The
Birth of Biopolitics (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), 297. In a similar vein,
­there have been intensive debates over vari­ous technologies of Park Chung Hee’s
government. See, e.g., the account of the debate between Lim Jie-­Hyun and Cho
Heeyeon on this subject in Chang Mun-­sŏk and Yi Sang-­nok, eds., Kŭndae ŭi
kyŏnggye esŏ tokjae rŭl ikta (Seoul: Kǔrinbi, 2006), 1–8; Kim Chun, “Pak Chŏng-­
hŭi sidae ŭi nodong: Ulsan Hyŏndae chosŏn nodongja rŭl chungsim ŭro,” in
Chang and Yi, Kŭndae ŭi kyŏnggye esŏ tokjae rŭl ikta, 257–92. For vivid anthro-
pological accounts of progressive movement in 1980s South ­Korea, see Nancy
Abelmann, Echoes of the Past, Epics of Dissent: A South Korean Social Movement
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996); Namhee Lee, “Making Minjung
Subjectivity: Crisis of Subjectivity and Rewriting History, 1960–1988” (PhD diss.,
University of Chicago, 2001).
7 See Cho Hae-­joang, Sŏng, kajok, kŭrigo munhwa: Illyuhakjŏk chŏpgŭn (Seoul:
Chimundang, 1997); Elaine H. Kim and Chungmoo Choi, eds., Dangerous
­Women: Gender and Korean Nationalism (New York: Routledge, 1998); Seungsook
Moon, Militarized Modernity and Gendered Citizenship in South ­Korea (Durham,
NC: Duke University Press, 2005); Hyun Mee Kim, “Work, Nation and Hyper-
masculinity: The ‘­Woman’ Question in the Economic Miracle and Crisis in South
­Korea,” Inter-­Asia Cultural Studies 2, no. 1 (2001): 53–68.
8 Park Jeong-mi, “Paljŏn kwa seksŭ: Han’guk chŏngbu ŭi sŏngmaemae kwan’gwang
chŏngch’aek, 1955–1988,” Han’guk Sahwoehak 48, no. 25 (2014): 235–64.
9 Timothy Mitchell argues that governance operates within the system of social
practice, “yet still creates the effect of an enduring structure”: see Timothy Mitch-
ell, “Society, Economy, and the State Effect,” in State/Culture: State-­formation ­after
the Cultural Turn, ed. George Steinmetz (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press,
1999), 77–78.
10 Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, Volume 1: An Introduction (New York:
Vintage, 1990), 3–13.
11 On American Cold War homophobic culture, see K. A. Cuordileone, “Politics in
an Age of Anxiety: Cold War Po­liti­cal Culture and the Crisis in American Mascu-
linity, 1949,” Journal of American History 87, no. 2 (2000): 515–45; Robert J. Corber,
Cold War Femme: Lesbianism, National Identity, and Hollywood Cinema (Durham,
NC: Duke University Press, 2011); Robert J. Corber, Homo­sexuality in Cold War

A Female-­Dressed Man Sings a National Epic  |  195

 Amer­i­ca: Re­sis­tance and the Crisis of Masculinity (Durham, NC: Duke University
Press, 1997).
12 In fact, it was not ­until the 1990s that a movement representing sexual minori-
ties appeared in the South Korean public sphere, a development that continues
to produce debates about valid sexual identities and the scapegoating of some
groups.
13 On the role of film in conveying ideological messages, see Yi Yŏng-il, Han’guk
yŏnghwa chŏnsa (Seoul: Sodo, 2004); Chu Yu-­sin, ed., Han’guk yŏnghwa wa
kŭndaesŏng (Seoul: Sodo, 2000); Chang Sŏk-­yong, Han’guk nyuweibŭ ŭi chinghu
rŭl ch’ajasŏ (Seoul: Hyŏndae Mihaksa, 2002); Eung-­jun Min, ed., Korean Film:
History, Re­sis­tance, and Demo­cratic Imagination (Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger,
2003); Kim Si-mu, Yesul yŏnghwa ongho (Seoul: Hyǒndae Mihaksa, 2001). Stuart
Hall emphasizes the double movement of popu­lar culture, which is both “contain-
ment (of traditional conservative culture) and re­sis­tance”: Stuart Hall, “Notes on
Deconstructing ‘the Popu­lar,’ ” in ­People’s History and Socialist Theory, ed. Raphael
Samuel (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1981), 227–28.
14 Munkyo wŏlbo, 32 (Seoul: Ministry of Culture and Education), April 1957.
15 Regarding the gender inversion that occurred ­after the Korean War, see Yi Im-ha,
Yŏsŏng, chŏnjaeng ŭl nŏmŏ irŏsŏda (Seoul: Sŏhae Munjip, 2004). For a discussion
of overt challenges to ­women’s sexuality in Korean popu­lar culture in the mid-
1950s and its transition in the late 1950s and early 1960s, see Kwŏn Podŭre, ed.,
Apres-­ggŏl sasanggye rŭl ikta (Seoul: Dongguk University Press, 2009).
16 For a general discussion of the film industry’s formative years, as exemplified by
Shin Film, see Steven Chung, The Split Screen ­Korea: Shin Sang-ok and Post-­war
Cinema (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2014), 88–102.
17 Film cultures ­under authoritarian regimes, such as Nazi Germany, fascist Italy,
and the Japa­nese empire, have received increasing attention in recent years. See,
e.g., Steve Ricci, Cinema and Fascism: Italian Film and Society, 1922–1943 (Oakland:
University of California Press, 2008); Linda Schulte-­Sasse, Entertaining the Third
Reich: Illusions of Wholeness in Nazi Cinema (Durham, NC: Duke University
Press, 1996); Michael Baskett, The Attractive Empire: Transnational Film Culture in
Imperial Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2008).
18 Hae-­joang Cho outlines the history of father-­centered ­family ideology and its
role in gendering the nation-­state: see Hae-­joang Cho, “You Are Trapped in an
Imaginary Well: The Formation of Subjectivity in a Compressed Development,”
Inter-­Asia Cultural Studies 1, no. 1 (2000): 62–64.
19 Pyŏn Chae-­ran, “Taehan nyusŭ, munhwa yŏnghwa, kŭndaejŏk kihoek ŭrosŏ ŭi
‘kajok kyehoek,” Yŏnghwa Yon’gu 52 (2012): 207–35.
20 Sin Sang-ok, dir., Romaensŭ ppappa (Shin Film, 1960), Korean Film Archive
3293, dvd ; Yi Pong-­nae, dir., Samdŭng kwajang (Huban’gi Production, 1960),
Korean Film Archive, 5582, dvd ; Pak Sŏng-­bok, dir., Haebaragi kajok [Sun-
flower ­Family] (Taesŏng Yŏnghwasa, 1961), Korean Film Archive, D0286, dvd ;
Yi Pong-­nae, dir., Maidongp’ung [Talk to the Wind] (Huban’gi Production, 1961),

196  |  Chung-­kang Kim

 scenario; Pak Sŏng-­bok, dir., Insaeng kap’ŭlbyǒng [Lives of A, B and C] (n.p., 1961),
scenario; Yi Hyŏng-­p’yo, dir., Sŏul ŭi chibung mit [­Under the sky of Seoul] (Shin
Film, 1961), Korean Film Archive, 7931, dvd ; Sin Sang-ok, dir., Romansŭ kŭrei
[Romance Grey] (Shin Film, 1963), Korean Film Archive, 8031, dvd ; Kim
Su-­yong, dir., Wŏlgŭp pongt’u [The Pay Envelope] (Han’guk Yesul Yŏnghwasa,
1964), scenario.
21 Hwang Chŏng-mi, “Paljŏn kukka wa mosŏng: 1960–1970 nyŏndae ‘punyŏ
chŏngch’aek ŭl chungsim ŭro,” in Mosŏng ŭi tamron kwa hyŏnsil, ed. Sim Yŏng-­hŭi
(P’aju, South ­Korea: Nanam, 1999), 103.
22 Although not many films reflected the lower class’s situation, ­there ­were a few
attempts to do so. The Way of All Flesh (Yukch’e ŭi kil, Cho Kŭng-ha, 1959), House
Maid (Hanyŏ, Kim Ki-­yŏng, 1960), and Coach Man (Mabu, Kang Tae-­jin, 1960),
for example, portrayed the themes of imperiled middle-­class patriarchal masculin-
ity, the collapse of middle-­class families, and the strug­gle of lower-­class men to
adapt themselves to a rapidly urbanizing life.
23 No Chi-­sŭng, “Yŏnghwa, chŏngch’i wa sidaesŏng ŭi chinghu: Tosi chung’gan
kyech’ŭng ŭi yongmang kwa kajok,” Yŏksa Munje Yon’gu 25 (2011): 169–76.
24 I use the term “B movie” to refer to the “lowbrow taste” (chŏsok ch’wihyang) film of
the late 1960s. As in Hollywood, in con­temporary ­Korea the term is used to refer to
films with ­little artistic value and cheap production, such as ­those I discuss in this
chapter. However, in the late 1960s ­there was no equivalent term that referred to
­these films. They ­were just called films of lowbrow taste (chŏsok ch’wihyang).
25 Sim U-­sǒp, interview with the author, Seoul, September 4, 2004.
26 Yu Hyŏn-­mok, “Chŏjil yŏnghwa chŏngbu ka ch’aegim chŏya,” Chosǒn Ilbo, No-
vember 29, 1970.
27 The incomes of farmers, which ­were higher than ­those of urban workers in the
early 1960s, ­were almost 40 ­percent lower by the end of the 1960s. In 1969, the
­family income of the countryside was 65.3 ­percent that of the urban laborer: Kim
Su-­haeng and Pak Sŭng-ho, Pak Chŏng-­hŭi ch’eje ŭi sŏngnip kwa chŏn’gae mit mollak
(Seoul: Seoul National University Press, 2007), 62.
28 Korean Statistical Information Ser­vice website, http://­kosis​.­kr.
29 Kim and Pak, Pak Chŏng-­hŭi ch’eje ŭi sŏngnip kwa chŏngae mit mollak, 73.
30 Seoul T’ŭkpyŏlsi, Sŏul tosi kibon kyehweok chojŏng surip (Seoul: Seoul-si, 1970),
199–200.
31 The number of film productions per year ­were 74 in 1958, 111 in 1959, 87 in 1960,
79 in 1961, 112 in 1962, 148 in 1963, 137 in 1964, 161 in 1965, 172 in 1966, 185 in 1967,
212 in 1968, 229 in 1969, and 231 in 1970. The number dropped sharply in the 1970s,
to about 100: Korean Film Commission, Han’guk yŏnghwa charyo p’yŏllam (Seoul:
Korean Film Commission, 1978), 156.
32 Korean Film Commission, Han’guk yŏnghwa charyo p’yŏllam, 52. ­There ­were almost
one hundred theaters in South ­Korea in the late 1960s, with many of them located
in ­these suburbs. Eight of ­these ­were “first runners” while the rest ­were so-­called
second, third, fourth, and fifth runners: see the testimony of Chin Hang-­bŏm in Yi

A Female-­Dressed Man Sings a National Epic  |  197

 Kil-­sŏng, Yi Ho-­gŏl, and Yi U-­sŏk, 1970 nyŏndae Sŏul ŭi kŭkjang sanŏp mit kŭkjang
munhwa yŏn’gu (Seoul: Korean Film Commission, 2004), 153.
33 For example, in 1968 Yŏnhŭng Theater (Yŏngdŭngp’o region), Tongil Theater
(Ch’ŏngryangni region), Taehan Theater (Chongno region), Sŏngnam Theater,
and P’yŏnghwa Theater all bypassed the dominant distribution system to demand
the screening of new releases from the Central Cinema Distributor, a joint
venture of five suburban theaters: Yi et al., 1970 nyŏndae Sŏul ŭi kŭkjang sanŏp mit
kŭkjang munhwa yŏn’gu, 141–53.
34 Regarding the regional distribution of films, see Kim, Han’guk yŏnghwa paegŭpsa
yŏn’gu, 20–22. The growing popularity of second-­run suburban theaters meant
that more ­people had access to this cultural art form. While many media experts
predicted the demise of cinema with the rapid increase of tele­vi­sion sets in
­people’s homes, they also expected an increase in viewership for suburban
second-­run theaters that catered to lower class ­people who did not own their own
tele­vi­sion sets: “Kwan’gaek ŭi 20 p’ŏsent’ŭ sangsil, TV wihyŏp soge hŭndŭllinŭn
panghwa,” Maeil Kyŏngje, February 20, 1970.
35 “Sirizŭmul i chal pallyŏ,” Chosǒn Ilbo, April 26, 1970.
36 On average, the regular theater entrance fee was 130 wŏn in 1968–69: Kim Tong-
ho, “1960–70 nyŏndae ŭi paegŭp yut’ong kujo wa sangyŏnggwan,” in Han’guk
yŏnghwa sangyŏnggwan ŭi pyŏnch’ŏn kwa paljŏn panghyang, ed. Kim Tong-ho
(Seoul: Munhwa Kwangwangbu, 2001), 24–42.
37 For more on ­these publications, see Henry in this volume.
38 The boom in urban lowbrow popu­lar culture at this time needs further analy­sis.
For one study, see Henry in this volume.
39 In his analy­sis of early twentieth-­century audiences, Stuart Hall describes a
new “popu­lar class” that did not directly coincide with working-­or lower-­class
status but was the product of the identity-­forming effects of the consumption
of popu­lar culture: Hall, “Notes on Deconstructing ‘the Popu­lar,’ ” 229. The
number of this “popu­lar class” audience expanded in the 1970–80s, rejuvenat-
ing the declining South Korean film industry when the industry was often
referred to as “having hit a low point.” Molly Hyo Kim also discusses how such
“realistic (or deviant)” descriptions of prohibited subjects, such as the stories of
prostitutes, could play a g­ reat role in sustaining the South Korean film industry
of the 1970s. She argues that, by producing “hostess films” that deal with the
stories of ­people who migrated to the suburbs of Seoul, the South Korean
film industry could sustain this long dark age in the 1970–80s. Although she
mostly focused on textual analy­sis of ­these films, it is impor­tant to note the
transformation of audiences in this time from ­middle class to this “popu­lar
class”: see Molly Hyo Kim, “Genre Convention of South Korean Hostess Films
(1974–1982): Prostitutes and the Discourse of Female Sacrificer,” Acta Koreana
17, no. 1 (2014): 1–21.
40 In a similar context, Yu Sŏn-­yŏng has examined 1970s Korean movies with sexual
content and argues that this subculture created a certain cultural space for re­

198  |  Chung-­kang Kim

 sis­tance: Yu Sŏn-­yŏng, “Tongwŏn ch’eje ŭi kwaminjokhwa pŭrojekt’ŭ wa seksŭ
yŏnghwa,” Ŏllon kwa Sahwoe 15, no. 2 (2007): 42–44.
41 Many of ­these ­women found work as ­house­maids, kisaengs, hairdressers, and
prostitutes. Licensed prostitution was officially outlawed in 1948, but ­these
­women continued to provide sexual ser­vices with the government’s tacit approval.
Although being a ­house­maid was more respectable, it also often left the ­woman
vulnerable to sexual approaches by male employers. The barber shop also became
an iconic site of female prostitution: see Pak Chong-­sŏng, Han’guk ŭi maech’un
(Seoul: In’gan Sarang, 1994).
42 This depiction of lower-­class female workers in film is an accurate portrayal of
their place in society. Jeong-mi Park has analyzed the paradoxes of the state’s sys-
tem of controlling sex workers, describing it as a “toleration-­regulation” system:
see Jeong-mi Park, “Paradoxes of Gendering Strategy in Prostitution Policies:
South ­Korea’s ‘Toleration-­Regulation’ Regime,” ­Women’s Studies International
Forum 37 (2013): 73–84. Prostitutes who worked near U.S. military bases suffered
even harsher regulation: see Bruce Cumings, “­Silent but Deadly: Sexual Subordi-
nation in the U.S.-­Korean Relationship,” in Let the Good Times Roll: Prostitution
and the U.S. Military in Asia, ed. Saundra P. Sturdevant and Brenda Stoltzfus (New
York: New Press, 1993), 169–75. As I have argued elsewhere, ­these ­women ­were
racialized and secluded from society: see Chung-­kang Kim, “Skin-­Deep? The
Politics of Black Korean Identity in Post-1945 Korean Lit­er­a­ture and Film,” Journal
of Lit­er­a­ture and Film 15, no. 1 (2014): 5–41.
43 In the film, the last name of the actor is used for the character’s name. For ex-
ample, Ku is the last name of the actor Ku Pong-­sŏ and Hŏ is the last name of the
actor Hŏ Chang-­kang. Both actors ­were stars at the time, and the scenario was
written ­after the male protagonists ­were cast. But the female character’s last name
is not known ­either in the film or the scenario. Thus, in the plot summary, I use
the last name for the male characters and the first name for the female character.
44 “Tongsŏng yŏn’ae” is both a medicalized term and a popularly used word in every-
day life in South Korean.
45 Such negotiations of male-­to-­female masquerade could have been influenced by
a director’s own perception of gender normality. As the director Sim U-­sŏp put
it to me in our conversation, “I did not ­really like the idea of making Ku a totally
womanly man.” He therefore purposely created a masculine male-­to-­female mas-
querade: Sim U-­sŏp, interview with the author, Seoul, December 10, 2013.
46 Butler, Gender Trou­ble, 146–47.
47 Marjorie Garber, Vested Interests: Cross-­Dressing and Cultural Anxiety (New York:
Routledge, 1992), 10–11.
48 My argument for ­Korea draws on more general insights from Foucault, The His-
tory of Sexuality, 23.
49 Debates about “vulgar” culture ­were common at the time. See, e.g., “Ta hamkke
saeng’gakhae popsida: Ŭmnan ŭi han’gyenŭn?” Kyŏnghyang Sinmun, July 17,
1969; “Ŭmnan sŏhwa tansok munje,” Tong’a Ilbo, July 17, 1969; “Chit’an pannŭn

A Female-­Dressed Man Sings a National Epic  |  199

 ero chapchi ŭi kyuje wa chŏnghwa ŭi panghyang,” Tong’a Ilbo, June 14, 1969;
“T’woep’ye p’ungjo tansok e sŏnheang hal kŏt,” Tong’a Ilbo, September 28, 1971.
50 “Hwan’gakche ŭi ssak put’ŏ jjallara,” Kyŏnghyang Sinmun, February 25, 1971.
51 “T’oep’ye panghwa chŏnghwa pang’an maryŏn,” Maeil Kyŏngje, October 2, 1971.
52 Cho P’ung-­yŏn, “Yŏnghwa wa sŏng moral,” ­Korea Cinema, March 1971.
53 Kim Su-­yong, “ ‘Kŏmyŏl,’ igŏsi ŏpsŭmyŏn kŭkjang ŭn sahwoe ak ŭi sogul i toel
kŏsin’ga?” Chugan Han’guk, vol. 82, no. 17, April 27, 1966, 24–25.
54 For the first time in the history of South ­Korea, Yu Hyŏn-­mok, the director
of the film Spring Dreams, was imprisoned for making a vulgar film (ŭmhwa)
in 1969. See the detailed ruling summary in Kyŏnghyang Sinmun, July 17, 1969.
Following this ruling, Sin Sang-ok, the director of A Eunuch, was investigated
­because his film described lesbianism. Yi Hyŏng-­pyo, who made Your Name
Is ­Woman, was also investigated by the prosecutor b­ ecause the film included
overtly sexual expression.
55 Thirty thousand wŏn would ­today be equivalent to ten million wŏn, or $10,000.
See the consumer price index for ­Korea, accessed April 26, 2015, http://­www​
.­index​.­go​.­kr​/­potal​/­main​/­EachDtlPageDetail​.­do​?­idx​_­cd​=­1060.
56 “Yŏnghwa ch’unmong yujoe,” Kyŏnghyang Sinmun, March 15, 1967.
57 The comment was made in a seminar on censorship held at Christian Acad­emy,
a religiously based nongovernmental organ­ization based in Seoul. The discus-
sions of the seminar ­were summarized in “Yŏnghwa kŏmyŏl ŭn p’ilyohan’ga?”
Kyŏnghyang Sinmun, May 25, 1968.
58 For example, at the seminar described ­earlier, a constitutional scholar, Yi Hang-­
nyŏng, was the only one who seriously criticized that the standard of censorship
published by the Bureau of Public Information was unlawful.
59 “Yŏnghwa kŏmyŏl ŭi munjejŏm,” Chosŏn Ilbo, February 22, 1968.
60 “Kawijil in’ga nandojil in’ga? Yŏnghwa kŏmyŏl,” Chugan Han’guk, vol. 193, June 2,
1968, 20.
61 Yun Ik-­sam, “Han’guk yŏnghwa nŭn sayanggil e sŏtnŭn’ga?” Arirang, vol. 16, no. 9,
September 1970, 194–97.
62 Ku Pong-­sŏ, interview with the author, Seoul, September 2, 2004.
63 The word “and” between “male” and “kisaeng” is printed in a very small font,
likely to hint at the original title (see figure 5.1).
64 Sŏ Kok-­suk argues that many lowbrow comedy films came to internalize the rules
and regulations of the film code, even though they ­were not seriously tampered
with by the censors: Sŏ Kok-­suk, “Han’guk yŏnghwa kŏmyŏl kwa k’omedi
yŏnghwa,” Yŏnghwa Yŏn’gu 36 (2008): 345–70.
65 Thomas Doherty argues that classical Hollywood films started to create “­mental
images” rather than direct descriptions of sex scenes ­after the Hays Code started
to regulate “sex, immorality and insurrection” in early 1930s Amer­i­ca: Thomas
Doherty, Pre-­code Hollywood: Sex, Immorality, and Insurrection in American Cin-
ema, 1930–1934 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999), 2–3.
66 Kim, Chugan han’guk, 82.

200  |  Chung-­kang Kim

 67 Kim, Chugan han’guk, 82.
68 Yu Chi-na, “1960 nyŏndae han’guk k’omidi: Haeksim k’odŭ wa sahoejŏk ŭimi
chakyong,” Yŏnghwa Yŏn’gu 15 (2000): 283–306.
69 “Yŏjang 26 nyŏn ŭi chungnyŏn,” Chosŏn Ilbo, December 7, 1969.

Works Cited

NEWSPAPERS AND MAGAZINES

Arirang
Chosŏn Ilbo
Chugan Han’guk
­Korea Cinema
Kyŏnghyang Sinmun
Maeil Kyŏngje
Tong’a Ilbo

KOREAN-­LANGUAGE SOURCES

Acad­emy of Korean Studies, ed. 5.16 kwa Pak Chŏng-­hŭi chŏngbu ŭi sŏllip. Seongnam,
South ­Korea: Acad­emy of Korean Studies Press, 1999.
Chang Mun-­sŏk and Yi Sang-­nok, ed. Kŭndae ŭi kyŏnggye esŏ tokjae rŭl ikta. Seoul:
Kŭrinbi, 2006.
Chang Sŏk-­yong. Han’guk nyuweibŭ ŭi chinghu rŭl ch’ajasŏ. Seoul: Hyŏndae Mihaksa,
2002.
Cho Hae-­joang. Sŏng, kajok, kŭrigo munhwa: Illyuhakjŏk chŏpgŭn. Seoul: Chimundang,
1997.
Chu Yu-­sin, ed. Han’guk yŏnghwa wa kŭndaesŏng. Seoul: Sodo, 2000.
Hwang Chŏng-mi. “Paljŏn kukka wa mosŏng: 1960–1970 nyŏndae ‘punyŏ chŏngch’aek
ŭl chungsim ŭro.” In Mosŏng ŭi tamnon kwa hyŏnsil, ed. Sim Yŏng-­hŭi, 82–104.
P’aju, South ­Korea: Nanam, 1999.
Kang Man-­gil. Han’guk chabonjuŭi ŭi yŏksa. Seoul: Yoksa Pip’yǒng, 2000.
Kim Chun. “Pak Chŏng-­hŭi sidae ŭi nodong: Ulsan Hyŏndai chosŏn nodongja rŭl
chungsim ŭro.” In Kŭndae ŭi kyŏnggye esŏ tokjae rŭl ikta, ed. Chang Mun-­sǒk and
Yi Sang-­nok, 257–92. Seoul: Kǔrinbi, 2006.
Kim Mi-­hyǒn, ed. Han’guk yŏnghwa paegŭpsa yŏn’gu. Seoul: Korean Film Commission,
2003.
Kim Si-mu, Yesul yŏnghwa ongho. Seoul: Hyǒndae Mihaksa, 2001.
Kim Su-­haeng and Pak Sǔng-ho. Pak Chŏng-­hŭi ch’eje ŭi sŏngnip kwa chŏn’gae mit mol-
lak. Seoul: Seoul National University Press, 2007.
Kim Tong-ho. “1960–70 nyŏndae ŭi paegŭp yut’ong kujo wa sangyŏnggwan.” In
Han’guk yŏnghwa sangyŏnggwan ŭi pyŏnch’ŏn kwa paljŏn panghyang, ed. Kim Tong-
ho, 24–42. Seoul: Munhwa Kwangwangbu, 2001.

A Female-­Dressed Man Sings a National Epic  |  201

Korean Film Commission. Han’guk yŏnghwa charyo p’yŏllam. Seoul: Korean Film
Commission, 1978.
Kwŏn Podŭre, ed. Apres-­ggŏl sasanggye rŭl ikta. Seoul: Dongguk University Press,
2009.
No Chi-­sŭng. “Yŏnghwa, chŏngch’i wa sidaesŏng ŭi chinghu: Tosi chung’gan
kyech’ŭng ŭi yongmang kwa kajok.” Yŏksa Munje Yon’gu 25 (2011): 169–76.
Pak Chong-­sǒng. Han’guk ŭi maech’un. Seoul: In’gan Sarang, 1994.
Park Jeong-mi. “Paljŏn kwa seksŭ: Han’guk chŏngbu ŭi sŏngmaemae kwan’gwang
chŏngch’aek, 1955–1988,” Han’guk Sahoehak 48, no. 25 (2014): 235–64.
Pyŏn Chae-­ran. “Taehan nyusŭ, munhwa yŏnghwa, kŭndaejŏk kihoek ŭrosŏ ŭi ‘kajok
kyehoek.’ ” Yŏnghwa Yon’gu 52 (2012): 207–35.
Seoul T’ŭkpyŏlsi. Sŏul tosi kibon kyehweok chojŏng surip. Seoul: Seoul-si, 1970.
Sŏ Kok-­suk. “Han’guk yŏnghwa kŏmyŏl kwa k’omedi yŏnghwa.” Yŏnghwa Yŏn’gu 36
(2008): 345–70.
Yi Im-ha. Yŏsŏng, chŏnjaeng ŭl nŏmŏ irŏsŏda. Seoul: Sŏhae Munjip, 2004.
Yi Kil-­sŏng, Yi Ho-­gŏl, and Yi U-­sŏk. 1970 nyŏndae Sŏul ŭi kŭkjang sanŏp mit kŭkjang
munhwa yŏn’gu. Seoul: Korean Film Commission, 2004.
Yi Yŏng-il. Han’guk yŏnghwa chŏnsa. Seoul: Sodo, 2004.
Yu Chi-na. “1960 nyŏndae han’guk k’omidi: Haeksim k’odŭ wa sahoejŏk ŭimi cha-
kyong.” Yŏnghwa Yŏn’gu 15 (2000): 283–306.
Yu Sŏn-­yŏng. “Tongwŏn ch’eje ŭi kwaminjokhwa pŭrojekt’ŭ wa seksŭ yŏnghwa.” Ŏllon
kwa Sahwoe 15, no. 2 (2007): 42–44.

ENGLISH-­LANGUAGE SOURCES

Abelmann, Nancy. Echoes of the Past, Epics of Dissent: A South Korean Social Movement.
Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996.
Baskett, Michael. The Attractive Empire: Transnational Film Culture in Imperial Japan.
Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2008.
Butler, Judith. Gender Trou­ble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York:
Routledge, 1999.
Cho, Hae-­joang. “You are Trapped in an Imaginary Well: The Formation of Subjectiv-
ity in a Compressed Development.” Inter-­Asia Cultural Studies 1, no. 1 (2000):
62–64.
Chung, Steven. The Split Screen ­Korea: Shin Sang-ok and Post-­war Cinema. Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 2014.
Corber, Robert J. Cold War Femme: Lesbianism, National Identity, and Hollywood
­Cinema. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011.
Corber, Robert J. Homo­sexuality in Cold War Amer­i­ca: Re­sis­tance and the Crisis of
­Masculinity. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997.
Cumings, Bruce. “­Silent but Deadly: Sexual Subordination in the U.S.-­Korean Rela-
tionship.” In Let the Good Times Roll: Prostitution and the U.S. Military in Asia,

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 ed. Saundra P. Sturdevant and Brenda Stoltzfus, 169–75. New York: New Press,
1993.
Cuordileone, K. A. “Politics in an Age of Anxiety: Cold War Po­liti­cal Culture and
the Crisis in American Masculinity, 1949.” Journal of American History 87, no. 2
(2000): 515–45.
Doherty, Thomas. Pre-­code Hollywood: Sex, Immorality, and Insurrection in American
Cinema, 1930–1934. New York: Columbia University Press, 1999.
Doty, Alexander. “Queer Theory.” In The Oxford Guide to Film Studies, ed. John Hill,
148–51. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998.
Foucault, Michel. The Birth of Biopolitics. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008.
Foucault, Michel. The History of Sexuality, Volume 1: An Introduction. New York: Vin-
tage, 1990.
Garber, Marjorie. Vested Interests: Cross-­Dressing and Cultural Anxiety. New York:
Routledge, 1992.
Hall, Stuart. “Notes on Deconstructing ‘The Popu­lar.’ ” In ­People’s History and Social-
ist Theory, ed. Raphael Samuel, 442–53. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul,
1981.
Kim, Chung-­kang. “Nation, Subculture, and Queer Repre­sen­ta­tion: The Film Male
Kisaeng and the Politics of Gender and Sexuality in 1960s South ­Korea.” Journal of
the History of Sexuality 24, no. 3 (September 2015): 455–77.
Kim, Chung-­kang. “Skin-­Deep? The Politics of Black Korean Identity in Post-1945
Korean Lit­er­a­ture and Film.” Journal of Lit­er­a­ture and Film 15, no. 1 (2014): 5–41.
Kim, Elaine H., and Chungmoo Choi, ed. Dangerous ­Women: Gender and Korean Na-
tionalism. New York: Routledge, 1998.
Kim, Eun Mee. Big Business, Strong State: Collusion and Conflict in South Korean Devel-
opment, 1960–1990. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1997.
Kim, Hyun Mee. “Work, Nation and Hypermasculinity: The ‘­Woman’ Question in the
Economic Miracle and Crisis in South ­Korea.” Inter-­Asia Cultural Studies 2, no. 1
(2001): 53–68.
Kim, Molly Hyo. “Genre Convention of South Korean Hostess Films (1974–1982):
Prostitutes and the Discourse of Female Sacrificer.” Acta Koreana 17, no. 1 (2014):
1–21.
Koo, Hagen, ed. Korean Workers: The Culture and Politics of Class Formation. Ithaca:
NY: Cornell University Press, 2001.
Min, Eung-­jun, ed. Korean Film: History, Re­sis­tance, and Demo­cratic Imagination. Santa
Barbara, CA: Praeger, 2003.
Mitchell, Timothy. “Society, Economy, and the State Effect.” In State/Culture: State-­
formation ­after the Cultural Turn, ed. George Steinmetz, 76–97. Ithaca, NY:
Cornell University Press, 1999.
Moon, Seungsook. Militarized Modernity and Gendered Citizenship in South ­Korea.
Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005.
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A Female-­Dressed Man Sings a National Epic  |  203

Park, Jeong-mi. “Paradoxes of Gendering Strategy in Prostitution Policies: South
­Korea’s ‘Toleration-­Regulation’ Regime.” ­Women’s Studies International Forum 37
(2013): 73–84.
Ricci, Steve. Cinema and Fascism: Italian Film and Society, 1922–1943. Oakland: Univer-
sity of California Press, 2008.
Schulte-­Sasse, Linda. Entertaining the Third Reich: Illusions of Wholeness in Nazi Cin-
ema. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1996.

204  |  Chung-­kang Kim

 Chapter Six

QUEER LIVES AS
CAUTIONARY TALES
FEMALE HOMOEROTICISM AND
THE HETEROPATRIARCHAL IMAGINATION
OF AUTHORITARIAN SOUTH ­KOREA

Todd A. Henry

Only history, material conditions, and con-

text can account for the specific content of
gay kinship ideologies, their emergence at
a par­tic­u­lar point in time, and the variety of
ways ­people have implemented t­hose ide-
ologies in their daily lives.
—­Kath Weston, Families We Choose

S
 
ince the turn of the ­century, South Korean filmmakers, visual artists,
and other creators of alternative culture have worked to overturn de-
rogatory and exploitative repre­sen­ta­tions of sexual minorities, whose
lives remain largely missing from historical accounts of their country’s mo-
dernity.1 Aligned to varying degrees with lgbti activism, ­these intrepid
self-­expressions followed in the wake of more than four de­cades of military
dictatorships and drew on the fruits of ­labor and antigovernment protests
that ebbed and flowed across this tempestuous period.2 Like many authoritar-
ian regimes during the Cold War, South Korean leaders prioritized national
defense and capital accumulation while subordinating the working classes,
young ­women, and other vulnerable subpopulations to the officially sanc-
tioned goals of their anticommunist nation. Despite such oppressive condi-
tions, marginalized subjects, including t­hose engaging in same-­sex love and
non-­normative gender practices, managed to carve out laboring and living
spaces through vari­ous forms of everyday re­sis­tance, cultural accommoda-
tion, and community building.
Pak Chae-­ho’s Broken Branches (1995), one of South ­Korea’s first queer
films, mirrors this tumultuous history of institutional vio­lence and negotiated
strug­gle.3 This pathbreaking film traces the valiant story of Chŏng-­min—­a
thirty-­something man who falls in love with an older married man, Sŭng-­gŏl.
Although beholden to a wife and c­ hildren, Sŭng-­gŏl is won over by Chŏng-­
min, and the two men enter a romantic relationship. With Sŭng-­gŏl by his
side, Chŏng-­min fi­nally emancipates himself from the shackles of the Park
Chung Hee regime (1961–79) and the equally oppressive dictates of his own
patriarchal f­ ather. In the final scene, the c­ ouple visits Chŏng-­min’s ­mother to
celebrate her seventieth birthday, an indication of her son’s filial piety. But,
in a dramatic departure from Confucian conventions which typically include
a deep bow of re­spect, they serenade her with an amorous pop song, ­after
which the two men boldly announce to the extended f­ amily that they are also
married. Although the director portrays this secret as a campy joke that might
soften their disclosure, Chŏng-­min’s ­mother proceeds to faint in response to
their homosexual secret.
Broken Branches was one of the first gay films to suggest that same-­sex in-
timacy could challenge the heteropatriarchal order of South ­Korea.4 Subse-
quent works have also addressed the disruptive power of queer kinship ide-
ologies, including ­those that existed in the past. ­These lgbti artists/activists
have thus positioned themselves as impor­tant historians of non-­normative
relations, which have not yet found their way into academic narratives of the
con­temporary period. For example, So Chun-­mun’s short film Auld Lang Syne
(2007) tells the poignant tale of an unexpected reunion between two el­derly
men who dated during the late 1960s and early 1970s but w ­ ere forced to
5
­separate ­under pressure to marry and reproduce. For his part, Yi [Song]
Hŭi-­il—­another well-­known director and the creative genius ­behind No Re-
gret (2006), White Nights (2012), and other popu­lar films—­conducted pio-
neering interviews with el­derly men in the late 1990s, generating novel insights
on the relationship between public space and gay sociality ­after the Korean War
(1950–53).6 However, perhaps b­ ecause ­these stories appeared in Buddy, one of
the country’s first lgbti magazines, they remain relatively unknown, even

206  |  Todd A. Henry

t­ oday. As a result, they have failed to re­orient the assumptions and methods
of most historical work on con­temporary South ­Korea, which remains hetero-
normative and empiricist in outlook.7
Meanwhile, several short films and documentaries on queer kinship practices
have also revealed the silenced past of nonconforming ­women, foregrounding
them as critical actors ­under authoritarian regimes of capital accumulation. In
2000, Kwŏn Chong-­gwan directed one such film, ­Uncle “Bar” at Barbershop.
Set during the explosive de­cade of the 1980s, this pathbreaking short features a
­woman who seeks to pass as a working-­class barber by binding her breasts and
dodging the misogynistic banter of male customers. Although the protago-
nist’s female partner is excluded from the hypermasculine and heterosexist
space of the barbershop, their queer relationship, evidenced by a heated argu-
ment about the difficulties of raising an ­adopted child, highlights the hetero­
patriarchal pressures of South Korean development. More recently, Yi Yŏng’s
Troublers (2015), which has circulated in in­de­pen­dent theaters, pre­sents the
unknown story of Yi Muk, a biological w ­ oman who, in large part, lived as a
South Korean man during and ­after the Park Chung Hee period. Although
none of Yi’s romances with w ­ omen lead to a long-­lasting partnership, this in-
dividual’s compelling story encourages moviegoers and progressive scholars
to recognize the critical value of recounting such suppressed pasts. Pairing Yi’s
nonconforming life with rowdy scenes of fundamentalist Christian activism,
Troublers, as the title suggests, forces us to think about the historical meaning of
queer subjects amid increasingly vocal movements aimed at excluding sexual
(and social other) minorities in South ­Korea ­today.
Given the ongoing marginalization of lgbti subjects, queer kinship rela-
tions captured by filmmakers since the mid-1990s are remarkable manifesta-
tions of authoritarian subcultures that, as this chapter reveals, also regularly
appeared in the print media and visual culture of the day.8 Although exploited
by newspapers and magazines for profit, non-­normative forms of familial and
communal intimacies, especially among ­women, can serve as critical lenses on
the androcentric mechanisms that supported industrial capitalism ­under Cold
War dictatorships. In what follows, I return to an archival form that, along-
side film and radio, saturated the consumer market during the authoritarian
era but remains relatively underused in historical accounts of con­temporary
South ­Korea. Launched by most newspaper companies during the mid-­to late
1960s, weeklies (chuganji), which took their inspiration from similar Japa­nese
publications and closely interacted with their Western counter­parts, gained
a popu­lar following among men, boasting a combined annual circulation of

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  207

more than one million copies by 1970. A far greater number of readers likely
perused ­these commercial publications without cost at barbershops, coffee
shops, train stations, military barracks, and other public places. Drawing on
Christina Klein’s study of Cold War Orientalism, I consider weeklies an in-
herently middlebrow genre, a plastic form perfectly situated to balance the
serious facts of investigative journalism and the playful invention of fictional
storytelling.9 Although ignored by most scholars of ­Korea ­because of its ru-
morous content and salacious tone, a close reading of this popu­lar source ­will
show how male-­dominated, heterosexist narratives about female homoeroti-
cism served as cautionary tales in the production and maintenance of a cap­i­
tal­ist patriarchy. By focusing on the political-­economic underside of same-­sex
sexuality and gender variance in a Cold War setting, my analy­sis of the mass
media and its national readership also aims to re­orient a Western-­centered
queer studies that has tended to highlight atomized questions of subjectiv-
ity and consumption ­under (neo-)liberal regimes, especially in large cities. By
contrast, I interrogate the lived realities of kinship strictures and economic in-
equalities ­under an illiberal regime of capital accumulation. Although filtered
through the print media, I focus on the everyday strug­gles of queer ­women
across the country who, by rejecting normative conventions of heteropatriar-
chy, sought to survive on the fringes of a mass culture intent on taming their
life choices.10
Not unlike other “eccentric” topics addressed by weeklies, reports about
female-­female relationships contained a calculated balance of scandalous en-
tertainment and sober moralizing. Together, they played an integral role in
facilitating what Jie-­Hyun Lim has innovatively called “mass dictatorship.”
According to this theory, the Park Chung Hee regime (and its successors)
did not simply impose a set of draconian rules while citizens passively suc-
cumbed to ­these top-­down edicts. Alongside vari­ous forms of coercion, the
regime and its proxies also developed a system of persuasive power that relied
on a nominally liberal politics but ­were instituted for, rather than controlled
by, the citizenry. U­ nder this Cold War system of “administrative democracy,”
Park also encouraged vari­ous forms of mass entertainment aimed at promot-
ing what Lim calls the “disciplined uniformity” of anticommunism. Building
on feminist critiques of this theory as overwhelmingly male-­dominated and
adding an avowedly queer analytic, I re­orient mass dictatorship to examine
how textual and visual repre­sen­ta­tions of female homoeroticism facilitated
popu­lar participation in the creation and maintenance of a cultural common
sense necessary to guide authoritarian development.11 This common sense

208  |  Todd A. Henry

was, I insist, inherently androcentric and heteropatriarchal in both its expres-
sion and goals, an impor­tant point not fully recognized in most accounts of
(South) Korean modernity.
Also an exploitative system, mass dictatorship demanded vari­ous corpo-
real sacrifices, particularly on the part of the proletarian and female masses.12
Per­sis­tently hounded by re­sis­tance, authoritarian regimes could not operate
effectively without providing at least some of its worker-­citizens with psychic
releases and compensatory pleasures. Consumed regularly by a wide range of
male (and some female) readers, weeklies served t­ hese diversionary functions
while also helping to produce a collective imaginary rooted in heteropatriar-
chal “traditions.” Repeatedly normalized practices of kinship thus functioned
as a default model of cultural purity against which sexual, gender, and racial
deviations from “proper” life courses could be understood and, when pos­si­
ble, accommodated to its homogenizing logic. Weeklies thus expressed near
constant concern that some citizens, including ­women who married ­women,
­were indeed “veering offtrack” (t’alsŏn), an ideological catchword of the au-
thoritarian period. Ironically, however, morbid fascination with their social
deviancy may have encouraged other “shadow-­reading” ­women to pursue
such stigmatized pleasures, especially given a relative lack of information
available to queer subjects during this era.13
What­ever the case, newspaper weeklies, a new industry in need of constant
profits, used a considerable amount of their media space to engage in what I
call “capitalistic voyeurism.” This entrepreneurial practice of mass entertain-
ment encouraged fellow citizens, especially adult men, to privately—­and,
when read together, collectively—­decry life practices that veered off track
from national goals of economic production and biological reproduction. To
this end, recurrent stories of weddings between w ­ omen induced androcen-
tric and homophobic laughter as gestures that, like B-­grade films from the
period, helped reassert readers’ conformity to heteropatriarchal conventions.
Even as they amused audiences, sensational accounts of female homoeroti-
cism also expressed serious concern about “deviant” ­women who failed to
perform expected duties as “wise ­mothers and good wives” (hyŏnmo yangch’ŏ)
­under Cold War capitalism. In contrast to the ethnographic richness of non-­
normative subjectivities depicted in queer films since the 1990s, weeklies from
the authoritarian period thus highlighted the alleged monstrosity of ­women
partnering with one another and refusing to produce or raise ­children.
Although likely exaggerated for shock value, alarming accounts of gy-
nocentric practices played an impor­tant role in controlling queer forms of

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  209

kinship through vari­ous “epistemological interventions.” Th ­ ese biopo­liti­cal
strategies of knowledge production included superficially heteronormalizing
the roles of partnered w ­ omen as gender-­normative “husbands” and “wives”
rather than recognizing the subcultural terms paji-­ssi (Ms. Pants) and ch’ima-­
ssi (Ms. Skirt). Aimed primarily at male audiences, the specter of such lesbian
fantasies was, however, rhetorically curtailed by desexualizing same-­sex rela-
tionships and framing them as platonic arrangements. What­ever the formula,
weeklies actively disavowed female homoeroticism as personally deleterious
and socially unsustainable. Through ­these cautionary tales, the mass media
rewarded readers who, as normative citizens, already contributed to the (re)
productive goals of their anticommunist nation. A multivalent instrument of
social control, its “queersploitative” reporters, as I analyze them, also exhorted
potentially nonconforming ­women to engage in heteropatriarchal practices
needed to maintain social cohesion ­under a mass dictatorship of cap­i­tal­ist
accumulation.

Social Criminality and Sexual Deviance

in Early Post–Korean War Accounts

As research on gender history has revealed, media and literary repre­sen­ta­tions

of female same-­sex relations, which tended to focus on schoolgirl romances
and other adolescent experiences of homoeroticism, including double sui-
cides (chŏngsa), trace their modern origins to the colonial period (1910–45).14
By contrast, popu­lar discussions of same-­sex cohabitation and marriage be-
tween adult ­women began in earnest in the wake of the Korean War.15 This
cataclysmic event caused the death of millions, many of them male soldiers,
and left numerous widowed ­women, to say nothing of orphaned ­children.16
Given that many of their male husbands perished in b­ attle, some ­women
abandoned the perils (and comforts) of heterosexual marriage, also escaping
the surveillance and control of their in-­laws.17 Oral histories of war ­widows
suggest that some did so by becoming breadwinning h­ ouse­hold heads (ka-
jang). Less well known but equally impor­tant is that ­others sought to estab-
lish in­de­pen­dent lives by presenting themselves in masculine ways, if not as
men. For t­ hese ­women, their official sex protected them from the possibility
of injury or death due to military ser­vice, although gender nonconformity did
occasionally lead to accusations of posing as North Korean spies.18 Of ­these
masculine-­presenting ­women, some de­cided to cohabit with other female
partners, usually feminine in demeanor, and unofficially marry them. Beset

210  |  Todd A. Henry

by internal strug­gles and a pugnacious ­enemy across the 38th Parallel, the new
South Korean state did not extend ­legal sanction to ­these queer ­couples, nor
has its demo­cratic successor done so since the early 1990s. However, even such
informal arrangements may, ironically, have given t­hese queer w ­ omen more
financial security and emotional sustenance than their heterosexual counter­
parts. As discussed ­later, that such ­women sought symbolically to express their
love for one another in wedding rites indicates a remarkable urge to stabilize
and dignify their relationships through hetero-­marital customs. Although
­homosexual and unconventional, their ceremonial appearance in sartorial and
tonsorial forms that gestured at gender-­normative “husbands” and “wives”
likely lent an air of respectability to their families and local communities, at
least some of whom reportedly attended their wedding and banquet ceremo-
nies in joyful cele­bration.19
At first glance, such dyadic ­couples appear to succumb passively to heter-
opatriarchal expectations and ­were occasionally presented that way in media
accounts concerned with the socially and culturally disruptive effects of re-
cent military ­battles.20 For example, in one of the first extended reports of
postwar gynocentric subcultures, the author simplistically referred to female
­“ husbands” as inferior replacements for their biological male counter­parts,
graphically describing the use of artificial penises (e.g., dildos) to plea­sure their
“wives” in what problematically reads as a Freudian expression of penis envy.21
Despite such claims of cultural conformity and pornographic descriptions of
heterosexual mimicry, popu­lar repre­sen­ta­tions of “husbands” and “wives” in
same-­sex relationships are more fruitfully understood within the lesbian and
queer subcultures of working-­class ­women during the mid-­to late twentieth
­century. As Elizabeth Kennedy and Madeline’s Davis’s detailed ethnography
of interwar Buffalo shows, similar pairs of “butches” and “femmes” creatively
manipulated the basic ingredients of the dominant gender system in the U.S.
They also convincingly argue that such dichotomous gender pairings w ­ ere not
tantamount to heteronormative mimicry. Instead, they allowed female sub-
jects to express their sense of autonomy in public space while si­mul­ta­neously
demonstrating romantic interest in one another.22 Understood from this auto-­
ethnographic perspective, South Korean ­women who coupled as Ms. Pants
and Ms. Skirt also came to subtly critique their country’s dominant gender
system rather than simply imitating mainstream models of heteropatriarchy.
They did so by creating an intimate subculture in which proletarian w ­ omen
could escape the potentially unstable, unfulfilling, and dangerous conditions
of male subordination and heterosexism.23

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  211

 Public knowledge about gynocentric practices remained relatively ­limited
u­ ntil the mid-1950s, when the mass media began to introduce their non-­
normative stories to the national community as part of state-­led efforts to re-
build f­amily life a­ fter the Korean War.24 Published primarily in newspapers
and monthlies before the rise of weeklies during the mid-­to late 1960s, t­ hese
accounts sought to demarcate cultural bound­aries between acceptable, het-
eropatriarchal practices and their dangerous, nonconforming counter­parts.
Such epistemological interventions into the everyday lives of South Koreans
aimed to restore the stabilizing function of prewar kinship structures. They
also formed the social basis on which postwar leaders hoped to resuscitate a
devastated economy, albeit with only ­limited success. To ­these ends, journalists
took ­great pains to heteronormalize queer relationships by designating one
female partner as the male-­dressed “husband” and the other as the female-­
dressed “wife.” Having reduced their unruly subjectivities into recognizable
pairs, media reports sought to integrate them as nonthreatening members of a
nation still at war with North ­Korea. However, their unassimilable practices—­
for example, that Ms. Pants presented herself as masculine but typically not
as a transgender man, and that Ms. Skirt tended to desire masculine ­women
but not biological men—­also enabled heterosexual readers to consider queer
­women as deviating from social norms. Through ­these accounts, readers, even
poorly educated members of the male proletariat, could imagine themselves
as more thoroughly embodying idealized notions of (re)productivity and pa-
triotism, thus allowing them to assume a position of domination in relation to
their “deviant” female compatriots.
A good example of t­ hese heteronormalizing efforts appears in an account
published in the Tong’a Ilbo in 1958, exactly five years ­after the conclusion
of an armistice that suspended but did not end military hostilities between
North K ­ orea and South K ­ orea.25 This salacious report chronicled the court
proceedings of a hom­i­cide committed by a thirty-­year-­old ­woman, Yim Kye-­
sun (b. 1928), against her female “husband,” the thirty-­four-­year-­old Ch’oe
Chŏng-ae (b. 1924). According to Yim’s testimony, the two ­women had first
meet in Taejŏn (a city located ninety miles south of Seoul) just before the
official outbreak of the Korean War in 1950. Early accounts of their relation-
ship suggested that they had both served as sex-­working “comfort ­women”
(wianbu) for American soldiers around the U.S. military base in P’aju, which
sat just south of the 38th Parallel.26 While continuing to reside in this camp
town, Yim and Ch’oe w ­ ere reported as having lived harmoniously as a “mar-
ried c­ouple” and did not experience spousal discord (namnyŏ ga kyŏlhap

212  |  Todd A. Henry

hadŭt tallan han [?] “pubu saenghwal” ŭl yŏngwi haewattanŭn kŏt). Although
rhetorically circumscribed by the insertion of a question mark (more on this
­later), this expression of amity likened their non-­normative relationship to
the idealized marriages of heterosexual ­couples. However, their long-­lasting
partnership ended abruptly in early 1958, when Yim murdered her “husband”
at their home. What sparked the hom­i­cide was a drunken conversation in
which Ch’oe professed her deep affection for a female concubine (Kim Hwa-
ja, b. 1928), a historical practice of male privilege that was still common among
married Korean men. Her expression of love ultimately led a jealous Yim to
vindictively kill her adulterous “husband,” stabbing her heart with a knife left
by an American gi who had been stationed at P’aju, a clear indication of the
hot war still enveloping the Korean Peninsula.27
Although reportedly unaware of homo­sexuality hitherto, Yu Sŭng-­jin, the
male judge, perceived the intense affection between the female ­couple as ex-
ceeding that of their heterosexual counter­parts, a view frequently voiced by
social critics in the mass media. Indeed, one account launched its discussion
of this hom­i­cide by quoting a neighbor who conveyed his/her intense fear of
lesbian ­couples, ­toward whom the alarmist report encouraged readers to exert
greater vigilance.28 Also partial in his opinion of queer ­women as impassioned,
the presiding judge explic­itly cited a purported difference between homosex-
uals and heterosexuals, even when considering the “straight-­acting” members
of this love triangle. However, much as the Tong’a Ilbo reporter described this
sensational story as a typical case of male adultery, the judge could not but
explain this difference as a m ­ atter of degree rather than as one of kind. Down-
playing the singular dimensions of their relationship, he repositioned the case
within the heterosexist and androcentric par­ameters of jurisprudential prac-
tice. Thus, when adjudicating this crime of passion, the judge reduced Yim’s
penal servitude to five years, a ruling that displayed remarkable sympathy for
her jealousy ­toward Kim and love for Ch’oe.29
Even ­after the threat of a major invasion by North ­Korea subsided in the
early 1960s, newspaper and magazine accounts of female same-­sex relation-
ships continued to highlight their lurid qualities rather than consider the sub-
cultural dynamics of such gynocentric practices. Publicizing crime, death, and
other “perverse” details of their everyday lives, ­these scandalous stories re-
minded readers of non-(re)productive and potentially disruptive forces then
­under the anticommunist and developmentalist command of Park Chung
Hee. To promote heteropatriarchy and ethnonationalism (often articulated
as racial purity) u­ nder a new program of mass dictatorship, reporters framed

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  213

female partnerships as a danger to the health and wealth of South Korean so-
ciety. Even as they signaled a collective threat to the social order, instrumental
repre­sen­ta­tions of queer lives also aimed to contain the life paths of noncon-
forming subjects who, ironically, could read about one another with increas-
ingly frequency in newspapers, magazines, and, soon, weeklies as well. To this
end, popu­lar accounts of coupled ­women highlighted individual sentiments
of misery and regret that they allegedly experienced from same-­sex intimacies.
In the epistemological purview of the mass media, a long-­lasting relationship
between two ­women did not exist, especially ­after marrying one another. Nor
could it produce happiness despite the real­ity that some female-­female rela-
tionships undoubtedly flourished and survived the test of time.30
In one such account published in 1963, the Tong’a Ilbo reported that Yi Sang-­
sun (b. 1929), the thirty-­four-­year-­old, male-­dressed “husband,” was missing
­after she failed to follow the fate of her thirty-­five-­year-­old “wife,” Pak Sun-ae
(b. 1928), who had both agreed to commit suicide by overdosing on pills.31 The
morbid details of their married life underscored the purportedly unstable na-
ture of same-­sex relationships more generally, exacerbated in this case by their
social standing as ex-­convicts. The ­couple met in May of 1962 while serving
sentences for larceny and narcotics, respectively, and, a­ fter bonding in prison,
de­cided to live together shortly a­ fter their release. Having recently divorced
her third male husband, Pak even brought her two d­ aughters (ages three and
twelve) from one former marriage into their new, queer h­ ouse­hold. However,
within less than a year, Yi had lost her “wife” amid an ongoing investigation
into what the police suspected was a deceptive plan of murder, an accusation
implicating Yi in an even more heinous crime. Another account, however, sug-
gests that the two w ­ omen strug­gled to earn enough money to raise Pak’s two
­daughters and, like Yim mentioned above, Yi reportedly experienced a severe
case of Othello syndrome (ŭich’ŏjŭng), driving them to engage in a double sui-
cide that, in the end, only managed to take the life of Pak.32 What­ever the
case, female same-­sex relations served as the dramatic backdrop for injurious
be­hav­ior inflicted on one another and, in the angst-­ridden context of the Cold
War, perpetuated by t­ hose who allegedly threatened South Korean society at
large.
Other reports similarly spotlighted the illicit activities of dangerous fe-
male ­couples rather than acknowledge the precarious conditions they faced
in refusing to depend on men for their material and emotional well-­being.
In the sanctimonious eyes of the newspaper and magazine journalists, such
refusals, almost by implication, turned them into petty criminals. Although

214  |  Todd A. Henry

comparatively ­free from filial responsibilities, nonconforming ­women ­were
thus regularly accused of posing a security threat to local communities and,
by extension, to the heteropatriarchal order of the nation. As an example of
­these epistemological interventions, take Han Mi-ja (b. 1944), a twenty-­one-­
year-­old ­woman from Pusan who was arrested in 1965 for leading a larcenous
gang that included her same-­age “wife,” Pak Hwa-ja (b. 1944). In one crime
covered by the Kyŏnghyang Sinmun, this queer gang even broke into a hetero-
sexual neighbor’s home while the bourgeois c­ ouple attended a theatrical per­
for­mance, stealing possessions valued at 12,000 wŏn.33 Through police arrest
and media scrutiny, readers thus became acquainted with the purported dan-
ger of non-­normative subjects who, like procommunist infiltrators, ­were said
to lurk within South Korean society as po­liti­cal subversives.34 With newspaper
and magazine accounts selectively framing female homoeroticism as an inter-
nal threat, heterosexual readers could thereby reaffirm their own gender and
sexual normativity while imagining and perhaps even responding to queer-
ness as an immoral disruption and assailable impediment to their nation’s path
of cap­i­tal­ist development.
Although they took pains to depict queer w ­ omen as abnormal and crimi-
nal, most reporters refused to consider the inner workings of their relation-
ships and the complex subjectivities of individuals who invariably constituted
them. Such was the case even when a female “husband” engaged in gendered
practices that approximated t­ hose of men but who, b­ ecause of her biological
sex, failed to access male privilege in the public sphere. The popu­lar denuncia-
tion of female masculinity and the subcultural power of Ms. Pants can perhaps
be best seen in the nuanced punctuation of the mass media, especially in terms
of its interrogative voice. Through frequent use of question marks, journalists
regularly cast doubt on other­wise heteronormalized terms separating married
men (husbands) from ­women (wives) and their rigidly determined associa-
tions with patriarchal masculinity and submissive femininity, respectively. To
return to the report on Han Mi-ja and Pak Hwa-ja mentioned e­ arlier, even the
headline, “Same-­Sex Married ­Couple (?) Commits Thievery Together,” re-
fused to admit that two w ­ omen could constitute a legitimate partnership. Nor
did the report acknowledge the role played by a gendered ­labor market that,
­under a male-­dominated regime of capital accumulation, relegated lower-­class
­women to poorly paid, dangerous, and sexualized work.35
As before, the heteronormalizing gaze of this reporter led him to presup-
pose that one w ­ oman—in this case, Mi-­ja—­served as the “husband” in the
­couple. He based this assumption on the fact that, a­ fter arriving in Seoul, Mi-ja

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  215

had cut her hair and masculinized her name to Yong-­hwan, but she likely did
this to acquire higher-­paying jobs typically assumed by men. Adopting the
protective role of a male patriarch, Yong-­hwan (Mi-ja) expressed concern for
the miserable plight of her “wife” upon their imprisonment for theft, pleading
with police officials that she be released. However, in response to t­hese en-
treaties, the reporter once again cast doubt on the legitimacy of their partner-
ship by referring to Yong-­hwan (Mi-­ja)’s ersatz status as “husband” with yet
another question mark. As this episode suggests, the erotic system enacted by
Yong-­hwan (Mi-ja) and Hwa-ja likely functioned as “a power­ful personal code
of be­hav­ior and an organ­izing princi­ple for community life” among Korean
­women who chose to partner with one another.36 But police officials, already
suspicious of the c­ ouple based on their criminal be­hav­ior, rejected Yong-­hwan
(Mi-­ja)’s role as the patriarchal protector of her “wife.”37 Although desperately
in search of wealth and security enjoyed by biological men to provide for their
female partners, masculine ­women such as Yong-­hwan (Mi-ja) ­were thus dis-
empowered in the public sphere. In this way, media reports facilitated a sec-
ondary form of queerspolitation insofar as they encouraged male readers to
reassert their authority over “wayward” w ­ omen through heteropatriarchal and
sexist forms of domination.
In their efforts to heteronormalize queer kinship practices, the mass media
even extended its epistemological reach to extremely male-­presenting ­women,
some of whom may have identified as men. In t­ oday’s parlance, we might de-
scribe t­hese nonconforming individuals as transgender rather than simply
as masculine ­women who, by contrast, strug­gled to pass as biological men.38
­These individuals’ gendered sense of self notwithstanding, newspaper and
magazine journalists often collaborated with local police officers and medical
professionals to monitor and control transgender men. Through ­these efforts,
the mass media exposed ­these queer subjects as social threats to a normative
system of sex dimorphism and gendered ­labor on which authoritarian de-
velopment depended for its (re)productive efficiency. Such was the case of
Yu Yŏng-­ch’ŏl (b. 1937), a twenty-­eight-­year-­old ­woman who, according to a
report published in the Tong’a Ilbo in 1965 as part of the entertaining series
“Topics of the Day,” had passed as a young man since her parents de­cided to
raise and even register the birth as a boy, the sex preferred by most Korean
families.39 As in the case of Han Mi-ja and Pak Hwa-ja, Yu’s story became a
sensational source of public discussion in the context of police surveillance,
including suspicions that this individual had entered a neighbor’s home in the
southern port city of Chinhae (South Kyŏngsang Province) and engaged in

216  |  Todd A. Henry

thievery. However, in this case, Yu’s female sex was determined only during a
medical examination conducted by a local doctor, who curiously noted that
the person’s low voice and flat chest resembled the physical appearance of
most men. Supporting this pseudoscientific judgment of secondary sex char-
acteristics, the newspaper reporter reiterated the social “fact” of Yu’s female
masculinity by similarly noting a discernibly male voice.40 Although willing to
acknowledge this individual’s masculine pre­sen­ta­tion, the account deployed
such observations to confirm an even more disturbing subcultural real­ity—­
namely, that Yu was sexually attracted to ­women and had acted on ­these carnal
desires in the recent past. This account then linked Yu’s gendered and sexual
“deviance” to a proletarian background. That Yu had masqueraded as a man
and performed manual work at a coal briquette factory during the early 1960s
also converted this person into a suspect of social disruption at a time when
protests by male laborers ­were on the rise.41 To provide visual evidence of ag-
gressive be­hav­ior as a cross-­dressed homosexual agitator, the report also in-
cluded a captivating photo­graph of Yu in a tough pose, wearing pants, a shirt,
and boots and sporting a closely cropped haircut—in sum, the sartorial and

Figure 6.1 ​Police, media, and medical discovery of Yu Yŏng-­ch’ŏl’s female masculinity.

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  217

tonsorial practices that had come to define the queer subcultures of extreme
female masculinity and transgender men in postwar South ­Korea (figure 6.1).
Overlooking the physical, social, and cultural signs of Yu’s masculinity,
this spectacular “outing” by police, media, and medical professionals aimed
to reposition this person as a heteronormative w ­ oman, whom they expected
to engage in reproductive and filial practices befitting one’s biological sex. To
return to the media’s nuanced grammar, this report “re-­genderized” Yu by
negating its initial use of the distinctly male suffix kun (mister or unmarried
man) and instead referred to Yu using the gender-­specific female pronoun
yang (miss or unmarried w ­ oman). Such forceful attempts to interpolate Yu as a
“wise ­mother and good wife” ran in the face of this person’s decision to refrain
from wearing ­women’s clothes and to continue enduring heavy l­abor in the
style of working-­class men. Even as the reporter quoted t­ hese nonconformist
words, he ultimately l­ imited Yu’s ability to define a sexual and gendered sense
of self by, yet again, placing two question marks around the article’s conclud-
ing sentences.
One question mark was used to cast doubt on Yu’s intention to eventually
marry another ­woman, while the other ignored the female masculinity under-
girding this desire—­two queer practices that the mass media, in cooperation
with police officials and medical doctors, had so painstakingly sought to tame.
Newspaper and magazine accounts thus came to function as an entertaining
apparatus of moral suasion, encouraging the reading public to look askance
or laugh at ­women’s partnerships and non-­normative embodiments while si­
mul­ta­neously consuming their sexual excesses. By the early 1960s, reporters
had thus come to recognize the subcultural existence of alternative kinship
arrangements, if only for sensationalistic purposes. Moreover, they repeatedly
demeaned ­these “deviations” from heteropatriarchy as a social danger that, if
not properly controlled by mainstream society, might undermine the nation’s
path ­toward economic recovery and global notoriety.

Capitalistic Voyeurism and the Accommodation of

Female Same-­Sex Weddings in Newspaper Weeklies

From the second half of the 1960s, newspaper companies began to expand
their readership by experimenting with weeklies, published u­ nder the patron-
age of an authoritarian state and its censorship apparatus. That the regime sup-
ported ­these publications (and vice versa) can be seen in the c­ areer of Chang
Ki-­yŏng (1916–77).42 A high-­ranking economic adviser to Park Chung Hee,

218  |  Todd A. Henry

Chang became the founding president of Chugan Han’guk, South ­Korea’s first
commercial weekly; l­ater, he served as an assemblyman in Park’s Demo­cratic
Republican Party. In contrast to daily newspapers, this new media form con-
tained much more content (approximately seventy-­five pages in the late 1960s
and three hundred pages by the 1980s) and far longer stories (ranging from
an average of two to a maximum of about ten pages). And whereas dailies
tended to focus on high politics and social concerns, weeklies took advantage
of increasing the media’s cultural content. In addition to publishing stories on
(in)famous entertainers, they capitalized on their niche by including articles
about abject figures, including sex workers, mixed-­race ­children, and queer
subjects. In ­every year of its existence from 1968 ­until 1991, Sŏndei Sŏul (Sun-
day Seoul), the most popu­lar weekly by the 1970s, published accounts on the
perceived threat of female homoeroticism, including the oft-­cited practice of
same-­sex weddings. Aimed at an expanding but still moderate-­size ­middle
class, such profitmaking reports first appeared in late 1964 with the inaugu-
ration of Chugan Han’guk. This racy publication was quickly followed by its
newspaper competitors, which between 1968 and 1969 released their own ver-
sions of the weekly.43 Market competition was so intense that the pioneering
Chugan Han’guk even de­cided to release a s­ ister publication that focused on
­women’s issues in 1969. In the early 1980s, other newspaper companies fol-
lowed suit, releasing their own ­women’s weeklies to cater to this growing con-
sumer market and, in the pro­cess, increase their own profit margins.
To be sure, some journalists writing in ­these publications mentioned the
personal difficulties faced by working-­class queer ­women as they eked out a
living outside officially sanctioned kinship structures. However, most weekly
reporters, hired specifically for their ability to entertain readers with engross-
ing topics, tended to exploit their life choices as a voy­eur­is­tic method of capital
accumulation ­under mass dictatorship.44 As commoditized products for routine
consumption, non-­normative bodies appealed to a national readership of
more than one million by 1970, the slight majority of whom ­were working-­
class men and mostly of a heterosexual proclivity. Sold on the street and by
subscription but also widely available at public places, weeklies offered com-
pensatory pleasures to a range of consumers, more than half of whom ­were
residents of Seoul.45 ­These psychic rewards allowed middle-­class men (and
some ­women) to reassert their bourgeois privilege over working-­class persons
represented in media exoposés. For their part, blue-­collar workers could
enhance their status as gender-­and sexually normative citizens by consum-
ing stories about queer subjects. A response to gynocentric subcultures

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  219

that furtively thrived despite heteropatriarchal dictates, coverage of w ­ omen’s
same-­sex weddings in par­tic­u­lar came to function as misogynistic and trans-
phobic entertainment aimed at softening the corrosive effects of deepening
inequalities between the bourgeois and proletariat classes.46
In addition to a growing domestic market for middlebrow culture, the
popularity of newspaper weeklies should also be considered in the context
of “sexual revolutions” that spanned much of the cap­i­tal­ist world by the early
1970s.47 ­Under the Park regime, po­liti­cal leaders modeled development plans
­after more advanced economies while adapting them to fit the military exi-
gencies of confronting their northern rival.48 ­These transnational and Cold
War contexts help explain why weeklies featured carefully crafted stories of
non-­normative practices, such as “­free sex,” homo­sexuality, and sex change
operations. However, scandalous accounts of queer lifestyles at home often
appeared in strategic comparison with their overseas counter­parts, particu-
larly the liberal socie­ties of the West. Japan, ­Korea’s former colonizer and the
primary inspiration for the emergence of national weeklies during the mid-­to
late 1960s, also figured in the comparative imagination of sexual and gender
emancipation ­under an illiberal regime of capital accumulation.49 For exam-
ple, the South Korean press closely followed the gay power movement in the
United States and Western Eu­rope, which, by the 1970s, began to advocate for
the ­legal recognition of same-­sex relationships. Although politicized in dif­fer­
ent ways in the southern half of the peninsula, domestic publications also cov-
ered the purportedly novel phenomenon of nonconforming w ­ omen, whom
they accused of partnering with one another in defiance of heteropatriarchal
(but not ­legal) conventions. Shortly ­after its creation in late 1968, Chugan
Kyŏnghyang, for example, published its first report on female homoeroticism
in which it conveyed to new readers that foreign magazines had taken the lead
in introducing coverage of scandalous topics.50 ­These historical pre­ce­dents
paved the way for South K ­ orea’s own weeklies to more fully exploit queer bod-
ies as a form of capitalistic voyeurism.
In addition to the latest gossip on performers working in the entertainment
industry and graphic photo­graphs of seminude w ­ omen (aimed at heterosexual
men but likely also consumed by female shadow readers attracted to other
­women),51 sales of weeklies depended on invasive reporters obtaining scoops
of such shocking stories as female same-­sex weddings. To some degree, ­these
profit-­driven stories followed the investigative techniques of newspaper jour-
nalists, with whom weekly reporters shared a constant flow of information and
a common workspace.52 Indeed, their accounts contain a considerable level of

220  |  Todd A. Henry

detail aimed at substantiating the facticity of eccentric topics, especially to de-
scribe the bodies and practices of queer subjects. However, weekly reporters
took a comparatively higher degree of authorial license than daily journalists.
As a result, the content of investigative reports published in weeklies often dif-
fered across newspaper companies, whereas dailies tended to resemble one an-
other. As discussed ­later, even a weekly that released a story about one female
same-­sex wedding in the recent past could claim in a similar report published
just a few years ­later that two ­women seeking symbolic recognition of their re-
lationship was the first of its kind.53 To provide regular shock value to readers,
newspaper weeklies recycled many narrative strategies, a profit-­oriented tactic
that aligned with popu­lar efforts (e.g., in homes, schools, and workplaces) to
contain the disruptive potential of gynocentric practices. To this end, they also
reprinted intrusive photo­graphs of South Korean w ­ omen (or used unrelated
foreign ­women) that had appeared in ­earlier accounts of same-­sex weddings.
Although it is unclear ­whether readers recalled ­these ­earlier cases, entrepre-
neurial journalists acted as if stories and images of queer subjects had indeed
receded from the memory of media consumers, just as media consumers
tended to blithely dispose weekly publications as soon as a new issue appeared.
Mirroring the disavowal of non-­normative subjects, this repeated practice of
disposal coincided with the numbing pace of South Korean capitalism itself.
Such media strategies and consumption patterns can be seen in a pioneer-
ing exposé published in Chugan Han’guk about two w ­ omen who chose to tie
54
the knot at a Seoul nunnery in late 1965. Intent on selling this story as the
country’s first same-­sex wedding, the journalist began his report by intro-
ducing the newlywed c­ ouple to enthusiastic readers: Pak Hak-­bun (b. 1932),
the thirty-­three-­year-­old “husband,” and her thirty-­two-­year-­old “wife,” Yi
Chŏng-su (b. 1933). ­After conveying their ­legal names with aliases, he pro-
ceeded to divulge the exact address of their home in Yŏngdŭngp’o—an area
in western Seoul that was filled with industrial factories and home to many of
the city’s (lumpen) proletariat.55 At the time, newspaper companies regularly
printed the addresses of criminals and other “deviants” as ­matters of public
concern rather than respecting their right to privacy (for this reason, in the
photos I have placed black bars over their eyes, an anonymizing practice not
usually followed by the mass media during the authoritarian period).56 ­After
Chugan Han’guk made its debut in late 1964, journalists writing for other commer-
cial weeklies built on such invasive techniques. In ­these queersploitative accounts
of female homoeroticism, intrepid reporters shamelessly publicized lurid
details about the lives of nonconforming w ­ omen. In this way, they sought

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  221

to ­capitalize on their “exotic” relationships, expanding each com­pany’s read-
ership, and, ultimately, increasing their own profits. To return to the above-
mentioned exposé as an example, the account recalled the reporter’s intrusive
style, likening his unsolicited visit to the home of Pak and Yi to a graphic scene
from an erotic film, a topic about which weeklies frequently reported. As he
wrote in the main body of the report, “I risked improprieties by attempting to
visit the bridal chamber” (sillye rŭl murŭp ssŭgo sinbang ŭl t’ambang hebonda).
Although a stranger to the newly­weds, the invasive journalist exploited popu­
lar postnuptial practices to position himself as a nosy ­family member intent
on confirming that the c­ ouple had consummated the marriage. To further
describe working-­class ­couples such as Yi and Pak, he drew on historical tra-
ditions of elite Koreans—­using the term maetdol pubu, for example, to refer
to their romantic lives. Literally translated as “millstone c­ ouples,” this expres-
sion described the circular orifices that characterize ­these agricultural tools
while si­mul­ta­neously evoking the genitalia of Korean court ladies (kungnyŏ)
who w ­ ere known to have engaged in sexual relations with one another during
the Chosŏn Dynasty (1392–1910).57 Through such lurid allusions, the reporter
thus invited readers to participate vicariously in the ceremonial and everyday
lives of queer w ­ omen as voy­eur­is­tic spectators, even as he admitted that Pak
and Yi’s own neighbors remained indifferent (mugwansim) to the newlyweds.
While first visiting their home in search of an interview, the reporter found
the ­couple’s pet dog, Johnny, protecting their bedroom door, another detail
evoking the erotic aftermath of solemn matrimonial rites. A creative media
that combined textual and visual repre­sen­ta­tions, newspaper weeklies sought
to document investigative “facts” by providing pictorial evidence to intrigued
consumers. Adopting this evidentiary technique, Chugan Han’guk printed an
image likely taken by the meddlesome reporter himself or by an accompany-
ing cameraman. Although a curtain hung to conceal the bedding of the bridal
chamber, as one scandalous subtitle read, the reporter eventually pried his
way into this private site of queer intimacy, exposing it to the gaze of hetero-
sexual men while perhaps also inadvertently stoking the homoerotic desires
of “shadow-­reading” ­women. What­ever the case, the intrusion allowed him to
describe the contents of the ­couple’s bedroom, including new bedclothes and
pillows they had received as wedding gifts.
On a second visit to their home, the reporter entered the kitchen, where
he fi­nally met Pak’s “wife.” This “surprise attack” (sŭpgyŏk), as he unapologeti-
cally called it, led a startled Yi to close the kitchen door in self-­defense, as the
reporter proceeded to make another raid on their sleeping quarters. Having

222  |  Todd A. Henry

Figure 6.2 ​South Korean wedding between “millstone couple.” Caption reads:
­Wedding ceremony conducted on November 20, 1965, at T’apgol Nunnery. Full-­fledged
bride and groom, but groom (left) is female.

already published their address, the article also revealed that journalists from
other weeklies continued to hound the ­couple to obtain further details about
their unusual relationship.58 One zealous reporter even claimed to have been
dispatched from a police station and proceeded to use this mantle of official
sanction to indiscriminately take a picture of their f­ aces, not unlike the photo­
graph that appeared in the Chugan Han’guk exposé (figure 6.2).
It is worth noting the unknown origin of this image and o­ thers like it. Did
the reporter convince Yi and Pak to shoot this wedding picture, or did they

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  223

provide it to him? Although unlikely, at least some same-­sex ­couples may have
agreed to publicize their relationships, perhaps as a way of dignifying them in
the eyes of profit-­driven weeklies and their voy­eur­is­tic readers.
What­ever the case, reporters of same-­sex relationships tended to frame the
subcultural dynamics of queer kinship practices in normative terms compre-
hensible to and enjoyed by heterosexual men, even as their accounts also tar-
geted (potentially) “deviant” w ­ omen. For example, the 1965 exposé sought to
realign the gendered appearance and personality of Yi and Pak within a binary
structure of man/husband and woman/wife. The bright and active character
of Pak, the male-­dressed partner, was thus described as exceeding that of bio-
logical men, a comparative gesture that compensated for her presumed female
anatomy. She reportedly possessed a high-­pitched voice and lacked facial hair,
secondary sex characteristics indicating femaleness, but her gaunt face resem-
bled that of most laboring men. In mirrorlike fashion, this part of Pak’s physi-
cal appearance matched her lower-­middle-­class background as an agricultural
hand in her hometown of Sosa (Kyŏnggi Province), where she managed a
successful shop before it burned down in 1962. By contrast, Yi wore womanly
attire consisting of a pink skirt and chestnut brown sweater when the intrusive
journalist found her washing dishes, ­house­work expected of a “wise ­mother
and good wife.” The owner of a hair salon, she was also described as possessing
a bashful and h­ umble nature, characteristically feminine traits useful in cater-
ing to female clients. Yi, a native of Yesan (South Ch’ungch’ŏng Province), first
met Pak when Pak visited Blonde Hair Beauty Salon in the summer of 1965.
Pak quickly become Yi’s most admiring client.
Coverage of their wedding, a public ceremony likely aimed at proving their
love for one another in a society with a strong marriage imperative, formal-
ized but did not ossify the binary opposition already captured by the depic-
tion of their personalities and physical attributes. The clothing worn by female
newlyweds dramatically underscored this dichotomy, especially in the hetero
­normalizing framework of weekly journalists. The “groom,” Pak, thus appeared
in a Western-­style suit, while Yi donned the Korean-­style dress (hanbok) typi-
cally worn by brides of her day. This sartorial dyad was likely the only way in
which two w ­ omen could pre­sent their relationship to f­amily members and
friends, more than one hundred of whom they reportedly convinced to at-
tend their wedding. However, Pak and Yi did not simply wear masculine and
feminine wedding attire as a form of heteronormative mimicry or even to pass
as a straight ­couple, although some ­people may have mistaken them as such.
Rather, they redeployed t­ hese aesthetic conventions to develop a unique style

224  |  Todd A. Henry

of queer self-­fashioning, one central to an erotic system premised on w
­ omen
publicly recognizing one another as ­women. Such sartorial complementarities
occasionally came to light in weeklies’ photo­graphs that sought to visualize
the intimate lives of ­these ­women rather than focus on their matrimonial rites.
A report published in 1970 (discussed l­ater) reveals considerable differences
between the dichotomous sartorial style of the ­couple’s formal wedding por-
trait (figure 6.3) and a far less binary image of the newlyweds, as they both
relax at home in Western-­style clothing (figure 6.4).59

Figure 6.3 ​Dyadic sartorial practices. Caption reads: Posing side by side in front of cam-
era ­after (1970) wedding ceremony ­attended by approximately 400 guests (sightseers).
Figure 6.4 ​Their nondichotomous counterparts. Caption reads: Same-­sex ­couple
seated at home ­after their (1970) wedding ceremony. Photo­graph taken by the re-
porter, Ch’oe Kap-­sik.
 Although same-­sex weddings w ­ ere sensationalized as an entirely new phe-
nomenon in 1965, this was not the first time that Korean ­women formalized
their love for one another.60 Even as Chugan Han’guk touted its own account
as historic, Pak managed to refute this disingenuous claim, reminding read-
ers that similar ceremonies had recently taken place at vari­ous wedding halls
across Seoul. In addition to explic­itly downplaying their novel character, she
offered a rare critique of weeklies’ reporters for capitalizing on their efforts to
dignify female same-­sex love with and against Korean traditions of hetero-­
matrimony. Despite Pak’s bold critique, newspaper weeklies continued to
exploit ­these profitmaking stories, repeatedly dramatizing a seemingly new
queer ­union as the country’s first while ultimately rendering their protagonists
as abnormal and thus in need of biopo­liti­cal management.61 As one early ac-
count of Seoul’s lesbian community admitted, “A ­woman marrying a man and
living together cannot possibly become the subject of a news report, but if a
­woman weds another ­woman and enjoys a sexual life like a married [hetero-
sexual] ­couple, that is a story.”62
As if forgetting their e­ arlier exposé and similar accounts that appeared dur-
ing the late 1960s, Chugan Han’guk and its ­sister publication, Chugan Yŏsŏng,
ran two stories in 1970 with the catchy, if apocryphal, title “South K ­ orea’s First
Same-­Sex Wedding Ceremony.”63 Even before t­hese sensationalistic reports
hit newsstands on September 27, the ceremony, held a week ­earlier at a wed-
ding hall in rural Kangwŏn Province, reportedly attracted more than four
hundred enthusiastic onlookers in addition to more than one hundred invited
guests. According to one account, this record-­breaking number exceeded that
of any other marital ser­vice ever performed at the provincial wedding hall.
This statistical claim, its accuracy notwithstanding, lent an air of popularity
to wedding rites, much as previous descriptions of same-­sex weddings had
sought to induce the vicarious participation of voy­eur­is­tic readers. To a na-
tionwide audience of media consumers, the rural location of the u­ nion also
suggested that female homoeroticism extended well beyond the urban en-
claves of South ­Korea, reaching its most remote villages. Capitalizing on the
spurious logic of firsts, one particularly hyperbolic and nationalistic account
indicated the historic meaning of same-­sex weddings by claiming that the
­union in 1970 of Sŏ T’ae-­yang (b. 1938), a thirty-­two-­year-­old woman, and her
thirty-­one-­year-­old partner, Ch’oe Ch’un-­hŭi (b. 1939), was “the [most] shock-
ing [news] since Tan’gun,” the mythical godfather of the Korean p­ eople. De-
fining female weddings by their dangerous ubiquity, reporters undercut such
gynocentric ­unions by questioning their social legitimacy ­under a Cold War

226  |  Todd A. Henry

regime of cap­i­tal­ist accumulation. They did so by describing ­these noncon-
forming practices as outlandish manifestations of venerated kinship practices
and thus worthy of homophobic and misogynistic laughter by weekly readers.
To return to the 1970 case, the journalist highlighted the unusual relationship
of Sŏ and Ch’oe, recalling that the wedding officiant had beseeched the c­ ouple
to produce many offspring, a heteropatriarchal expectation that they obvi-
ously could not fulfill. It is unclear ­whether the reporter witnessed this joke
firsthand, heard about it from someone ­else ­after the fact, or in­ven­ted it for
comic effect. What­ever the case, the officiant’s congratulatory remark report-
edly generated intense laughter among a crowd who already knew the ­couple’s
anatomical secret, notwithstanding their gender-­normative appearance as
“bride” and “groom.”
Even as their relationship led to scandalous rumors that shadowed them
at the wedding ceremony and beyond, this unusual love story was “straight-
ened” out for popu­lar consumption, crafted into an account about idealized
practices of Korean kinship u­ nder authoritarian development. To this end,
the reporter created collective feelings of sympathy for the lower-­class stand-
ing of Sŏ and Ch’oe and their remarkable history of strug­gle. While references
to their queerness likely appealed to the gender-­normative and heterosexual
status of working-­class readers (mostly men, but some ­women, too), they
also enhanced the class privilege of bourgeois consumers. Filtered through
an unlikely tale of romance, their history of mutual poverty likely resonated
with the reading public ­because the mass media presented it as a compelling
account of postwar success. It thus offered hope to the material aspirations
of the proletariat, even as the exploitation of its l­ abor power only further en-
riched the m
­ iddle and upper classes ­under mass dictatorship. Although profit-­
driven weeklies often hypersexualized female ­unions, a focus on lower-­class
solidarities led to countervailing narratives that, by contrast, described non-
conforming ­women in platonic terms of economic survival. The story about
Sŏ and Ch’oe exemplify ­these desexualizing interventions, which aimed to
accommodate their queer kinship practices into the heteropatriarchal imagi-
nation of the reading public. According to several reports, the c­ ouple met
on April 8, 1970, the Buddha’s birthday. On that auspicious day, Sŏ, a hair-
dresser, journeyed to a neighboring town, where she met her f­uture “wife,”
Ch’oe, a shaman. Mesmerized by Ch’oe’s singing and dancing at an exorcism,
Sŏ de­cided to travel ­every week to visit Ch’oe before quickly moving in to-
gether in May of the same year. Although perhaps sexually attracted to one
another, what reportedly brought them together was the common experience

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  227

of penury, a theme mentioned in many accounts of female ­couples during
the postwar period. Sŏ, for example, was the youn­gest of seven ­children.
When poverty hit, she de­cided to leave her hometown of P’ohang (North
Kyŏngsang Province) for Kangwŏn Province, where she styled hair at a local
beauty salon, a reputable profession that gave many hardworking w ­ omen the
chance to earn a decent living wage. Unlike the tomboyish Sŏ, who remained
single and childless, Ch’oe married a man when she was twenty-­five and even
bore two c­ hildren, according to one account. However, her stigmatized pro-
fession as a shaman dissatisfied her husband, who insisted on a divorce, thus
leaving her as a single m­ other. Even as her abandonment revealed the vaga-
ries of heteropatriarchy and the suffering caused by irresponsible husbands/
fathers, such stories likely appealed to the material and emotional strug­gles
of postwar South Koreans, especially working-­class ­women. Even a mascu-
line w­ oman such as Sŏ could, ironically, come to function as a model of com-
passionate love for men to follow in conjugal relations with w ­ omen. Extolling
the virtues of mutual re­spect, the 1970 account foregrounded the desirability
of a lifelong commitment to hetero-­matrimony and patriarchal duties. How-
ever, it also underscored the social abnormality of female homoeroticism
insofar as kinship practices ­adopted by queer ­women prohibited them from
“naturally” producing a male heir, even if they could raise ­adopted ­children.
Although unable to access the material rewards of becoming a “good ­mother
and wise wife,” Ch’oe committed herself to supporting Sŏ in an alternative,
gynocentric arrangement. Using this decision to downplay the sexual nature
of their relationship, the reporter quoted Sŏ as saying, “I needed someone to
support me, [someone] who gives me her heart while I lend mine to her. . . . ​
I believe that we can offer one another emotional comfort even if I cannot
provide [her] physical plea­sure.”64 Their relationship was thus rhetorically
accommodated within the country’s system of heteropatriarchy, but they
occupied a precarious position on its economic and cultural margins. This
predicament was perhaps best underscored by their efforts to obtain ­legal
recognition of their matrimony, a highly uncommon practice among same-­
sex c­ ouples during the authoritarian period.65
Equally remarkable was Sŏ’s own attempt to communicate with the read-
ing public by writing her own account of their relationship, thus responding
to media sensationalism that came to shadow their nonconforming relation-
ship.66 Published in a ­woman’s magazine in early 1971, this first-­person account
is extremely rare for the authoritarian period insofar as it gave voice to a queer
subject to tell her own story in her own words. As the title (“­Don’t Ask about

228  |  Todd A. Henry

Our Erotic Life”) suggests, Sŏ strategically sought to de-­sexualize and thus
normalize her partnership with Ch’oe, dignifying herself as a masculinize
­woman and their same-­sex relationship in ways that heterosexual and gender-­
normative readers might understand. To gain their sympathy and re­spect,
she crafted an emotionally moving story of class strug­gle and ­family sacrifice,
positioning herself as a filial d­ aughter of an under-­developed nation. Given
­Korea’s rigid and dimorphic systems of gender and sex, Sŏ initially defined
herself as a man, likening her social position to her male counter­parts who had
also married w ­ omen. The only difference between them, she insisted, was the
obvious inability of two ­women to give birth to a male heir according to heter-
opatriarchal dictates. Having defined her social maleness in terms of marrying
another ­woman, Sŏ was forced to explain the c­ ouple’s reproductive challenges
based on their female bodies, which she contrasted to ­those of intersex and
transgender persons. Although Sŏ did not explic­itly mention infertile men
or w
­ omen, readers familiar with this common condition may have ­imagined
their own social predicament in ways that connected to this same-­sex ­couple’s
own childlessness.
Having pragmatically used binary definitions of gender and sex to posi-
tion herself in terms of normative bound­aries, Sŏ explained how she came
to live as a social man in the body of a biological ­woman, itself a bold act that
destabilized ­these very dichotomies. Her tearful account also forced readers
to reconsider how mass-­mediated repre­sen­ta­tions exploited queer persons
and subjected them to further pain. Sŏ’s personal history focused on how
class-­based poverty and gendered duties led her to cross-­dress and engage in
male forms of ­labor for her ­family’s survival. In defining her social maleness
in terms of filial piety, she distanced herself from transgender identification
or even one of gender nonconformity. Rather than focusing on an atomized
subjectivity, she underscored her low-­class position as one of ten c­ hildren
in a fishing ­family. Agonizingly reliving a childhood tragedy, Sŏ highlighted
this destitution by revealing the early 1950 death of her three younger b­ rothers,
whom she herself buried not far from P’ohang. Desperately seeking to sup-
port her ­family, she took the extreme mea­sure of becoming a rough-­and-­
tumble farmhand (mŏsŭm’ae) while assuming female jobs, such as washing
the laundry of so-­called Western whores during and ­after the Korean War.
At seventeen, Sŏ even disobeyed her own parents who wanted her to attend
high school, escaping to nearby P’ohang in search of a professional skill. ­After
amassing 10,000 wŏn during a year of work at a knitting mill, she attended a
six-­month course to become a hair designer, a position then popu­lar among

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  229

­ omen. However, continuing to live as a ­woman would subject her to lower
w
wages than her male counter­parts, some of whom had also begun to work
in the beauty industry.67 Articulated as an economic choice to support her
­family while her b­ rothers completed their schooling and military ser­v ice,
she strategically chose to cross-dress as a man to obtain a higher salary. Ac-
cording to Sŏ’s account of filial success, this decision ultimately paid off, al-
lowing her to return home for her ­father’s sixtieth birthday party (hwangap
chanch’i), the expenses for which she reportedly shouldered in the conven-
tional mold of a filial son.
By twenty-six, her gradual “assimilation into [becoming] a complete male”
(wanjŏn han namsŏng ŭro tonghwa), as Sŏ described it, fi­nally led her to
consider marrying another w ­ oman. But only ­after ensuring the economic
survival of her f­amily and promoting the professional success of her older
­brothers did she begin to pursue her own romantic interests. In describing
her sexuality, Sŏ minimized the purported deviance of female homoeroticism
which, as discussed e­ arlier, the mass media had so salaciously foregrounded
in reports about their relationship. While admitting that, as a teenager, she had
found beautiful w ­ omen more attractive than handsome men, Sŏ explained
that her same-­sex desires only took root when she learned of female ­couples
from her boss at the P’ohang beauty salon, where she also witnessed firsthand
such nonconforming ­women. Sŏ’s familiarity with lesbianism was further de-
veloped ­after watching the 1960 film Chilt’u ( Jealousy), the first South Korean
film to portray female homoeroticism on screen.68 It is pos­si­ble that she took
advantage of such gynocentric repre­sen­ta­tions to rewrite ­earlier memories
of her own same-­sex desires which, at this time, ­were virtually unspeakable,
especially as an unmarried adult. In the film, the female protagonist’s psychi-
atric treatment for a deep-­seated hatred of men fi­nally allows her to abandon
lesbianism, which doctors had (mis)diagnosed as schizophrenia. By contrast,
Sŏ’s invocation of this pivotal film became an empowering source of legiti-
macy for romantic relations with other w ­ omen, intimate bonds that she also
managed to de-­pathologize. Although voy­eur­is­tic readers may have been
disappointed by her muted reference of same-­sex intimacy, Sŏ’s relation to
heteropatriarchy as a marginalized w ­ oman and her poor upbringing as a mas-
culine farmhand (and, ­later, as a male-­dressed hair designer) came to define
her queer selfhood as a social man. In this way, she followed her own wish to
marry another w ­ oman while seeking to gain the re­spect of f­amily members
and national readers. Protecting the ­couple’s sexual life from the voy­eur­is­tic
gaze of the mass media also allowed Sŏ to shift public attention away from

230  |  Todd A. Henry

lesbians-as-atomized individuals and ­toward a critical focus on the collec-
tivized subordination of ­women to androcentric families. Meanwhile, the
creation of her own gynocentric f­amily—an arrangement that, by its very
definition, could not produce a biological male heir—­created new kinship
connections that extended beyond normative confines that restricted but
did not control queer ­women. Sŏ concluded her remarkable account by urg-
ing readers to sympathize with the ­couple’s predicament and journalists to
refrain from exploiting their lives, but neither group ultimately heeded her
earnest request.

Queer Romance as Tragic Tales

and Their Heteronormative Endings

Although primarily functioning to further empower heterosexual men (espe-

cially the proletariat) at the expense of queer w ­ omen, voy­eur­is­tic accounts of
female homoeroticism ironically tended to depict male readers as unreliable
and sometimes even violent, particularly in their roles as husbands. When ex-
plaining the driving force b­ ehind same-­sex weddings, journalists often alleged
that such mistreatment problematically led other­wise normative ­women into
one another’s arms for emotional and economic support as well as for erotic
plea­sure. Even as reporters hypersexualized gynocentric practices to capture
male readers’ attention and thereby ensure profit margins, their androcentric
framework downplayed queer w ­ omen’s own desires for romantic intimacy
and material stability, focusing instead on the allegedly wayward but reform-
able qualities of men. Weeklies’ accounts of same-­sex weddings thus func-
tioned as cautionary tales directed at men, whose misogyny resulted in the
proverbial loss of “their” ­women to other South Korean ­women or, worse yet,
to American gis stationed throughout the country as an anticommunist bul-
wark. At a time of rapid social change and cultural flux, ­these male-­centered
repre­sen­ta­tions worked to reinforce heteropatriarchy and ethnonationalism
as normative princi­ples of cap­i­tal­ist development, especially ­under the re-
pressive Yusin system (1972–79) but also beyond the dictatorial reign of Pak
Chung Hee.69
As suggested ­earlier, a critical reading of newspaper weeklies suggests that
­women who symbolically married each other experienced a complex mixture
of childhood poverty, negative experiences with men, non-­normative gender
embodiments, and same-­sex desires. For ­these reasons, they often expressed
hope that a relationship with another ­woman would fulfill their desires to

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  231

pursue a personally satisfying and eco­nom­ically sustainable livelihood, one
outside more stable but potentially unfulfilling relations of hetero-­matrimony.
Although they chose to live on the margins of South Korean society, their
decisions to perform wedding rites ­were likely aimed at proving their moral
respectability to ­family and friends who pressured them to (re)marry. How-
ever, even when same-­sex ­couples made such public proclamations, their
loved ones did not necessarily accept them, especially b­ ecause they could
not produce biological heirs, which, in turn, produced an associative blight
on the ­family. While amusing male readers with sensational entertainment,
media accounts of queer kinship practices, which reappeared throughout the
1970s and 1980s, thus also served as implicit warnings to other (potentially)
“deviant” ­women. Deploying heteropatriarchal and ethnonationalist ide-
ologies of cultural conformity ­under Hot War developmentalism, reports of
same-­sex weddings tended to demean their relationships as unfilial and even
unpatriotic. ­These epistemological interventions further trivialized gynocen-
tric ­unions as unsustainable and thus likely to unravel, often in uncomfortable
and violent ways. Meanwhile, weekly accounts of queer romance refused to
explain t­ hese outcomes in terms of the authoritarian state’s unwillingness to
sanction or protect their relationships, instead placing sole blame on female
actors themselves. As such, the mass media assumed that the alleged wretched
nature of queer w ­ omen’s lives could be improved only through (re)unification
with Korean men, albeit as ongoing objects of patriarchal control and sexual
subordination.
Two weekly reports published in 1974 reveal the insidious nature of
­these epistemological interventions. Like other working-­class ­couples, both
Kim Min-­suk (b. 1933), a forty-­one-­year-­old ­woman, and her thirty-­year-­
old “wife,” Yim Mi-ae (b. 1944), had overcome a long history of suffering
at the expense of men. In a formula common in Buddhist philosophy, Kim
explained their painful experiences in the pre­sent as the result of wrathful
karma from a former life.70 Born in the port city of Inch’ŏn, Kim was one of
four c­ hildren raised by a poor f­amily whose ­father worked as a day laborer.
Only able to gradu­ate from ­middle school, Kim drifted onto a nearby base
occupied by the U.S. military. Following a path commonly taken by down-
trodden ­women, she worked as a h­ ouse­maid for an American gi stationed at
Pup’yŏng (formerly, Kyŏnggi Province). The job allowed her to accumulate
enough money to leave the camp town in search of an in­de­pen­dent livelihood.
However, her fortune soon vanished when, at twenty-­four, she began dating
an unfaithful Korean man who squandered her savings on a costly gambling

232  |  Todd A. Henry

habit. Worse yet, he regularly assaulted her—an offense that, although infre-
quently prosecuted, landed him in jail. Unable to marry a Korean man and
bear him an heir, Kim then turned to William, an American sergeant. She
reportedly found herself more satisfied as his live-in wife, but their relation-
ship provoked the scorn of ­family members and close friends who berated
her as a “Western whore.”71 Kim’s attempted escape from poverty through
interracial intimacy, a situation enabled by South K ­ orea’s subordination as a
Hot War ally of the U.S., was thus stymied by an ethnonationalist ideology
of racial purity. This ideology belittled lower-­class individuals like Kim who
­were forced to rely on American soldiers but whose neo-­imperial presence
tended to reward bourgeois ele­ments of South Korean society that supported
state goals of cap­i­tal­ist accumulation. Such dependencies ultimately led to
the traumatic end of their relationship. Not long ­after William ended his tour
and returned to the U.S., he reportedly died in a car crash. This tragic acci-
dent left a twice-­abandoned Kim without the material support of a man to
overcome her enduring poverty, even when she depended on the perceived
wealth of American camp towns.72
At this very moment of intense suffering, Kim met her ­future “wife” who,
according to one account, was working as a hairdresser in a beauty salon
near It’aewŏn, where Kim had been residing since William’s transfer to the
nearby U.S. military base at Yongsan (Seoul).73 A native of San’gol (North
Ch’ungch’ŏng Province), Yim also grew up in poverty. Her low-paid f­ ather,
a cotton worker, died when she was just four, leaving the ­family with-
out a stable source of income. To make ends meet, Yim accompanied her
­mother to the capital in search of work. ­After finishing primary school, Yim
served as an apprentice at a beauty salon and, a­ fter years of hard l­abor,
fi­nally became an in­de­pen­dent hairdresser. Like Kim, she reportedly tried
her lot with men, but when she discovered that her fiancé was already mar-
ried and had young ­children, she left him. Although unable to consummate
a hetero-­marital ­union, she fi­nally met Kim, with whom she could com-
miserate about their miserable lives. So close did the bond between ­these
two ­women become that they de­cided to hold a wedding ceremony in
Kim’s hometown of Inch’ŏn, where the ­couple eventually settled in a mod-
est ­house and ran a small store selling Western imports. They even raised
a young girl, a two-­year-­old orphan who mysteriously appeared on their
doorstep. Although the girl was from the bloodline of another ­family, they
reportedly raised her as their own child, giving her Yim’s last name and
entering her into her ­family registry. Although not always as successful in

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  233

their efforts, many other female c­ ouples expressed strong desires to adopt
­children from local orphanages or produce offspring with male friends (fig-
ures 6.5 and 6.6).74
To be sure, ­these accounts acknowledged queer ­women such as Yim and
Kim as homosocial beings and thus honorary members of the nation by dint
of their unofficial matrimony and, in this case, child-­rearing practices. How-
ever, even voy­eur­is­tic reports about their romantic life tended to negate the
possibility of c­ ouples’ homo­sexuality, explained away e­ ither as a psychologi-
cal abnormality or an insignificant part of their relationship. Providing evi-
dence to substantiate this disavowal of same-­sex desire, one journalist even
quoted Kim, who had sought to dignify their relationship by describing it as
“platonic love” rather than as another racy story of lesbianism.75 It is quite
pos­si­ble that such expressions of one’s intimate subjectivity, which refused to
establish a stable identity based primarily on orientation, existed as a social
practice during this era. It may even have been prevalent among w ­ omen who

Figure 6.5 ​Child-rearing by female same-sex couples. Caption reads: Devoted ­couple spends

weekend after­noon [with child] at Namsan Park. Groom is on left; bride is on right (1969).
Figure 6.6 ​Caption reads: Holding son, Hŭi-­dong, two parents found photo studio one
day. [Playing] wife’s role (?), Yun (right) asserts their happiness as f­ amily (1969).
challenged social norms as a means of economic survival or emotional ful-
fillment but who did not consider themselves “sexual minorities” or agitate
for h­ uman rights. Although this liberal framework has become increasingly
dominant since the 1990s, it still does not encompass e­ very queer community
in South K ­ orea (and elsewhere) t­ oday.76 W
­ hether mentioned in weeklies’ ac-
counts or articulated by w ­ omen themselves (whose words w ­ ere also mediated
through the sensational gaze of the mass media), repudiations and affirma-
tions of female homo­sexuality during the authoritarian era usually appeared
in the ­limited contexts of heteropatriarchy and ethnonationalism. Other­wise
subversive reports about ­women such as Kim and Yim who de­cided to tie the
knot (regardless of ­whether they ­were lesbian) thus tended to surface in refer-
ence to the predicament of heterosexual Korean men. In this way, they came
to function as cautionary tales about the consequences of men not marrying
and impregnating South Korean w ­ omen, who, as a result, allegedly flirted with
interracial and same-­sex love. Read in this way, disavowals of female homo-
eroticism worked to recursively contain a national community that, although
increasingly prosperous in general terms by the 1980s, remained rife with class
tensions and racial fissures. Although not necessarily named as such, non-
conformity to gender conventions and sexual norms perhaps most dramati-
cally indexed ­these internal divisions and marked the normative bound­aries
of femininity, especially in its idealized bourgeois form of “wise m ­ other and
good wife.”
Such dynamics can be seen in the tumultuous relationship between Kim
Nae-ok (b. 1949), a thirty-­six-­year-­old ­woman, and her “husband,” the forty-­
six-­year-­old Kim Kwi-­nae (b. 1939) in 1985.77 According to reports in vari­ous
weeklies, this ­couple tied the knot in May of that year at Taeansa, a Buddhist
­temple on the outskirts of Wŏnju (Kyŏnggi Province). Born in Mokp’o (South
Chŏlla Province), Nae-ok, the second d­ aughter from a f­ amily of four c­ hildren,
grew up in poverty, having lost both parents at a young age. She was only able
to complete primary school and subsequently worked as a h­ ouse­maid to
support her siblings. Nae-ok was especially dedicated to her elder b­ rother,
who, according to a social system that privileged older siblings, she hoped
would attend college and thereby elevate the socioeconomic standing of her
­family. In 1969, at age twenty, Nae-ok relocated to Wŏnju, where, a­ fter working
several odd jobs for three years, she amassed enough money to open a restau-
rant specializing in pork ribs. She thus became known as a ttosun’i, a “head-­
smart” ­woman who became eco­nom­ically in­de­pen­dent. However, in this queer
version of an iconic figure popu­lar in film and lit­er­a­ture, the ingenious ­woman

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  235

remained unmarried ­until her mid-­thirties.78 Luckily, Nae-ok soon met her
­future “husband,” Kwi-­nae. ­After graduating high school in her hometown of
Kwangju (South Chŏlla Province), Kwi-­nae spent several de­cades working as
a taxi driver, a male-­dominated occupation often associated with lesbianism.79
According to several accounts, Kwi-­nae had once wed another w ­ oman but de­
cided to end their four-­year marriage to date Nae-ok. In 1980, at forty-­one,
Kwi-­nae reportedly received a revelation from God and began studying des-
tiny philosophy (unmyŏng ch’ŏlhak), a field in which she excelled. Several years
­later, she moved to Wŏnju, where she became known for her healing skills.
­Those skills impressed Nae-ok, who visited Kwi-­nae as a client in the fall of
1984. Only seven months ­later, they tied the knot.
Unfortunately, the postnuptial life of many same-­sex ­couples remains ob-
scure ­because weeklies usually featured them only once, quickly moving on
to yet another “new” story about female homoeroticism. However, the ­union
between the Kims continued to garner public attention throughout the 1980s
as the ­women’s foun­dering relationship came to signify the insecurity of queer
kinship practices more generally. At their wedding ceremony, Kwi-­nae and
Nae-ok had reportedly vowed to live together more harmoniously than their
heterosexual counter­parts. This overcompensating gesture of love likely was
aimed to dignify their bond in the eyes of a skeptical public. However, the lofty
promise of their wedding ceremony lasted less than two years due to disagree-
ments over financial ­matters. According to one account that took perverse joy
in chronicling their crumbling relationship, Kwi-­nae, although a successful
soothsayer, relied on her “wife’s” restaurant for their income, thus becoming
an unreliable “husband.” Shortly a­ fter their wedding, Kwi-­nae became deeply
involved in charity work, seeking to help poor ­children through education.
Having reportedly offered her ex-­“wife” a hefty alimony payment when they
separated, she was thus in need of financial support and even confessed to
having chosen a wealthier partner in order to raise less fortunate youngsters.80
Although altruistic, this enterprise lacked financial acumen, causing friction
with her more conservative “wife.” Spousal relations quickly soured thereafter,
and just eigh­teen months ­later the ­couple separated. Although they settled
their relationship without further discord, Nae-ok allegedly became an object
of neighbors’ pity as she continued to strug­gle with loneliness, to say noth-
ing of her idealistic but less in­de­pen­dent ex-­“ husband” whose whereabouts
remained unknown ­after the ­couple’s separation.
Subsequent media reports similarly highlighted queer partnerships that,
even when they benefited from an income characteristic of the bourgeoning

236  |  Todd A. Henry

­ iddle classes, ended distastefully and, at times, with violent consequences.
m
In ­these normalizing accounts, relationships between w ­ omen ­were predict-
ably resolved using heteropatriarchal endings, thus containing female homo-
eroticism as unsatisfyingly temporary and woefully unrealistic. Just months
­after Kwi-­nae and Nae-ok separated in 1987, for example, Chugan Kyŏnghyang
published a report on two w ­ omen whose jobs contributed to a substantial
income. However, their relationship still went terribly awry ­after a relatively
long six-­year period of dating one another. The report featured Yi Suk-­hŭi (b.
1949), a thirty-­eight-­year-­old ­woman who, ­after divorcing a Korean man,
became the man­ag­er of a café in 1981. Her ­future “husband,” Kim Yŏng-mi
(b.  1952), twenty-­nine years old at the time, worked at a nearby com­pany
and frequently visited Yi’s café. Two years a­ fter they became romantically
involved, the ­couple de­cided to purchase a twenty-­three million wŏn apart-
ment in Kangnam, a rapidly expanding district in southern Seoul. They also
opened a store to sell fish in nearby Togok-­dong, establishing themselves as a
relatively prosperous ­couple. However, within a few years Yi reportedly began
to regret her decision about what the mass media pathologized as an “abnor-
mal” life, and eventually demanded a separation to marry a man. Meanwhile,
Kim found herself annoyed by Yi’s smoking and drinking, which negatively
affected their fledgling business; ­these complaints further provoked Yi to
terminate her relationship with Kim.
Having served as the “husband,” Kim generously offered her “wife” 2.5 mil-
lion wŏn in alimony—­a practice described as mirroring that of heterosexual
divorcées, but one that failed to satisfy Yi’s avariciousness. E ­ arlier images of
queer ­women as passionate, violent, and even criminal thus resurfaced in the
context of containing their nonconforming kinship practices. In this case, Yi
barged in on her ex-­“ husband” as she was sleeping in the Togok-­dong apart-
ment, which had remained registered in Kim’s name. Arguing that the apart-
ment was common property—­a claim that would have been difficult, if not
impossible, to prove u­ nder civil law at the time—­Yi grabbed Kim’s neck and
demanded a ten million wŏn payment, causing a ruckus that awoke their
(heterosexual) neighbors. In response, Kim emphasized the unofficial nature
of their relationship—­namely, that it was recorded neither in the ­family regis-
try nor in the marriage registry. Although she was clearly seeking to maintain
control over their assets, this highly publicized instance of financial and l­egal
precarity served as a mea­sured warning to other ­women, who, before reading
the story, might have considered opting out of hetero-­matrimony. One report’s
self-­aggrandizing, if specious, claim that Yi was the first member of a same-­sex

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  237

c­ ouple to demand an alimony payment (recall the case of Kwi-­nae and her ex-­
spouse) only further dramatized the allegedly impassioned and volatile nature
of female homoeroticism.81
Even relatively successful w­ omen who signed oaths to prove their love for
one another ­were vulnerable to the vicissitudes of nonconforming arrange-
ments, suggesting to male readers the need to “rescue” them. Using the same
heterosexist logic, the message conveyed to their female counter­parts was
never even to consider a same-­sex ­union. Such was the case of the thirty-­three-­
year-­old Kim Pak-­hŭi (b. 1938) and her lover, Kim Pok.82 Born and raised in
North Chŏlla Province, Pak-­hŭi managed to gradu­ate from high school and
­later served eight years in the army, a highly unusual c­ areer for South Korean
­women and one that the mass media thus described as an “eccentric occupa-
tion” (isaek chigŏp).83 Returning to civilian life in late 1962, she took advantage
of her experience driving a military jeep to become a taxi driver, also a non-­
normative occupation for ­women of the time. ­After crisscrossing the streets
of Seoul for nearly six years, Pak-­hŭi met Pok, a hairdresser who was born in
Mokp’o (South Chŏlla Province) and was also working in the capital. A ­ fter
dating for several months, Pok, who became Pak-­hŭi’s “wife,” quit her job, and
the ­couple moved in together on July 14, 1968, a date that came to serve as their
anniversary. To formalize their relationship, the two ­women signed an oath,
promising before Buddha to support one another u­ ntil death parted them. To
substantiate this gynocentric practice, Chugan Yŏsŏng even published a hand-
written copy of their oath. They lived together happily for several years, but
the promise evaporated when Pok dis­appeared in March 1971. Having liqui-
dated the c­ ouple’s lease money (300,000 wŏn) for an apartment, Pak-­hŭi not
only was left to bereave her loved one, but she also strug­gled to make ends
meet as a taxi driver. According to this disheartening account, their passion-
ate pledge to love each other proved woefully misguided—­a predicament that
could, by implication, be remedied only by marrying a man.
Recalling a longer tradition of repre­sen­ta­tions that began during the colo-
nial period but remained popu­lar ­after 1945, still other accounts focused on
the disintegration of same-­sex relationships through suicide. ­Under the ide-
ological management of weeklies’ reports, the tragic deaths of female lovers
reestablished accepted norms of filial piety and heteropatriarchy rather than
implicating ­these practices of social conformity as sources of institutional vio­
lence.84 For example, in 1975, Sunday Seoul published a dramatic story on the
pitiful fate of two lower-­class ­women, both factory workers at a com­pany in
Inch’ŏn.85 Yi Hak-­hŭi (b. 1954), a primary-­school gradu­ate who grew up in

238  |  Todd A. Henry

South Kyŏngsang Province, was only twenty-­one when, in 1973, she met Kang
(b. 1953), a twenty-­two-­year-­old native of Kyŏnggi Province. The two w ­ omen
quickly formed an intimate bond, which included regular sleepovers at Yi’s
home. The ­couple always worked together on the factory floor and thus be-
came an object of surveillance by com­pany man­ag­ers, who quickly learned
about their relationship. To avoid per­sis­tent badgering, Yi and Kang es-
caped to Pusan, where they hoped to live and work in a more anonymous
setting. Although they managed to repay their rent, debts, and other expenses,
the young ­couple strug­gled to establish a stable existence. To make ends meet,
Yi temporarily returned to her hometown with Kang. While staying with her
parents, Yi pawned a broken radio that belonged to a younger sibling to pay
for return tickets to Pusan. The media excoriated this theft as an unfilial act,
one for which she would ­later apologize in a suicide note. When the ­couple
returned to Pusan, their life remained volatile. Yi landed a job as a hostess, a
common occupation for uneducated w ­ omen, but her salary was insufficient to
86
support Kang. In a predictable shift presaging a heterosexual denouement,
her lover began to date a man, perhaps in pursuit of a more financially stable
and morally acceptable existence. In the end, Kang’s new liaison soured her al-
ready strained relationship with a now despondent Yi, who de­cided to end an
unrequited love with a fatal dose of poison. This short-­lived experiment with
same-­sex love and cohabitation thus ended tragically, warning female readers
not to follow Yi and Kang’s horrifying example.
One final example reveals how weeklies boldly presented female rela-
tionships as pathologically suicidal, likening their nonconforming ­unions to
deadly practices of kinship that could not survive outside a normative system
of heteropatriarchy. Rather than implicating the pauperizing polices of an au-
thoritarian state or the conservative nature of Korean culture as contribut-
ing ­factors in female suicides, the mass media framed such desperate acts of
public recognition as the most dramatic indication that their queer lives had
ended in social failure. According to a bourgeois logic of self-­reform, the piti-
ful outcomes of female ­unions could be prevented if ­women agreed to fulfill
their heteropatriarchal duties as “wise m ­ others and good wives.” The relation-
ship between Pak Sun-­hŭi (b. 1944), a thirty-­three-­year-­old ­woman, and her
twenty-­seven-­year-­old “wife,” Chang Suk-­hŭi (b. 1950), painfully exposed
­these epistemological (and practical) interventions. According to an account
published in 1977, the two w­ omen first met in Taejŏn, where Chang managed
a boutique and Pak worked as her employee. Born to a poor f­amily, Pak had
attended primary school in her hometown of Kŭmsan (South Ch’ungch’ŏng

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  239

Province) before moving to Seoul, where she, like many poor immigrants in
the city, toiled as a ­house­maid ­until 1971. At the time, she was married to a
man from Ŭlsan (South Kyŏngsang Province) who in 1967 had relocated to
work in a nearby factory. However, when his com­pany fired him, he could
no longer afford to support his already impoverished wife, whom he abruptly
abandoned. Although now a divorcée, Pak embarked on a new relationship—­
this time with a w ­ oman—­and ­after she and Chang dated for several years, the
­couple began to cohabit in 1975. However, soon the (heterosexual) neighbors,
at least some of whom had likely read about female homoeroticism in week-
lies, began to gossip about the unusual relationship. Th­ ese malicious rumors,
a common effect of yellow journalism, eventually reached Chang’s f­ amily. Her
older ­brothers, whose guidance she was expected to follow, ­were especially
embarrassed by their s­ ister’s same-­sex relationship. Undeterred, Chang con-
tinued to live with her female lover, a decision one moralizing reporter por-
trayed in Confucian terms of filial irresponsibility. Her parents fi­nally inter-
vened, forcing her to separate from Pak. Reiterating the values of the weekly’s
reporter, they especially worried that Chang was endangering her chances
of marrying a man, the prescribed duty of Korean ­women her age. Although
aimed at protecting their ­daughter, this intervention led a now distraught Pak
to take her life by imbibing poison. In the end, Sunday Seoul did not even con-
sider the subjective logic ­behind her tragic decision, including the possibil-
ity that she might have chosen this path as a desperate act of defiance against
heteropatriarchal domination. Instead, the reporter drew attention to a note
Pak had left in which she apologized to her parents for her unfilial act, which
journalist further dramatized by concluding that the ­women’s same-­sex rela-
tionship was indeed a “regretfully tragic story” (huhoe han pigŭk ŭi sayŏn).87

Conclusion

As suggested ­earlier, female homoeroticism was an impor­tant, if under-­

recognized, topic of popu­lar debate during South K ­ orea’s authoritarian era.
Sensational accounts of nonconforming ­women from this period simplified
the complex dynamics of queer kinship practices for highly instrumental pur-
poses. Even as journalists entertained laboring audiences with eccentric sto-
ries about ­these ­women, their well-­worn narratives of deviance, crime, and
tragedy helped promote heteropatriarchal and ethnonationalist cohesion at
a disorienting time of social change and cultural flux. In the pro­cess, working
­women, already burdened with supporting an androcentric system of kinship

240  |  Todd A. Henry

and a rapacious program for anticommunist development, came to signify the
deep fissures accompanying South ­Korea’s formula of industrial capitalism and
illiberal politics. A middlebrow genre that spotlighted the wretched nature of
nonconforming ­women for a male-­oriented readership of consumer-­citizens,
commercial weeklies, which drew on but expanded the voy­eur­is­tic practices
of newspaper dailies and magazine monthlies, actively engaged in a secondary
form of queersploitation aimed at enhancing their own profitmaking potential
while supporting and advancing the state’s developmentalist ideology.
Reflecting a perceived sense of threat to the stabilizing forces of heteropa-
triarchy and ethnonationalism, popu­lar repre­sen­ta­tions of queerness exposed
the undeniable emergence of gynocentric subcultures in and beyond the
cities of postwar South ­Korea. Writing on behalf of nation and capital, con-
cerned reporters deployed realistic techniques of investigative journalism to
substantiate the existence of nonconforming ­women but almost always exag-
gerated the corrosive effects of their presence. For this reason, readers regu-
larly encountered stories about lower-­class ­women who allegedly became vio-
lent criminals or committed suicide, almost as if they had been born with such
antisocial tendencies. Meanwhile, consumer-­citizens of the mass media rarely
witnessed same-­sex ­couples who found happiness and support from each
other or who thrived in the cracks of the country’s restrictive formula of hetero­
patriarchal capitalism. Despite their derogatory tone, stories about ­women’s
homoeroticism likely also attracted “shadow-­reading” ­women who—­whether
­because of economic concern, a gender-­variant self, a non-­normative sexual
object choice, or a negative experience with men—­found courageous female
figures with whom they could readily identify. That the mass media regularly
featured pathologically “deviant” but undeniably formidable ­women from
weeklies’ rise to popularity during the late 1960s u­ ntil their demise in the early
1990s suggests this subversive possibility and the perceived need to routinely
tame such dissident energies through what I have called epistemological
interventions.
The pervasiveness of unruly bodies in the popu­lar imagination of the au-
thoritarian era stands in stark contrast to academic and urban legends that
champion South Korean society in mythical terms of its heteropatriarchal and
cisgender “purity.” ­Until at least 2000 it was not uncommon to hear defensive
claims that non-­normative sexuality and gender variance simply did not exist
as part of this postcolonial, Cold War nation or that queerness was a recent
transplant from a de­cadent West. But frequent coverage of nonconforming
citizens contradicts this power­ful myth, which, ironically, was enabled by

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  241

homophobic, transphobic, and misogynistic views of queerness as virtually
unthinkable. Spuriously reporting each same-­sex ­union as if it was the coun-
try’s first, enterprising journalists trained regular readers and second­hand
consumers to misremember and, ultimately, forget the a­ ctual lives of queer
subjects represented in disposable weeklies. We must also recall that anxious
claims about the purportedly foreign origins of non-­normative kinship prac-
tices ­were themselves products of a comparative imaginary generated in and
through the mass media. Indeed, stories about same-­sex ­couples and wed-
dings emerged in South ­Korea at the very moment that Japa­nese and Western
queers ­were seeking self-­representation and ­legal recognition amid sexual rev-
olutions that spanned the globe. ­These worldwide pre­ce­dents, which weeklies
regularly cited as cautionary tales for domestic readers, informed ideological
narratives of cultural pollution aimed at minimizing the native origins and dis-
sident power of female ­unions. Invariably, individual consumers of media ac-
counts u­ nder mass dictatorship also participated in the perpetuation of what
might be called the “no gays myth.” Although comparatively less convincing
­today, this collective image of heteropatriarchal and cisgender selves persists
as a power­ful legacy of the authoritarian era.
Even ­after the emergence of procedural democracy and civil society in
South K ­ orea in the early 1990s, culturally conservative persons and institu-
tions have repeatedly deployed this entrenched national image while actively
minimizing alternative views that challenge it. In response, lgbti activists
and filmmakers, also impor­tant products of postauthoritarian democracy,
have targeted the profitmaking practices of the mass media and the instru-
mental agendas of other institutions—­schools, courts, the police, and the
military, for example—­that have misrepresented queer subjects and thereby
subordinated them to the (re)productive goals of a developmentalist state.88
That printed and online publications written by and about non-­normative
subjects as well as myriad activist and social groups have flourished despite
ongoing censorship (e.g., internet sites with adult content, including non-­
pornographic material) by the government is one sign that efforts at self-­
representation may fi­nally dismantle the no gays myth. But at pre­sent, lgbti
activists are battling the disingenuous but influential claims of fundamentalist
Christians, themselves preoccupied with the real and ­imagined dissolution
of the nuclear ­family in recent years, that sexual minorities sympathize with
North ­Korea and infect fellow citizens with the aids virus. ­These nationalists
thus continue to exploit queer subjects (in addition to believers of Islam and
other social minorities) to perpetuate Hot War ideologies of domestic subver-

242  |  Todd A. Henry

sion in a ultra-­conservative formula of heteropatriarchy ­under the (mis)guid-
ance of Jesus Christ.
Unsurprisingly, one of the most contentious of t­hese culture wars in
present-­day South ­Korea revolves around the legalization of same-­sex marriage
and other protections for sexual minorities. As discussed in the introduction
to this volume, Kim/Cho Kwang-su and his partner, Kim Sŭng-­hwan, a high-­
profile gay ­couple active in the lgbti movement, have emerged as the most
vis­i­ble advocates of this possibility. Clearly, the ways that ­these middle-­class
cisgender men articulate their personal politics ­today differ significantly from
­those of the proletarian ­women who experienced the disempowering forces
of the authoritarian era. As discussed e­ arlier, symbolic weddings between fe-
male c­ ouples aimed to solidify their precarious relationships, but only rarely
did nonconforming ­women seek ­legal recognition from an authoritarian state
on which they could hardly rely for protection and sustenance. In my view,
it would be historically inaccurate and ethically dangerous to equate t­hese
two politicized moments of queerness in any direct or seamless way. ­Doing
so would flatten the past and might empty the pre­sent of its revolutionary po-
tential. However, what we might call a “politics of dignity” is one dimension
of non-­normative relationships that we should pause to compare, especially
as ­people in South ­Korea and across the world contemplate the current (or
­future) desirability of same-­sex marriage. As several media reports analyzed
­earlier suggest, ­women who de­cided to wed each other did so in ways that
tended to conform to marital conventions. When viewed from the perspective
of mainstream readers ­under mass dictatorship, this choice was thus dignified
(though not necessarily accepted) insofar as it contravened neither the expec-
tations of adult partnerships nor the dimorphic pre­sen­ta­tion of gender that
typified (but did not mimic) their heterosexual counter­parts. However, even
when they raised ­children (or attempted to do so), female partners necessar-
ily failed to fulfill the heteropatriarchal expectations of South Korean society,
which legally sanctioned neither their wedding ceremonies nor their care for
orphaned youngsters. Despite or, perhaps better put, b­ ecause of t­ hese impor­
tant differences with their heterosexual counter­parts, nonconforming ­women
could still view their relationships as personally dignified, having used a form
of social domination to create new modes of intimacy and freedom as a means
of survival for the most precarious. In sum, ­women’s same-­sex weddings and
the queer lives that followed in their wake thus formed a politicized realm in
which a collective dignity of cisgender heteropatriarchy may have been rein-
forced, even as its individual expressions ­were actively rearticulated and thus

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  243

contested in creating new, queer kinship practices about which scholars and
activists still know far too ­little. In many ways, the dual nature of such ­unions
continues to characterize rapidly globalizing debates about the national and
personal politics of same-­sex marriage ­today. Just as ­these partnerships seek to
widen the meaning of matrimony to include individuals whose sexual orienta-
tion is non-­normative, the public ­faces of marriage equality (largely, middle-­
class gay men) are quickly becoming assimilated to cap­i­tal­ist and heteropa-
triarchal structures that, at least in South ­Korea, continue to subordinate less
power­ful actors, especially the poor, ­women, transgender, and mi­grants from the
global South. In this critical sense, the current practice of same-­sex marriage
resonates with the histories charted in this chapter and should encourage us
to reflect critically on the past before we embrace this institution of power as
our only dignified option for connection and sustenance.89

Notes

Epigraph: Kath Weston, Families We Choose: Lesbians, Gays, Kinship (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1991), 40.
1 For a historical overview of film, see Pil Ho Kim and C. Colin Singer, “Three
Periods of Korean Queer Cinema: Invisible, Camouflage, and Blockbuster,” Acta
Koreana 14, no. 1 ( June 2011): 115–34. On one artist’s engagement with all-­female
theatrical troupes that thrived ­after 1945, see An So-­hyŏn, Chŏnhwan kŭkjang
(Seoul: P’orŏm Aei, 2016). Exceptional, relevant scholarship on the queer aspects
of con­temporary South ­Korea is cited ­later.
2 On the movement, see Youngshik D. Bong, “The Gay Rights Movement in Demo­
cratizing ­Korea,” Korean Studies 32 (2009): 86–103; Hyun-­young Kwon Kim and
John (Song Pae) Cho, “The Korean Gay and Lesbian Movement 1993–2008:
From ‘Identity’ and ‘Community’ to ‘­Human Rights,’ ” in South Korean Social
Movements: From Democracy to Civil Society, ed. Gi-­Wook Shin and Paul Chang
(London: Routledge, 2011), 206–23. For the role of film, see Jeongmin Kim,
“Queer Cultural Movements and Local Counterpublics of Sexuality: A Case of
Seoul Queer Films and Videos Festival,” Inter-­Asia Cultural Studies 8, no. 4 (2007):
617–33; Chris Berry, “My Queer ­Korea: Identity, Space, and the 1998 Seoul Queer
Film and Video Festival,” Intersections 2 (May 1999), April 29, 2019, http://­
intersections​.­anu​.­edu​.­au​/­issue2​/­Berry​.­html.
3 On this and other pathbreaking queer films that appeared before 2000, see Jooran
Lee, “Remembered Branches: ­Towards a ­Future of Korean Homosexual Film,”
Journal of Homo­sexuality 39, nos. 3–4 (2000): 273–81.
4 By heteropatriarchy, I want to highlight how a system of male domination in
reproduction-­oriented ­house­holds and in androcentric models of state gover-
nance and cap­i­tal­ist production works in tandem with an equally normative

244  |  Todd A. Henry

 system that marginalizes alternative kinship arrangements, which are deemed
abnormal and worthy of censure, if not erasure. For more on historical manifesta-
tions of this multifaceted system of control, see Francisco Valdes, “Unpacking
Hetero-­patriarchy: Tracing the Conflation of Sex, Gender and Sexual Orientation
to Its Origins,” Yale Journal of Law and Humanities 8, no. 1 (May 2013): 161–211;
Maile Arvin, Eve Tuck, and Angie Morrill, “Decolonizing Feminism: Challenging
Connections between Settler Colonialism and Heteropatriarchy,” Feminist Forma-
tions 25, no. 1 (Spring 2013): 8–34; Jongwoo Han and L. H. M. Ling, “Hypermas-
culinized State: Hybridity, Patriarchy and Capitalism in ­Korea,” International
Studies Quarterly 42, no. 1 (March 1998): 53–78.
5 ­­After releasing this short, So attempted to make a longer film on the history of gay
cruising at South Korean movie theaters, but failed to uncover sufficient archival
materials to complete this proj­ect. On this aborted attempt, see the segment
focused on So in the documentary Chongno ŭi Kijŏk (Miracle on Jongno Street),
dir. Yi Hyŏk-­sang, Yŏngbunhong ch’ima, Seoul, 2010.
6 For ­these writings, see Yi Hŭi-il, “Sŏ innŭn saramdŭl: Kŭkjang ŭi yŏksa,” Buddy,
vol. 3, May 1998, 44–48; Yi Hŭi-il, “Kilnyŏ, Penisŭ e kada: T’ŏminŏl, kongwŏn
kwa Namsan ŭi yŏksa,” Buddy, vol. 4, June 1998, 49–53; Yi Hŭi-il, “Homo sajŏl:
Sauna wa jjimjilbang ŭi yŏksa,” Buddy, vol. 5, July 1998, 49–53; Yi Hŭi-il, “Pakkkot
hŭdŭrŏjin White Saturday Night: Geiba ŭi yŏksa,” Buddy, vol. 6, August 1998,
49–53. For the historical experiences of female homoeroticism, see Han Ch’ae-­yun,
“Han’guk rejŭbiŏn k’ŏmyunit’i ŭi yŏksa,” Chinbo P’yŏngnon 49 (Fall 2011): 100–28.
7 Although not necessarily read by mainstream scholars, impor­tant work is being
conducted by gradu­ate students and non-­tenure-­track researchers. See, e.g., Ŏiron
Munhwa Yŏn’gu Moim, ed., Chendŏ ŭi ch’aenŏl ŭl tollyŏra (Seoul: Saram Saenggak,
2008); Kwŏn/Kim Hyŏn-­yŏng, Chŏng Hŭi-­jin, Na Yŏng-­jŏng, Ruin, and Ŏm
Ki-ho, eds., Namsŏngsŏng wa chendŏ (Seoul: Chaŭm kwa Moŭm, 2012); Kwŏn/
Kim Hyŏn-­yŏng, Han Ch’ae-­yun, Ruin, Yu Chin-­hŭi, and Kim Chu-­hŭi, eds., Sŏng
ŭi chŏngch’i, sŏng ŭi kwŏlli (Seoul: Chaŭm kwa Moŭm, 2012); Ruin, “Kaemp’ŭ
T’ŭraensŭ: It’aewŏn chiyŏk t’ŭraensŭjendŏ ŭi yŏksa ch’ujŏk hagi, 1960–1989,”
Munhwa Yŏn’gu 1, no. 1 (2012): 244–78.
8 On the role of film during this period, see Kim in this volume. For the place of
queer media in post-1987 South ­Korea, see Pak Chi-­hun, “Han’guk k’wiŏ midiŏ ŭi
yŏksa wa paljŏn,” in Han’guk, sahoe midiŏ wa sosuja munhwa chŏngch’i, ed. Han’guk
Pangsong Hakhoe (Seoul: K’ŏmyunikeishŏnbuksŭ, 2011), 321–64.
9 Christina Klein, Cold War Orientalism: Asia in the Middlebrow Imagination,
1945–1961 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003).
10 This approach draws on the work of Petrus Liu, Queer Marxism in Two Chinas
(Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005); Rosemary Hennessy, Profit and
Plea­sure: Sexual Identities in Late Capitalism (New York: Routledge, 2000); Kevin
Floyd, The Reification of Desire: ­Towards a Queer Marxism (Minneapolis: Univer-
sity of Minnesota Press, 2009); Jordana Rosenberg and Amy Villajero, “Introduc-
tion: Queerness, Norms, Utopia,” glq 18, no. 1 (2012): 1–18.

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  245

 11 Jie-­Hyun Lim, “Mapping Mass Dictatorship: ­Towards a Transnational History
of Twentieth ­Century Dictatorship,” in Gender Politics and Mass Dictatorship:
Global Perspectives, ed. Lim Jie-­Hyun (London: Palgrave, 2011), 1–22. On the
contours of this paradigm, see Namhee Lee, “The Theory of Mass Dictatorship: A
Re-­examination of the Park Chung Hee Period,” Review of Korean Studies 12, no. 3
(September 2009): 41–69. For a feminist critique, see Chŏng Hŭi-­jin, “Han’guk
sahoe ŭi chisik saengsan pangbŏp kwa taejung tokjaeron,” in Kŭndae ŭi kyŏnggye
esŏ tokjae rŭl ikkda: Taejung tokjae wa Pak Chŏng-­hŭi ch’eje, ed. Chang Mun-­sŏk
and Yi Sang-­nok (Seoul: Kurinbi, 2006), 403–19.
12 For a cultural study emphasizing the necropo­liti­cal underside of authoritarian
development, see Jin-­kyung Lee, Ser­vice Economies: Militarism, Sex Work, and Mi­
grant ­Labor in South ­Korea (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010).
13 I thank Han Sang Kim for suggesting this concept to me. Although gay men ­were
typically described as an immoral blight on South Korean society u­ nder Park and
his successors, anecdotal evidence suggests that they repurposed weekly reports
on cruising spots as tour guides that provided information on where and how to
seek sex with other men.
14 See, e.g., Sin Chi-­yŏn, “1920–30 nyŏndae ‘tongsŏng(yŏn)ae’ kwallyŏn kisa ŭi
susajŏk maengnak,” Minjok Munhwa Yŏn’gu 45 (2006): 265–92; Pak/Ch’a Min-­
jŏng, Chosŏn ŭi k’wiŏ: Kŭndae ŭi t’ŭmsae e sumŭn pyŏnt’aedŭl ŭi ch’osang (Seoul:
Hyŏnsil Munhwa Yŏn’gu, 2018); Ha’s chapter in this volume. For early postlib-
eration accounts that echoed colonial period pre­ce­dents, see “Yŏsŏng namjang
ŭi sibiron,” Pusan Sinmum, November 10, 1946; “Tongsŏng yŏn’ae ro chasal?,”
Chung’ang Sinmun, October 31, 1947; “Tongsŏng’ae ro chŏngsa, Kyŏngbang
yŏgong tumyŏng i,” Kong’ŏp Sinmun, November 1, 1947.
15 Although it is impossible to verify numbers, one alarmist report published in
early 1958 claimed that approximately 1,400 female ­couples inhabited the southern
half of the peninsula, with about 400 of them residing in Seoul. “Yŏin: 30 dae ŭi
chŏhang,” Chugan hŭimang 116 (March 14, 1958): 4–6. According to a report
published in 1969, 500 to 600 individual lesbians ­were said to inhabit the capital.
“Sŏul ŭi rejŭbiŏndŭl,” Chugan Kyŏnghyang 2, no. 8 (March 2, 1969): 54–56. For a
Kinsey Report–like study of female ­couples, see “Tongsŏng pubu ŭi isaek chidae,”
Chugan Yŏsŏng, no. 444 (August 14, 1977): 42–44.
16 On the history of postwar ­widows in South ­Korea, see Yi Im-ha, Chŏnjaeng
mimang’in, han’guk hyŏndaesa ŭi ch’immok ŭl kkaeda: Kusullo p’urŏssŭn han’guk
chŏnjaeng chŏnhu sahoe (Seoul: Ch’aek kwa Hamkke, 2010).
17 Discussions of war­time love, marriage, and ­family life appear in Sint’aeyang,
October 1952, 38–39, 42–43, January 1955, 142–45; Chugan Hŭimang, May 23, 1958,
5–6. See also Yi, Chŏnjaeng mimang’in, han’guk hyŏndaesa ŭi ch’immok ŭl kkaeda,
181–308.
18 See, e.g., “Namja ro haengsae [sic] hagi 6 nyŏn,” Sint’aeyang, November 1, 1955,
66–69; “Minam weit’ŏ algoboni namjang yŏhaksa,” Sŏndei Sŏul 11, no. 10
(March 12, 1978): 22.

246  |  Todd A. Henry

 19 Photographic images accompanying media reports of female-­female weddings
also suggest that friends and ­family regularly attended ­these ceremonies. See, e.g.,
“Hwaje ch’ujŏk: Yŏja kkiri chŏngsik kyŏlhonsik ollin Kim Nae-ok, Kim Ki-­nae
pubu,” Yŏngneidi 5, no. 6 ( June 1985): 232–236. Although male cohabitation did
take place during this period, same-­sex weddings between men, especially gender-­
normative ones, ­were extremely rare. For an analy­sis of homoerotic relationships
among prewar men, see Pak Kwan-su, “1940 nyŏndae ‘namsŏng tongsŏng’ae’
yŏn’gu,” Pigyo Minsokhak 31 (2006): 389–438.
20 ­­After more than five years of archival research, the earliest postwar accounts of
this nature that I have uncovered are “Sillang do yŏja sinbu do yŏja,” Silhwa 5,
no. 4 (April 1957): 190–94; “Tongsŏng pubu ŭi ihon sodong naemak,” Yadam
kwa Silhwa, vol. 2, no. 4 (April 1958): 266–267. For an early report on lesbian-
ism, see “Yuhan madamdŭl ŭi tongsŏng’ae,” Chinsang 2, no. 6 ( June 1957):
25–27.
21 “Yŏin: 30 dae ŭi chŏhang,” 5. To support its view, this voy­eur­is­tic account cited
a doctor who predictably described lesbians as “sexual perverts” (pyŏnt’ae
sŏng’yokja). But this same medical expert contested the reporter’s heterosexist
analy­sis of their erotic life by highlighting the common practice of tribadism
which did not require penetration. “Yŏin: 30 dae ŭi chŏhang,” 6. A similarly
(porno)graphic account of lesbian sex practices appears in “Tongsŏng pubu ŭi
aejŏng mallo,” Yadam kwa Silhwa, vol. 4, no. 11 (November 1963), 177.
22 Elizabeth Lapovsky Kennedy and Madeline D. Davis, Boots of Leather, Slippers
of Gold: The History of a Lesbian Community (New York: Routledge, 1993). For a
similar analy­sis (but situated in the late 1980s), see Kath Weston, Render Me, Gen-
der Me: Lesbians Talk Sex, Class, Color, Nation, Studmuffins (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1996).
23 For more on the meaning of “Ms. Pants” and ­earlier genealogies of cross-­dressing
in con­temporary South ­Korea, see Han Ch’ae-­yun, “Sŏlik ŭn rejŭ, ch’imassi wa
pajissi rŭl mannada,” Buddy, vol. 6, August 1998, 16–17; Kim Il-­lan, “Tarŭn sesang
ilki: 1960 nyŏndae ŭi yŏjang namja wa namjang yŏin,” in Ŏiron Munhwa Yŏn’gu
Moim, Chendŏ ŭi ch’aenŏl ŭl tollyŏra.
24 On how war­time disruptions found their way into literary repre­sen­ta­tions of
non-­normative relationships, including female same-­sex intimacies, and weak-
ened forms of hegemonic masculinity, see Hŏ Yun, “1950 nyŏndae chŏnhu
namsŏngsŏng ŭi t’alch’uk kwa chendŏ ŭi pisuhaeng undoing,” Yŏsŏng Munhak
Yŏn’gu 30 (2013): 43–71. For a related study on the postwar rebuilding of South
Korean society through demarcations of heterosexuality and homo­sexuality,
see Hŏ Yun, “1950 k’wiŏ chang kwa bŏpjŏk kyuje ŭi chŏpsok: ‘Pyŏngyŏkbŏp,’
‘kyŏngbŏmbŏp,’ ŭl t’ong han sekshuŏllit’i ŭi t’ongje,” Pŏp Sahoe 51 (April 2016):
229–50. On heteropatriarchy’s post–­Korean War revival as it relates to the rise and
fall of South ­Korea’s all-­female theatrical troupe, see Kim Chi-­hye, “1950 nyŏndae
yŏsŏng kukgŭk ŭi tanch’e hwaldong kwa soet’oe e tae han yŏn’gu,” Han’guk
Yŏsŏnghak 27, no. 2 ( June 2011): 1–33.

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  247

 25 ­­Unless other­wise noted, the following discussion is based on “Pŏbjŏng p’omal 6:
Tongsŏng’gan ŭi ch’ijŏng sarin sakkŏn,” Tong’a Ilbo, July 17, 1958.
26 “Yomojomo,” Kyŏnghyang Sinmun, February 22, 1958; “Tansang tanha,” Tong’a Ilbo,
February 22, 1958. ­These reports identify the “wife” with the last name of Yin, not
Yim.
27 On how the Korean War and other anticommunist strug­gles in Asia resulted in
deadly vio­lence and kinship trauma, see Heonik Kwon, The Other Cold War (New
York: Columbia University Press, 2010).
28 “Yomojomo,” Kyŏnghyang Sinmun, February 22, 1958. Less than two months ­later,
a popu­lar weekly published an extended report on ­these allegedly dangerous
­couples and included several photo­graphs that encouraged readers to more ef-
fectively identify ­these defiant ­women. “Yŏin: 30 dae ŭi chŏhang,” 4–6.
29 “Yim Kye-­sun e 5 nyŏn ŏndo,” Chosŏn Ilbo, July 6, 1958. For the court’s decision on
this case, see BA0079706, National Archives of ­Korea, 1958, 286–88. I thank Kim
T’ae-ho for obtaining this rare document for me. For a ­later debate about female-­
female sex crimes of revenge, see “Yŏja ga yŏja rŭl pŏmhan yŏja ŭi poksu,” Chugan
Yŏsŏng, no. 145, October 20, 1971, 84–85.
30 The mass media did occasionally admit the undeniable fact of long-­lasting female
partnerships. See, e.g., “Adŭl naa kirŭn rejubiŏn 10 nyŏn e,” Chugan Yŏsŏng, no. 50
(December 10, 1969): 78–79; “T’ong do k’ŭgo t’ip do mani chudŏra,” Chugan
Han’guk, no. 459 ( July 15, 1973); “Yŏja kkiri sillang sinbu,” Chugan Kyŏnghyang
8, no. 2 ( January 19, 1975): 28; “Tongsŏng pubu . . . ​kŭmsil choŭn 15 nyŏn ‘mŏ ka
isang hae?,’” Chugan Kyŏnghyang 10, no. 13 (April 10, 1977): 28–29; “Tongsŏng
pubu ŭi isaek chidae,” 42–44; “Ch’unggyŏk rŭp’o: Anae do yŏja, namp’yŏn do
yŏja,” Yŏngneidi 2, no. 12 (December 1982): 192–95.
31 ­­Unless other­wise noted, the following discussion is based on “ ‘Tongsŏng pubu’
ŭmdok,” Tong’a Ilbo, August 5, 1963; “ ‘Namp’yŏn’ e wigye sarin hyŏm’ŭi,” Tong’a
Ilbo, August 6, 1963; “Namjang hago pŏjŏsi namp’yŏn,” Kyŏnghyang Sinmun, Au-
gust 6, 1983.
32 “Tongsŏng pubu ŭi aejŏng mallo,” 174–77.
33 “Tongsŏng pubu (?) kkiri todukjil,” Kyŏnghyang Sinmun, March 8, 1965. Newspa-
per reports of this variety appear repeatedly throughout the authoritarian period.
34 One exceptional ­woman featured in the mass media was the male-­dressed politi-
cian Kim Ok-­sŏn. On her early c­ areer, see “Namjang yŏin ipfuboja,” Tong’a Ilbo,
July 8, 1960; “ ‘Nekt’ai’ maen namjang apdo,” Tong’a Ilbo, May 25, 1965. Research on
this impor­tant but neglected figure is needed.
35 On the precarity of ­these forms of ­labor and their repre­sen­ta­tion in popu­lar cul-
ture, see Lee, Ser­vice Economies, esp. 79–123.
36 Kennedy and Davis, Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold, 152.
37 “Tongsŏng pubu (?) kkiri todukjil.”
38 For a wide-­ranging study on intellectual approaches to transgender studies, see
Susan Stryker and Aren Z. Aizura, The Transgender Studies Reader, vol. 2 (New
York: Routledge, 2013).

248  |  Todd A. Henry

 39 ­­Unless noted other­w ise, the following discussion is based on “Adŭl paradŏn
pumo,” Tong’a Ilbo, April 2, 1965. For other accounts of gender-nonconforming
­women from the early 1960s, see “Namjang 10 nyŏn ch’ŏnyŏ ŭi hoso,” Tong’a
Ilbo, March 5, 1961; “Namjang simnyŏn ŭi ch’ŏnyŏ,” Yadam kwa Silhwa,
June 1961, 250–55; “Pyŏn’ae ŭi namjang yŏin,” Yadam kwa Silhwa, Decem-
ber 1965: 376–81.
40 On the history of transgender practices and sex reassignment surgery in early
South ­Korea, see Han Yŏng-­hŭi, “Ŭihakhwa ŭi kwajŏng sok esŏ ŭi sŏngjŏnhwan
yongmang, sŏngjŏnhwan susul, sŏngjŏn hwanja,” in Ŏiron Munhwa Yŏn’gu
Moim, Chendŏ ŭi ch’aenŏl ŭl tollyŏra, 48–83. For an account of biological ­women
who engaged in male-­like practices in the West, see Judith [ Jack] Halberstam,
Female Masculinity (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1998).
41 A similar outing of a male-­dressed female miner appears in “T’angwang e p’in
hyŏndaep’an Simch’ŏng,” Tong’a Ilbo, February 12, 1961. For more on ­labor protests
from this period, see Hagen Koo, Korean Workers: The Culture and Politics of Class
Formation (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2001); Hwasook B. Nam, Build-
ing Ships, Building a Nation: ­Korea’s Demo­cratic Unionism ­under Park Chung Hee
(Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2009).
42 On the intimate relationship of the press to the Park regime, see Yi Chŏng-­hun,
“Apch’ukjŏk sang’ŏphwa: 1960 nyŏndae han’guk sinmun ŏllon ŭi sang’ŏp kwa
kwajŏng,” K’ŏmyunik’aeshon Iron 10, no. 2 ( June 2014): 242–83.
43 On the early development of newspaper weeklies, see Chŏn Sang-gi, “1960
nyŏndae chuganji ŭi maech’ejŏk wisang: ‘Chugan han’guk’ ŭl chungsim ŭro,”
Han’gukhak Nonmunjp 36 (2008): 225–58; Kim Chi, “1960 nyŏndae sang’ŏp
chuganji Chugan han’guk yŏn’gu” (master’s thesis, Yonsei University, 2015). For
their treatment of gender and sexuality, see Pak Sŏng-­a, “  ‘Sŏndei sŏul’ e nat’anan
yŏsŏng ŭi yuhyŏng kwa p’yosang,” Han’guk Yŏn’gu 22 (May 2010): 159–90; Yim
Chong-su and Pak Se-­hyŏn, “ ‘Sŏndei sŏul’ e nat’anan yŏsŏng, sekshuŏllit’I kŭrigo
1970 nyŏndae,” Han’guk Munhak Yŏn’gu 44 ( June 2013): 91–136; Chŏn Wŏn-­
gun, “1980 nyŏndae ‘Sŏndei sŏul’ e nat’anan tongsŏng’ae tamnon kwa namsŏng
tongsŏng’aejadŭl ŭi kyŏnghŏm,” Chendŏ wa Munhwa 8, no. 2 (December 2015):
139–70.
44 This information on the background of weekly reporters was conveyed to me
through an interview with Pak Mu-il (b. 1941). ­After working for two monthly
entertainment magazines (Arirang and Myŏngnang) during the mid-1960s, this
talented journalist was hired to write for Chugan Han’guk ­after its inauguration in
late 1968. On the development of professional identity among Park era journal-
ists, see Pak Yong-­kyu, “Pak Chŏng-­hŭi sigi ŏllonin ŭi chigŏpjŏk chŏngch’esŏng ŭi
pyŏnhwa,” Ŏllon Chŏngbo Yŏn’gu 51, no. 2 (August 2014): 34–76.
45 Kim, “1960 nyŏndae sang’ŏp chuganji Chugan han’guk yŏn’gu,” 34.
46 On the consumption practices of newspaper readers during the Park era, see
Ch’ae Paek, “Pak Chŏng-­hŭi sidae sinmun dokja ŭi sahoe munhwasa,” Ŏllon
Chŏngbo Yŏn’gu 51, no. 2 (August 2014): 5–33.

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  249

 47 On this global phenomenon, see Eric Schaefer, ed., Sex Scene: Media and the
Sexual Revolution (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014); Gert Hekma and
Alain Giami, eds., Sexual Revolutions (New York: Palgrave, 2014).
48 On ­these strategies, see Eun Mee Kim, Big Business, Strong State: Collusion and
Conflict in South Korean Developments, 1960–1990 (Albany: State University of
New York Press, 1997); Gregg A. Brazinsky, Nation Building in South ­Korea:
Koreans, Americans, and the Making of a Democracy (Chapel Hill: North Carolina
University Press, 2009); Byung-­Wook Kim and Ezra Vogel, eds., The Park Chung
Hee Era: The Transformation of South ­Korea (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 2011).
49 See, e.g., “Chae 3 ŭi sŏng sidae,” Chugan Han’guk, vol. 116, December 11, 1969, 22;
“Resŭbiŏndŭl ŭi ‘pam kwa nat’ ŭi saneghwal chinsang,” Chugan Yŏsŏng, vol. 129,
June 30, 1971, 36–37; “Han’gukp’an ‘resŭbiŏn’dŭl kwangnan,” Chugan Chung’ang,
vol. 217, October 22, 1972, 26; “ ‘Ton do kŭgo, t’ip do mani chudŏra,’ ” Chugan
Han’guk, no. 459, July 15, 1973, 10–11. A similar transnational dynamic was at work
between the U.S. and Eu­rope and within Eu­rope itself. On ­these comparative
frames, see Eric Schaefer, “ ‘I’ll Take Sweden’: The Shifting Discourses of the
‘Sexy Nation’ in Sexploitation Films,” in Schaefer, Sex Scene, 207–34; Hekma and
Giami, Sexual Revolutions. On the postwar development of Japa­nese weeklies, see
Kageyama Kayoko, Sei, media, fūzoku: Shūkanshi “Asahi genō” kara miru fūzoku
toshite no sei (Tokyo: Hābestosha, 2010); Asaoka Takahiro, “Kōdo keizai sechō no
torai to shūkanshi dokusha: Sōgō shūkanshi to sono dokusha dearu sarariiman o
chūsin ni,” in Zasshi media no bunkashi: Henyō suru sengo paradaimu, ed. Yoshida
Noriaki and Okada Akiko (Tokyo: Shinwasha, 2012), 129–62.
50 “Sŏul ŭi rejŭbiŏndŭl,” Chugan Kyŏnghyang, vol. 2, no. 8, March 2, 1969, 54–56. See
also “Chae 3 ŭi sŏng sidae,” 22.
51 In a scene from ­Uncle “Bar” at Barbershop (Ibalso ŭi Issi, dir. Kwŏn Chong-­gwan,
Indiespace, Seoul, 2000), the short film mentioned in the introduction of this vol-
ume as an example that is based on the director’s story, the female protagonist, a
male-­presenting barber, gazes awkwardly at a poster of a semi-­nude white ­woman,
thus seeking to imitate the sexist practices of her male customers.
52 Journalists at weekly publications typically scoured the social columns of daily
newspapers in search of inspiring information on which they expanded in creating
their own articles. They crafted other stories from their own investigations or
based on tips from the local police and other in­for­mants.
53 See, e.g., “Yŏja kkiri kyŏlhonsik,” Kyŏnghyang Sinmun, June 13, 1963; “Ilbon ŭi
‘resŭbian,’ ” Chugan Chung’ang, no. 28, March 9, 1969, 22; “Tongsŏng kyŏlhon
hŏga yogu,” Kyŏnghyang Sinmun, February 20, 1970; “Mi tu yŏin kyŏlhon
sinch’ŏng,” Kyŏnghyang Sinmun, July 10, 1970; “Tongsŏng yŏn’ae kyŏlhon injŏng,”
Kyŏnghyang Sinmun, September 28, 1970; “Tongsŏng pubu pŏbjŏng t’ujaeng,”
Kyŏnghyang Sinmun, September 9, 1971; “Tabang sŏ tongsŏng kyŏlhon,” Maeil
Kyŏngje, March 21, 1972; “Kŭpjŭng hanŭn ‘resŭbiŏn kajŏng,’ ” Kyŏnghyang Sinmun,
September 22, 1973; “Nŭrŏnanŭn resŭbiŏndŭl ŭi aejŏng, chilt’u, chŏngsa,” Chugan

250  |  Todd A. Henry

 Yosŏng, no. 289, August 4, 1974, 22–23; “Miguk esŏ tongsŏng kyŏlhon yuhaeng,”
Kyŏnghynag Sinmun, April 24, 1975; “Ch’ak oro tongsŏng kyŏlhon kong’in,” Tong’a
Ilbo, July 4, 1975; “Yŏsŏng kkiri kyŏlhon ŭn muhyo,” Tong’a Ilbo, April 23, 1977.
54 The following account is based on “Tu noch’ŏnyŏ ga tongsŏng kyŏlhon hettanda,”
Chugan Han’guk, no. 65, November 28, 1965, 10–11.
55 On the colonial origins of Yŏngdŭngp’o as an industrial center, see Kim Ha-na,
“1930 nyŏndae chŏnhu kong’ŏp tosi tamnon kwa Yŏngdŭngp’o ŭi Sŏul p’yŏnip,”
Tosi Yŏn’gu 11 ( June 2014): 37–68.
56 I thank Han Sang Kim for suggesting this ethical response to media practices of
queersploitation.
57 For an early reference to and explanation of millstone ­couples, see “Yŏin: 30
dae ŭi chŏhang,” 4–6. The contemporaneous film Pijŏn (1970) would remind
audiences of this historic practice. For accounts of this film’s shocking “lesbian”
bed scene, see “Mudŏwŏ sok tongsŏng yŏnae pedŭ’ssin,” Chugan Yŏsŏng, no. 74
­(August 26, 1970): 74; “Tongsŏng’ae kat’ŭn kŏn sangsang to mot’eabwassŏyo,”
Chugan Chosŏn, no. 13 (August 30, 1970): 13. Another Chosŏn period expression
used by the mass media to denote female homoeroticism was taesik. Literally, “to
eat across from one another,” this term referred to sexual relations between court
women. For one invocation, see “Kyŏrhon do ŏyŏt hage homŏseksŭ,” Chugan
han’guk, no. 152 (September 19, 1971): 22–23.
58 Such intrusions so infuriated another member of a same-­sex ­couple that she
forced the reporter to find other subjects willing to expose to the public a lesbian
world that, to her, remained a private affair: “Sŏul ŭi rejŭbiŏndŭl,” 54–56.
59 It is unclear from this photo­graph ­whether the “wife” is wearing pants like her
male-­dressed “husband”: “Yŏ’miyongsa wa yŏ’mudang i han’guk ch’ŏt tongsŏng
kyŏlhonsik,” Chugan Han’guk 313, September 27, 1970, 12.
60 The earliest postwar account I have located dates to 1957. This report conveys that
the ­couple chose not conduct a formal ceremony, but did shoot a commemorative
wedding picture and hosted a home reception. “Sillang do yŏja sinbu do yŏja,”
190–94.
61 While normalizing their respective gender roles as “husband” and “wife,” the
1965 account drew on the opinions of two medical professionals to explain the
undeniable real­ity of female homo­sexuality, which both experts predictably
pathologized.
62 “Sŏul ŭi rejŭbiŏndŭl,” 54–56.
63 The following discussion is based on “Yŏ’miyongsa wa yŏ’mudang i han’guk ch’ŏt
tongsŏng kyŏlhonsik,” 12–13; “Han’guk ch’oech’o ro tongsŏng kyŏlhonsik,” Chugan
Yŏsŏng, no. 92, October 7, 1970, 18–19.
64 “Yŏ’miyongsa wa yŏ’mudang i han’guk ch’ŏt tongsŏng kyŏlhonsik,” 70.
65 Public debate to legalize same-­sex marriage rarely surfaced before the 1990s.
For one exception, see “Tu noch’ŏnyŏ ga tongsŏng kyŏlhon hettanda,” 11. Brief
references also appear in “Tongsŏng pubu . . . ​kŭmsil choŭn 15 nyŏn ‘mŏ ka isang
hae?,’ ” 28–29; “Hwaje ch’ujŏk,” Yŏngneidi 5, no. 6 ( June 1985), 236.

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  251

 66 ­­Unless noted other­wise, the following discussion is based on “Uri sŏngsaenghwal
ŭl mulji mara dayo,” Yŏsŏng Chung’ang, January 1971, 332–37.
67 Unlike masculine ­women who assumed male-­dominated jobs (e.g, as taxi ­drivers
or professional soldiers) and ­were viewed as social threats, feminine men who
became hairdressers or chose other female-­oriented positions (e.g., as nurses or
fashion designers) became the subject of comic ridicule but ­were seen as relatively
powerless. On filmic repre­sen­ta­tions of female-­identified men, see Kim’s chapter
in this volume.
68 In the film (Han Hyŏng-mo, dir.), Chae-­sun suffers from schizo­phre­nia, which
is attributed to a pathological abhorrence of men (arrhenophobia). Having been
raped during the Korean War, she believes that marriage turns ­women into slaves
of men. Chae-­sun thus prefers ­women, and she becomes passionately attached to
her foster ­sister, Kŭm-­i, who was orphaned during the war. Chae-­sun is so smitten
with Kŭm-­i that she even tries to prevent her from marrying a male suitor and a
hometown friend, Kwang-ho. But, by the end of the film, psychiatric treatment
allows Chae-­sun to recover from the temporary “deviance” of arrhenophobia
and, one also assumes, of lesbianism as well. Unfortunately, a copy of this film is
currently missing, preventing a more detailed analy­sis. The screenplay, the basis
for this summary, can be viewed at the Korean Film Archive’s reference library.
Photographic stills of the two female protagonists awkwardly embracing one
another adorn the cover and opening page of Queer ­Korea.
69 The Yusin (lit., “restoration”) system installed a new constitution that allowed
Park Chung Hee and his Demo­cratic Republican Party to monopolize executive,
legislative, and juridical power. Park used this dictatorial arrangement to promote
heavy industries and military defense, while suppressing the demands of laborers
and students. ­These repressive forces led to the Kwangju Uprising (1980) and
subsequent protests for wealth re­distribution and po­liti­cal freedom. For more on
this era, see Kim and Vogel, The Park Chung Hee Era; Namhee Lee, The Making of
Minjung: Democracy and the Politics of Repre­sen­ta­tion in South ­Korea (Ithaca, NY:
Cornell University Press, 2007).
70 The following discussion is based on “ ‘Namja nŭn sirŏ . . . ,’ ” Chugan Chung’ang,
March 10, 1974, 29; “29 sal yŏin kwa 38 sal yŏin i tongsŏng kyŏlhon!,” Chugan
Yŏsŏng, no. 269 (March 17, 1974): 18–19. That many ­women who wed one another
sought out monks to preside over their marriage rites suggests a strong connec-
tion to Buddhism. Further research is needed to clarify this impor­tant linkage to
religion.
71 For the place of this stigmatized figure in con­temporary Korean culture, see Lee,
Ser­vice Economies, 125–84. On the overseas meanings of the Western whore, see
Grace M. Cho, Haunting the Korean Diaspora: Shame, Secrecy, and the Korean War
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008).
72 As suggested ­earlier, many accounts presented conflicting information, under-
scoring their partially fabricated, but not culturally irrelevant, nature. In this case,
the March 17 report suggested that Kim married William and followed him to

252  |  Todd A. Henry

 the United States, where he died in an automobile crash two years ­later. ­Either
way, Kim’s fate as abandoned remained the same. For other reports of female
homoeroticism involving the base economy, see “Soegorang ch’an namjang yŏin,”
Chosŏn Ilbo, March 3, 1964; “K’alburim ŭro soegorang ch’an ‘namjang agassi,’ ”
Chugan Han’guk, no. 459, September 7, 1975, 21; “Yŏja kkiri ŭi kyŏlhonsik e hagaek
200 myŏng,” Sŏndei Sŏul, vol. 11, no. 1, January 1, 1978, 26–27.
73 On the post-1945 development of Yongsan as a queer space, see Ruin, “Kaemp’ŭ
T’ŭraensŭ.” For a first-­person story with remarkably similar themes of male
betrayal, U.S. military prostitution, and eventual lesbianism, see “Tasi ‘namja’ rŭl
sarang halsuman ittamyŏn,” Yŏngneidi 7, no. 10 (October 1987): 298–303.
74 Artificial insemination was also occasionally discussed, but not yet practiced. See,
e.g., “Tambang: Tongsŏng’ae pubu,” 234–37; “Adŭl noa kirŭn resŭbiŏn 10 nyŏn e,”
78–79; “Ŭihakkye kwŏnidŭl ŭi imsang not’ŭ (30),” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, March 26,
1975; “Yŏja kkiri moyŏ salmyŏ ‘yŏbo,’ ‘tangsin,’ ” Arirang, April 1976, 100–103;
“Tongsŏng pubu ŭi isaeak chidae,” 43. On the history of South ­Korea’s domestic
adoption, see Hŏ Nam-­sun, “Kungnae ibyang saŏp ŭi hyŏnghyang punsŏk e kwan
han yŏn’gu: Han’guk kidokkyo yangjihoe rŭl chungsim ŭro” (master’s thesis, Ehwa
­Womans University, Seoul, 1973).
75 For other accounts emphasizing spiritual comfort over physical plea­sure, see
“Yŏja kkiri sillang sinbu,” 28; “Sanjŏn sujŏn ta kyokkun yŏja kkiri kyŏlhonsik,”
Sŏndei Sŏul, vol. 18, no. 20, May 24, 1985, 32–33. For exposés of Seoul’s lesbian com-
munity, see “Sŏul ŭi rejŭbiŏndŭl,” 54–56; “Namja nŭn chilsaek ŭi ‘rejŭbiandŭl,”
Chugan Kyŏnghyang, vol. 2, no. 36, September 17, 1969, 90–91; “Han’gukp’an
‘resŭbiŏndŭl kwangnan,” Chugan Chung’ang, no. 217, October 22, 1972, 26; “Ton do
kŭgo, t’ip do mani chudŏra,” 10–11; “Nŭrŏnanŭn resŭbiŏndŭl ŭi aejŏng, chilt’u,
chŏngsa,” 22–23; “Yŏja kkiri moyŏ salmyŏ ‘yŏbo,’ ‘tangsin,’ ” 100–3; “Yumyŏng
yŏyu do sangjŏngmo do tongsŏng pubu ŭi isaek chidae,” Chugan Yŏsŏng, no. 444,
August 14, 1977, 42–43; “Kŭmnam chidae: Sŏul e rejŭbiŏn k’ŭrrŏb,” Chugan
Kyŏnghyang, vol. 15, no. 39, October 3, 1982, 22–24; “Sŏbangnim haldden ŏnjego
ije wasŏ paesin inya: Rejŭbiŏn sangdae pyŏnsim e haengp’ae purin namjayŏk ŭi
sarrongnyŏ,” Sŏndei Sŏul, vol. 16, no. 48, December 8, 1985, 128–29.
76 Oral histories suggest that at least some ­women did feel a stable sense of lesbian
identity throughout this era. However, this identity may have been retroactively
produced from the perspective of the pre­sent and through the pro­cess of memory
making. Moreover, the formation of a historically entrenched lesbian identity was
likely aided by the intervening activities of a generation of feminists who came of
age during the post-1990s era of sexual minorities and ­human rights discourses.
For one such account in which the activist seeks to document the subjectivity of
an older Korean “lesbian,” while si­mul­ta­neously (re)interpreting it in identitarian
terms, see Pak/Kim Su-­jin, ed., 50 dae rejŭbiŏn: Ch’oe Myŏng-­hwan iyagi (Seoul:
Rejŭbiŏn Kwŏlli Yŏn’guso, 2003). For other oral histories with self-­identified
lesbian ­women, see Sŏng Chŏng-­suk, “  ‘Pulwanjŏn han mom’ ŭi chilgok ŭl nŏmŏ:
50 dae rejŭbiŏn ŭi saeng’ae iyagi,” Han’guk Sahoe Pokjihak 64, no. 2 (May 2012):

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  253

 85–109; Pak/Kim Su-­jin, ed., Nŏ nŭn oe rejŭbiŏn ini? Chogŭm ŭn oeroun uridŭl ŭi
reinbou int’ŏbyu (Seoul: Imaejin, 2014).
77 ­­Unless other­wise noted, the following discussion is based on “Sanjŏn sujŏn ta
kyokkun yŏja kkiri kyŏlhonsik,” 32–33; “Noch’ŏ kkiri tongsŏng kyŏlhon,” Chugan
Chung’ang, no. 860, May 26, 1985, 23; “Tongsŏng’ae yŏja pubu ilho p’agyŏng,”
Chugan Kyŏnghyang, vol. 20, no. 18, May 10, 1987, 42–44.
78 See, e.g., Pak Sang-­ho’s film with the same name (adapted from a radio drama): Pak
Sang-ho, dir., Ttosun’i, Sejong Yŏnghwa Chusik Hoesa, Seoul, 1963. A version with
En­glish subtitles has been released as A Happy Businesswoman by the Korean Film
Archive. An intrusive reporter conveyed Nae-­ok’s own explanation as a filial spin-
ster who was so dedicated to supporting her ­family that she lacked the time to wed.
But her worry about a ­future as a normative ­house­wife could also have masked or
doubled as an unspeakable desire for other ­women. “Hwaje ch’ujŏk,” 235–36.
79 On the connection between taxi driving and queer ­women, see “Tongsŏng yŏja
unjŏnsa,” Chugan Chung’ang, no. 722, September 12, 1982, 35; “Samogwandae ŭijŏt
i yŏja kkiri kyŏlhonsik,’ ” Sŏndei Sŏul, vol. 16, no. 44, November 6, 1983, 24–25;
“Yŏja unjŏnsa kkiri kong’gae tongsŏng kyŏlhonsik ollyŏltta!,” Chugan Kyŏnghyang,
vol. 16, no. 49, December 18, 1983, 26–27.
80 One report mentions a payment of twenty million wŏn. “Hwaje ch’ujŏk,” 236.
81 “Tongsŏng’ae ‘yŏja pubu’ kkiri wijaryo ssaum,” Chugan Kyŏnghyang, vol. 30, no. 37,
September 20, 1987, 58–59. For an ­earlier account mentioning the possibility of an
alimony payment, see “Ton do kŭgo, t’ip do mani chudŏra,” 10–11.
82 ­­Unless noted other­wise, the following is based on “Tong’gŏ saenghwal 4 nyŏn
man e pa’gyŏng,” Chugan Yŏsŏng, no. 130, July 7, 1971, 24–25. For a similar account
from a ­later period, see “Pam i turyŏwŏ,” Sŏndei Sŏul 21, no. 2 ( January 17, 1988):
46–47.
83 For other exceptions of ­women as soldiers, see “Yŏgun agassidǔl kuhon
handaeyo,” Myŏngnang, May 1964, 176–80; “18 se myoryŏng yŏgun,” Chugan
Chung’ang, no. 2, August 31, 1968, 10–11. On the privileged position of South Ko-
rean men due to the country’s compulsory military system, see Seungsook Moon,
“Imagining a Nation through Differences: Reading the Controversy Concerning
the Military Ser­vice Extra Points System in South K ­ orea,” Review of Korean Studies
5, no. 2 (December 2002): 73–109.
84 On the colonial history of this queer practice, see Pak Chŏng-ae, “Yŏja rŭl
sarang han yŏja: 1931 nyŏn ‘tongsŏng’ae’ ch’ŏldo chasal sakkŏn,” in 20 segi yŏsŏng
sakkŏnsa: Kŭndae yŏsŏng kyoyuk ŭi sijak esŏ saibŏ p’eminijŭm kkaji, ed. Yŏsŏngsa
Yŏn’gu Moim Kilbakk Sesang (Seoul: Yŏsŏng Sinmunsa, 2001), 100–8. On the
case of ­Korea’s colonizer, see Jennifer Robertson, “­Dying to Tell: Sexuality and
Suicide in Imperial Japan,” Signs 25, no. 1 (Autumn 1999): 1–35.
85 ­­Unless noted other­wise, the following discussion is based on “Yŏja kkiri sarang
hada silae ŭi chasal,” Sŏndei Sŏul, vol. 8, no. 17, May 4, 1975, 28–29. For more on
female factory laborers, including their queer sexual practices, see “Ch’ŏnyŏ egen
‘hyŏngbu’ wa ‘yŏrŭm’ kwa ‘san’ i kangjŏk ida: Yŏgong ŭi sŏng pogosŏ,” Chugan

254  |  Todd A. Henry

 Han’guk, no. 178, February 18, 1968, 14–15; “Yumyŏng yŏyu do sangjŏngmo do
tongsŏng pubu ŭi isaek chidae,” 42–43.
86 On cultural repre­sen­ta­tions of what she calls “domestic prostitution,” see Lee, Ser­
vice Economies, 79–124.
87 “Yŏja tongsŏng’ae 4 nyŏn pigŭk ŭi chongmal,” Chugan Kyŏnghyang, vol. 10,
no. 6, February 13, 1977, 94–95. For similar accounts of heterosexuality’s tri-
umph through lesbian tragedy, see “Tongsŏng yŏja unjŏnsa,” 35; “Rejŭbiŏn
namp’yŏn’yŏk pyŏngsim chasalgi to,” 133.
88 For an activist’s analy­sis of current issues, see Tari Young-­Jung Na, “The South
Korean Gender System: lgbti in the Contexts of ­Family, ­Legal Identity, and the
Military,” Journal of Korean Studies 19, no. 2 (Fall 2014): 357–77.
89 As Kath Weston has argued, “A focus on state recognition can undermine kinship
practices that have no hope of gaining ­legal standing and narrow the range of
­intimacies that p­ eople create”: Kath Weston, “Families in Queer States: The Rule
of Law and the Politics of Recognition,” Radical History Review 93 (Fall 2005): 135.
For a similar argument that considers the South Korean case, see Sŏ Tong-­jin,
“K’wiŏ kajok?: Kajok, sahoe, kukka sai ŭi kŏri rŭl ottŏkke ch’ukjŏng hal kŏt inga,”
Chinbo P’yŏngnon 48 ( June 2011): 88–119.

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Chugan Yŏsŏng
Chung’ang Sinmun
Kong’ŏp Sinmun
Kyŏnghyang Sinmun
Maeil Kyŏngje
Myŏngnang
Pusan Simun
Sŏndei Sŏul
Silhwa
Sint’aeyang
Tong’a Ilbo

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  255

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Yŏn’gu 51, no. 2 (August 2014): 5–33.
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Hŏ Yun. “1950 nyŏndae chŏnhu namsŏngsŏng ŭi t’alch’uk kwa chendŏ ŭi pisuhaeng
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Kageyama Kayoko. Sei, media, fūzoku: Shūkanshi “Asahi genō” kara miru fūzoku toshite
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Kim Chi. “1960 nyŏndae sang’ŏp chuganji Chugan han’guk yŏn’gu.” Master’s thesis,
Yonsei University, Seoul, 2015.
Kim Chi-­hye. “1950 nyŏndae yŏsŏng kukgŭk ŭi tanch’e hwaldong kwa soet’oe e tae han
yŏn’gu.” Han’guk Yŏsŏnghak 27, no. 2 ( June 2011): 1–33.
Kim Ha-na. “1930 nyŏndae chŏnhu kong’ŏp tosi tamnon kwa Yŏngdŭngp’o ŭi Sŏul
p’yŏnip.” Tosi Yŏn’gu 11 ( June 2014): 37–68.

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Kim Il-­lan. “Tarŭn sesang ilki: 1960 nyŏndae ŭi yŏjang namja wa namjang yŏin.” In
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Kwŏn/Kim Hyŏn-­yŏng, Chŏng Hŭi-­jin, Na Yŏng-­jŏng, Ruin, and Ŏm Ki-ho, eds.
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Kwŏn/Kim Hyŏn-­yŏng, Han Ch’ae-­yun, Ruin, Yu Chin-­hŭi, and Kim Chu-­hŭi, eds.
Sŏng ŭi chŏngch’i, sŏng ŭi kwŏlli. Seoul: Chaŭm kwa Moŭm, 2012.
Ŏiron Munhwa Yŏn’gu Moim, ed. Chendŏ ŭi ch’aenŏl ŭl tollyŏra. Seoul: Saram Saeng-
gak, 2008.
Pak/Ch’a Min-­jŏng. Chosŏn ŭi k’wiŏ: Kŭndae ŭi t’ŭmsae e sumŭn pyŏnt’aedŭl ŭi ch’osang.
Seoul: Hyŏnsil Munhwa Yŏn’gu, 2018.
Pak Chi-­hun. “Han’guk k’wiŏ midiŏ ŭi yŏksa wa paljŏn.” In Han’guk, sahoe midiŏ
wa sosuja munhwa chŏngch’i, ed. Han’guk Pangsong Hakhoe, 321–64. Seoul:
K’ŏmyunikeishŏnbuksŭ, 2011.
Pak Chŏng-ae. “Yŏja rŭl sarang han yŏja: 1931 nyŏn ‘tongsŏng’ae’ ch’ŏldo chasal
sakkŏn.” In 20 segi yŏsŏng sakkŏnsa: Kŭndae yŏsŏng kyoyuk ŭi sijak esŏ saibŏ
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Pak/Kim Su-­jin, ed. 50 dae rejŭbiŏn: Ch’oe Myŏng-­hwan iyagi. Seoul: Rejŭbiŏn Kwŏlli
Yŏn’guso, 2003.
Pak/Kim Su-­jin, ed. Nŏ nŭn oe rejŭbiŏn ini? Chogŭm ŭn oeroun uridŭl ŭi reinbou int’ŏbyu.
Seoul: Imaejin, 2014.
Pak Kwan-su. “1940 nyŏndae ‘namsŏng tongsŏng’ae’ yŏn’gu.” Pigyo Minsokhak 31
(2006): 389–438.
Pak Sŏng-­a. “  ‘Sŏndei sŏul’ e nat’anan yŏsŏng ŭi yuhyŏng kwa p’yosang.” Han’guk
Yŏn’gu 22 (May 2010): 159–90.
Pak Yong-­kyu. “Pak Chŏng-­hŭi sigi ŏllonin ŭi chigŏpjŏk chŏngch’esŏng ŭi pyŏnhwa.”
Ŏllon Chŏngbo Yŏn’gu 51, no. 2 (August 2014): 34–76.
Ruin. “Kaemp’ŭ T’ŭraensŭ: It’aewŏn chiyŏk t’ŭraensŭjendŏ ŭi yŏksa ch’ujŏk hagi,
1960–1989.” Munhwa Yŏn’gu 1, no. 1 (2012): 244–78.
Sin Chi-­yŏn. “1920–30 nyŏndae ‘tongsŏng(yŏn)ae’ kwallyŏn kisa ŭi susajŏk maengnak.”
Minjok Munhwa Yŏn’gu 45 (2006): 265–92.
Sŏ Tong-­jin. “K’wiŏ kajok?: Kajok, sahoe, kukka sai ŭi kŏri rŭl ottŏkke ch’ukjŏng hal
kŏt inga.” Chinbo P’yŏngnon 48 ( June 2011): 88–119.
Sŏng Chŏng-­suk. “  ‘Pulwanjŏn han mom’ ŭi chilgok ŭl nŏmŏ: 50 dae rejŭbiŏn ŭi
saeng’ae iyagi.” Han’guk Sahoe Pokjihak 64, no. 2 (May 2012): 85–109.
Yi Chŏng-­hun. “Apch’ukjŏk sang’ŏphwa: 1960 nyŏndae han’guk sinmun ŏllon ŭi
sang’ŏp kwa kwajŏng.” K’ŏmyunik’aeshon Iron 10, no. 2 ( June 2014): 242–83.
Yi Im-ha. Chŏnjaeng mimang’in, han’guk hyŏndaesa ŭi ch’immok ŭl kkaeda: Kusullo
p’urŏssŭn han’guk chŏnjaeng chŏnhu sahoe. Seoul: Ch’aek kwa Hamkke, 2010.
Yim Chong-su, and Pak Se-­hyŏn. “ ‘Sŏndei sŏul’ e nat’anan yŏsŏng, sekshuŏllit’I kŭrigo
1970 nyŏndae.” Han’guk Munhak Yŏn’gu 44 ( June 2013): 91–136.

Queer Lives as Cautionary Tales  |  257

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Arvin, Maile, Eve Tuck, and Angie Morrill. “Decolonizing Feminism: Challenging
Connections between Settler Colonialism and Heteropatriarchy.” Feminist Forma-
tions 25, no. 1 (Spring 2013): 8–34.
Berry, Chris. “My Queer ­Korea: Identity, Space, and the 1998 Seoul Queer Film
and Video Festival.” Intersections 2 (May 1999). Accessed April 27, 2019. http://­
intersections​.­anu​.­edu​.­au​/­issue2​/­Berry​.­html.
Bong, Youngshik D. “The Gay Rights Movement in Demo­cratizing ­Korea.” Korean
Studies 32 (2009): 86–103.
Brazinsky, Gregg A. Nation Building in South ­Korea: Koreans, Americans, and the Making
of a Democracy. Chapel Hill: North Carolina University Press, 2009.
Cho, Grace M. Haunting the Korean Diaspora: Shame, Secrecy, and the Korean War. Min-
neapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008.
Floyd, Kevin. The Reification of Desire: ­Towards a Queer Marxism. Minneapolis: Univer-
sity of Minnesota Press, 2009.
Halberstam, Judith [ Jack]. Female Masculinity. Durham, NC: Duke University Press,
1998.
Han, Jongwoo, and L. H. M. Ling. “Hypermasculinized State: Hybridity, Patriarchy
and Capitalism in ­Korea.” International Studies Quarterly 42, no. 1 (March 1998):
53–78.
Hekma, Gert, and Alain Giami, eds. Sexual Revolutions. New York: Palgrave, 2014.
Hennessy, Rosemary. Profit and Plea­sure: Sexual Identities in Late Capitalism. New
York: Routledge, 2000.
Kennedy, Elizabeth Lapovsky, and Madeline D. Davis. Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold:
The History of a Lesbian Community. New York: Routledge, 1993.
Kim, Byung-­Wook, and Ezra Vogel, eds. The Park Chung Hee Era: The Transformation of
South ­Korea. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2011.
Kim, Eun Mee. Big Business, Strong State: Collusion and Conflict in South Korean Devel-
opments, 1960–1990. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1997.
Kim, Jeongmin. “Queer Cultural Movements and Local Counterpublics of Sexuality: A
Case of Seoul Queer Films and Videos Festival.” Inter-­Asia Cultural Studies 8, no. 4
(2007): 617–33.
Kim, Pil Ho, and C. Colin Singer. “Three Periods of Korean Queer Cinema: Invisible,
Camouflage, and Blockbuster.” Acta Koreana 14, no. 1 ( June 2011): 115–34.
Klein, Christina. Cold War Orientalism: Asia in the Middlebrow Imagination, 1945–1961.
Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003.
Koo, Hagen. Korean Workers: The Culture and Politics of Class Formation. Ithaca, NY:
Cornell University Press, 2001.
Kwon, Heonik. The Other Cold War. New York: Columbia University Press, 2010.
Kwon Kim, Hyun-­young, and John (Song Pae) Cho. “The Korean Gay and Lesbian
Movement 1993–2008: From ‘Identity’ and ‘Community’ to ‘­Human Rights.’ ” In
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and Paul Chang, 206–23. London: Routledge, 2011.

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Lee, Jin-­Kyung. Ser­vice Economies: Militarism, Sex Work, and Mi­grant ­Labor in South
­Korea. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010.
Lee, Jooran. “Remembered Branches: ­Towards a ­Future of Korean Homosexual Film.”
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Perspectives, ed. Lim Jie-­Hyun, 1–22. London: Palgrave, 2011.
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This page intentionally left blank
Part II

CITIZENS, CONSUMERS,
SOLDIERS, AND ACTIVISTS IN
POSTAUTHORITARIAN TIMES
This page intentionally left blank
 Chapter Seven

THE THREE FACES

OF SOUTH KOREA’S
MALE HOMOSEXUALITY
POGAL, IBAN, AND NEOLIBERAL GAY

John (Song Pae) Cho

At nighttime, the park changes into a dif­fer­ent face. Men

who have been waiting for darkness wander and wait for
someone. After meeting someone, they put their arms
across the shoulders of the men that they have just met
and dis­appear into the darkness.
—­sbs News Investigation, “Homosexuals Who Have
Come Out into the Sun”

 I
n recent years, postcolonial nations worldwide have been the site of vigor-
ous new lgbt movements that both mimic and challenge Euro-­American
models of identity, sexuality, and citizenship.1 Dubbed “queer globaliza-
tion,” this phenomenon has provoked debates over w ­ hether or not t­hese
Westernized proj­ects herald an accelerated Americanization, the homogeni-
zation of gay culture, and the rise of the “global gay.”2 Yet a contradiction char-
acterizes this pro­cess of queer globalization: its detour through “Queer Asia.”
Defying the thesis of queer globalization as Westernization, the pro­cesses of
global queering in the early twenty-­first ­century have led to an expanding re-
gional network that links gay, lesbian, and transgender communities in China,
Hong Kong, Singapore, Taiwan, South ­Korea, Indonesia, and the Philippines,
as well as in other rapidly developing socie­ties in East and Southeast Asia.3
Observers of ­these lgbt identities in Asia have attributed the prolifera-
tion of new gender/sex categories and erotic cultures to the intersection of
multiple influences, including globalizing market capitalism, intensifying
hybridization of local and Western cultures and discourses, increasing rates
of ­human movement through tourism and migration, and expanding interna-
tional cooperation on issues such as hiv/aids prevention and ­human rights
of gender/sex minorities. The Internet, cinema, and other technologies have
also been seen as critical in unmooring t­ hese categories from their static and
sedentary locations in the “West” and transplanting them to “Asia.”4
Building on this emerging lit­er­a­ture on Queer Asia, this chapter seeks to
elucidate the three discursive constructions, or “­faces,” of male homo­sexuality
within South ­Korea’s modern history: pogal, iban, and neoliberal gay.5 Given
the abrupt and sometimes confusing change in sexual categories, I do not
use the term “gay” to refer to transsexuals or transgender p­ eople, as was done
­until the mid-1990s; instead, I use it to describe men with a normatively
“masculine” gender who are attracted to other men. Moreover, while both
“pogal” and “iban” are emic terms used by dif­fer­ent generations of gay men
to describe themselves, “neoliberal gay” is an etic term that I have coined
to describe the latest and most con­temporary manifestation of being gay. As
I argue, ­these three ­faces of male homo­sexuality can be mapped onto three
equally distinct periods of South ­Korea’s economic development—­late devel-
opmentalist, liberal, and neoliberal—­when the substantive ele­ments of queer
citizenship ­were negotiated in a reciprocal and noncontingent dialectic with
the changing geopo­liti­cal identity and ­future of the nation.6 In par­tic­u­lar, they
have emerged in dialectical interaction with a contradiction at the heart of the
South Korean state’s con­temporary nation-­building proj­ect: the simultaneous
valorization of both “individual” and “­family” (along with “com­pany” and “na-
tion”) as the basic units of society.
In focusing on the three ­faces of South ­Korea’s male homo­sexuality, this
chapter contributes to the emerging scholarship on Queer Asia that has begun
to articulate a counterdiscourse to the hegemonic Western queer scholarship
anchored in post-­Stonewall tropes of the “closet” and “coming out.” Accord-
ing to the “classic” model of gay identity that emerged in the United States
during the long period of economic prosperity ­under the social welfare state
of Fordism, homo­sexuality involves (1) escaping the structure of the domi-
nant heterosexual kinship system; (2) identifying with an exclusive gay iden-

264  |  John (Song Pae) Cho

tity; (3) forging same-­sex bonds; (4) creating a large-­scale social network; and
(5) possessing self-­awareness and group identity.7 In contrast, within South
­Korea and other parts of Asia, as the film scholar Chris Berry points out, many
queers refuse to exit the ­family in order to be gay. Moreover, although t­ here
are many marginal, elusive, and tacit homoerotic spaces that are generally in-
visible to the public, ­there are few structured gay communities with estab-
lished roles, relationships, and hierarchies for them to define their identity.8
Rather than interpreting their refusal to come out of the f­amily in order
to be gay as tantamount to “being in the closet,” scholars of Queer Asia have
sought to identify the par­tic­u­lar sociocultural and historical contexts that have
made homo­sexuality a key site of ongoing contradiction and cultural hybrid-
ity within East Asia. For instance, contesting the assumption that capitalism
and its system of wage ­labor liberate homosexuals to construct lifestyles cen-
tered on their non-­normative sexuality, John Erni and Anthony Spires note
how industrial modernity in Taiwan did not agitate cultural traditions such
as familialism but has, instead, worked in conjunction with them.9 As a re-
sult, while Taiwanese queers remain caught between the state and ­family,
emerging queer consumer spaces provide “an opportunity to work out the
relationship between gay and lesbian visibility and the cultural politics of
family-­centeredness in Taiwan.”10 Using the term “­family politics,” Erni and
Spires have sought to distinguish the family-­based cultural politics faced by
Taiwanese queers from the class-­(and race-)based identity politics that have
characterized the Westernized gay and lesbian movement in the United States.
In this volume, Layoung Shin also demonstrates the impact of f­ amily politics
on the choices that young queer w ­ omen in South ­Korea make in terms of their
gendered self-­presentation and partner se­lection. Following their lead, this
chapter identifies the substantive meanings of Korean homo­sexuality—­which
are inflected by age, class, gender, and marital status—as they are ­shaped by
the ­family governmentality of what I term “Confucian biopolitics.” Confucian
biopolitics can be considered the primary form of governance within com-
munitarian and nonliberal socie­ties in Asia, where the notion of (neo)liberal
individualism remains an exception.11
Considering the “asocial individual” within liberalism to be a fundamen-
tally alien concept, Confucian biopolitics has, instead, prioritized the collec-
tivity of the ­family (and nation) as the primary manifestation of the social, to
which individuals are expected to submit their personal w ­ ill and desires. Such
familialism not only inhibits the expression of homo­sexuality, except in highly
discreet ways; it also creates the very shape and texture of queer lives in terms

Pogal, Iban, and Neoliberal Gay  |  265

of space, temporality, and affect. Meanwhile, such Confucian influences can
arguably be seen most vividly within South K ­ orea, which takes pride in being
the vanguard of Confucianism as “the foundational culture of everyday life of
East Asians.”12
This chapter also contributes to Korean studies. In recent years, feminists
have contested the androcentric nature of South ­Korea’s postcolonial nation-
alism that has constructed the nation as a homosocial bonding of hypermas-
culine men in response to the emasculating pro­cess of colonialism.13 While
critical in trying to recover the gendered figure of the subaltern, much postco-
lonial feminist scholarship on South ­Korea, in focusing almost exclusively on
the opposing and asymmetrical forms of masculinity and femininity, has un-
wittingly reproduced the hetero-­gendering of the postcolonial nation, which
erases the lives and subjectivities of sexual minorities. Drawing on a queer
critique of the postcolonial nation-­state and “post-­Orientalist” treatments of
sexualities in Queer Asia, this chapter provides a detailed ethnography of Ko-
rean gay men’s symbolic-­political discourses of sex, nation, and citizenship.14 It
argues that even as Korean gay men contest the androcentric notion of Korean
nationalism and citizenship in many ways, they reproduce it in other ways.
Korean gay men’s contradictory stance ­toward heteronormative patriarchy
may be seen to stem from their ambivalent position within Korean society,
where “their access to ‘normal life’ is guaranteed” as long as “they do not cross
the boundary of ghettos set by invisible rules in the society.”15 Interrogating
the ways in which they become complicit with the dominant hypermasculin-
ist and heteronormative system as they strug­gle to avoid a stigmatized sexual
identity provides a unique win­dow into the contradictory pro­cesses of subject
formation within a technologically advanced and hyperconsumerist yet cul-
turally conservative Korean society.
Following the work of Sharon Heijin Lee on cosmetic surgery, one could
say ­there are no “average Third World gay men.” According to Lee, t­ here is a
tendency on the part of “First World” feminists to homogenize “Third World”
­women as an oppressed group. However, Korean w ­ omen confound this bi-
nary. Even as they embrace “traditional” roles such as motherhood, they also
engage in “late modern” practices such as cosmetic surgery. Similarly, even
though Korean gay men are oppressed by the heavi­ly patriarchal nature of
Korean society and its family-­based heteronormative structures, they are si­
mul­ta­neously at the forefront of new consumerist and technology-­based iden-
tities and lifestyles. Thus, rather than relying on simplistic binaries such as
traditional-­modern or First World–­Third World, it is necessary to situate their

266  |  John (Song Pae) Cho

lives within the sociohistorical and economic-­technological circumstances of
South ­Korea in par­tic­u­lar, and Asia more generally.
This chapter is based on research that I conducted for my doctoral disserta-
tion between 2007 and 2009 in Seoul. During the research, I conducted more
than one hundred interviews with gay men, lesbians, and transgender ­people
and conducted participant observation in gay chat rooms, queer po­liti­cal ral-
lies, and Internet-­based recreational clubs. This research was designed to in-
vestigate how the so-­called first generation of gay men in South K ­ orea refuse
compulsory marriage to ­women, employing the Internet to flexibly navigate
issues of emotional intimacy, sexual morality, and financial (in)security dur-
ing a period of resurgent heteronormative familialism and extensive neolib-
eral restructuring. It also draws on the interviews and archival research that
I conducted for my master’s thesis on gay consumer spaces at Yonsei Univer-
sity in Seoul in 2001–2003, as well as my own personal experiences of living
through a tumultuous period of South K ­ orea’s rapid transition from a late de-
velopmentalist to a liberal and then abruptly neoliberal socioeconomic envi-
ronment from 1995 to 2003.16
The interviews ­were conducted with self-­identified men whom I recruited
online in Ivancity, a cyber-­city of 150,000 gay netizens, and Daum, a main-
stream portal that hosts more than 2,500 gay, lesbian, and transsexual groups.
During ­these interviews, which w ­ ere conducted within the privacy of my
office-­tel or in the semi-­privacy of a coffee shop, I elicited personal narratives
of how the gay men viewed and interpreted their lives vis-­à-­vis issues such
as marriage and ­family. With the exception of one man, they spoke freely
about their lives.17 Some saw me as a mouthpiece for the community that they
wanted to use to voice thoughts and feelings that they could not share publicly
other­wise. For instance, one man stated a desire to write a book about his life
“not from a po­liti­cal perspective, but to simply show the world that this is how
gay men live, and that we are all ­human beings.”
­After transcribing the interviews, I engaged in the inductive pro­cess of
building grounded theory by looking for keywords, tropes, and patterned nar-
ratives.18 Thus, recognizing the intersubjectivity of ethnographic research, this
research sought less to establish timeless truths than to theorize how certain
forms and aesthetics of language arose within the flow of social life as con-
ditioned by larger structures of capitalism, nationalism, and patriarchy.19 For
instance, one key trope that Korean men rely on to describe their experiences
of being homosexual is being “in the dark.” This trope can be seen to emerge
from the socially ostracized nature of homo­sexuality, which is excluded from

Pogal, Iban, and Neoliberal Gay  |  267

the state-­sanctioned space of social recognition. It can also be seen to arise
from gay men’s experience of meeting one another in dimly lit or literally dark
spaces, where their social identities are mutually protected. In other words,
while recognizing the subjective nature of such narratives, this chapter also
recognizes their character as “social facts” that are phenomenologically based,
intersubjectively produced, and ultimately constrained by larger social struc-
tures and historical pro­cesses.20 Following gay men’s own usage, I have thus
relied on ­these tropes to distinguish, for instance, the “dark” late developmen-
talist period from the “sunny” liberal demo­cratic one.

The “Dark Period” of South ­Korea’s Homo­sexuality

during the Late Developmentalist Period (1970s to
mid-1990s)

South K ­ orea is considered the prototypical “hypermasculine developmentalist

state” in East Asia.21 ­After Japa­nese colonial rule (1910–45) and U.S. military oc-
cupation (1945–48), the Republic of ­Korea was established in 1948. Following
the Korean War (1950–53)—­the last armed confrontation between the two Cold
War blocs, which left the peninsula the most heavi­ly fortified line in the world—­
the postcolonial state engaged in a proj­ect of compressed modernization that
mimicked the masculine pro­cess of colonization by denigrating anything that
smacked of the “feminine.”22 In the pro­cess, the country became envisioned as
a patrilineal community of hypermasculine men and hyperfeminized w ­ omen.23
A key plank of this postcolonial nationalism was the ideology of economic
development, which urged individuals to sacrifice for the building of a pros-
perous and strong Korean nation while excluding the Western values of
liberal democracy and individualism. For instance, President Park Chung Hee
(1917–79), credited with engineering South K ­ orea’s economic takeoff as one
of the “Four Asian Tigers,” was highly suspicious of such Western values,
which he believed led not only to “social disorder but also [to] the weakening
of Korean national consciousness.”24 Rejecting Western ideologies such as in-
dividual rights and freedom of expression, he exploited the hierarchical meta­
phor of familial relationships embodied in “Confucian Parental Governance”
to mobilize the population for rapid economic development. In this mode of
governance, the state was depicted “as ­father or husband, corporations as its
first son, society as ­mother or wife, and factory workers as filial ­daughters.”25
As a result of this authoritarian ideology of the family-­state, official infor-
mation about non-­normative sexualities such as homo­sexuality was highly

268  |  John (Song Pae) Cho

restricted during the developmentalist period of South Korean history, from
the 1970s to the early 1990s.26 For instance, during the height of the aids epi-
demic in the West in the 1980s, when it was first figured as a disease of for-
eigners residing in South ­Korea, a Korean news anchor stated, “South ­Korea
has nothing to worry about since we have no homosexuals.”27 As indicated in
the introduction of this volume, much of the history of homo­sexuality during
the late developmentalist period (and ­earlier) is still being excavated—­hence,
the vagueness with which my discussion of homo­sexuality during this period
begins. Nonetheless, as the contributions in this volume by Todd A. Henry
and Chung-­kang Kim demonstrate, the suppression of homo­sexuality during
this period did not mean that unofficial and popu­lar repre­sen­ta­tions of non-­
normative sexualities w­ ere absent. In fact, both reports in weekly newspapers
and in gender comedy films ­were rife with such repre­sen­ta­tions, of which
queer populations w ­ ere shadow readers and viewers. Take, for instance, the
account of “Mr.  A,” a successful, forty-­seven-­year-­old married man and the
owner of four after-­school institutes, who engaged in homo­sexuality ­after vis-
iting a theater where same-­sex lovers gathered:
Mr.  A was watching a movie when a man fumbled for his hand. For some
reason, the words “I ­don’t like it” did not come out of his mouth. A ­ fter the
movie, when the two men talked, t­ here was a certain connection. Wondering
­whether he might not be a same-­sex lover, he had sex with the other man. Af-
terward, Mr. A stated, “Ah!” That “­thing” that had always felt like a duty with
his wife even ­after having two kids felt dif­fer­ent with a man.28

In this quote, Mr. A comes to discover the carnal plea­sure of homo­sexuality

and his non-­normative status as a “same-­sex lover” through the affective con-
nection of a fumbling hand in a dark theater. This plea­sure is radically dif­fer­
ent from the heterosexual sex he has performed as a duty with his wife. Still,
not only is homo­sexuality represented as something that one should not like;
it is also represented as a chance happening. That is, in contrast to the West-
ernized medico-­scientific view of homo­sexuality that—­starting in the late
nineteenth ­century and early twentieth ­century—­began to view ­those with
homoerotic interests as a distinct species of h­ uman beings, homo­sexuality
within South K ­ orea was seen as a perverted desire that ordinary men “fell” or
­were “seduced” into (ppajida), especially in the absence of female partners.29
In other words, t­ here appeared to be a complex pro­cess of the simultaneous
repre­sen­ta­tion, disavowal, and containment of homo­sexuality as a collective
social identity during the late developmentalist period of South ­Korea.

Pogal, Iban, and Neoliberal Gay  |  269

 Of course, the fact that Westernized notions of homo­sexuality as a social
identity did not exist in South K ­ orea during this period does not mean that
Korean men did not harbor homoerotic desires for other men or actively seek
out opportunities to enact them. For instance, with the country’s strong divi­
sion of the sexes (namnyŏ yubyŏl) into the outer, or public, space (pakkat) for
men and the inner, or domestic, space (an) for w ­ omen, both sexes had ample
opportunities for homoerotic liaisons within sex-­segregated institutions such
as ­middle and high schools (for more, see Shin-ae Ha’s chapter in this volume).30
The hypermasculine institution of the military, responsible for “creating
citizens, and creating men,” also provided a key setting for homoerotic experi-
mentation.31 As one gay man, “Sang-su,” recalled, “Since the military is a place
where hot-­blooded youth gather, even if you engage in a l­ ittle skinship, then it
soon develops into a hand job.” A Korean-­English expression, “skinship” refers
to the affectionate touching that often occurs between members of the same
sex without necessarily being construed as sexual. Much of this be­hav­ior was
understood not as homo­sexuality but as a natu­ral form of intimacy between
“younger and older ­brothers” or ju­niors and se­niors at work or in school.32 As
one gay man, In-­jae, noted, “Homo­sexuality is not something that can be eas-
ily pinned down in South K ­ orea ­because ­there is a widespread belief that men
can be intimate with each other, especially while intoxicated.”
Fi­nally, some gay men ­were likely to have had regular contact with gay
American soldiers and other foreigners, such as gay Japa­nese and Asian busi-
nessmen, who had very dif­fer­ent understandings of homo­sexuality, in spaces
such as gay theaters during this period. Upon meeting t­ hese foreigners, some
Koreans even traveled to foreign countries, including United States, Eu­rope,
and Southeast Asia, where they w ­ ere further exposed to competing models of
homo­sexuality. However, such men appear to have been in the minority, with
the majority of Koreans—­including gay Koreans—­kept in the dark about the
meaning of homo­sexuality as anything but a temporarily aberrant be­hav­ior. In
fact, raising the fundamental question of w ­ hether homo­sexuality can be expe-
rienced as an identity without the discursive construction of it as such, many
men during this period ­were confused and morally torn about their desires.
Meanwhile, without access to information about homo­sexuality, and with
the widespread belief about homo­sexuality as dirty, immoral, and unnatural,
many men during this period simply acceded to the pressures of the domi-
nant heteronormative lifestyle. As another gay man, “YS,” now married to a
­woman, put it, “Before marriage, I had no idea about homo­sexuality. Even
though I engaged in skinship with other men, I did not realize that I was eroti-

270  |  John (Song Pae) Cho

cally attracted to them. All I thought was, ‘Oh, he’s a nice guy.’ That was the
extent of my understanding of my desires.” Especially as they got older, many
men of this period, known as the “386 generation,” w ­ ere swept up in the “chro-
nonormativity” of South ­Korea’s economic developmentalism.33
Following Dana Luciano, I define chrononormativity as “the “sexual ar-
rangement of the time of life of entire populations.”34 That is, if the Confucian
Parental Governance of the late developmentalist state installed the hetero-
sexual nuclear ­family as the grounding of the postwar nation in South ­Korea,
then this heterosexual nuclear f­amily served to regulate the population not
only spatially, in terms of a gendered division of l­ abor between the public and
private, but also temporally in terms of a heteronormative life course involving
the “proper time” to get a job, get married, and have ­children. As Sang-su put
it, “At the time, with the [per capita] gdp at $3,000, every­one’s dream was not
to enjoy themselves in terms of sex or leisure but to save enough money to buy
a ­house. That was what distinguished the poor from the rich—­whether they
owned their own home or not.”
So for most ordinary p­ eople, the biggest goal was to prepare a home to raise
their ­family. During this period, so many men temporarily forgot about their
homoerotic desires and got married that it would not be an exaggeration to
say that the vast majority of this 386 generation now lead double lives as mar-
ried gay men.35
As I discuss l­ater, it was not u­ ntil the Internet gained popularity in the late
1990s that many of t­hese men would rediscover the “dark secret” of homo­
sexuality that had been deeply buried within their hearts. Once again, follow-
ing the trope of living in the dark, the men’s figuration of homo­sexuality as
a dark secret spoke to their understanding of sexuality as something deeply
essential and innate but that nonetheless needed to be hidden and repressed.
By breaking the state mono­poly on information and “rupture[ing] the
implied integrity of normative f­ amily and work life,” the Internet would inter-
pellate a growing number of men ensconced within the heart of the patriar-
chal nation—­the heterosexual ­family—­into Westernized subject positions as
“homosexuals.”36

Homo­sexuality of Pogal Such as Kim Kyŏng-­min

While the majority of men during the period of South K ­ orea’s late develop-
mentalism ­were pressured by hetero-­family norms to marry w ­ omen and lead
ostensibly “normal” lives as heterosexual, patriarchal men, the tiny minority

Pogal, Iban, and Neoliberal Gay  |  271

who did not ­were left to wander the hidden, homoerotic spaces of Seoul and
other large cities as “ghosts.”
Among ­these ghosts was Kim Kyŏng-­min, the author of South ­Korea’s first,
and perhaps only, autobiography by a self-­identified homosexual.37 According
to Kim, he had never once in his life suffered as a pogal. A reversal of the term
kalbo—­“the most vulgar term for a prostitute in ­Korea”—­“pogal” was often
used by same-­sex lovers to refer to themselves before the demo­cratizing and
globalizing phase of the gay community in the mid-1990s, when “pogal” was
replaced by “gay” and “iban.”38 Kim says, “Of course, in order not to suffer,
I have had to engage in painstaking effort to build a careful wall of secrecy
around my homo­sexuality and to live hiding ­behind that wall with my teeth
clenched like a fugitive.”39
Given the state of emergency following the Korean War, the trope of
“refugee” is a well-­worn one in Korean studies.40 Less analyzed have been
the tropes of “sexual refugee,” “affective alien,” and “internal exile.”41 With-
out a heterosexual nuclear f­amily to anchor their desires or secure their
social ­faces, homosexuals—­like other social outcasts, including the main
character in Yi Sang’s Wings (see the chapter by John Whittier Treat in this
volume)—­became internal exiles estranged from mainstream society and
its “reproductive futurism” based on marriage and ­children.42 Experienc-
ing not material but affective deprivation, they w ­ ere forced to wander the
urban landscape “to find sexual gratification and build social networks”
even while hiding from their families and society at large to avoid sexual
persecution.43
As Kim Kyŏng-­min writes, while hiding ­behind a wall of secrecy meant
safety, it also meant an intolerable sense of isolation: in being excluded from
the web of sociality woven around the heterosexual nuclear ­family and its re-
productive futurism, they ­were coerced into remaining as nonsocial subjects
with “no ­future.” Unable to withstand a sense of loneliness as “big as a moun-
tain,” Kim—­like Mr. A—­ventured into a theater in Chongno, Seoul, where
same-­sex lovers ­were reported to be gathering. Part of a subterranean pogal
community in Nakwŏn-­dong, Chongno had many gay bars where middle-­
aged and often married middle-­and upper-­middle-­class gay men often gathered.
It also had the infamous “P-­Theater” (Pagoda Theater), a small theater that
attracted more than one thousand pogal on holidays and weekends during its
heyday in the 1970s and 1980s. The Pagoda Theater was often reported about
in Sunday Seoul and other tabloids. “Chaplin,” a man I interviewed in 2003,
debuted in this homoerotic scene in 1977, when he was fifteen. He said, “On

272  |  John (Song Pae) Cho

rainy days when t­ here was a sad atmosphere, men would circle inside the dark
theater looking for their partners.”
This was Kim’s “debut” (tebwi) on the Chongno pogal scene. Evoking the
image of a debutante making her first entrance into high society or an actress
making her first appearance onstage, South Korean gay men used the term
“debut” to refer to their first appearance in homosexual society. Compared
with the Westernized concept of “coming out,” “debuting” was a “smaller form
of coming out” to a l­ imited audience of other pogal.44 This notion of debuting,
I argue, has instilled a very dif­fer­ent meaning and logic in the act of coming
out. In the inability to come out to their families and broader society, South
Korean gay men—­and activists—­have instead prioritized the act of volun-
tarily revealing themselves to other gay men. Such debuting, therefore, dis-
closes the oppressive nature of Korean society in which “only orphans are seen
to come out.” It also illuminates the South Korean gay and lesbian movement’s
par­tic­u­lar historical and po­liti­cal mandate of fostering intimate ties between
gay men as part of the larger task of creating a hidden community of support
that I have termed “lifestyle politics.”
In debuting, Kim Kyŏng-­min established an alternative form of social rec-
ognition denied to him by Korean society. As he writes, “Was it ­because I went
­there knowing that it was a pogal theater? For some reason, every­one looked
both like and unlike a pogal. Pushing aside my feeling of unease, I looked
around the ‘salon’ of the Pagoda Theater when every­one suddenly turned
around and directed their gazes at me.”45 Evoking the spaces of public civility
and sociability that Jürgen Habermas credits with having created the public
sphere of early modern and revolutionary France, gay men called the lounges
within the theaters where they chatted and socialized “salons.”46 In gay men’s
case, however, ­these salons inaugurated an alternative space of sociality or­ga­
nized around stigmatized desires that Michael Warner elsewhere has termed
a “queer counterpublic.”47
Yet, if such spaces afforded stigmatized and invisible sexual subjects such as
Kim Kyŏng-­min with an alternative site of pogal identity, they also produced
their own forms of sexual abjection. Without the affective anchor of hetero-
sexual ­family or normative ideas of love to restrain their desires, same-­sex lov-
ers found themselves “forced to resort to repeated chance sexual encounters”
to fulfill their sexual and affective needs.48 As Kim writes, “Even though I in-
haled and exhaled hot breaths of plea­sure ­every time that I was in other men’s
embraces, the men ­were always like the wind.”49 To describe the liminality and
contingency of gay desire that flowed under­neath and through the crevices of

Pogal, Iban, and Neoliberal Gay  |  273

institutionalized heteronormative life without a social anchor, gay men often
employed the meta­phors of “­water” and “wind.” As Sŏ Tong-­jin, the coun-
try’s first out gay activist, notes, “pogal” is thus a term of “self-­degradation” for
same-­sex lovers “forced to live an overeroticized [and rootless] existence.”50
The reduction of gay men’s relationships to the sexual may be seen as the most
pernicious effect of the Korean state’s suppression of homo­sexuality.

The “Sunlight” of South ­Korea’s Democ­ratization and

Globalization from the Mid-­to Late 1990s: Iban

With the democ­ratization of South K ­ orea in 1987 and its globalization drive
(segyehwa) in 1993, South K ­ orea experienced dramatic changes in how it un-
derstood homoerotic desires and homo­sexuality. From being seen as a foreign
phenomenon confined to a few “perverted” individuals in South K ­ orea, homo­
sexuality would increasingly be recognized as part of Korean society. In par­tic­
u­lar, what I have termed the “historical co­ali­tion” of three organ­izations—­the
gay and lesbian movement, the gay bulletin board ser­vices (bbses), and the
gay consumer scene in I’taewŏn—­provided the crucial ­factors of discourse,
technology, and space for the growing institutionalization of homoerotic de-
sire as a gay identity and community, as captured in the term “iban.” Depend-
ing on how the Chinese character “i” in “iban” is written, it can mean a “dif­fer­
ent” or “second-­class” class of ­people from ilban—or heterosexuals—­who are
viewed as a “general” or “dominant/universal” class of ­people.
Mirroring the development of gay and lesbian movements in other
Asian countries (notably, Taiwan), K ­ orea’s first gay and lesbian organ­ization,
Ch’odonghoe, was founded in 1993, a­ fter the onset of democracy in 1987. Al-
though Ch’odonghoe disbanded within weeks of its founding due to inter-
nal conflicts between gay men and lesbian ­women, it was quickly replaced by
the gay men’s Ch’ingusai (Between Friends) in February 1994 and the lesbian
organ­ization Kkiri Kkiri (Among Ourselves) in November 1994.
Nonetheless, due to the reluctance of the members of both organ­izations
to reveal their f­aces to the public, it was not u­ ntil the coming out of the gay
activists Sŏ Tong-­jin, in March 1995, and Yi Chŏng-­u, in May 1995, that the
South Korean public caught its first glimpse of self-­avowed homosexuals.
­Unlike “same-­sex lovers,” t­hese gay men began to view their homo­sexuality
as a core essence of their personal and public identities. As Sŏ put it, “I feel
that it is necessary that I, and many other homosexuals, must speak of
homo­sexuality—­the reason for our unhappiness—if we are ever to overcome

274  |  John (Song Pae) Cho

this unhappiness.”51 In focusing on the issue of individual happiness, Sŏ joined
feminists and youth during this liberalizing period in “strongly contesting the
nationalist discourse of economic development that has repressed the indi-
vidual as the subject of civil rights.”52
With the coming out of Sŏ and Yi—­students at the elite institutions of
­Yonsei University and Seoul National University (snu), respectively—­the
trickle of news stories about homo­sexuality, which had been mostly restricted
to tabloids such as Sunday Seoul, became a flood. The host of an episode of the
Korean Broadcasting Station program Tokjŏm Yŏsŏng, titled “Another Type of
Love: Homo­sexuality,” which aired on December 9, 1995, commented:
Within our society, ­there are ­those who cannot show their ­faces. They are the
“­faces in the shadow.” Now, however, homosexuals have started organ­izing
themselves with the founding of Ch’ingusai, the country’s first gay group, and
the formation of homosexual groups on college campuses, including snu and
Yonsei. As they begin to proudly show their ­faces and raise their voices, what
are the stories they want to tell? And how should we view their homosexual
love? They say that theirs is “another type of love” and that they just want to
live proudly as members of our society.

With the flood of discourses about homo­sexuality, the number of gays and
lesbians calling the hotline at Ch’ingusai and Kkiri Kkiri also spiked. Many of
their questions ­were directed less at the issue of coming out than at the issue of
how to meet other homosexuals and, in some cases, how to become straight.
Thus, for many homosexuals, the most impor­tant issues ­were ­those of identity
and companionship: how to understand their “deviant” sexuality and meet
other ­people for love, sex, and friendship.
Playing a key role in addressing ­these concerns ­were the technological ser­
vices of the bbses—­simple text-­based chat rooms and discussion boards on
the servers of South ­Korea’s three largest personal computer communication
providers, Hait’el, Ch’ŏllian, Naunuri—­and “153,” a national telephone an-
swering ser­vice run by ­Korea Telecom where ­people could leave one another
one-­to two-­minute messages. Both ser­vices played a key role in enabling hid-
den gay men and lesbians to communicate and to circulate large volumes of
forbidden information that previously had been confined to the dark.
They also enabled ­these newly interpellated “gay men and lesbian ­women”
to create a nationwide community infrastructure. According to one gay man,
Hyŏn-­kyu, whom I interviewed in 2002 about his experiences with bbses,
when he overcame his initial fear of other homosexuals and entered the chat

Pogal, Iban, and Neoliberal Gay  |  275

rooms to chat with them, he was surprised by their ordinariness. As he stated,
“Talking to the p­ eople in the chat room, my ste­reo­types of them as strange
­people came crashing down. I found out that they could not be more like me.
They ­were just like me, having gone through the same worries that I had when
I was young and living the same ordinary lives that I was living now.” The term
“ordinary” (p’yŏngbŏm) was one that I often heard gay men use when I lived
in South K ­ orea from the mid-1990s to the early 2000s. For instance, many
of them commented on how their most cherished dream was to meet a man
who was “ordinary” in appearance (p’yŏngbŏm han oemo), had an “ordinary”
job (p’yŏngbŏm han chikjang) and an “easygoing” personality (munanhan
sŏnggyŏk), with whom they could s­ ettle down to a “quiet life” (choyonghan
salm) of domestic bliss away from the sex-­and consumer-­oriented gay life.
On one hand, Hyŏn-­kyu’s comment about other gay men’s and lesbians’ or-
dinariness spoke to the same pro­cess of homogenization that they had under­
gone within the totalitarian culture of South K­ orea ­under the successive military
dictatorships, when it was “dangerous for an individual to think or act from dif­
fer­ent subject positions other than that of one’s national or familial identity.”53
On the other hand, it spoke to their normality. In contrast to the state-­sponsored
media portrayals of gay men as strange p­ eople with perverted desires who ex-
isted only in the West, they w ­ ere ordinary, if invisible, members of Korean so-
ciety. In other words, if Western scholars have emphasized gender/sexual non-
conformity as the radical end point of queer politics, then for Korean men who
had been excluded from the very category of humanity, simply existing as ordi-
nary members of society can be considered the most transgressive act of all.54
At first, the organizers of the gay bbs chat rooms ­were content to let ­these
individuals chat among themselves and discover their ordinariness. ­Later,
however, they began to or­ga­nize ­these gays and lesbians into off-­line groups
through regular meetings known as chŏngmos. If gay men ­were like “wind” or
“­water” that slipped invisibly through the crevices of heteronormative society,
then ­these regular off-­line meetings provided them with a social and temporal
structure to tie them together. Such acts of gathering spatially dispersed men
and giving them a structure to forge ties of sociality and conviviality are, once
again, what I have termed the lifestyle politics of East Asian queers. Th­ ese life-
style politics can be seen to both fall short of and exceed the narrow scope
of rights-­based activism through which Western scholars have envisioned gay
empowerment and queer ­future.55
In organ­izing ­these chŏngmos, bbs groups needed a space that could ac-
commodate the large crowds of 100–150 ­people who eventually showed up. As

276  |  John (Song Pae) Cho

noted ­earlier, ­there was already a hidden scene of pogal theaters and gay bars
in Nakwŏn-­dong, Chongno. However, not only was it dominated by married
gay men, but it was also heavi­ly oriented ­toward sex. In contrast, the newly
emergent gay space of It’aewŏn provided a nonsexualized alternative within
the queer counterpublic. Thus complicating Warner’s conceptualization of the
term, Korean gay men felt compelled to create a space of public civility and
sociality within an overly sexualized queer counterpublic to create their own
“quasi-­intermediary civil society.”56 Due to its close proximity to the U.S. mili-
tary base in Yongsan and its large deployment of American soldiers, who pro-
vided a painful reminder of South K ­ orea’s po­liti­cally divided status, It’aewŏn
was formerly known as an “alien” and “abandoned” space in South ­Korea.57 As
an alien space less subjected to the discipline of the state and the surveillance of
its neighbors, it provided an ideal setting for the emergence of Westernized gay
bars and dance clubs where the growing membership of gay bbs organ­izations,
along with other gay organ­izations, could gather and socialize.

Kki and the Expression of an Inner Homosexual Self

Coming off-­line for the first time, many gay men ­were cautious and afraid.
As one gay man, “Yukino,” put it, “Since I had much prejudice about homo­
sexuality, it was, at first, scary coming off-­line into this night culture associated
with taboo subjects. For instance, I worried about falling into this gay lifestyle
and becoming like t­ hese ­people who I heard w ­ ere dirty, engaged in group sex,
and transmitted diseases.” Interacting with other men, gay men like Yukino
found the gay culture to be much “healthier” (kŏnjŏn hada) than they had
initially ­imagined. As they began to explore “bodily pleasures” within ­these
consumer spaces, they also learned to liberate themselves from “the rigid
bodily habits and dogmatic fashion codes” of the older generation.58 As one
gay man, Bun-­dang, put it, “I do not look like it, but I ­really like ­going to clubs.
When I listen to loud m ­ usic and shake my body, I get this uncanny feeling,
as if my ear­drums are about to burst and my internal organs are g­ oing to ex-
plode.” To describe this “uncanny feeling,” gay men often used the word kki.
Partly derived from ki (life force), kki signified a unique talent, creativity, or
energy within a given person.59 Within the gay culture, it was often used in
the expression kki tulda (to act in an exaggerated feminized manner or to be
campy). During the community-­building phase of the gay and lesbian move-
ment, gay organ­izations such as Ch’ingusai often frowned on this type of be­
hav­ior, believing that it expressed the internalized homophobia of gay men

Pogal, Iban, and Neoliberal Gay  |  277

who thought they ­were ­women rather than men. In Bun-­dang’s comment,
however, it referred to the feeling being alive as a gay individual despite the
sadness and loneliness of being symbolically excluded from the imaginaries of
the Korean ­family and nation.
As the English-­language copy of a poster for “All About Sex, Dance, and
­Music,” a cele­bration of the first anniversary of the gay dance club “G,” in
It’aewŏn, put it:
Have you ever had it?
We are ­family
What is [sic] that mean being gay?
I had enough but I want more
Are you ready to open?
Something inside of you
Take that, would you do what I ask you to do
Feel ­free cuz I’m ready for it
Cum on in and Enjoy
Get Me!—­Do Me—­Fuck Me
­Those three words you need to ask me to be ­free to­night!

Thus, while gayness once meant loneliness and unhappiness by reducing

homo­sexuality to pleas­ur­able but highly individualized and transient sexual
encounters, ­these collective displays of gay sociality—­which subordinated
overt sexual acts to public rituals of gay courtship and friendship—­provided
“a radical vision of intimacy, sexual identity, and belonging that deviates from
the normative model of the privatized conjugal ­couple and nuclear ­family.”60
According to gay men who lived through this liberalizing period of South
Korean history, with the formation of the gay consumer scene in It’aewŏn, the
countenances of Korean gay men became brighter. Th ­ ere was also a growing
sense of community energy as captured in the term “iban.” As Sŏ writes, iban
“indicate[d] a new consciousness of the homosexual community as a social
group only vaguely differentiated from heterosexuals.”61

The IMF Crisis and the “Neoliberal Gay”

(from 1998 to Pre­sent)

South ­Korea saw a radical transformation in the conditions for gay men’s ne-
gotiation of their desire ­after the Asian financial crisis, which began in 1997–
1998. This cataclysmic event is more popularly referred to as the “IMF Crisis”

278  |  John (Song Pae) Cho

in South ­Korea. On one hand, the crisis prompted a radical transformation
in the country’s mode of governance. From a late developmentalist mode of
capital accumulation based on state-­directed manufacturing, the engine of
economic growth shifted to a neoliberal mode of capital accumulation based
on finance and individual enterprise and creativity.
At the same time, the mass layoff of male heads of middle-­class ­house­holds
provoked widespread panic about the collapse of the patriarchal ­family and
nation. In response, the Korean state revived the older ideology of “­family as
nation,” prompting the retreat and reprivatization of progressive movements
such as the ­women’s movement, which had “enjoyed a liberalizing social envi-
ronment during the de­cade leading up to the crisis.”62 As Jesook Song notes,
during this period “newspaper editorials [also] took note of families of same-­
sex ­couples (tongsŏng’ae kajok) and divorce among ‘silver’ (or el­derly) ­couples
(hwangho ihon) as signs of ­family breakdown.”63
Caught in the crosshairs of ­these contradictory changes was the emergent
gay and lesbian community. While the valorization of entrepreneurial individ-
ualism helped to fuel the dramatic growth of the Korean gay and lesbian com-
munity, particularly as a sexual consumer market, the renewed valorization
of the ideology of ­family as nation ensured that this community and market
would remain privatized and hidden from the mainstream public. Deploying
the metonym of ­family as nation, the South Korean state used ­family, employ-
ment, and other social benefits to discriminate against non-­married members
of society and discipline non-­normative populations who did not belong to
the heterosexual nuclear ­family.
Adding a further layer of complexity to t­hese contradictory trends was
the growing transformation of South ­Korea into an Internet “power­house.”
Intended to catapult South K ­ orea into the ranks of “advanced” countries and
open up new markets for postindustrial capitalistic competition, the Internet
did that and more. It also spawned new online gay communities both on gay
platforms such as Ivancity and on mainstream platforms such as Daum. Much
of this par­tic­u­lar cyberculture (i.e., chat rooms, bulletin boards, and instant
messaging), however, remains hidden from the Korean public—­calling into
question the significance of this thriving online form of sociality for the every-
day lives of gay men in South ­Korea.
During my field research in Seoul from 2007 to 2009, I discovered that
Ivancity and Daum provided two very dif­fer­ent pathways to being gay in
post-­imf South K ­ orea. One pathway involved Korean gay men exploiting
the anonymous freedom of Ivancity to experiment with diverse identities, de-

Pogal, Iban, and Neoliberal Gay  |  279

 sires, and activities, including sexual hookups known as pŏnseksŭ (lit., lightning
sex). Modeled a­ fter the flexible economy of part-­time contractual ­labor that
characterized the broader transformation of Korean economy, ­these activities
helped to assuage feelings of loneliness and boredom and transform sexual
abjection into plea­sure. With the passage of time, gay men often found that
­there was a heavy price to be paid for this Internet-based sexual freedom. The
very ability to log on and off and to engage and disengage at ­will was pre-
cisely what made t­ hese online interactions highly unstable and contingent.64
In other words, if the flexibility of part-­time contractual ­labor made the lives
of workers highly precarious, then the flexibility of pŏnseksŭ made the lives
of gay men more socially insecure, emotionally unsatisfying, and often physi-
cally draining, given the need to constantly seek out new partners. Viewed
through the hetero-­norms of long-­term and binding personal relationships,
they also could not “but stand out as something purely negative, an absence
and an evil.”65 As Ivancity became increasingly an erotic market, gay men ulti-
mately found themselves “alone together” within a body-­and class-­stratified
online space, where they continuously had to develop themselves and their
bodies to remain marketable as sexual subjects.66
Another pathway involved Korean gay men responding to the seeming sex-
ual immorality and social immaturity of gay men on Ivancity by establishing
on Daum hundreds of gay Internet-­based clubs called tonghohoes, with hun-
dreds of thousands of mini-­hompys (personalized web pages). Oriented around
a shared hobby or interest, such as swimming or skiing, t­ hese gay tonghohoes
met off-­line, once a week on the weekend, in a discreet public setting. Within a
physical setting where the gay men ­were readily identifiable as an “ethico-­legal
subject” with a unique body and social identity, they ­were forced to exercise
self-­restraint and be properly respectful to o­ thers.67 In turn, such civility al-
lowed the men to fashion a gay lifestyle and queer ­future beyond the reproduc-
tive futurism of the heterosexual ­family and its ­children as the cornerstone on
which the South Korean state had staked its own uncertain ­future.
Nonetheless, the intensification of neoliberal reforms ­after the imf Crisis
brought about a challenge of a dif­fer­ent kind: financial insecurity. Facing open
discrimination within South K ­ orea’s hypermasculinist and family-­oriented
workplace and a bleak f­uture without the i­magined support of wives and
­children, many single gay men in their thirties and forties ­were forced to re-
treat and retire from the gay community to focus on self-­development and
financial security. This retreat and retirement of single gay men in post-­imf
South K ­ orea, which occurred at the same time that married gay men known

280  |  John (Song Pae) Cho

as “bats” (a transliteration of the Korean word pakch’wi) ­were emerging as a
power­ful sexual constituency within the Korean gay community, highlighted
the paradoxical importance of the heterosexual ­family as a primary source of
affective, social, and financial support during a time of heightened neoliberal
individualism.68 It also disclosed the fragility of South ­Korea’s sexual democ-
racy against the excesses of neoliberal capitalism.

The Retreat and Retirement of Single Gay Men in

Post-­IMF South ­Korea

Best exemplifying this retreat and retirement of single gay men into the het-
erosexual fold of their blood families was “Ka-in,” a South Korean gay man
who had debuted into the gay community in the late 1980s, around the time
of the 1988 Olympics in Seoul, when terms such as “pogal” and “homo” ­were
more popu­lar than “gay” and “iban.” During my interview with Ka-in, I dis-
covered that his name was actually derived from the En­glish name “Cain”—as
in Cain and Abel. Illustrating the moral ambivalence that many gay men felt
­toward their homo­sexuality, Ka-in said that he had chosen the name ­because
he felt caught between the “worlds of good and evil”—­the heterosexual world
that he was loathe to leave and the homosexual world that he found himself
drawn to in spite of himself. Ka-in also illustrated the increasingly power­ful
desire for marriage and ­family—as the primary seat of intimacy and economic
security during neoliberal restructuring—­among gay men, even as his own
working-­class background foreclosed his access to it.
Like many gay men I spoke to, Ka-in was shy and reserved at home and in
school. His gay life, however, was an entirely dif­fer­ent ­matter. With his soft,
feminine demeanor and youth, he attracted instant attention at gay bars from
other gay men, to a point that he said that he thought that he was the “best”
(ch’oego). As he recalled:
At home and in school I was quiet and reserved—­one of ­those ­children
whose heads the teachers counted during roll call but other­wise ignored. In
gay bars, however, I was completely dif­fer­ent. The student whom no one paid
any attention to in school became an object of attention in the bars. While the
madams bought me drinks so I would visit their bars often, older men offered
me spending money. From being an extra in a movie, I had become its star.

With Chongno only thirty minutes from his home, Ka-in said, he soon be-
came immersed in the world of gay bars. Arriving home just before midnight

Pogal, Iban, and Neoliberal Gay  |  281

when the last bus ­stopped ­running, he would ­either knock on his younger
­brother’s win­dow or quietly climb through his bedroom win­dow using a gar-
bage bin and then go to bed. However, Ka-in was approaching forty and felt
increasingly insecure about his ­future. “­There are prob­ably many gay men who
share my thoughts,” he said. “I am the eldest son in my ­family. As I watch my
parents get older and ­people around me—­both gay and straight—­get married,
I won­der ­whether ­there is anything that I have done properly. ­There is nothing.
Even though I think that I have worked hard, ­there is nothing left.”
Ka-in said that he had actually become what he had once despised and
dreaded, an older gay man: “Before, I could not understand ajŏssis (middle-­
aged men) who offered me spending money to be with them. But in the blink
of an eye, I also became older. What ­will happen if I continue to be alone like
this? My forties ­will quickly pass, followed by my fifties. At least my parents
are still alive now. But I do not think I can keep living the way that I have been
living.” With his greatest fear that of becoming a “pathetic (ch’ora han) white-­
haired grand­father who chased a­ fter young men,” Ka-in said that his biggest
goal now was to get married so he would have a wife to look a­ fter him in his
old age. He said that he also wanted the “fun” of raising c­ hildren: “With only
one life to live, I would feel b­ itter (ŏgul hada) if I died without having lived an
ordinary life like other ­people.”
As with the w ­ holesale application of the term “homonormativity” to local
contexts (as critiqued in Layoung Shin’s chapter in this volume), it is easy to
conflate this desire for ordinariness as embodied by the heterosexual nuclear
­family and its normative life course with the “aspirational normalcy” of neo-
liberal life as discussed by Lauren Berlant.69 According to Berlant, “aspira-
tional normalcy” is “the desire to feel normal and to feel normalcy as a ground
of dependable life, a life that does not have to keep being in­ven­ted” during
a period of intensive economic restructuring in which the “tattered ­family”
has become “the only institution of reciprocity remaining for fantasy to attach
itself to.”70 To do so, however, would elide the postcolonial history of South
­Korea, especially immediately a­ fter the Korean War, when in the absence of
any stable institution, including the state or ­family, the desire for an ordinary
life became deeply implanted in the minds of all Koreans as a widely shared
postcolonial fantasy. Like all fantasy structures, this desire seemed to be most
power­ful among ­those denied access to it by virtue of their sexuality and eco-
nomic background.
If gay men like Ka-in sought to retreat into the fold of the heterosexual
­family in order to secure a sense of normalcy but w ­ ere prevented from d­ oing

282  |  John (Song Pae) Cho

so by virtue of their low economic status, other men turned ­toward money as
the only form of security in a neoliberal world. As one gay man put it:
In this community, ­there are no restraints (kusok). Even though one might
call someone one’s boyfriend, t­here’s no ­legal commitment. No m ­ atter how
much you might like the other person, the relationship can break up anytime,
leading to a potential crisis. If the relationship breaks up, who can you believe?
The money that you have saved is the only ­thing you can believe. In any case,
­because you are a minority, the world is unfair. Money can supplement some
of the ­things you seek. It can help alleviate some of the social injustice.

Indeed, in the absence of faith in ­human relationships, many gay men turned
to money as the only form of financial and affective security, leading to the
creation of what I have termed the “neoliberal gay man” in post-­imf South
­Korea.

Conclusion

In this chapter, I have painted a portrait of the three “­faces” of South ­Korea’s
homo­sexuality, a meta­phor that Koreans undoubtedly ­will find odd to de-
scribe the lgbt population within the country. Despite the efflorescence
of gay consumer spaces in It’aewŏn and Chongno, the tens of thousands of
online groups and off-­line Internet-­based clubs, and the recent boom in cin-
ematic depictions of homo­sexuality, “ordinary” homosexuals remain invisible
within Korean public life. As the title of one short film by the gay filmmaker
Kim Kyŏng-­muk states, they remain Faceless ­Things (2005).71
Perhaps the meta­phor of “­faces” indexes what Korean gay men thus far have
been denied: access to social recognition as ­human beings within a society
based on the heterosexual nuclear f­ amily. Within such a social order governed
by what I have called Confucian biopolitics and its moral system of ­family val-
ues, their existence becomes an impossible perversity. They are seen not only
as disrupting the binary gender system and interrupting the reproduction of
the patrilineal f­amily on which the state bases its own viability as a nation-­
state, but also as upsetting the natu­ral social order, causing chaos, and leaving
the nation-­state exposed to “foreign” diseases such as aids. In other words,
despite its social invisibility, male homo­sexuality has the symbolic power to
represent all of the moral ­hazards and social ills of globalization, thus ruptur-
ing the collective fantasy that “Koreans can globalize their economy but not
themselves, nor their relationships.”72

Pogal, Iban, and Neoliberal Gay  |  283

 As this chapter has demonstrated, however, homo­sexuality is not a “for-
eign Other” that has been imported only recently into the country as part of
the phenomenon of globalization. It likely has always existed as a “proximate
Other” within the nation itself. As Jonathan Dollimore notes, “Within meta-
physical constructions of the Other what is typically occluded is the signifi-
cance of the proximate—­i.e., that which is (1) adjacent and there-­by related
temporally or spatially, or (2) that which is approaching . . . ​and thus (3) the
opposite of remote or ultimate.”73 In other words, in contrast to “distant ­Others,”
such as foreign laborers and marriage mi­grants who have more recently chal-
lenged “the ‘pure blood’ ideology . . . ​in [South] ­Korea,” homo­sexuality—as
a shadowy and faceless Other—­can be viewed as likely having always existed
in close proximity to and tension with the heterosexual f­amily ever since, if
not before, the founding of the modern Korean nation.74 Hence, the hysterical
blindness that has accompanied the hyper (in)visibility of homo­sexuality as a
complex system of “permissions and prohibitions, presence and absence.”75 For if
homo­sexuality is Other, through its proximity, then it also threatens to “track-­
back into the ‘same,’ ” thereby revealing the sexual alterity and other forms of
difference that have always been pre­sent but suppressed by the homogenizing
discourses of nationalism.76
Seizing on ­these contradictions, queer activists in South ­Korea have re-
lied on the Westernized discourses of gay and lesbian identity to try to in-
terpolate diverse sexual practices and identities formerly known as pogal into
a Westernized form of community. Although they briefly succeeded during
the community-­building phase of the gay and lesbian movement from the
mid-1990s to the early 2000s, their efforts quickly w ­ ere undermined by the
family-­based restructuring that accompanied South K ­ orea’s transition from a
late developmentalist to a liberal, then a neoliberal, economy from the late
1990s onward. As a result, even as the ghostly apparition of the consuming gay
subject is now being incorporated into the ­legal order as a sexual citizen, older
and formerly middle-­class members of the gay community are being forced to
retreat and retire from the gay culture as insecure neoliberal actors without the
real and ­imagined protection of wives and ­children. As Henry writes within
this volume, the family-­state of South K ­ orea thereby seeks to contain the in-
surrectionary potential of sexuality to disrupt ­family and national life.
Within this context, it is more imperative than ever to understand, along-
side the broader wave of social conservatism, the role of heteronormative
familialism in redisciplining both normative and non-­normative populations
into the world of work, self-­discipline, and frugality. How is it that many in

284  |  John (Song Pae) Cho

South ­Korea dream of social change, including leading dif­fer­ent lives, but are
unable to follow their ideals due to their sense of ­family loyalty and respon-
sibility as parents or ­children? How is it that the institution of ­family creates
feelings of warmth and safety but also demands unconditional sacrifice? How
is it that gay men—­without wives and ­children—­experience not only abject
feelings of loneliness but also the giddiness of dizzying possibilities? Perhaps
therein lies the paradoxical nature of homo­sexuality in South ­Korea: the abil-
ity of queers to craft new forms of intimate and social life beyond the hetero-
sexual nuclear f­ amily by virtue of their estrangement and partial freedom from
the normative constraints of the ­family.
Fi­nally, with the ongoing clashes between gay activists and the Christian
right mentioned by Henry (see the introduction in this volume) and the re-
cent use of gay dating apps by the Korean military to root out and entrap gay
military personnel, one might won­der ­whether the moment of (neo)liberal
community building enacted by the Internet in South ­Korea is decisively
ending, ushering in a new period of neofascism in Korean history.77 Given
that “no hegemonic discourse or master narrative” of homo­sexuality has been
able to develop within South K ­ orea, it is more likely that individual and col-
lective per­for­mances of (neo)liberal community building via sex, affect, and
consumption ­will coexist with neofascist acts of “hunting gays” by the Korean
military, even as other branches of the government gesture t­oward gentler
forms of homophobia.78

Notes

Epigraph: sbs News Investigation (Nyusŭ Ch’ujŏk), “Homosexuals Who Have

Come Out into the Sun” (Yangjiro naon tongsŏng’ae), June 9, 1998.
1 Elizabeth A. Povinelli and George Chauncey, “Thinking Sexuality Transnation-
ally,” glq 5 (1999): 439–50. I take inspiration for the title of this chapter from Pil
Ho Kim and C. Colin Singer, “Three Periods of Korean Queer Cinema: Invisible,
Camouflage, and Blockbuster,” Acta Koreana 14, no. 1 (2011): 115–34. Kim and
Singer break the history of Korean queer cinema into three distinct chronologi-
cal periods—­the Invisible Age (1976–98), the Camouflage Age (1998–2005), and
the Blockbuster Age (2005–­pre­sent)—­according to the manner in which queer
content was displayed and received by the public and government authorities.
2 Dennis Altman, Global Sex (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001).
3 See, e.g., Evelyn Blackwood, Falling into the Lesbi World: Desire and Difference in
Indonesia (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2010); Fran Martin, Situat-
ing Sexualities: Queer Repre­sen­ta­tion in Taiwanese Fiction, Film and Public Culture

Pogal, Iban, and Neoliberal Gay  |  285

 (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2003); Mark McLelland, Queer Japan
from the Pacific War to the Internet (Oxford: Rowman and Littlefield, 2005); Ara
Wilson, The Intimate Economies of Bangkok: Tomboys, Tycoons, and Avon Ladies in
the Global City (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004).
4 Chris Berry, Fran Martin, and Audrey Yue, eds. Mobile Cultures: New Media in
Queer Asia (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003).
5 Gerard ­Sullivan and Peter A. Jackson, eds., Gay and Lesbian Asia: Culture, Identity,
Community (New York: Routledge, 2001).
6 I follow Petrus Liu in formulating this conception of homo­sexuality as a histori-
cally constituted discursive artifact: see Petrus Liu, “Queer Marxism in Taiwan,”
Inter-­Asia Cultural Studies 8, no. 4 (2007): 517–39. ­These three distinct periods
are, more than anything, heuristic devices. Though ­there is a clear historical break
between the discursive categories of pogal and iban, the category of iban currently
coexists alongside Westernized terms, such as gay and queer, as “­little whirl­pools,
each with their own centripetal force” within a society where no hegemonic dis-
course or master narrative of homo­sexuality has been able to develop: Dong-­Jin
Seo [Sŏ Tong-­jin], “Mapping the Vicissitudes of Homosexual Identities in South
­Korea,” Journal of Homo­sexuality 40, nos. 3–4 (2001): 65–78.
7 Peter Drucker, “The Fracturing of lgbt Identities ­under Neoliberal Capitalism.”
Historical Materialism 19, no. 4 (2011): 3–32; Barry D. Adam, The Rise of a Gay and
Lesbian Movement (Boston: Twayne, 1987), quoted in Martin Manalansan, “In the
Shadows of Stonewall: Examining Gay Transnational Politics and the Diasporic
Dilemma,” glq 2 (1995): 428.
8 Chris Berry, “Asian Values, ­Family Values: Film, Video, and Lesbian and Gay
Identities,” in ­Sullivan and Jackson, Gay and Lesbian Asia, 211–32.
9 John D’Emilio, “Capitalism and Gay Identity,” in Powers of Desire: The Politics of
Sexuality, ed. Ann Snitow, Christine Stansell, and Sharan Thompson (New York:
Monthly Review, 1983), 100–114.
10 John N. Erni and Anthony Spires, “The Formation of a Queer-­Imagined Commu-
nity in Post-­Martial Law Taiwan,” in Asian Media Studies: Politics of Subjectivities,
ed. John Erni and Chua Siew Keng (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2005), 227.
11 Younghan Cho, “The National Crisis and De/constructing Nationalism in South
­Korea during the imf Intervention,” Inter-­Asia Cultural Studies 9, no. 1 (2008): 82–
96; Beng Huat Chua, Communitarian Politics in Asia (London: Routledge, 2004);
Aihwa Ong, Neoliberalism as Exception: Mutations in Citizenship and Sovereignty
(Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2006). In this volume, Todd A. Henry and
Layoung Shin also reiterate the limits of neoliberal individualism as the primary
locus of queer agency and politics within South ­Korea.
12 Chua, Communitarian Politics in Asia, 202; Sea-­ling Cheng, “Assuming Manhood:
Prostitution and Patriotic Passions in ­Korea,” East Asia 18, no. 4 (2000): 40–78.
13 Hae-­joang Cho Han, “ ‘ You Are Entrapped in an Imaginary Well’: The Forma-
tion of Subjectivity within Compressed Development—­A Feminist Critique of
Modernity and Korean Culture,” Inter-­Asia Cultural Studies 1, no. 1 (2000): 49–69;

286  |  John (Song Pae) Cho

 Chungmoo Choi, “Nationalism and Construction of Gender in ­Korea,” in Danger-
ous ­Women: Gender and Korean Nationalism, ed. Elaine H. Kim and Chungmoo
Choi (New York: Routledge, 1998), 9–31; Hyun-­Mee Kim, “Work, Nation and
Hypermasculinity: The ‘­Woman’ Question in the Economic Miracle and Crisis
in South ­Korea,” Inter-­Asia Cultural Studies 2, no. 1 (2001): 53–68; Frantz Fanon,
Black Skin, White Masks (New York: Grove, [1967] 2008); Ashis Nandy, The
Intimate ­Enemy: Loss and Recovery of Self ­under Colonialism (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, [1983] 2010).
14 Ara Wilson, “Queering Asia,” Intersections 14 (2006), http://­intersections​.­anu​.­edu​
.­au​/­issue14​/­wilson​.­html.
15 Youngshik D. Bong, “The Gay Rights Movement in Demo­craticizing ­Korea,”
Korean Studies 32 (2008): 86–103.
16 I suggest that South ­Korea is an exemplary site to understand the contradictions
among politics, economy, ­family, gender, sexuality, space, information, and tech-
nology, whose articulation constitutes what Judith [ Jack] Halberstam terms the
“queer time and place” of gay life: see Judith [ Jack] Halberstam, In a Queer Time
and Place: Transgender Bodies, Subcultural Lives (New York: New York University
Press, 2005). One reason for this is the highly compressed nature of its gay his-
tory; another is the densely populated and hyperconnected nature of this country.
Together, they render starkly vis­i­ble the dynamics between the aforementioned
ele­ments that might other­wise remain naturalized and invisible in other parts of
the world.
17 This one man expressed impatience with the interview and my questions to issues
that he said ­were ones that “every­one already knew”—­“every­one” meaning gay
men. Thus ­there appeared to be the assumption of the homogenous and self-­
evident nature of gay experiences that did not need any further interrogating. In
this case, I promptly ended the interview.
18 Kathy Charmaz, Constructing Grounded Theory (London: Sage, 2014).
19 Vincent Crapanzano, Hermes’ Dilemma and Hamlet’s Desire: On the Epistemology
of Interpretation (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992); Johannes
Fabian, “Ethnography and Intersubjectivity: Loose Ends,” hau: Journal of Ethno-
graphic Theory 4, no. 1 (2014): 199–209.
20 Émile Durkheim, “What Is a Social Fact?” in The Rules of the So­cio­log­i­cal Method,
ed. Steven Lukes (New York: ­Free Press, 1982), 50–59.
21 J. W. Han and L. H. M. Ling, “Authoritarianism in the Hypermasculinized State:
Hybridity, Patriarchy, and Capitalism in ­Korea,” International Studies Quarterly 42,
no. 1 (1999): 53–78.
22 Bruce Cumings, ­Korea’s Place in the Sun: A Modern History (New York: W. W.
Norton, 1997), quoted in Cheng, “Assuming Manhood,” 63.
23 Seungsook Moon, “Begetting the Nation: The Androcentric Discourse of
National History and Tradition in South ­Korea,” in Dangerous ­Women: Gender
and Korean Nationalism, ed. Elaine H. Kim and Chungmoo Choi (New York:
Routledge, 1998), 33–66.

Pogal, Iban, and Neoliberal Gay  |  287

 24 Moon, “Begetting the Nation,” 37. The “Four Asian Tigers” refers to Hong Kong,
Singapore, South ­Korea, and Taiwan, which ­were able to achieve exceptionally
high economic growth between the 1960s and 1990s.
25 Kim, “Work, Nation and Hypermasculinity,” 1.
26 It is unclear when gay culture emerged during the developmentalist period of
Korean history. One account dates it to the mid-1980s: see Seo, “Mapping the
Vicissitudes of Homosexual Identities in South ­Korea.” However, one of my in­
for­mants, “Chaplin,” recalls participating in a Seoul gay culture or­ga­nized around
theaters and bars since 1978.
27 Pak/Ch’a Min-­jŏng, “aids p’aenik hogŭn kwaedam ŭi chŏngch’i,” Mal kwa Hwal
12 (Summer 2016): 35–48; Ch’aeyun Han, “Chronicle,” Buddy, April 26, 2002, 20.
28 Eun-­young Park, “The Country’s First ‘Men’s Room’: What Are They Like?” Sun-
day Newspaper, June 8, 1997, 39.
29 Pyong-­choon Hahm, Korean Jurisprudence, Politics, and Culture (Seoul: Yonsei
University Press, 1986).
30 Hae-­joang Cho, “Male Dominance and ­Mother Power: The Two Sides of Confu-
cian Patriarchy in ­Korea,” in Confucianism and the ­Family, ed. Walter H. Slote and
George A. De Vos (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1998), 187–207.
31 Cheng, “Assuming Manhood,” 53.
32 Koreans use ­these biological terms for intimate intergenerational male relations,
not just for biological siblings, reflecting the broader conception of South K ­ orea
as a network of kin-­based relationships.
33 Pop­u­lar­ized in the early 2000s during the administration of Roh Moo-­hyun, a
former ­human rights ­lawyer elected president of South ­Korea (2003–2008), the
term “386 generation” referred to ­people then in their thirties who ­were educated
in the 1980s and born in the 1960s.
34 Dana Luciano, Arranging Grief: Sacred Time and the Body in Nineteenth ­Century
Amer­i­ca (New York: New York University Press, 2007).
35 I emphasize the membership of this older generation of married gay men within
the 386 generation to highlight how their intimate lives ­were sacrificed at the
altar of South ­Korea’s economic development, based on strict binary notions of
gender and strong heteronormative ideas of happiness and success, even as they
­were active in overthrowing the South ­Korea’s military dictatorship as part of the
Pro-­Democracy Movement. In other words, the sexual or affective politics of the
gay and lesbian movement, while deepening the legacy of the Pro-­Democracy
Movement, also run along dif­fer­ent po­liti­cal tracks.
36 William Frederick Schroeder, “An Anthropology of the Weekend: Recreation
and Relatedness in Gay and Lesbian Beijing” (PhD diss., University of ­Virginia,
Charlottesville, 2009).
37 Kyŏng-­min Kim, Kyŏul hŏsuabi do sanŭn il e nŭn yŏnsŭp i p’ilyo hada (Seoul:
K’oat’ŭ Sent’ŏ, 1993).
38 Seo, “Mapping the Vicissitudes of Homosexual Identities in South ­Korea.”
39 Kim, Kyŏul hŏsuabi do sanŭn il e nŭn yŏnsŭp i p’ilyo hada, 24.

288  |  John (Song Pae) Cho

 40 Cho Han, “ ‘ You Are Entrapped in an Imaginary Well.’ ”
41 Sara Ahmed, The Promise of Happiness (Durham, NC: Duke University Press,
2010).
42 Lee Edelman, No ­Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive (Durham, NC: Duke
University Press, 2014).
43 Wei Wei, “ ‘ Wandering Men’ No Longer Wander Around: Production and Trans-
formation of Local Homosexual Identities in Con­temporary Chengdu, China,”
Inter-­Asia Cultural Studies 8, no. 4 (2007): 572–88.
44 Nonetheless, given the tightly knit and overlapping networks of ­family, clan,
classmates, and colleagues that formed the basis of Korean sociality and on which
the gay men ­were reliant to secure both their sense of identity and economic
livelihood, gay men ­were necessarily cautious of meeting even other men.
45 Kim, Kyŏul hŏsuabi do sanŭn il e nŭn yŏnsŭp i p’ilyo hada, 88.
46 Jürgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry
into a Category of Bourgeois Society (Cambridge: Polity, 1989).
47 Michael Warner, Publics and Counterpublics (New York: Zone, 2002).
48 Seo, “Mapping the Vicissitudes of Homosexual Identities in South ­Korea,” 69.
49 Kim, Kyŏul hŏsuabi do sanŭn il e nŭn yŏnsŭp i p’ilyo hada, 96.
50 Seo, “Mapping the Vicissitudes of Homosexual Identities in South ­Korea,” 69.
51 Seo, “Mapping the Vicissitudes of Homosexual Identities in South ­Korea,” 66.
52 Kim, “Hypermasculinity,” 53.
53 Cho, “ ‘ You Are Entrapped in an Imaginary Well,’ ” 60.
54 In this volume, both Todd Henry and Layoung Shin raise a similar point
in relation to their respective discussions of the “politics of dignity” and
“homonormativity.”
55 Schroeder, “An Anthropology of the Weekend.”
56 Schroeder, “An Anthropology of the Weekend.”
57 Eun-­shil Kim, “Itaewon as an Alien Space within the Nation-­State and a Place in
the Globalization Era,” ­Korea Journal 44, no. 3 (2004): 34–64.
58 Jesook Song, South ­Korea in the Debt Crisis: The Creation of a Neoliberal Welfare
Society (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009).
59 Yi Hŭi-il, “Ŭn’ŏ nŭn ŭn’ ŏŭi segye: Chongno ŭn’ŏ sajŏn,” Buddy, April 1, 1999, 17.
60 Jennifer Elizabeth Moon, “Cruising and Queer Counterpublics: Theories and Fic-
tions” (PhD diss., University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, 2006), 7.
61 Seo, “Mapping the Vicissitudes of Homosexual Identities in South ­Korea,” 69.
62 Song, South ­Korea in the Debt Crisis, 51.
63 Song, South ­Korea in the Debt Crisis, 52.
64 Don Slater, “Consumption without Scarcity: Exchange and Normativity in an Inter-
net Setting,” in Commercial Cultures: Economies, Practices, Spaces, ed. Peter A. Jackson,
Michelle Lowe, Daniel Miller, and Frank Mort, 123–42 (Oxford: Berg, 2000).
65 Henning Bech, When Men Meet: Homo­sexuality and Modernity (Chicago: Univer-
sity of Chicago Press, 1997), 112, quoted in Schroeder, “An Anthropology of the
Weekend.”

Pogal, Iban, and Neoliberal Gay  |  289

 66 Sherry Turkle, Alone Together: Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from
Each Other (New York: Basic, 2011).
67 Slater, “Consumption without Scarcity.”
68 Married gay men are referred to as “bats” for blurring the temporal, spatial, and
affective bound­aries that single gay men have used to demarcate their “weekend
gay” lives from their “weekday heterosexual” lives. In other words, just like the
category “gay,” which transcended clear categories, memberships, and allegiances,
they occupied an ambiguous position within the gay world. Meanwhile, in
transgressing the bound­aries of the heterosexual and homosexual worlds, they
have become a key vector of sexual hybridization and, therefore, one of the most
intense sites of public anxiety and interest.
69 Lauren Berlant, “Nearly Utopian, Nearly Normal: Post-­Fordist Affect in La
Promesse and Rosetta,” Public Culture 19, no. 2 (2007): 273–301.
70 Berlant, “Nearly Utopian, Nearly Normal,” 28, 278.
71 The discrepancy between the online visibility of gay men as a group and off-line
invisibility is also reflected in the growing repre­sen­ta­tion of homo­sexuality in
popu­lar films including the blockbuster, The King and the Clown (2005), depict-
ing a love triangle between Yeonsangun, a king during the Chosŏn Dynasty
(1392–1910), and a court clown. Such discrepancies reflect the commercialization
of homo­sexuality as a theme that introduces narrative tension into a film without
directly challenging the culture of heteronormative familialism that continues to
force ordinary queers to hide and remain faceless.
72 Josephine Ho, “Is Global Governance Bad for East Asian Queers?” glq 14, no. 4
(2008): 457–79; Fred C. Alford, Think No Evil: Korean Values in the Age of Global-
ization (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1999), 151.
73 Jonathan Dollimore, Sexual Dissonance: Augustine to Wilde, Freud to Foucault
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), quoted in Martin, Situating Sexuali-
ties, 182.
74 Hyun Mee Kim, “The State and Mi­grant ­Women: Diverging Hopes in the Making
of ‘Multicultural Families’ in Con­temporary ­Korea,” ­Korea Journal 47, no. 4 (Winter
2007): 100–122. Moreover, through the cultivating of intense emotional bonds
between men, homosocial institutions like the military may be also seen as factories
for the active production of homoeroticism and homo­sexuality.
75 Avery F. Gordon, Ghostly ­Matters: Haunting and the So­cio­log­i­cal Imagination (Min-
neapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997), 17.
76 Martin, Situating Sexualities, 182.
77 Roseann Rife, “South ­Korea: Soldier Convicted in Outrageous Military Gay
Witch-­Hunt” Amnesty International, May 24, 2017, https://­www​.­amnesty​.­org​/­en​
/­latest​/n­ ews​/­2017​/0­ 5​/­south​-k­ orea​-­soldier​-­convicted​-­in​-­outrageous​-­military​-­gay​
-­witch​-h­ unt.
78 Seo, “Mapping the Vicissitudes of Homosexual Identities in South ­Korea,” 78. In
her chapter in this volume, Layoung Shin notes the emergence of a new type of
homophobia, which claims to be “tolerant” of homo­sexuality.

290  |  John (Song Pae) Cho

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NEWSPAPERS AND MAGAZINES

Buddy
Nyusŭ Ch’ujŏk
Sunday Newspaper

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Sent’ŏ, 1993.
Pak/Ch’a Min-­jŏng. “aids p’aenik hogŭn kwaedam ŭi chŏngch’i.” Mal kwa Hwal 12
(2016): 35–48.

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Cornell University Press, 1999.
Altman, Dennis. Global Sex. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001.
Bech, Henning. When Men Meet: Homo­sexuality and Modernity. Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1997.
Berlant, Lauren. “Nearly Utopian, Nearly Normal: Post-­Fordist Affect in La Promesse
and Rosetta.” Public Culture 19, no. 2 (2007): 273–301.
Berry, Chris. “Asian Values, ­Family Values: Film, Video, and Lesbian and Gay Identi-
ties.” In Gay and Lesbian Asia: Culture, Identity, Community, ed. Gerard ­Sullivan
and Peter A. Jackson, 211–32. New York: Routledge, 2001.
Berry, Chris, Fran Martin, and Audrey Yue, eds. Mobile Cultures: New Media in Queer
Asia. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003.
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Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2010.
Bong, Youngshik D. “The Gay Rights Movement in Demo­craticizing ­Korea.” Korean
Studies 32 (2008): 86–103.
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East Asia 18, no. 4 (2000): 40–78.
Cho, Hae-­joang. “Male Dominance and ­Mother Power: The Two Sides of Confucian
Patriarchy in ­Korea.” In Confucianism and the ­Family, ed. Walter H. Slote and
George A. De Vos, 187–207. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1998.
Cho Han, Hae-­joang. “ ‘ You Are Entrapped in an Imaginary Well’: The Formation
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­Women: Gender and Korean Nationalism, ed. Elaine H. Kim and Chungmoo Choi,
9–31. New York: Routledge, 1998.
Chua, Beng Huat. Communitarian Politics in Asia. London: Routledge, 2004.
Crapanzano, Vincent. Hermes’ Dilemma and Hamlet’s Desire: On the Epistemology of
Interpretation. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992.
Cumings, Bruce. ­Korea’s Place in the Sun: A Modern History. New York: W. W. Norton,
1997.
D’Emilio, John. “Capitalism and Gay Identity.” In Powers of Desire: The Politics of
Sexuality, ed. Ann Snitow, Christine Stansell, and Sharon Thompson, 100–113.
New York: Monthly Review, 1983.
Dollimore, Jonathan. Sexual Dissonance: Augustine to Wilde, Freud to Foucault. Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1991.
Drucker, Peter. “The Fracturing of lgbt Identities ­under Neoliberal Capitalism.”
Historical Materialism 19, no. 4 (2011): 3–32.
Durkheim, Émile. “What Is a Social Fact?” In The Rules of the So­cio­log­i­cal Method, ed.
Steven Lukes, 50–59. New York: ­Free Press, 1982.
Edelman, Lee. No ­Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive. Durham, NC: Duke Uni-
versity Press, 2014.
Erni, John N., and Anthony Spires. “The Formation of a Queer-­Imagined Community
in Post-­Martial Law Taiwan.” In Asian Media Studies: Politics of Subjectivities, ed.
John Erni and Chua Siew Keng, 225–52. Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2005.
Fabian, Johannes. “Ethnography and Intersubjectivity: Loose Ends.” hau: Journal of
Ethnographic Theory 4, no. 1 (2014): 199–209.
Fanon, Frantz. Black Skin, White Masks. New York: Grove, (1967) 2008.
Gordon, Avery F. Ghostly ­Matters: Haunting and the So­cio­log­i­cal Imagination. Minne-
apolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997.
Habermas, Jürgen. The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a
Category of Bourgeois Society. Cambridge: Polity, 1989.
Hahm, Pyong-­choon. Korean Jurisprudence, Politics, and Culture. Seoul: Yonsei Univer-
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Halberstam, Judith [ Jack]. In a Queer Time and Place: Transgender Bodies, Subcultural
Lives. New York: New York University Press, 2005.
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Hybridity, Patriarchy, and Capitalism in ­Korea.” International Studies Quarterly 42,
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Ho, Josephine. “Is Global Governance Bad for East Asian Queers?” glq 14, no. 4
(2008): 457–79.

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Kim Eun-­shil. “Itaewon as an Alien Space within the Nation-­State and a Place in the
Globalization Era.” ­Korea Journal 44, no. 3 (2004): 34–64.
Kim, Hyun-­Mee. “The State and Mi­grant ­Women: Diverging Hopes in the Making of
‘Multicultural Families’ in Con­temporary ­Korea.” ­Korea Journal 47, no. 4 (2007):
100–122.
Kim, Hyun-­Mee. “Work, Nation and Hypermasculinity: The ‘­Woman’ Question in the
Economic Miracle and Crisis in South ­Korea.” Inter-­Asia Cultural Studies 2, no. 1
(2001): 53–68.
Kim, Pil Ho, and C. Colin Singer. “Three Periods of Korean Queer Cinema: Invisible,
Camouflage, and Blockbuster.” Acta Koreana 14, no. 1 (2011): 115–34.
Liu, Petrus. “Queer Marxism in Taiwan.” Inter-­Asia Cultural Studies 8, no. 4 (2007):
517–39.
Luciano, Dana. Arranging Grief: Sacred Time and the Body in Nineteenth ­Century Amer­
i­ca. New York: New York University Press, 2007.
Manalansan, Martin. “In the Shadows of Stonewall: Examining Gay Transnational
Politics and the Diasporic Dilemma.” glq 2 (1995): 425–38.
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Public Culture. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2003.
McLelland, Mark. Queer Japan from the Pacific War to the Internet. Oxford: Rowman
and Littlefield, 2005.
Moon, Jennifer Elizabeth. “Cruising and Queer Counterpublics: Theories and Fic-
tions.” PhD diss., University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, 2006.
Moon, Seungsook. “Begetting the Nation: The Androcentric Discourse of National
History and Tradition in South ­Korea.” In Dangerous ­Women: Gender and Korean
Nationalism, ed. Elaine H. Kim and Chungmoo Choi, 33–66. New York: Rout-
ledge, 1998.
Nandy, Ashis. The Intimate ­Enemy: Loss and Recovery of Self ­under Colonialism. Oxford:
Oxford University Press, (1983) 2010.
Ong, Aihwa. Neoliberalism as Exception: Mutations in Citizenship and Sovereignty. Dur-
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Povinelli, Elizabeth A., and George Chauncey. “Thinking Sexuality Transnationally.”
glq 5 (1999): 439–50.
Rife, Roseann. “South ­Korea: Soldier Convicted in Outrageous Military
Gay Witch-­Hunt.” Amnesty International, May 24, 2017. https://­www​
.­amnesty​.­org​/­en​/­latest​/­news​/­2017​/­05​/­south​-­korea​-­soldier​-­convicted​-­in
outrageous-­military-­gay-­w itch-­hunt.
Schroeder, William Frederick. “An Anthropology of the Weekend: Recreation and
Relatedness in Gay and Lesbian Beijing.” PhD diss., University of ­Virginia, Char-
lottesville, 2009.
Seo, Dong-­Jin [Sŏ Tong-­jin]. “Mapping the Vicissitudes of Homosexual Identities in
South ­Korea.” Journal of Homo­sexuality 40, nos. 3–4 (2001): 65–78.
Slater, Don. 2000. “Consumption without Scarcity: Exchange and Normativity in an
Internet Setting.” In Commercial Cultures: Economies, Practices, Spaces, ed. Peter

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 Jackson, Michelle Lowe, Daniel Miller, and Frank Mort, 123–42. Oxford: Berg,
2000.
Song, Jesook. South ­Korea in the Debt Crisis: The Creation of a Neoliberal Welfare Society.
Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009.
­Sullivan, Gerard, and Peter A. Jackson, eds. Gay and Lesbian Asia: Culture, Identity,
Community. New York: Routledge, 2001.
Turkle, Sherry. Alone Together: Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from
Each Other. New York: Basic, 2011.
Warner, Michael. Publics and Counterpublics. New York: Zone, 2002.
Wei, Wei. “ ‘ Wandering Men’ No Longer Wander Around: Production and Trans-
formation of Local Homosexual Identities in Con­temporary Chengdu, China.”
Inter-­Asia Cultural Studies 8, no. 4 (2007): 572–88.
Wilson, Ara. The Intimate Economies of Bangkok: Tomboys, Tycoons, and Avon Ladies in
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/­issue14​/w
­ ilson​.­html.

294  |  John (Song Pae) Cho

 Chapter Eight

AVOIDING T’IBU
(OBVIOUS BUTCHNESS)
INVISIBILITY AS A SURVIVAL STRATEGY
AMONG YOUNG QUEER ­WOMEN
IN SOUTH ­KOREA

Layoung Shin

The Reduced Popularity

of Masculine Queer ­Women

My connection with young queer ­women, or ibans, in South ­Korea began in

2002 when I studied fancos for my master’s thesis.1 “Fancos,” which is short for
fan costume play, emerged among young ­women in the late 1990s when boy
bands produced by the commercial star system, such as H.O.T., gained enor-
mous popularity among teenage ­women. Instead of just cheering for their fa-
vorite stars, some young w­ omen began cutting their hair short, wearing young
men’s clothing to emulate the boy bands’ male singers, and creating per­for­
mance festivals where they even staged the singers’ per­for­mances.
It is a kind of drag show, therefore, highlighting female per­for­mance of
masculinity, since about 80 ­percent of fancos teams performed as boy groups.
In imitating popu­lar boy-­band singers onstage, young ­women embodied male
singers’ public images through hairstyles, clothing, gestures, speaking styles,
and word choices (which in Korean are sometimes assigned according to
gender). Cutting one’s hair short, in the so-­called k’al mŏri (blade hair), is the
first step to performing as a male singer. Fancos members also borrow male
singers’ “hip-­hop” style, which includes oversize T-­shirts and pants, a popu­lar
style among boy groups during fancos’s heyday. They take on fictive masculine
names that match their appearance. Many a­ dopted Hyŏk and Min, which are
frequently used in men’s names—­for example, Chŏng-­hyŏk and Si-­hyŏk and
Chŏng-­min and Kyu-­min, to mention a few names of my in­for­mants. Some
male-­singer fancos members also used appellations for men such as hyŏng or
nuna and other masculine ways of speaking and linguistic expressions.
At the same time, some fancos participants began dating their same-­sex
friends and identifying as ibans. As a result, in the early to mid-2000s, fancos
came to be considered an iban community among some young w ­ omen who
­were familiar with pop culture and fandom. Thus, driven by the remarkable
development of the pop ­music industry during the late 1990s and early 2000s,
some young ­women created new forms of queer culture and community
through the consumption of pop culture.2 Also, masculinity performed by
young iban-­identified ­women was popu­lar and a regular part of the subculture
at that time.
Ten years ­later, in 2012 and 2013, I again conducted fieldwork research with
queer-­identified young ­women, who ­were then involved in queer subcultural
activities. In meeting with them, I found certain changes had occurred in the
intervening ten years. For instance, among young queer ­women discrimi-
nation against or social avoidance of masculine butch-­style lesbians had in-
creased. This trend stands in stark contrast to the early to mid-2000s, when
masculine young ­women who appropriated male singers’ styles w ­ ere common
and even popu­lar. Sinch’on Park, where young queer ­women used to hang out,
was filled with that kind of masculine young ­women.3
Neologisms such as t’ibu and kŏlk’ŏ, which ­were popularly used among my
interviewees during 2012 and 2013, highlight this impor­tant shift. “T’ibu” is a
shortened form of t’inanŭn (easily noticeable) butch, thus referring to butch
­women with short hair and a masculine style. ­These masculine ­women are also
called “kŏlk’ŏ,” a combination of kŏrŏdaninŭn and “coming out,” which can be
translated literally as “walking around while coming out.” It means their persona
as lesbian or gay is so strong that even heterosexuals would recognize them as
such. This expression also refers to lesbian ­women and gay men who are easily
recognizable ­because their styles, manners, and attitudes appear ste­reo­typically
lesbian and gay. The terms “t’ibu” and “kŏlk’ŏ” have often been used in deni-
grating or disparaging ways, although at times the terms ­were used humorously.
The development of such new terms demonstrates the increasing negative senti-
ments t­ oward female masculinity among queer-­identified young ­women.

296  |  Layoung Shin

 Another example comes from a casual meeting with one of my in­for­mants,
a seventeen-­year-­old named So-yu. She told me she was introduced to some-
one who had shown interest in her ­after seeing her picture on her friend’s
phone. But So-yu was reluctant to go out with this girl, saying, “But she [the
girl who showed interest in So-yu] is t’ibu.” So-yu did not want to go out with
the girl just b­ ecause the girl had a masculine style. To my question about why
did she not like t’ibu, So-yu was not quite sure, saying, “Just ­because.” Then
­after a while she added, “They [t’ibu] usually cheat more.” Based on ste­reo­
types tied to their masculine appearance, young queer ­women’s animosity
­toward t’ibu was new to me.4
Such an increase in negative ste­reo­types about certain groups within the
lgbt community can result in exclusion and discrimination of ­those gender-­
nonconforming subjects, including transgender ­people. How did this change
in attitude, an increased level of discrimination, and avoidance of t’ibu arise in
the intervening ten years? In this chapter, I contextualize this change in queer
­women’s subculture in relation to transformations in South Korean society,
including the increased social recognition of homo­sexuality and the growth
of homophobia; increased unemployment and a lack of job security among
youth; and the retreat of the state from social welfare and its concomitant pro-
motion of heterosexual families as the basis of economic security and survival.
By revealing the specific conditions of young queer ­women in South ­Korea,
I engage with the concept of “homonormativity” developed by scholars of
queer studies in the West.5 I argue that this term is insufficient to grasp the
specific conditions of South ­Korea. For young working-­class queer ­women
in South ­Korea, the shift ­toward avoiding masculinity that I observed in 2012
and 2013 does not simply signify assimilation into “normative” categories of
citizenship. Instead, by understanding local contexts—­such as increased pub-
lic visibility and recognition of homo­sexuality and the institutionalization of
homophobia at school, the lack of l­egal protection for lgbt ­people, and cul-
tural and economic meanings of f­amily—­the necessity of reconceptualizing
the very notion of “normativity” ­will be revealed.
Questioning the equation between “normativity” and “homo­sexuality” it-
self in the Korean context, this chapter seeks to find alternative explanations
for increasing gender conformity among young queer w ­ omen in recent years.
First, I examine the reasons for young w ­ omen’s avoidance of masculinity in re-
lation to the consequences of recognition and association as queers in straight
society. Second, I provide examples of avoiding visibility in both online and
off-line settings to show how the fear of visibility was prevalent in the early 2010s.

Avoiding T’ibu  |  297

The third section reveals how the choice of invisibility is related to intensified
institutionalized homophobia at school. Fourth, through a critique of queer
politics based on “visibility” and “out and proud,” I show that in South K ­ orea
the meaning of coming out is dif­fer­ent from that in the West. However, instead
of relying on a preexisting notion of “Asian” values of ­family, I emphasize the
economic function of ­family as crucial for young queer ­women’s survival amid
economic hardship and a retreat of the social welfare system.

Neoliberalism and Homonormativity

The specific characteristics of the transformation of queer youth subculture

in South ­Korea can be understood better when compared with Western ex-
amples, particularly in terms of the development of capitalism. First, John
D’Emilio suggests that in the U.S., the formation of gay identity and commu-
nities among urban young ­people happened during the 1920s in relation to
the development of capitalism. He especially emphasizes the growth of “­free
­labor,” which provided new sources of income and living situations that made
young ­people in­de­pen­dent of their families.6 As Peter Drucker has written, “It
is by now nothing new to link the rise of what might be called classic lesbian/
gay identity to the rise of a ‘­free’ labour-­force ­under capitalism.”7 By compari-
son, the development of identity and community among young urban queer
­women in South K ­ orea was less connected to a rise in “­free” ­labor as in Fordist
capitalism than to the rise of consumption in late/neoliberal capitalism dur-
ing and ­after the International Monetary Fund (imf) economic crisis of 1997.
Second, Drucker argues that in the U.S. and other Western contexts ­there
is a correlation between the shift to neoliberal capitalism and the increasing
tendency t­ oward “gender conformity” within lgbt communities. He argues
that amid this transformation, middle-­class lesbian ­women and gay men pros-
pered while constructing and stabilizing their identities and community. He
also suggests that by embracing gender conformity, many lgbt p­ eople incor-
porated “a neoliberal social and sexual order,” thus marginalizing other sexual
minorities who do not conform to such logics of capital.8
In recent de­cades, queer studies has addressed this critique of middle-­class
white gay and lesbian movements. Using the concept of homonormativity,
Lisa Duggan, for example, identifies gay and lesbian movements that do not
challenge fundamental “norms” of heterosexual society ­under neoliberal poli-
tics.9 She labels this phenomenon “the new homonormativity,” which she de-
fines as “a politics that does not contest dominant heteronormative assump-

298  |  Layoung Shin

tions and institutions, but upholds and sustains them, while promising the
possibility of a demobilized gay constituency and a privatized, depoliticized
gay culture anchored in domesticity and consumption.”10
Following Duggan, many scholars have since studied dif­fer­ent types of ho-
monormativity in lgbt communities across the world, exploring  how this
system reinforces preexisting discrimination and hierarchies of race, class, and
gender as well as nationality and ethnicity.11 Thus, only “nationally accept-
able queers” or “top gays” are acknowledged as qualified citizens in a straight
world, while other queers of color or working-­class queers are excluded.12 In
the East Asian context, Denise Tang, Lisa Rofel, and John Cho have exam-
ined the influence of neoliberalism in reconstructing homo­sexuality in Hong
Kong, China, and South K ­ orea, respectively.13 They effectively reveal how
neoliberalism produces “desire” and how it introduces an opposition between
­those gays who embody “right,” “respectful,” and “creative” desire and ­those
who do not.
In some ways, the avoidance of t’ibu corresponds to following norms of
gender. However, mechanistically applying the concept of homonormativity,
which has been used to critique middle-­class gay men and lesbians attempt-
ing to assimilate into straight socie­ties, does not fit well with my in­for­mants’
situations. Many of my in­for­mants who started to avoid t’ibu come from “the
par­tic­u­lar sector of working class” that, as Drucker points out, includes “the
younger, less skilled, less or­ga­nized and lower-­paid.”14 ­After ten years of eco-
nomic restructuring that resulted in an increased gap between rich and poor,
youth unemployment, and the irregularization of employment, young Korean
queer ­women in my research have become “the younger, less skilled, less or­ga­
nized and lower-­paid,” as well as queer.
The working-­class young queer ­women with whom I have been meeting
used to call themselves or o­ thers in their group ing’yŏ.15 Although originally
signifying “surplus” in ­Korea, ing’yŏ was used among young ­people to refer to
themselves as “leftover” p­ eople or “losers” who failed in their jobs or did not
contribute to society. They used the word in a self-­mocking way to describe
their unemployed status and overall lack of value or to point out ­others’ use-
lessness.16 This word choice reflects and expresses the widespread frustration
among youth in South ­Korea ­under job insecurity.
In ­actual numbers, the unemployment rate of youth in South ­Korea was
about 8 ­percent in 2013 and 12.3 ­percent in February 2017.17 This figure is al-
most two or three times higher than the overall unemployment rate, which
was 3.1 ­percent and 5 ­percent, respectively. However, the report has some flaws

Avoiding T’ibu  |  299

since it does not include the part of the youth population that is preparing for
employment or that gave up employment a­ fter a series of t­ rials. Yun Chin-ho,
an economist, argues that the a­ ctual unemployment rate is about 18 ­percent,
while Yang Ho-­kyŏng, a policy development team leader at the Youth Com-
munity Union, estimates that the ­actual unemployment rate among youth is
21 ­percent.18 In addition to increased unemployment, the irregularization and
flexibilization of ­labor are not captured as unemployment in ­these statistics,
which are constructed along the lines of age and gender.19
This means that almost all young w ­ omen in their teens and twenties are
part-­time contract workers in ser­vice jobs, especially if they are not college-­
educated. Most of my in­for­mants between the ages of nineteen and twenty-­two
­were experiencing this kind of job insecurity and fear of an unknown ­future.
­These young ­women do not have the same “luxurious” concerns as middle-­
class queers who want to gain admission to “normative” socie­ties. Thus, they
cannot simply be said to be avoiding masculinity or conforming to gender
standards out of a desire for inclusion in heteronormative society or for job
security, when they never belonged to “normative” society in the first place.
In addition, in Korean society, the inclusion of middle-­class gay men and
lesbians in the commercialized market system and in neoliberal categories of
citizens has not yet occurred. As Cho shows in his contribution to this volume
and elsewhere, with the case of Korean gay men in their thirties and forties,
many of whom could be considered m ­ iddle class, some are actually choosing
to “retreat” from “homo­sexuality” while encountering economic crisis and
neoliberal reestablishment of the society. Choosing to retreat for economic
reasons would be even more appropriate, then, for lesbian w ­ omen, who have
much less economic power in this gender-unequal society. Kim Sun-­nam also
shows that economic instability among lgbt ­people varies based on gender,
class, and age, making lesbians more vulnerable. As an example, according to
a survey conducted with Korean lgbt p­ eople in 2007, 73.8 ­percent of lesbians
earn less than 1.5 million wŏn (about $ 1,300) per month, while 8.5 ­percent
earn more than 2.5 million wŏn (about $2,171). By contrast, 51.3 ­percent of gay
men earn less than 1.5 million wŏn, while 19.8 ­percent earn more than 2.5 mil-
lion wŏn.20
Likewise, ­there is a clear difference between the Korean and Western con-
texts in terms of the relationship between the transformation of capitalism
and the development of lgbt identity and community. Anglo-­American gay
men and lesbian w ­ omen stabilized their economic position through the de-
velopment of Fordism (­free ­labor, full employment, and in­de­pen­dence from

300  |  Layoung Shin

f­amily, even among students and the working class) during the 1940s and
1950s and increased their social standing through the gay rights movement
and its l­egal successes in the 1970s. Through this long pro­cess, they at least
had the chance to solidify the grounds of gay and lesbian rights, although
the community l­ater fractured and moved ­toward “homonormativity” or
“homonationalism.”21 By contrast, South Korean queers have not had a simi-
lar history of economic stability, the solidification of lgbt movements, or
the achievement of l­egal rights. Although t­here has been growth in lgbt
organ­izations, their membership, and participation in po­liti­cal activities,
­legal and institutional achievement protecting lgbt rights has not been ac-
complished. In addition, employment opportunities and economic survival
among marginalized populations, especially female queer youth, deterio-
rated as the neoliberal economy intensified during the ten years between my
two research periods.
Given ­these differences, this chapter explores other possibilities for ex-
plaining the increase in gender conformity among young queer-­identified
­women that go beyond homonormativity. Applying the critique of homonor-
mativity to lesbian ­women and gay men in South ­Korea does not have the
same connotations as in the Western context. As Yau Ching argues, “Norma-
tivity as a relative ideal might not be accessible for many p­ eople in most parts
of the world.”22 That is, if we question the concept of “normativity” itself and
contextualize it in South Korean history, we need to ask ­whether cisgender
lesbians and gay men ­were ever tolerated and accepted in Korean society.

Avoiding Masculinity: The Choice of Invisibility

The reason for discrimination against or avoidance of masculine queer ­women

in South ­Korea is the desire to avoid being recognized as lesbian. Seventeen-­
year-­old Chun-­hŭi, one of my in­for­mants, said:
I used to hang out with handsome [masculine] girls in the park. It was fun, and
they ­were handsome. But t­ hese days, I am reluctant to spend time with t’ibu
and prefer ilbansŭt’ŭ [ilban style; straight ­women’s style]. If I hang out with
them [t’ibu], ­there are more eyes on us and more risks of being recognized.
If I take a picture with them and post it, p­ eople ask, “Who is that? Is it a girl
or a boy?”23

As this interview shows, the reason that Chun-­hŭi began to avoid hanging out
with t’ibu was increased attention and the related risk of being recognized as

Avoiding T’ibu  |  301

iban rather than ­because she specifically developed a negative ste­reo­type and
dislike of t’ibu.
As the term itself shows, t’ibu are easily recognizable as lesbian. B­ ecause
homo­sexuality as an identity has become more familiar to mainstream so-
ciety, masculine ­women are now more easily identified as lesbian, much as
feminine men are identified as gay. That is, gender nonconformity became
a common way to signify one’s sexual identity among South Koreans. If a
young ­woman has short hair, classmates at school began to gossip about her,
speculating that she is a lesbian. Even teachers and social workers in youth
centers came to acknowledge such associations. This association became
increasingly common during the mid-­to late 2000s, ­after my first research
period in the early 2000s. My in­for­mant Chin-­sil, a fancos member with a
masculine style, told me about her experience at age fifteen, when she was
­going to a Youth Center in Seoul to practice fancos: “The teacher [a social
worker at the Youth Center] asked me, ‘Why is your hair so short?’ I just
answered, ‘­Because it is uncomfortable to dance with long hair.’ Then he con-
tinued to ask, ‘Why is it uncomfortable?’ Then he directly asked me, ‘Are you
rejŭ [lesbian]?’ I was upset and answered, ‘Yes, I am. So what?’ Then all the
teachers came out to see me.”24 This incident shows that the recognition of
sexual identity in association with gendered expression has increased and,
at the same time, teachers and social workers are also discriminating against
queer-­identified students, not protecting them. As I elaborate more in the
next section, schools became sites of institutionalized homophobia during
the mid-2000s. Therefore, young queer w ­ omen who feel the need to protect
themselves have found ways to avoid being seen as queer. The first step is to
avoid masculinity or avoid being friendly with or dating queer ­women who
are easily noticeable as homosexual, butches, or t’ibu.
Thus, the dating customs of young iban ­women have also changed. While
t’ibu became less popu­lar, ilbansŭt’ŭ—­straight-­looking cisgender lesbians—­
became more desirable as dating partners in 2012 and 2013. While butch-­and-­
femme ­couples or butch-­butch ­couples ­were most common in the early 2000s,
the number of ilbasŭt’ŭ, or femme-­femme ­couples, was rising ten years ­later.
In my first meeting with Chu-­hŭi and Ko-­ŭn, an ilbansŭt’ŭ ­couple who styled
themselves in the female office worker look, with long hair and high heels,
they told me about t­ hese changes. Although they l­ ater broke up, they dated on
and off for about three years. They said that when they started dating in 2010,
other lesbian friends ­were surprised and asked how one femme could date
another femme.25 Dating between ­women without a butch was uncommon

302  |  Layoung Shin

even ­until 2009–10. Chu-­hŭi said, “It was ­really rare. We ­were the only ­couple
I know of at that time who dated like this [as two feminine girls].”
Ye-­rim and Sŭng-ho, a butch-­butch ­couple in fancos, said, “­There ­were
butch-­and-­femme and b-­to-­b [butch and butch], but ­there was no femme-­
femme relationship at all. I have never seen that case in fancos.” In other words,
even u­ ntil recently, ilbansŭt’ŭ c­ ouples ­were not common, and t’ibu w ­ ere not
shunned. ­These days, however, ilbansŭt’ŭ is the preferred dating style, and
­these ­couples are becoming the norm. In t­ hese cases, it is the desire not to be
noticed as a lesbian that comes first, rather than a sudden change in taste in
­women in the lesbian community or b­ ecause of an intention to discriminate
against masculine ­women.

Female Same-­Sex Sexuality Disappearing

from the Public Scene

In addition to reluctance to date t’ibu to avoid being identified as iban, fear of

visibility was widely expressed among my fieldwork in­for­mants. For example,
some fancos teams do not post their videos on portal sites ­because they are
afraid they ­will be associated with lesbians. According to Ch’o-­hŭi, a longtime
active member in fancos, when blogs and  social networking  sites became
popu­lar, one fancos team posted a per­for­mance video on a portal site, and
many comments and responses followed that discussed their gender and sex-
ual identity, such as, “Are they boys or girls?” “Why do girls do men’s dance?”
and “Are they lesbians?” B ­ ecause of such responses, fancos teams started to
avoid Internet publicity, which had been one of the most crucial ways they
recruited members, attracted audiences, and promoted events.
In addition, government policies on Internet regulation and surveillance,
as well as increased online bullying and scamming using personal informa-
tion, contributed to increased fear about exposing oneself in online com-
munities, and led to increased self-­protective mea­sures among young queer
­women. As an example, ­there have been some cases of scammers who threaten
to reveal young queer ­women’s sexual identities to their schools and parents.
To prevent this, some lesbian websites and online community cafés have
implemented strict regulations for joining their communities out of fear of
unknowingly allowing in straight or homophobic members. For instance, the
M community online café was a popu­lar site for some of my in­for­mants, but
one could join only by invitation from an existing member, which made it dif-
ficult for outsiders to find out about the community. One also had to answer

Avoiding T’ibu  |  303

specific questions (answers w ­ ere known exclusively by the members) and, to
maintain membership, follow strict regulations in terms of writing styles and
word choices. ­These mea­sures have been developed over time among queer
youth to protect themselves against a homophobic society, both online and off­
line. At the same time, however, such regulations have been restrictive even
for existing members, and the sites’ resulting invisibility has made it hard for
young queer ­women to find and join ­these communities.
Fear of being recognized online is especially severe among young w ­ omen
who live in a digital-­media society where ­there is a “possibility of unimagin-
ably wide publicity.”26 As danah boyd has written, “A mediated public could
consist of all p­ eople across all space and all time.”27 This ­factor of digitally
mediated society makes young queer w ­ omen concerned about exposure of
any kind; their pictures and other posts and messages that can relate them
to queer identity are searchable, per­sis­tent, and replicable. They also cannot
control who can read and see online materials related to them, causing a fear
of “unimaginable” audiences.
This theme of the avoidance of public scrutiny also occurred in off-line set-
tings. Many fancos teams began performing only at fancos events and skip-
ping other events, such as youth festivals sponsored by the Seoul City Youth
Centers or on open stages in front of department stores such as Miliore and
Doota.28 ­Until 2006 and 2007, fancos teams performed on ­these stages. How-
ever, by 2012 and 2013, fancos now hesitated to do so b­ ecause they had expe-
rienced negative responses. The members of one fancos team, Mirotic, com-
plained about ­those venues: “First of all, ­people usually do not like ­women
with short hair. ­There is prejudice. So if we dance with short hair, they do
not like it.” The masculine-­style female fancos members ­were not welcomed
­because they confused the audiences’ gender expectations, and they some-
times experienced harsh commentary. In response, fancos members avoided
performing in public more than ever.
Such concern about visibility was highlighted at a fancos event sponsored
by the M Youth Center. Unlike many Korean youth centers, the M center
was very supportive of fancos—­Se-mi, a social worker ­there and a longtime
idol group fan herself, in par­tic­u­lar, was very close to many fancos members.
The prob­lem arose, however, when the center sent out a press release. Since
the center is part of the city government’s institute, it regularly announced
upcoming events. Thus, the publicity about the fancos event was part of its
normal routine, from the perspective of the youth center. A ­ fter the M Center–
sponsored event in November of 2012, pictures of fancos ­were published on

304  |  Layoung Shin

some digital news sites. Se-mi, who was in charge of the event, received many
calls and messages from the fancos members who had performed, asking her
to remove the pictures ­because they ­were afraid that their families, friends,
or classmates would recognize them; fancos members w ­ ere very sensitive to
being exposed in the media in any form. Se-mi was put in an awkward position
when the news site did not want to remove the pictures.
Another example of t­ hese dynamics occurred at the Korean Queer Culture
Festival (kqcf) in 2013. I invited Hŭi-­ch’ŏl and her team members, who ­were
my in­for­mants during a year of fieldwork, to the festival. Hŭi-­ch’ŏl, who was
more interested in queer politics than any of my other in­for­mants, used to tell
me that she had always wanted to see the kqcf but had never had the chance
to attend. Other team members had also shown interest in lgbt activism,
though to a lesser degree than Hŭi-­ch’ŏl, so I expected that they would enjoy
the festival’s crowd, per­for­mances, speeches, and diverse booths.
The day of the kqcf and the Queer Parade, the team showed up in the
­middle of the event. But aside from Hŭi-­ch’ŏl, the other team members quickly
left without enjoying the festival. Only Hŭi-­ch’ŏl spent the rest of the day with
me watching per­for­mances on stage and exploring booths from diverse lgbt
communities and organ­izations. ­Later, Hai, one of the members who left the
kqcf without enjoying it with us, told me that they had gone early b­ ecause
they ­were afraid of being in an open space at a festival of “queers.” They ­were
afraid they might accidentally encounter their classmates or someone they
knew at the festival and be identified as queer. I thought it would have been
okay to be seen ­there, since the festival is open to every­one and includes
heterosexuals. However, for t­ hese young queer w ­ omen, the fear of being per-
ceived as lesbian ­because they attended a queer festival was a real issue.
Together, ­these anecdotes reveal young queer w ­ omen’s intensified fear
of being recognized as iban in current South Korean society. Preference for
ilbansŭt’ŭ while shunning t’ibu and kŏlk’ŏ and avoiding any kind of public ex-
posure, both online and off-line, are all part of their effort to stay “invisible” as
queers in a heteronormative society. This is dif­fer­ent from the U.S. case, where
gender conformity increased a­ fter the decline of Fordism in the 1980s, and
lgbt ­people did not necessarily hide their sexuality, though they lived “prefer-
ably without ‘flaunting’ it.”29 By comparison, young queer w ­ omen’s avoidance
of masculinity in South K ­ orea was aimed at hiding their sexuality completely.
In short, they refuse to be recognized as lesbian. Hiding one’s sexual identity
itself from the public is dif­f er­ent from striving to appear “normal” while admit-
ting to straight society that one is a lesbian or gay man.

Avoiding T’ibu  |  305

Korean “Homonormativity” or a Survival Strategy?

As mentioned ­earlier, the difference in meaning of invisibility and gender con-

formity between South ­Korea and the U.S. is also the result of place-­specific
gay rights laws and sentiments t­ oward homo­sexuality. In the U.S., since gaining
­legal protection in the 1970s, at least the baby-­boom generation middle-­class
lesbians and gay men w ­ ere protected by their economic success and the growth
of social tolerance. However, in South K ­ orea, gay rights protection u­ nder the
law does not yet exist, even ­after a lot of demands for an antidiscrimination
bill by lgbt organ­izations and some liberal legislators. ­Legal prevention of
discrimination does not necessarily mean the eradication of discrimination in
real­ity. However, it would provide at least some grounds for queers to protect
themselves or fight against official or overt discriminatory policies at school
or at work, which is impor­tant, since even teachers and youth social workers
have fomented discrimination and hate speech t­ oward homo­sexuality in class-
rooms. Instead of preventive laws, however, the Military Punishment Law still
exists, which officially discriminates against homo­sexuality.30 Although the
Ordinance on Students’ H ­ uman Rights (oshr) was passed in 2011 by some
local governments to prevent discrimination at schools, including discrimina-
tion based on sexual orientation, it has not yet been applied in practice.31
­Here we can witness the imbalance between an increase in homophobia,
on the one hand, and a lack of l­egal, physical, and psychological protections
for queer youth, on the other. Although ­there was no law protecting the rights
of lgbt ­people in South ­Korea ­until the early 2000s, ­there ­were no regula-
tions at schools that punished masculine female students or t­ hose who w ­ ere
suspected of being queer, e­ ither. However, with the increased visibility and
the proliferation of mainstream discourse on homo­sexuality since the mid-
2000s, discrimination against homo­sexuality has been on the rise at schools
and in official forms.
Some schools instituted disciplinary policies in the mid-2000s, the so-­
called Iban Inspection, which consists of regulations prohibiting be­hav­ior
deemed “homosexual” among female students. For instance, administrators
at a girls’ school issued penalties for activities such as holding hands, hugging,
wearing short hairstyles, hanging around together in hallways, ­going to the
rest­room together, and sending and receiving letters.32 Some schools have also
singled out students suspected of being homosexuals (tongsŏngaeja). For in-
stance, figure 8.1 shows a survey conducted at a girls’ school for the purpose
of creating a “healthy environment.” It asks respondents ­whether they know

306  |  Layoung Shin

anyone who “does” “homo­sexuality” (tongsŏngae rŭl hanŭn saram) and, if they
do, to report them. The following is one example of such disciplines at school:
My ­middle school, which was a girls’ school, had so-­called Iban Inspection.
Teachers asked students to point out who are iban (lesbians). They also used
to say “­don’t hold hands,” “­don’t hug each other,” “­don’t go to the rest­room
together.” I am not sure if it was officially documented as their school’s princi­
ples, but teachers spoke as if they ­were the rules. The girls who w ­ ere known as
iban w­ ere dragged to the office and forced to write “memorandum” promis-
ing “they would never do that [the prohibited be­hav­iors].” I ­didn’t experience
that myself, but I saw they ­were dragged to the office held by their hair and
wrists. I heard from them ­later that the teachers threatened them, saying, “Tell
me who e­ lse [are iban], other­wise I w
­ ill call your parents to school.” . . . ​­Those
who ­were designated iban w ­ ere ignored by teachers and bullied by classmates.
I was not revealed ­because only a few friends know about my sexual identity,
but it was close. I was so scared seeing what other friends w ­ ere ­going through.
I thought it would be the end of the world if I was exposed. . . . ​Since then, I
never talked about my serious concern and stories to any of [my] other class-
mates and teachers at my school.33

All of t­ hese cases show how school administrations assume homo­sexuality to

be misbehavior requiring punishment. This bodily discipline and inspection
created a homophobic school environment during the mid-2000s.
­These discriminatory cases reflect the increased recognition of homo­
sexuality and institutionalized surveillance of young queer ­women at schools,
rather than the prevention of such discrimination. Feelings of fear about being
associated with lesbians among young queer ­women thus arise out of this diffi-
cult environment. Control over their visibility—­choosing to whom they come
out and knowing how to hide their orientation u­ nder other conditions—­is
critical to their safety from discrimination and bullying, as well as to their
avoidance of punishment and discipline.
Some young w ­ omen drop out of school due to such discrimination and
harsh reactions. Among my in­for­mants, almost 20 ­percent had left secondary
school without finishing, although the reasons ­were not only ­limited to their
sexual identity and issues of bullying. However, ju­nior high and high school
dropouts are severely stigmatized as “delinquents” in Korean society. As Jung-
ah Choi (Ch’oi Chung-­a) mentions, the high school diploma is a symbol of
being “normal.”34 When school is a necessity, young girls end up staying in
classrooms that are hostile ­toward them.

Avoiding T’ibu  |  307

 Survey

* This survey is anonymous and confidential. The goal of this survey is to create
healthy and wholesome environment at School. Please answer honestly.

1. What do you think about homosexuality?

a) I don't care much.
b) I can understand.
c) I can't understand.
d) I have not thought about it.

2. Do you think there are homosexuals in our school?

a) Yes, there are.
b) No, there aren't.
c) I don't know
d) I have heard about it.

3. If so, which grade do you think has the most number of them?
a) Freshman
b) Junior
c) Senior

4. What do you think school needs to do about homosexual students?

a) Counseling
b) Service work at school
c) Infinite suspension
d) Expulsion of the student

5. If you know students who do homosexuality, please write down the students’
year, class and name.

Year: Class: Name:

Figure 8.1 ​Survey of “homo­sexuality” at a girls’ school.

 Su-­hyŏn, who had just graduated from high school when I interviewed her,
reflected painfully on her high school years. As soon as she entered the school,
teachers and classmates identified her as a lesbian. She wanted to quit school
­because she was afraid of bullying and discrimination, but her f­ ather was strict
about it. Her f­ ather told her, “At least you should finish school to be able to live
like a ­human.” She could not leave or change schools due to her f­ ather. Instead,
whenever she went to school, she just put her head down on her desk to avoid
talking with anyone at school. Her only friends and communication ­were out-
side the school and in online communities.
Likewise, young queer ­women strug­gle to stay invisible, seeing it as a
preferable alternative to all the traumatic experiences they could encounter
when identified as queer. Thus, while homonormativity in the West concerns
white middle-­class lesbians and gay men trying to assimilate into middle-­class
straight society, while excluding working-­class queers, queers of color, and
gender-­nonconforming queers, in the South Korean case, gender conformity
and the desire to blend in with straight society is a protective mea­sure de-
signed to safeguard ­those who are weakest in terms of gender, age, class, and
sexuality.

Dif­fer­ent Meanings of “Visibility” and “Coming Out”

The issue of visibility also needs to be considered in the South Korean cul-
tural context, where coming out has dif­fer­ent meanings from ­those in West-
ern socie­ties. Chris Tan argues, “­After all, coming out arguably constitutes the
central ritual in the pro­cess of Anglo-­American gay-­identity formation.”35 In
the rhe­toric of coming out, ­those who come out are seen as “being truthful
to themselves.”36 This focus on the politics of visibility and “out and proud”
campaigns in the West have the potential to exclude ­those who are not vis­i­ble,
labeling them “not truthful” or “backward.” This occurs in the case of Pales-
tinian queers, queer rural youth, and queers in non-­Western contexts. Jason
Ritchie, for example, criticizes depoliticized mainstream Israeli gay activism,
which depends on the politics of visibility, recognition, and coming out of the
closet and is supportive of Israeli nationalism, thus maintaining “the po­liti­cal,
economic, and social subordination of Palestinians.”37
In her study of rural queer youth in the U.S., Mary Gray finds a similar use
of the rhe­toric of visibility when comparing urban and rural areas. Citing Eve
Kosofsky Sedgwick, she argues, “Visibility operates as a binary: in order for
someone to be vis­i­ble, to ‘come out,’ ­there must always be a closet someplace

Avoiding T’ibu  |  309

where ­others clamor or strug­gle to get out.”38 Therefore, the politics of vis-
ibility can lead to the “privileging of some queer identities over o­ thers.”39 In
this case, rural queers have been described as “pre-­existing, yet alienated” and
“ ‘ lacking’ or ‘incomplete.’ ”40
Likewise, Asian queer studies criticize the visibility-­based Western frame-
work as the primary standard mea­sur­ing development of lgbt progressive-
ness. In comparing the context of Confucian Singapore with Anglo-­American
society, Tan argues that the ideals of “coming-­out” and “visibility” do not
make sense in Singapore. In an Anglo-­American context, coming out begins
with coming out to one’s parents; however, gay men in Singapore, as in other
Confucian countries in Asia, “refrain from coming out to their parents to avoid
shaming their families.”41 They do not even feel obliged to do so. Therefore,
“Coming out does not occupy the same central position in the everyday lives
of Singaporean gay men as it does in Anglo-­American gay rights discourses.”42
When it comes to South K ­ orea, John (Song Pae) Cho also notes the dif­
fer­ent context in terms of visibility and coming out by challenging the binary
approach itself:
The issue of coming out was a complicated issue for Korean gays and lesbians,
involving subtle feelings such as empathy, guilt, and worry, which could not
be reduced to the binaries of “pride versus shame” or “knowledge v­ ersus
­ignorance.” . . . ​[T]herefore, some gay men choose a deferred gay ­future where
they would come out and live their lives openly as fulltime gay men once their
parents passed away. . . . ​Korean gay men i­magined their “closet” as only a
temporary holding pad, from which they would emerge to become fulltime
gays once their parents passed away.43

As he explains, in South ­Korea gay men and lesbians do not feel the necessity
of coming out to their parents. They consider hiding or “deferring” gay life or
temporarily staying in the “closet” out of re­spect for their parents natu­ral.
In the case of young queer ­women in South ­Korea, most of my in­for­mants
made ­every effort to hide their sexual identities from their parents and rela-
tives to protect themselves from punishment or backlash. Some of them said
they would never come out to their parents, even ­after they become adults.
However, ­others consider not coming out to their parents as a way of “pro-
tecting” them from the shock of their ­daughter’s sexual identity, rather than
filial duty or adherence to Confucian princi­ples. Some of my in­for­mants used
to say, “Oh, my parents would be shocked. They might die from the shock.
I would never tell them that that I’m a lesbian.” Likewise, in a culture where

310  |  Layoung Shin

f­amily ties are strong, keeping one’s identity private has dif­fer­ent meanings
and implications, including “protecting” parents.
This does not mean all queers in Asia or South ­Korea are reluctant to
come out or refuse the politics of visibility, just as not all queers in Western
urban socie­ties are willing to come out and are supportive of out and proud
politics. Actually, similar (but dif­fer­ent) tensions and debates on the issue of
coming out ­were prevalent among activists in the early 2000s in South ­Korea.
Some activists argued that coming out was the “prerequisite” for activism,
while o­ thers argued against the equation between activism and coming out.
Indeed, ­there are some in South ­Korea who come out and pursue visibility
as a po­liti­cal strategy, and the number who are ­doing so seems to be increas-
ing among young activists in recent years. Thus, I am not trying to gener-
alize that all queers in South K ­ orea or Asia are reluctant to come out, but
my intention is to show the general cultural sentiments and attitudes t­ oward
coming out and visibility in the Korean context. The shift t­ oward invisibility
among young queer w ­ omen needs to be considered in this cultural context to
avoid stigmatizing them as “backward” or following a teleological trajectory
of “normativity.”

Meaning of ­Family: Not Just an “Asian” Value

but an Economic Unit

I argue that the family-­oriented culture of (South) K

­ orea based on Confucian-
ism and filial duty explains only part of the reason that young queer ­women
try to avoid coming out to their parents. Kwon Kim Hyun-­young and John
Cho show the close relationship between job security and heterosexual ­family.
They list the benefits available to com­pany employees who are members of
heterosexual nuclear families and argue that, b­ ecause they cannot obtain em-
ployment at such companies, lesbians and gay men face discrimination in the
areas of taxes, mortgages, inheritances, hospital visitation rights, and so on.44
Jesook Song further shows that, a­ fter the imf Crisis of 1997, the South Korean
government promoted the heterosexual nuclear ­family as “the primary unit
responsible for individual security” and “the core of social well-­being.”45 The
economic crisis thus resulted in the reinforcement of the ideological promi-
nence of the ­family—­specifically, heterosexual marriage and the normative
­family.
In addition to this general privilege of heterosexual f­ amily, when it comes
to less privileged, working-­class queer youth, the situation becomes worse.

Avoiding T’ibu  |  311

As mentioned in the previous section, employment rates for youth and
­women of all generations ­were low throughout the ten-­year period of my
research. Young queer ­women from working-­class backgrounds without
mainstream education fell u­ nder the category of the most marginalized in
terms of gender, age, and education. ­Under ­these conditions, young queer
­women cannot but depend on their families for economic survival. There-
fore, the importance of the f­amily for queer youth also results from the
­family’s ability to provide economic stability, especially in ­these times of
job insecurity, increased youth unemployment, and a welfare system that
privileges heteronormative families.
In addition, dependence on heterosexual marriage for economic survival
is also found among older generations of lesbians, even, according to Song,
among single ­women who have strong and in­de­pen­dent spirits and are will-
ing to live outside conventional patriarchal norms. Even lesbian-­identified
­women came to consider marriage an option. “­Because of insecurity of em-
ployment and financing,” Song writes, “marriage may be the only option for
­women who do not have a sufficient income or financial security.”46 Some of
her in­for­mants seriously considered “getting married in order to survive.”47
One, for instance, said, “I was paranoid that I would die of hunger when I
was outed at work and to my parents. I was contemplating marriage, seriously.
If I suppress my bodily suffering, choosing to marry and live with a guy, at
least my body w ­ on’t starve to death.”48 Likewise, for some working-­class queer
­women who have few economic resources, heterosexual marriage and the het-
eronormative f­ amily appear to them to be the only “choices” for survival, less
in terms of symbolic belonging to a ­family norm than in terms of financial and
physical survival.
This reliance on ­family for survival can also be found among other East
Asian queer w ­ omen, as well as among queer immigrants in the U.S. Lucetta
Yip Lo Kam, for example, shows that economic self-­sufficiency is very
impor­tant for lalas (lesbian, bisexual, and transgender) in urban China
­because eco­nom­ically dependent lalas are hard-­pressed to “convince their
families that they can support themselves without marrying an eco­nom­
ically better off man.”49 Similarly, due to high rents and dense living condi-
tions, dependence on ­family for lesbians in Hong Kong is not optional but
necessary. As Denise Tse-­Shang Tang also argues, “Sexualities are tightly
constrained with the ­family structure and the living space.”50 David Eng fur-
ther shows that, for multiply marginalized working-­class queer immigrants
of color in the United States, dependence on ­family and kinship, and the

312  |  Layoung Shin

related expectation of heteronormativity, have become stronger rather than
weaker in late capitalism.51
My in­for­mants’ interviews support this line of analy­sis. Since my in­for­
mants ­were younger than marriage age (they w ­ ere teen­agers and in their early
twenties), their discussion about f­ amily did not yet involve marriage. Instead,
it focused on maintaining relationships with their natal families. Chun-­hŭi,
who was seventeen at the time of her interview in 2012, reported having run
away from home when her f­ather beat her ­after finding out she was lesbian.
She stayed with friends for a week, then was contacted by f­amily and asked
to return, so she went home. A ­ fter talking about the experience, she told me
about her dream of becoming a computer engineer. Her c­ areer choice was not,
however, based on interest in this type of job; instead, it was related to her
desire for economic stability. “I ­don’t know when my ­family ­will discard me,
though now we are staying together ‘in peace’ without talking about what hap-
pened,” she said. “So I need to have a good job in case I cannot have any [finan-
cial] support from my ­family.” Once her parents found out about her sexual
identity and responded harshly to it, Chun-­hŭi came to understand that her
­future might not include relying on her ­family for financial support. That is
to say, becoming a professional would be her way to secure financial security.
This shows that in South K ­ orea, negotiation with families is related not only
to emotional support and traditional values of ­family and kinship, but also to
financial support.
­There are t­ hose like Chun-­hŭi who pursue professional c­ areers as a strat-
egy for economic survival and an alternative to heteronormative ­family,
but most of my working-­class, queer ­women in­for­mants are already far
removed from such a c­ areer track, as they quit school at an early age or
showed low achievement in education. Many of them continue to work in
low-­paying part-­time jobs. In such cases, they have few options; depending
on their families, even though their parents earn low incomes, is actually a
safe way to survive. Drawing on Ching, I therefore argue that this trend of
queer ­women in South ­Korea moving ­toward avoiding the appearance of
or association with masculinity—­that is, avoiding visibility and recogni-
tion as queer—is not just about the desire to assimilate into straight so-
ciety but to maintain financial stability. We need to reflect on how young
­women’s strug­gle not to be identified as lesbian is therefore consistent with
“the complex pro­cesses of construction of and negotiation with normativ-
ity within subjects who are deprived of the right or the option or resist to
be normal to start with.”52

Avoiding T’ibu  |  313

Conclusion: Beyond Visibility and
the Critique of Homonormativity

Compared with the early 2000s, when young queer w ­ omen had their own,
active subcultures around Seoul, where they showed off their masculine styles
and gathered in public communities such as Sinch’on Park, many of the same
­women seemed to be in hiding by the early 2010s. The general shift was from
visibility to invisibility, from a general approval of female masculinity to a
preference for “straight-­looking” queer ­women. ­These trends resulted in a de-
crease in off-line queer subcultures and communities, eradicating opportuni-
ties for young queer ­women to easily and freely meet face-­to-­face. By this time,
masculine queer ­women ­were experiencing a new form of discrimination and
ste­reo­types, one that spread among lesbians themselves. This change might
be interpreted as an effect of Western-­style homonormativity—­namely, that
­these young ­women ­were focusing more on being accepted in straight soci-
ety by reducing their chances of being seen as “abnormal” in public spaces.
However, I argue that this shift cannot be explained simply in terms of
homonormativity.
Over the last ten years of my research, while lgbt activism has become
more dynamic and diverse, a basic antidiscrimination bill has not yet been passed,
and the number of antihomosexuality rallies led by conservative groups has
increased. Economic hardship brought about by unemployment and the ir-
regularization of work has affected many young p­ eople, including queer young
­women, making their desire for in­de­pen­dence from ­family more difficult. To-
gether, ­these phenomena caused an imbalance insofar as Korean society was
not prepared to offer queer youth protection from discrimination at school,
home, or the workplace. The burden of surviving the effects of discrimination
rests entirely with queer w­ omen themselves. Therefore, in a society that does
not provide any alternatives, the young ­women focus on hiding. The choice of
staying invisible as lesbian, which has resulted in the avoidance of masculinity
among young queer ­women in South ­Korea, is therefore related to the need to
survive rather than to desires for class mobility or assimilation into “normal”
society. The phenomenon of gender conformity, in this case, signifies a desire
for survival. Therefore, both young queer ­women’s subculture and the mean-
ing of “normativity” need to be contextualized.
This finding also contributes to queer scholars’ critiques of “visibility” and
“out and proud”–­based lgbt movements, which often label t­ hose who do not
follow the path of visibility inferior and even backward. As other scholars have

314  |  Layoung Shin

already argued, and as my research suggests, visibility does not always have
to be the signifier of agency. Depending on local meanings and situations,
the choice to stay invisible could be strategic. Through an examination of the
transformation of queer subcultures, this chapter has further revealed that
young queer ­women are affected by unequal socioeconomic change, as well as
by the development of state welfare focused on the heterosexual ­family. There-
fore, their survival strategy of avoiding masculinity and thus being invisible as
sexual subjects to heterosexual society can be read as a necessary response to
deepened socioeconomic in­equality during the past ten years.
Although strategic, ­these tactics have started to exclude ­others, such as
t’ibu and kŏlk’ŏ and transgender individuals, creating hierarchies within
South ­Korea’s queer communities. ­These changes may result in the similar ef-
fects of homonormativity, about which scholars like Duggan have warned in
terms of mainstream lesbians and gay men in Western contexts. As progressive
intellectuals and activists, we await fundamental changes in South Korean
society. Meanwhile, we cannot blame young queer ­women’s avoidance of mas-
culinity. Rather, our criticism may offer them the courage to not fear punish-
ment and harassment or bullying at school, which an antidiscrimination bill
would remedy. By highlighting youth unemployment and gender in­equality
in the job market, we also hope to help them feel more secure in their ability
to survive the current economic downturn without such dependence on the
heterosexual ­family.

Notes

1 Iban (lit., “second class”) is a term coined by queer subjects in South ­Korea to
refer to their marginalized status, emphasizing “difference” rather than “second”
citizen. It became popu­lar in the early to mid-2000s and was also used by my in­
for­mants to refer to themselves. In 2012, another term, tting (lesbian or bi), came
to be used more frequently among them. In this chapter, I use “queer,” “iban,” and
“tting” interchangeably, depending on where and how the terms w ­ ere used and
respecting the preferences of my in­for­mants. In general engagements with theory,
and depending on the context of interviews, I also use the terms “lesbian w ­ omen”
and “gay men.”
In 2002–2003, I met twenty-­one young iban-­identified ­women who ­were
between age fifteen and twenty, and in 2012–13, I met with eighty-­eight more queer-­
identified young ­women between sixteen and thirty-­two. Many of my in­for­
mants are from underprivileged groups and working-­class families; their parents
­were unskilled, many of them irregularly hired workers living on the outskirts
of Seoul.

Avoiding T’ibu  |  315

 2 Ji-­eun Lee, who, like me, conducted her research on teenage queer ­women in the
early 2000s in South ­Korea, found that identity, sexuality, and popu­lar culture
­were interrelated and concluded that popu­lar culture has opened spaces to
“experiment” with sexualities that are not included in the “normal”: see Jie-un Lee
[Yi Chi-­ŭn], “Sipdae yŏsŏng iban ŭi k’ŏmyunit’i kyŏnghŏm kwa chŏngch’esŏng e
kwanhan yŏn’gu”(master’s thesis, Yonsei University, Seoul, 2005).
Though I am more cautious than Lee about using the term “experiment,” since
it can reinforce the ste­reo­type that teen­agers’ identification as queer is thought-
less, temporary, and insincere, I also argue that K-­Pop and fandom, especially
fancos, became a space for young female fans to explore gender and sexual iden-
tity. I discuss this in more detail in Layoung Shin, “Queer Eye for K-­Pop Fandom:
Popu­lar Culture, Cross-­Gender Per­for­mance, and Queer Desire in South Korean
Cosplay of K-­Pop Stars,” ­Korea Journal 58, no. 4 (2018): 87–113.
3 Located in downtown Seoul, Sinch’on Park is a public park and was well known as
a “lesbian park” in the early 2000s. Some young queer ­women used to hang out at
this park and even called it their “home.”
4 So-yu, however, met this t’ibu girl and dated her for a ­couple of months. When
they broke up, the reason was not cheating but just ­because they found they had
­little in common.
5 Lisa Duggan, The Twilight of Equality? Neoliberalism, Cultural Politics, and the At-
tack on Democracy (Boston: Beacon, 2003).
6 John D’Emilio, “Capitalism and Gay Identity,” in Powers of Desire: The Politics of
Sexuality, ed. Ann Snitow, Christine Stansell, and Sharon Thompson (New York:
Monthly Review, 1983), 100–113.
7 Peter Drucker, “The Fracturing of lgbt Identities ­under Neoliberal Capitalism,”
Historical Materialism 19, no. 4 (2011): 3–32.
8 Drucker, “The Fracturing of lgbt Identities ­under Neoliberal Capitalism,” 16.
9 Duggan, The Twilight of Equality?
10 Duggan, The Twilight of Equality?, 50.
11 Maxime Cervulle, “French Homonormativity and the Commodification of the
Arab Body,” Radical History Review 100 (2008): 170–79; Fred Fejes, Gay Rights and
Moral Panic: The Origins of Amer­i­ca’s Debate on Homo­sexuality (New York: Palgrave
Macmillan, 2008); Roderick A. Ferguson, “Administering Sexuality or, the W ­ ill
to Institutionality,” Radical History Review 100 (2008): 158–69; Sandra Jeppesen,
“Queer Anarchist Autonomous Zones and Publics: Direct Action Vomiting against
Homonormative Consumerism,” Sexualities 13, no. 4 (2010): 463–78; Martin F.
Manalansan, “Race, Vio­lence, and Neoliberal Spatial Politics in the Global City,”
Social Text 23, no. 3 (2005): 141–55; David Murray, Homophobias: Lust and Loathing
across Time and Space (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009); Jasbir K.
Puar, Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times (Durham, NC:
Duke University Press, 2007); Margot D. Weiss, “Gay Shame and bdsm Pride:
Neoliberalism, Privacy, and Sexual Politics,” Radical History Review 100 (2008):
86–101.

316  |  Layoung Shin

 12 On “nationally acceptable queers,” see Puar, Terrorist Assemblages. On “top gays,”
see Fejes, Gay Rights and Moral Panic.
13 John (Song Pae) Cho, “Faceless ­Things: South Korean Gay Men, Internet, and
Sexual Citizenship” (PhD diss., University of Illinois, Urbana-­Champaign, 2011);
Lisa Rofel, Desiring China: Experiments in Neoliberalism, Sexuality, and Public
Culture (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007); Denise Tse-­Shang Tang,
Conditional Spaces: Hong Kong Lesbian Desires and Everyday Life (Hong Kong:
Hong Kong University Press, 2011).
14 Drucker, “The Fracturing of lgbt Identities ­under Neoliberal Capitalism,” 24.
Drucker says not all working-­class gays and lesbians and gays and lesbians of color
are non-­homonormative. They are also cautious about visibility, since it could
jeopardize their work.
15 Paek So-­yŏng, “Chamjaesŏng ŭl ing’yŏ ra purŭnŭn sesang,” in Ing’yŏ ŭi sisŏn ŭro
pon konggongsŏng ŭi inmunhak, ed. Paek So-­yŏng et al. (Seoul: Ip’arŭ, 2011), 13–43;
Ŏm Ki-ho, “Se ch’ŏngnyŏn ŭi iyagi,” in Paek So-­yŏng et al., Ing’yŏ ŭi sisŏn ŭro pon
konggongsŏng ŭi inmunhak, 44–70.
16 Ch’oe Hyŏn-­jŏng, “Ch’ŏngnyŏnch’ŭng ŭi chajo sŏkkin yuhaeng’ŏ ‘ing’yŏ ingan,’ ”
T’onga Ilbo, March 10, 2009, accessed July 7, 2014, http://­news​.­donga​.­com​/­3​/­all​
/­20090310​/­8706013​/1­ .
17 Korean Statistics, “Ch’wiŏpja su, sirŏpnyul chui,” E-­nara Chip’yo, June 15, 2017,
accessed September 27, 2017, http://­www​.­index​.­go​.­kr​/­potal​/­main​/­EachDtlPage​
Detail​.­do​?­idx​_­cd​=1­ 063.
18 Yun Chin-ho, “Sinjayujuŭi sidae ŭi koyong pulan kwa ch’ŏngnyŏn sil’ŏp,”
Hwanghae Munhwa 67, no. 6 (2010): 240–58; Yang Ho-­kyŏng, “Chohŭn iljari hy-
anghan ‘ch’wiŏp kyedan’ mandŭrŏya,” The Hankyoreh, February 4, 2013, accessed
February 5, 2013, http://­www​.­hani​.­co​.­kr​/­arti​/­society​/­society​_­general​/­572768​
.­html.
19 Working-­class unskilled workers are mostly female, and ­these positions make
up the highest proportion of irregular jobs, 66.3 ­percent: Shin Kwang-­Yeong.
“Globalization and Social In­equality in South ­Korea,” in New Millennium South
­Korea: Neoliberal Capitalism and Transnational Movements, ed. Jesook Song,
11–28 (New York: Routledge 2011), 19. Irregular workers earn an income that is
50–70 ­percent that of regular workers; they also lack job stability due to yearly
contracts and do not share the welfare benefits that regular workers receive.
For more, see Shin Kwang-­Yeong, “Economic Crisis, Neoliberal Reforms,
and the Rise of Precarious Work in South ­Korea,” American Behavioral Scientist
57, no. 3 (2013): 335–53; Yoonkyung Lee, “­Labor ­after Neoliberalism: The
Birth of the Insecure Class in South ­Korea,” Globalizations 12, no. 2 (2014):
184–202.
20 For more detail, see Kim Sun-­nam, “Isŏng’ae kyŏrhon kajok kyubŏm ŭl haech’e
chaegusŏng hanŭn tongsŏng’ae ch’inmilsŏng,” Han’guk Yŏsŏnghak 29, no. 1 (2013):
85–125.
21 Duggan, The Twilight of Equality?; Puar, Terrorist Assemblages.

Avoiding T’ibu  |  317

 22 Yau Ching, “Dreaming of Normal while Sleeping with Impossible: Introduction,”
in As Normal as Pos­si­ble: Negotiating Sexuality and Gender in Mainland China and
Hong Kong, ed. Yau Ching (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2010), 3.
23 “Ilbansŭt’ŭ” is a shortened form of “ilban style,” referring to lesbians who look
ilban (heterosexual)—­that is, ilbansŭt’ŭ appear feminine, or like “normative”
girls, so they can “pass” as heterosexual in straight society. The term is similar to
“femmes”—­lesbians who style themselves in normatively feminine ways.
24 Rejŭ is the shortened form of rejŭbiŏn, the Korean pronunciation of lesbian, and
used in a disparaging way.
25 ­­Here femme was used similarly to ilbansŭt’ŭ, who is feminine.
26 danah boyd, “Why Youth (Heart) Social Network Sites: The Role of Networked
Publics in Teenage Social Life,” in Youth, Identity, and Digital Media, ed. David
Buckingham (Cambridge, MA: mit Press, 2008), 126. As many scholars have
discussed, while (digital) media provide new ave­nues for intimacy, desire, and
sexuality in non-­heteronormative and non-­cisgender ways, ­these media are not
positive or negative for queer ­people, communities, and activism in themselves.
They have the potential to be subversive by providing information and resources
to create queer communities through online connectivity but can also cause one
to become a target of surveillance and ­human rights violation ­because they are
interconnected with multiple social constraints and possibilities of the off-line
world. On the relationship between digital media and the off-line world, see Daniel
Miller and Don Slater, The Internet: An Ethnographic Approach (New York: Berg,
2000); Tom Boellstorff, Coming of Age in Second Life (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton
University Press, 2008). On the use of digital media in queer Asian cultures, see
Chris Berry, Fran Martin, and Audrey Yue, eds., Mobile Cultures: New Media in
Queer Asia (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003).
27 boyd, “Why Youth (Heart) Social Network Sites,” 126.
28 ­­These are well-­known shopping malls in Tongdaemun, downtown Seoul, with
twenty-­four-­hour shopping. The malls have open stages in front with events such
as dancing or singing competitions to attract customers.
29 Drucker, “The Fracturing of lgbt Identities ­under Neoliberal Capitalism,” 17.
30 In Article 92–6 of the Military Penal Code, Sodomy and Vari­ous Harassment
Crime, kyeganjoe (which can be translated as “sodomy”), is designated a crime to
be punished. The law allows punishment for sex between ser­vicemen regardless of
consent and ­whether it was conducted within or outside a military base. Based on
this law, military officials investigated their soldiers to identify supposedly gay men,
and in May 2017 a soldier was sentenced at a military trial to six months in prison
and suspension for one year. For more, see Timothy Gitzen’s chapter in this volume.
31 The oshr was passed by the Seoul city government in 2011 in following similar
mea­sures in Kyŏnggi Province and Kwangju City. The oshr in all three regions
included “sexual orientation” as one of the ­factors that should not be the basis for
discrimination in schools. Dif­fer­ent from the conservative central government,
a majority of City Council members in ­those areas represented a more liberal

318  |  Layoung Shin

 Demo­cratic Party. With a lot of effort from activists in education and youth and
lgbt movements, and supported by the liberal City Council, the oshr was
passed despite strong objections from conservatives.
32 A school penalty system was introduced to ju­nior high and high schools in 2005 as an
alternative to physical punishment as a way to discipline students. The penalties are
given to students who violate school regulations; ­those who exceed a certain number
of points can be punished or transferred to another school, or they may leave school.
On the punishment of young queer w ­ omen at school, see Hyŏn/Yi Yu-­bin, “Son
chabŭmyŏn chinggye hanŭn hakkyo, pyŏrang kkŭt e nae mollinŭn ch’ŏngsonyŏn
tongsŏngaejadŭl,” ngo News, February 20, 2006, accessed June 30, 2009, http://­
www​.­ngo​-­news​.­co​.­kr​/­sub​_­read​.­html​?­uid​=5­ 09&section​=­sc9&section2​=­.
33 Haksaeng Inkwŏn Chorye Sŏngsosuja Kongdong Haengdong, ed., Sŏngsosuja
hakkyonae ch’abyŏl sarye moŭmjip (Seoul: N.p., 2011), 85–86.
34 Jung-ah Choi, “New Generation’s ­Career Aspirations and New Ways of Margin-
alization in a Postindustrial Economy,” British Journal of Sociology of Education 26,
no. 2 (2005): 277.
35 Chris K. K. Tan, “Go Home, Gay Boy! Or, Why Do Singaporean Gay Men Prefer to
‘Go Home’ and Not ‘Come Out’?” Journal of Homo­sexuality 58, nos. 6–7 (2011): 866.
36 Tan, “Go Home, Gay Boy!,” 868.
37 Jason Ritchie, “How Do You Say ‘Come out of the Closet’ in Arabic? Queer Activ-
ism and the Politics of Visibility in Israel-­Palestine,” glq 16, no. 4 (2010): 558.
38 Mary L. Gray, Out in the Country: Youth, Media, and Queer Visibility in Rural Amer­
i­ca (New York: New York University Press, 2009), 4.
39 Gray, Out in the Country, 4.
40 Gray, Out in the Country, 9–10.
41 Tan, “Go Home, Gay Boy!” 865.
42 Tan, “Go Home, Gay Boy!” 866.
43 John (Song Pae) Cho, “ ‘Deferred ­Futures’: The Diverse Imaginaries of Gay
Retirement in Post-­Imf South ­Korea,” Culture, Theory and Critique 58, no. 2
(2017): 252.
44 John (Song Pae) Cho and Hyun-­young Kwon Kim, “The Korean Gay and Lesbian
Movement 1993–2008: From ‘Identity’ and ‘Community’ to ‘­Human Rights,’ ”
in South Korean Social Movements: From Democracy to Civil Society, ed. Gi-­wook
Shin and Paul Chang (New York: Routledge, 2010), 206–23. They argue that this
privileging of ­family in Korean culture can be traced from the Chosŏn period
(1392–1910).
45 Jesook Song, South Koreans in the Debt Crisis: The Creation of a Neoliberal Welfare
Society (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009), 47.
46 Jesook Song, Living on Your Own: Single ­Women, Rental Housing, and Post-­
revolutionary Affect in Con­temporary South ­Korea (Albany: State University of New
York Press, 2014), 9.
47 Song, Living on Your Own, 33.
48 Song, Living on Your Own, 33.

Avoiding T’ibu  |  319

 49 Lucetta Y. L. Kam, Shanghai Lalas: Female Tongzi Communities and Politics in
Urban China (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2013), 91.
50 Tang, Conditional Spaces, 20.
51 David L. Eng, The Feeling of Kinship: Queer Liberalism and the Racialization of
Intimacy (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010).
52 Ching, “Dreaming of Normal while Sleeping with Impossible,” 3.

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Puar, Jasbir K. Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times. Durham, NC:
Duke University Press, 2007.
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322  |  Layoung Shin

 Chapter Nine

­R IPPLES OF TRAUMA
QUEER BODIES AND
THE TEMPORALITY OF VIO­L ENCE
IN THE SOUTH KOREAN MILITARY

Timothy Gitzen

If toxic masculinity was just about men posturing

around each other in a comical fashion, that would be
one ­thing, but this per­sis­tent pressure to constantly be
proving manhood and warding off anything considered
feminine or emasculating is the main reason why we
have so many damn shootings in the United States.
—­Amanda Marcotte, “Overcompensation Nation”

O
 
n May 24, 2017, a South Korean military court sentenced an army
captain to six months in prison for engaging in consensual sex with
other male soldiers in his home and other private places. He was
arrested on April 13, days before he was to be discharged from his mandatory
two-­year military ser­vice, a requisite for all able-­bodied men in South ­Korea.
In response, Yim Tae-­hoon, director of the Military ­Human Rights Center,
held a press conference that same day detailing both the arrest of the army
captain and the larger blacklisting of nearly fifty soldiers for their sexual ori-
entation.1 Yim claimed that the “scheme” was orchestrated by Army Chief of
Staff Chang Chun-­kyu, who had used officers to coerce their subordinates to
hunt down, “out,” and then arrest suspected sexual minorities in the military.
Chang was commissioned in 1980 and has served as Army chief of staff since
2015, when he was also inaugurated as the thirtieth president of the ­Korea
Christian Military Federation.2 Despite the military’s denial of the accusation
and written claim that “the army guarantees privacy for homosexual soldiers,”
Yim provided audio recordings that detail a soldier being interrogated by a
superior officer about sex and his “gay friends,” in addition to screenshots of
the gay dating application Jack’d that show known gay soldiers attempting to
find and “out” other gay soldiers.3 ­Under Article 6 of Section 92 (hereafter,
92–6) of the Military Penal Code—­a law that forbids soldiers from engag-
ing in “anal sex or other forms of harassment” (hangmun sŏnggyo na kŭ pak
ŭi ch’uhaeng)—­the unnamed army captain, dubbed Captain A, was arrested
and convicted. As of August 2017, at least thirty-­two other soldiers are facing
criminal charges for violating 92–6.4 In response, queer activists ­were quick to
act, organ­izing protests and candlelight vigils in front of the main gate of the
Ministry of National Defense. They held placards conveying that they, too,
had become criminals on that day. Their protest signaled that the military’s
anx­i­eties about gender and sexuality w ­ ere being insidiously transferred to
sexual minorities.
Yet the attention surrounding this par­tic­u­lar case and evidence of a con-
certed effort by the top brass in the military to root out gay soldiers indicates
that the mere presence of sexual minorities in the military is considered a
threat to national defense and national security. This case also invites con-
templation of the experiences of gay soldiers in the South Korean military,
particularly when they are both legally required to be ­there and outlawed for
being gay. ­These soldiers must contend with a system that interprets their
sexuality as dangerous while also navigating and surviving the deeply rooted
system of masculinity produced, practiced, and proliferated by the military.
­These are interconnected points, for the danger of their sexuality arises in the
militarized production and enactment of masculinity. Oyman Basaran details
a similar situation in Turkey, where the hegemony of militarized masculinity
safeguards against the feminine homosexual “virus” by medically exempting
men who can prove their homo­sexuality from mandatory military ser­vice.5
However, proving one’s homo­sexuality in South ­Korea is not met with such
exemption, and if one attempts to “prove” one’s homo­sexuality once enlisted,
it is met with imprisonment.
In this chapter, I use critical ethnographic approaches to interrogate the
system of what o­ thers have called “toxic masculinity” in the military—­a mas-
culinity that makes gay soldiers sick.6 I trace the way that the vio­lence and
what I interpret as trauma emerging from this system travel far beyond the

324  |  Timothy Gitzen

body of the gay soldier and the confines of the military itself. Soldiers who
are made sick by mandatory military ser­vice are tested, diagnosed, and moni-
tored, but the military and the system of toxic masculinity are never to blame.
Rather, the blame for sickness shifts to the soldier and his inability to adapt
to military life, a life marked by the necessity to produce and perform a virial
form of masculinity. I argue that this transfer of vio­lence—­wherein the mili-
tary’s anxiety about sexual and gender variance are transferred onto the body
of the soldier—­indexes larger social and institutional anxiety and vio­lence
that extend far beyond sexual minorities.7 The production of toxic masculin-
ity in the military inevitably—if not necessarily—­bleeds into civilian life. Yet
when vio­lence is transferred, it becomes temporally displaced, meaning that
the violent or traumatic event disperses like ­ripples in a lake, flowing in all tem-
poral and spatial directions. Given that conscription is normalized in South
Korean society, where boys from a young age are prepared for their ser­vice,
the temporality of mandatory military ser­vice is not confined to the roughly
two years one ­will spend enlisted. The same is true of toxic masculinity, for it
travels within the anx­i­eties of ser­vice, spilling into the years surrounding the
fixed point of service—­both before and ­after—­and instilling fear, anxiety, and
trauma in ­future gay soldiers before they even serve. I call this pre-­traumatic
stress.8 In other words, sexual minorities, I contend, are experiencing the pos-
sibility of a ­future vio­lence and trauma in the pre­sent.
While post-­traumatic stress disorder (ptsd) is used to talk about trauma
resulting from military action and vio­lence9—­and not necessarily the accepted
or even encouraged forms of misogynist talk among soldiers, heterosexualiza-
tion, and discrimination embedded within toxic masculinity—I want to ex-
pand the connection among vio­lence, the soldier’s body, and the temporality
of trauma. Pre-­traumatic stress is symptomatic of a post-9/11 landscape where
“the realignment from reactive to preemptive is a conversion from past-­tense
subject formation to future-­tense subject anticipation.”10 The anticipation of
the ­future constitutes what Tom Boellstorff refers to as “straight time”—as it
moves in a linear fashion from a past through a pre­sent to a ­future.11 Yet the
materialization of a pos­si­ble ­future in an ever turbulent pre­sent indicates that
straight time is no longer (if it ever was) a linear progression from one mo-
ment to the next; all potential moments exist si­mul­ta­neously in the pre­sent.12
Analyzing trauma in the pre­sent indexes what Lauren Berlant calls “crisis or-
dinariness,” or the diffusion of trauma into the ordinary.13 By interrogating the
temporality of trauma in the context of the South Korean military and along-
side queer activists, I intervene in the field of queer studies by demonstrating

­Ripples of Traum | 325
that sociality disrupts the temporal flow of trauma. Attention to how gay sol-
diers and pre-­enlisted sexual minorities navigate the traumatic ­future through
intense social relations engenders ruptures in the temporality of trauma. For
Korean studies readers, this chapter calls for a radical assessment of time
focused not on colonial or authoritarian pasts but on a militarized and securi-
tized pre­sent and f­ uture ripe with democracy. In other words, mandatory mili-
tary ser­vice, since the birth of South K
­ orea in 1948, has or­ga­nized the lifeways
of all citizens in ways that make the act of planning for the f­ uture—of having a
­future—an intrinsically militarized endeavor.14
This chapter aims to remember vio­lence that the South Korean military
and the state continuously try to forget. Queer activists have brought to light
an intricate system of toxic masculinity that targets sexual and gender minor-
ities in ways that cover up the vio­lence as quickly as it perpetrates it. As an an-
thropologist, my task is to elevate not only t­ hose voices but to piece together
a cartography of toxicity that bleeds temporally and spatially, making the task
of remembering one not just of survival but, as Todd A. Henry proposes in
the introduction to this volume, an imagining of “new possibilities for lib-
eration.” In the first section, I provide a brief history of the South Korean
military and militarization alongside the development of queer activism to
situate my eigh­teen months of ethnographic fieldwork in Seoul. I then ex-
plore the temporality of toxic masculinity through the lens of pre-­traumatic
stress. I examine how the sickness that I interpret as the effect of toxic mas-
culinity leads to the military’s categorization of a high percentage of soldiers
as ill-­adaptive and in need of being more carefully “watched.” I then follow
the ways the military medicalizes this category and interprets the vio­lence of
toxic masculinity through the sickness it produces as ultimately the fault of
the soldier and not that of the system. The military makes soldiers sick but
blames the soldier for his sickness rather than its a­ ctual cause: the military. I
end this chapter by analyzing how the transfer of vio­lence that begins in the
military temporally and spatially seeps into civilian life and civilian sociality,
affecting the treatment of sexual and gender minorities while indexing more
systemic gender-­related vio­lence.

Anxious Contexts

In con­temporary South ­Korea, the military constitutes what Marcel Mauss

theorizes as a “total social fact,” a concept with a tridimensional character—­
sociological, historical, physiopsychological—­that is also able to “set in mo-

326  |  Timothy Gitzen

tion society and its institutions as a totality.”15 ­There is no clear divide or sepa-
ration between the military and the civilian; military law is civil law (in part
­because it is civil law that gives rise to the military and military law), and the
military is not simply making soldiers; it is producing disciplined male citi-
zens through expectations, practices, and experiences. Other scholars of the
military have made similar observations about the role mandatory military
ser­vice plays in the construction of manhood. As Lesley Gill writes about Bo-
livia in the mid-­to late 1990s, “Military ser­vice is one of the most impor­tant
prerequisites for the development of successful subaltern manhood, ­because
it signifies rights to power and citizenship and supposedly instills the courage
that a man needs to confront life’s daily challenges.”16
The modern history of South ­Korea’s armed forces illustrates that military
conscription has been tied not only to the production of manhood and the
per­for­mance of male citizenship, but also to the making of ­women and female
citizenship. While the U.S. military occupation of South K ­ orea (1945–48) em-
phasized a strong and self-­sufficient military for the success of a Korean gov­
ernment, the authoritarian years of Park Chung Hee (1961–79) and then Chun
Doo-­hwan (1980–87) tied military ser­vice to economic development.17 In
par­tic­u­lar, the Park regime ordered divisions of the army to work in factories,
as engineers in research institutions, and in other labor-­intensive jobs, and by
paying the men the low wages that all troops received (as opposed to a wage
determined by employers or even the market), ­labor was nearly ­free. Nearly
­free ­labor coupled with an ever growing body of men resulted in a significant
contribution to the industrialization of the country. Yet, as Seungsook Moon
aptly notes, “Men’s military mobilization and economic mobilization w ­ ere
intimately intertwined and . . . ​this combination contributed to the consolida-
tion of the modern gender hierarchy, or­ga­nized around the division of ­labor
between man as provider and w ­ oman as ­house­wife.”18 Therefore, military con-
scription in South K ­ orea continues to target men but also affects w ­ omen and
19
the crafting of heterosexual families.
Even in the post-1987 era of democracy, the military has seen few substan-
tial changes, despite the end of authoritarian regimes of military dictators.
The primary reason for the lack of a “radical rupture from the past” is that the
importance of military conscription continues to be aimed at the ever pre­
sent threat of a North Korean invasion following the formal “end” of the Ko-
rean War in 1953.20 As Moon notes, “The ideologies of anticommunism and
(militarized) national security remain an under­lying real­ity in the apparently
demilitarized landscape of the vibrant consumer society in South ­Korea.”21

­Ripples of Traum | 327
­ andatory military ser­vice is still the path of male citizenship, despite a grow-
M
ing percentage of college students disfavoring military ser­vice and actively
seeking exemption.22 For a man to be exempt from mandatory conscription,
he must be diagnosed as having a significant ­mental or physical impairment or
he must be a felon, hiv-­positive, or a naturalized citizen. In real­ity, exemptions
are rare and carry with them a variety of social, po­liti­cal, and cultural stigmas
that men carry with them for the rest of their lives.23 More recently, during the
2011 Constitutional Court ruling on the constitutionality of the antisodomy
clause in the Military Penal Code (92–6)—­the second of such rulings—­the
court claimed that “our country’s state of national security” justifies the con-
tinued ban of anal sex among soldiers.24 The necessity for South Korean men
to serve in the military is the same justification for banning anal sex and, by
extension, homo­sexuality. It is in this context that gay men confront anx­i­eties
over their gender and sexuality.
A queer analy­sis of the post-1987 institution of the military and the system
of toxic masculinity produced within it reveals that vio­lence against soldiers
is part and parcel of military training and national security. My analy­sis also
demonstrates that this vio­lence, predicated on anxiety over gender and sexual
variance, becomes normalized and even an organ­izing princi­ple of sociality. I
provide this analy­sis through my ethnography of national security and queer
politics in South K ­ orea. Between 2015 and 2016, I conducted eigh­teen months
of ethnographic research with queer and feminist activists, ­human rights
­lawyers, public health specialists, and scholars. ­These individuals ranged in
age from their early to mid-­twenties to late thirties; all of them had ­either ob-
tained a college education (many with gradu­ate degrees) or w ­ ere in the pro­
cess of finishing college. Some of the queer activists I befriended had been
involved in gay and lesbian organ­izations since the mid-­to late 1990s. Gay and
lesbian organ­izations began to emerge in the early to mid-1990s with groups
such as Ch’ingusai (a gay men’s organ­ization) and Kkiri Kkiri (a lesbian organ­
ization), followed by university clubs that focused on sexual minorities.25 Yet
in 1997, in the midst of national ­labor strikes targeting sudden and secretive
revisions to l­abor and security laws, a “Homosexual Co­ali­tion Committee”
gathered roughly seventy-­two gays and lesbians who w ­ ere participating in the
26
strike to protest together. From this co­ali­tion emerged discussions about the
rights of sexual minorities, and out of that dialogue came some of the early
activist organ­izations. Solidarity for lgbt ­Human Rights of ­Korea, my eth-
nographic “home” for much of my fieldwork, for example, traces its origins
to that meeting. Since then, more activist organ­izations emerged focusing on

328  |  Timothy Gitzen

a variety of issues, from trans* p­ eople and parents and families of sexual and
gender minorities to hiv/aids and the military.
My initial interest in gay soldiers and the anx­i­eties I witnessed among gay
Korean friends preparing for their military ser­vice brought me to my now ex-
tensive network of activist in­for­mants, many of whom had already served in
the military and could articulate their experiences with detail and precision.
Queer activists—­a phrase I use to highlight the variability of activists fighting
against normativity and patriarchy—­are particularly well positioned to speak
about the vio­lence of toxic masculinity in the armed forces b­ ecause they have
been working for nearly twenty years on issues related to the military.27 My
in­for­mants have developed a language and discourse to critique the military,
one that I tap in to and develop into the pre­sent ethnography and analy­sis.
However, this is a particularly situated ethnography, ­limited by the ­people
with whom I spoke and worked, my access, and the larger questions I was
asking. While I did speak with non-­activist gay men who ­either served or ­were
about to serve, I primarily focus on the narratives and voices of activists. I ­will,
however, discuss a wide variety of experience in this chapter. Furthermore,
while my ethnography as a w ­ hole is a mixture of interviews and participant
observation, this chapter relies primarily on the words of activists as they re-
flect on their military ser­vice (with few exceptions), as I did not have access
to any military bases or institutions. This certainly colors my ethnography
and analy­sis, but anthropologists of the military often find it difficult access-
ing military bases.28 While non–sexual minorities no doubt experience the
vio­lence of toxic masculinity, focusing on sexual minorities makes more ap-
parent the toxicity of this militarized system of masculinity. Moreover, not all
gay soldiers experience the military as toxic, for as some in­for­mants told me,
certain men can “pass” as straight while ­others cannot, and some are picked
on or bullied while ­others are not. This variability is itself violent and part of
the toxicity of the military system, as no one knows what—if anything—­will
happen once inside.

Toxic Masculinity

I first met Ch’an-­yŏl, a twenty-­five-­year-­old South Korean man, in March 2016

­after a mutual friend said that he wanted to talk to me about gradu­ate school.
We certainly talked about gradu­ate school during our initial meeting in the
Insa-­dong neighborhood of Seoul, as well as Ch’an-­yŏl’s recently completed
military ser­vice. He graduated from college in the United States in 2012, then

­Ripples of Traum | 329
returned to South ­Korea to fulfill his military duty, which never sat well with
him. He explained to me that part of the reason he had studied abroad in col-
lege was that he was gay; he also did so based on his belief that South K ­ orea
was misogynistic and homophobic. Even ­today, Ch’an-­yŏl is disgusted by
the subjugation of and vio­lence against ­women, as well as the hate speech
levied against sexual minorities. Not only was ­there no antidiscrimination
law to safeguard against discrimination against sexual and gender minorities,
but any attempt queer activists made to demand equal protection ­under the
law was met with harsh criticism from politicians and anti-­lgbt protesters
and churches.
Ch’an-­yŏl recalled a particularly poignant and traumatizing moment from
early in his ser­vice in 2013 that involved the normalization of rape and hyper­
masculinity in the military. Ch’an-­yŏl spent his military ser­vice as a police
­officer in a special language corps charged with “patrolling the embassy neigh-
borhood.” ­After basic training, he was relocated to a police station to receive
special training with the other police officers. One of his superior officers was
leading a training session early on, and during it, the superior officer said that
“­after killing the e­ nemy, you should rape their wives and w
­ omen.” In the evalu-
ation form for this special training, Ch’an-­yŏl wrote that he was a taken aback
by that par­tic­u­lar statement and was offended. As a result of that protest, some
of his superior officers summoned him and asked if that had ­really happened
(­because ­these evaluations ­were not anonymous). The superior officer trans-
ferred to a dif­fer­ent station, but the statement stayed with Ch’an-­yŏl the entire
time he was in the military and ­after his discharge. Not only did the sheer vio­
lence of such a directive shock him, but the ease with which the superior officer
uttered the words and the seeming normalcy his fellow soldiers-­cum-­police
officers displayed frightened him. No one but Ch’an-­yŏl, a self-­proclaimed
feminist, found the statement odd, let alone disgusting. Ch’an-­yŏl’s analy­sis of
the situation—­that no one found the superior’s statement disturbing ­until he
indirectly reported the incident—­illustrates that rape is being normalized in
the military and, I contend, in South Korean society more broadly. Further-
more, for the superior officer to tie acts of rape to an ­enemy also implies that
such acts of rape are done in the name of the nation for the sake of national
defense and national security.29
The hypermasculinity that Ch’an-­yŏl identified in the military—­and, spe-
cifically, the incident from the special training—­operates on multiple registers.
­These levels are intertwined and comprise what I refer to as toxic masculin-
ity. The first level is the directive itself—­namely, that soldiers should rape

330  |  Timothy Gitzen

­ omen. Even though the superior officer qualified the statement by saying
w
that he meant the w ­ omen of enemies, the statement was a tacit sanctioning
of rape in general. The second level emerges from the expectation that male
soldiers ­ought to accept such directives: that rape is not only normal, but men
are naturally superior to ­women. Part of Ch’an-­yŏl’s shock came from the fact
that his fellow soldiers did not seem perturbed by the directive. Indeed, only
Ch’an-­yŏl indirectly voiced his concern ­after the special training had finished.
This discussion then leads to the third level: the traumatic effect this directive
had on Ch’an-­yŏl as someone fiercely opposed to misogyny and vio­lence and
the lethargic and depressed demeanor that soon followed him throughout his
ser­vice.
The directive was not the only cause of his lethargy, but it symbolized—­
quite viscerally—­the toxicity of the system of masculinity being produced and
practiced in the military. My use of “toxic masculinity” indexes the extremity-­
turned-­violence that Marcotte decries in the epigraph, hinging also on its lit-
eral meaning about how the toxicity of a militarized masculinity, like poison,
makes gay soldiers sick.30 Toxic masculinity describes a form of masculinity in
which men perceive their masculinity to be u­ nder constant threat. This form
of under-­siege masculinity requires men to ­either safeguard against or lash out
at ­those interpellated threats. The toxicity thus lies in both the belief of being
­under constant threat and the action taken in response to that belief, where
that action enacts vio­lence against ­others considered threats. In the superior
officer’s directive, the threat is not only the male e­ nemy but also the w
­ omen at-
tributed to the ­enemy; not raping the ­women would be an affront to the men’s
ever fragile masculinity. Toxic masculinity thus comes to represent the inten-
tional strategies of the military and the effects ­those strategies have on both
men and w ­ omen, both in the effects of men “infected” with its toxicity and the
male soldiers and ­women subject to its effects.

­Under Careful Observation

When Ch’an-­yŏl reflected on his military ser­vice during our initial meeting
in March 2016, and in subsequent meetings, he also conveyed how lonely he
found himself during his ser­vice. He felt dif­fer­ent compared to other soldiers,
while other soldiers treated him as dif­fer­ent. He explained that his feeling of
difference and the loneliness that followed resulted from the soldiers’ intense
heterosexuality, misogyny, and hypermasculinity. It is not enough to simply
say that this system of toxic masculinity—or all systems of power—­adversely

­Ripples of Traum | 331
affect ­people. I contend that this system was actually making Ch’an-­yŏl physi-
cally and emotionally sick. This manifested in his own self-­diagnosed depres-
sion, which a therapist treated l­ater, ­after he was discharged, and produced
trauma through the daily interactions he had with a toxic system. The antici-
pated and lived dread of my in­for­mants concerns the everyday and almost in-
visible vio­lence brought on by the normalization of toxic masculinity. As Ann
Cvetkovich writes in her work on lesbian trauma and public culture, trauma
may seem invisible ­because it “­doesn’t appear sufficiently catastrophic,” mean-
ing ­there are no visibly damaged bodies.31 Yet attending to the temporality of
trauma allows me to make vis­i­ble the vio­lence and damage that may not seem
“sufficiently catastrophic.” An anthropological interpretation of the temporal-
ity of trauma, however, prioritizes the social relations that seem to be torn
apart through trauma. As Rebecca Lester argues, “A traumatic event is trau-
matic precisely ­because it sheers [sic] us off from our expected connections
with ­others, from our perceived social supports, from our basic sense of safety,
however locally construed. . . . ​[W]e feel our ontological aloneness.”32
I take both Berlant’s crisis ordinariness and Lester’s ontological alone-
ness to think about how trauma pre­sents as a social prob­lem and then is l­ater
medicalized by the military and anticipated by gay conscripts. Gay soldiers
are experiencing this queer fear before they even enlist. This is what I call pre-­
traumatic stress, a trauma of anticipation. ­There is ­little research on the trauma
of anticipating vio­lence or catastrophes, in part ­because scholars and doctors
usually interpret the period before the “traumatic event” as a “pre-­trauma risk
­factor” for the ­actual disorders of ptsd and depression.33 However, the lan-
guage and discourse of security is quite applicable ­here, for the necessity to
preemptively imagine the catastrophe and then plan for it re­orients the tem-
porality of both security and the pre­sent: “The point of resonance on the
horizon . . . ​is precisely a horizon of pos­si­ble ­futures, arrayed in such a way as
to govern, to decide, or to act in the pre­sent.”34 In fact, in the past few years—­
particularly surrounding the Trump presidency in the U.S.—­researchers and
psychologists are speculating on the possibility of a “pre-­traumatic stress dis-
order” that focuses on a fear of the f­ uture, in which catastrophes (such as cli-
mate change), “Armageddon,” and world-­altering events inundate the news
media and our daily lives.35 Pre-­traumatic stress and the trauma of anticipation
are symptomatic of a post-9/11, and even a Trump-­era con­temporary moment
and the counterterror state.36 But the dread felt and materialized by sexual
minorities anticipating their ser­vice also results from a decades-­long history
of military conscription in South ­Korea. My intervention with discussing the

332  |  Timothy Gitzen

emergence of pre-­traumatic stress in military vio­lence is to illustrate how the
anticipation of a range of vio­lence can be as traumatic as ­those experiences
and even intensify the vio­lence. I also argue that, from the state’s perspective,
the dread of anticipation is necessary for national defense and security. In fact,
as evident in the opening vignette, the military’s ban on anal sex—­the antisod-
omy law—is perhaps the most blatant form of fear production for gay soldiers.
It is impor­tant, though, to first home in on the vio­lence and the military’s cat-
egorization and medicalization of gay soldiers while recognizing that the vio­
lence of military actions have distinct temporal ­ripples.
In the aftermath of the training session complaint, the military officially
designated Ch’an-­yŏl a kwansim pyŏngsa (soldier of interest), a label the mili-
tary uses to categorize soldiers who ­ought to be “watched” more closely. The
moniker often leads to heightened surveillance of the soldier, informing the
soldier’s parents, and counseling. It also c­ auses soldiers to be ostracized from
other soldiers b­ ecause ­those other soldiers often know when the military la-
bels someone a kwansim pyŏngsa, even though the designation o­ ught to be
private.37 Reasons for being designated a kwansim pyŏngsa are vast but mostly
include ­those who find it difficult to adjust to military life, soldiers who seem
depressed or suicidal, soldiers who seem lonely, and soldiers who simply pre­
sent as dif­fer­ent from the ­others (which, as I describe ­later, can mean vari­ous
­things). As of 2014, the military had labeled more than 22 ­percent of active sol-
diers kwansim pyŏngsa.38 ­There is a history of suspect soldiers, noncommittal
soldiers, and soldiers who do not adapt to military life—­particularly during
the post–­Korean War period, when psychiatry in South K ­ orea was heavi­ly in-
39
fluenced by U.S. military psychiatry. However, ­little research has been done
on this designation of “kwansim pyŏngsa,” in part b­ ecause it is a term internal
to the military, and research on the Korean military is quite ­limited.40 Further-
more, it is difficult to know how sexual and gender minorities ­were treated in
the military system prior to the 1990s b­ ecause the work that queer activists are
now ­doing (and have been ­doing for nearly twenty years) was absent during
the authoritarian years when the military was molded into its current form.
However, several in­for­mants who served in the military explained that the cat-
egory of kwansim pyŏngsa primarily exists t­ oday to prevent suicide and acts of
vio­lence among soldiers.41 However, ­those same in­for­mants ­were quick to add
that many sexual minorities who do l­ittle to hide their sexuality get labeled
kwansim pyŏngsa b­ ecause they find it difficult to adapt to military life. In fact,
according to the Ministry of National Defense, homo­sexuality is listed as a
cause for the least severe designation (C class) of kwansim pyŏngsa, and this

­Ripples of Traum | 333
least severe designation makes up more than 55 ­percent of ­those categorized
as kwansim pyŏngsa.42 ­Here we begin to see not only that the gay soldier is
always already traumatized, but that the military preemptively assumes that
gay soldiers ­will be unable to adapt and are therefore ready with the kwansim
pyŏngsa designation.
The systemic danger of the kwansim pyŏngsa designation is all too fa-
miliar to the Foucauldian. To watch more carefully t­hose who are already
placed ­under a rather close microscope and medicalize both the practices
of the watched and the gaze of the watcher produces a string of vio­lence, an
“anatomo-­politics” that is not immediately felt or known by the soldier.43
For Michel Foucault, the quality of the gaze is crucial in situating both the
meaning of the gaze and the work the gaze does, where quality means the
details apprehended in the gaze.44 In this way, kwansim pyŏngsa is a type of
gaze whereby the details of a soldier’s thoughts, feelings, actions, and life in
general instantiate the necessity for kwansim pyŏngsa. It is also a category of
knowledge in which the production of the category of kwansim pyŏngsa is
indicative of broader juridico-­political and medical shifts in South Korean
military and public discourse. The act of watching, of keeping an eye on sol-
diers who are often referred to as munje pyŏngsa (lit., prob­lem soldier), is itself
a form of toxicity ­because ­these soldiers know that they are being more in-
tensely watched—­a fact often known by other soldiers in their unit—­and thus
heighten their outsider feelings that much more.45
If the military is labeling soldiers kwansim pyŏngsa for not adjusting or
adapting, phrases Ch’an-­yŏl used several times in our conversation, then what
constitutes “adapting”? On the one hand, this litmus test refers to the general
attributes of military discipline, including (but certainly not ­limited to) re­
spect for hierarchy and authority, following and carry­ing out ­orders, camara-
derie among one’s unit, and intense patriotism and nationalism equal to that
displayed by one’s peers and superiors. On the other hand, to adapt is reflec-
tive of typical socialization be­hav­ior, and chief among that for a unit of male
soldiers are gender roles and sexuality. In other words, the military expects
soldiers to participate in the practices and production of toxic masculinity that
Ch’an-­yŏl (and countless other sexual minorities) found horrible. However,
the production of toxic masculinity is intimately tied to military discipline, for
it is in the practices and experiences of hierarchy—­following ­orders, solidar-
ity, and patriotism—­that masculinity is made toxic. Not all soldiers, or even all
gay soldiers, would recognize this system as toxic and violent, but that seem-
ing unrecognizability is part of its very toxicity. The toxicity of the system is

334  |  Timothy Gitzen

normalized to the point of rape. “The military is about brainwashing soldiers,”
Ch’an-­yŏl said with gusto and disgust, explaining that the zeal for patriotism
and nationalism was actually quite disturbing and elicited visceral responses
in him even now. But as a gay man who did not always try to hide his sexuality,
the military presented him with the dilemma of life or death: to play straight
or to be gay. He had to endure countless conversations with conscripts about
the female form, penetrating w ­ omen, dating ­women, and what he referred to
as “a large amount of misogyny” among conscripts and laden in the military
system and education itself.
In Ch’an-­yŏl’s case, his designation as kwansim pyŏngsa also resulted from
his perceived maladjustment and depressed demeanor. With this designation,
the military informed him of his kwansim pyŏngsa status (along with the rea-
sons) while also informing his parents. The rationale for informing his parents
(or any parents), Ch’an-­yŏl explained, is that parents supposedly have the right
to know if their son is suicidal and about the military’s subsequent forms of
close observation.46 The military claims that the transparency of knowledge
and observation is for the sake of the soldier when the ­actual reason seems to
be for the sake of the military. This contradiction is particularly salient when
considering the recent outpouring of criticism targeting the harsh environ-
ment and intense acts of bullying and physical assault.47 More complicated is
the male-­on-­male sexual abuse of military officers and superiors on subordi-
nates and conscripts, often ignored by the military and absent in the news.48
While the kwansim pyŏngsa designation may seem like a method of safeguard-
ing against such vio­lence, soldiers who are being watched are not the ones caus-
ing the vio­lence but the ones on the receiving end. The criticism aimed at the
military lies not only in the a­ ctual acts of vio­lence but also, more insidiously,
in the cover-­ups that often ensue to protect officers and the military system.49
It is impor­tant to note that the military usually labels soldiers kwansim
pyŏngsa ­after they have carried out certain acts, such as attempting to com-
mit suicide, but it is also used as a preemptive designation to avoid disrup-
tion. While kwansim pyŏngsa is not technically a medical category and does
not need to involve a medical examination for classification, the category of
kwansim pyŏngsa often becomes conflated with the medicalized “chŏngsin
pyŏngja,” a term used to describe a mentally ill or “insane” person, which can
involve medical examinations and even institutionalization.50 This conflation
in part explains the stigma often attached to soldiers designated kwansim
pyŏngsa ­because ­mental illness is heavi­ly stigmatized in South Korean society
and ­mental health treatment is often avoided ­because of the stigma.51

­Ripples of Traum |  335

Medicalizing the Social Real­ity of Military Life

The category of kwansim pyŏngsa and the active and productive move of la-
beling a soldier kwansim pyŏngsa is itself a calculation of risk and security that
weighs the life of the individual in relation to pos­si­ble outcomes and effects
on the population.52 Yet the conflation of kwansim pyŏngsa with chŏngsin
pyŏngja and m ­ ental instability results in the medicalization of social prob­lems
that emerge from the system of toxic masculinity itself. The military justifies
such medicalization by diagnosing the soldier as depressed or suicidal, thereby
transferring the burden of toxicity onto the bodies of gay soldiers. Queer ac-
tivists argue that the kwansim pyŏngsa category is discriminatory and the
military is institutionalizing sexual minorities for being gay. As I demonstrate
­later, while some older sexual minorities may have been hospitalized for their
sexual orientation, it has been common practice over the past ten years for
the military to mask the threat of sexuality and gender nonconformity with
threats to the self: depression and suicide. In this way, the calculation of risk
and security embedded in the category kwansim pyŏngsa is never about the
well-­being of the soldier. Instead, it masquerades as such to maintain the toxic-
ity of the military system.
To substantiate this claim, I introduce Yol, a longtime gay activist known
for his work on the military, hiv/aids, and homeless queer youth. Not only
did he detail much of the story of his time as a soldier and his life in his auto­
biography, but he told me the story of how he was institutionalized during
his military ser­vice, beginning in 1998 in the office of the lgbtq Youth Cri-
sis Support Center “Dding Dong” (Tting Tong) in April 2016.53 In 1997, he
began working at his lgbt university club and started to become involved
in the early makings of what would l­ater become Solidarity for lgbt ­Human
Rights of ­Korea. When he began his ser­vice, he received regular letters from
the dif­fer­ent clubs and organ­izations, friends, his boyfriend at the time, and
his parents. His gay friends and boyfriend masked the language of the letters
so the military officials who read the mail would not immediately suspect that
the soldier or the letter writers w­ ere anything but heterosexual. This was a way
for gay men to fly u­ nder the military’s radar while still interacting with other
queer friends. Similarly, when one of my former Korean boyfriends went into
the military, I sent him both electronic letters (on a specialized, yet utterly
rudimentary, online military system) and handwritten letters in which we also
masked our language and designed code words for more affectionate language
and sentiments to safeguard against pos­si­ble intrusion.

336  |  Timothy Gitzen

 Similar to Ch’an-­yŏl’s fear nearly fifteen years l­ ater, Yol explained to me that
he had dreaded military ser­vice ­because he did not know how he would be
treated or survive as a gay man in such a hypermasculine and heterosexual
place. The anticipation of the experience of military ser­vice converged with
the illegality of their sexuality in Article 92–6, the antisodomy law, and thus
the dread is particularly intense for gay men. This fear and apprehension was
common among most of my in­for­mants who had e­ ither gone into the military
or w ­ ere preparing to serve in the near ­future. Many in­for­mants delayed con-
scription as long as pos­si­ble ­because they dreaded it. For example, Sŏng-­min,
a gay gradu­ate student at Yonsei University, intentionally planned out his en-
tire gradu­ate ­career—­MA and PhD—to avoid enlisting; when I met him, he
had just begun his MA in linguistics. When I met Si-­u, also a gay gradu­ate stu-
dent at Yonsei University, he expressed a similar sentiment and plan—­namely,
that he would finish gradu­ate school first to avoid enlistment. Even though
­these in­for­mants ­were some years apart (I first met Sŏng-­min in 2009 and Si-­u
in 2015), they both talked about the fear and anxiety they felt at the prospect of
having to serve in the military. Dread and anticipation over military ser­vice is
not a distinctly queer feeling and extends to men who do not identify as sexual
minorities, but heterosexuality is not outlawed in the military. Sŏng-­min said
that ­because he was too “feminine,” he would not only be unable to adjust to
military life or fit in with other soldiers in the military but would also likely be
bullied ­because of his perceived femininity. While Si-­u did not use the word
“feminine,” he did note that he was not a typical man and that his gender ex-
pressions would not be compatible with the military or its environment. Both
did every­thing they could to avoid ser­vice ­because they genuinely feared the
experience and the vio­lence they both knew would happen. While I am un-
sure what happened to Sŏng-­min, Si-­u de­cided that he would refuse ser­vice
and e­ ither flee the country and seek asylum in Eu­rope or North Amer­i­ca, or
he would go to prison for a year and a half.54
Queer activist organ­izations and the ­human rights community certainly
recognize the pre-­traumatic stress of military ser­vice for sexual minorities,
which manifests in dread and anticipatory fear. Since 2009, the Military
­Human Rights Center has held ­human rights camps for men about to enlist
in the military as a way to prepare soldiers for their f­ uture ser­vice. As the cen-
ter says on its website, “Are you ­really worried before ­going to the military?
All ­you’ve heard about is torture. . . . ​[A]re you insecure?”55 The camp is also
open to friends, families, and lovers of f­ uture soldiers. However, in framing the
camp around the perceived worry, insecurity, and pos­si­ble torture of soldiers,

­Ripples of Traum | 337
the Military ­Human Rights Center is attempting to educate soldiers about
their ­human rights as soldiers while preparing them for pos­si­ble vio­lence.
This is particularly true for gay soldiers, and while the center is not focused
on gay soldiers, one of the found­ers, the current director, Yim Tae-­hoon, used
to serve as director of Solidarity for lgbt ­Human Rights of ­Korea and con-
tinues to be a well-­known queer activist who addresses military-­related issues.
For similar reasons, Gunivan (the Network for Reporting Discrimination and
­Human Rights Violations against lgbti in Relation to the Military) has held
similar camps that focus specifically on gay soldiers. My point is that t­hese
organ­izations recognize the systemic prob­lems of the military, particularly
prob­lems affecting sexual minorities that, as I illustrate l­ ater, are ­either ignored
or interpreted as an individual medical prob­lem rather than a prob­lem of the
military.
Yol explained that soldiers and officers gradually became aware of his sexu-
ality through his mannerisms, actions, and speech. He eventually came out
to commanding officers, but the military’s response was to hospitalize him
for being homosexual. At the time, Yol explained, the military “handled ­these
­people” by “mostly sending them to the hospital” ­either for some other ali-
ment or simply for being gay. ­After speaking to numerous activists, it is dif-
ficult to discern if this was common practice—­the institutionalization of gay
soldiers for being gay—­and if ­there is ­actual documentation of ­these cases;
some activists think not. Yol’s commanding officers’ suspicion that he might
desert the military also led to his institutionalization, as if one’s sexuality
forms the basis of one’s patriotism.
In 2006, the military instituted a set of ­human rights regulations for sol-
diers, formally known as Subsidiary Management Ordinance, at the behest of
the National Commission of H ­ uman Rights. In ­these regulations, the homo-
sexual soldier is singled out as a body to be protected and not discriminated
against. The regulation is clear in distinguishing between being a homosexual
and engaging in homosexual acts ­because the latter violates 92–6. Yet queer
activists and gay soldiers who came out claimed that the h­ uman rights regu-
lations do not go far enough and are often ignored by the military, thereby
necessitating a revision to the regulations in 2016.56 The regulations specifi-
cally state that the military ­shall not hospitalize homosexual soldiers to isolate
them and that a soldier’s homo­sexuality is not reason enough to label him
“incompatible with active duty ser­vice.” However, the regulations also leave
much of the treatment of and decisions about homosexual soldiers up to mili-
tary doctors, stating that if doctors believe that ­there is a “likelihood of an ac-

338  |  Timothy Gitzen

cident such as suicide” to occur, then the doctor can inform parents, the unit,
and commander to prevent such accidents from occurring.57 But as Horim
Yi, a scholar and activist with Solidarity for lgbt ­Human Rights of ­Korea,
reminded me—­and as is evident in the examples provided ­later—­diagnoses
and treatment are often left to the whim of military doctors, and the diagnoses
are not always uniform.
The specific mention of the possibility of suicide and isolation of gay
soldiers in the ­human rights regulations underpins the very toxicity of the
military and the system of masculinity. The military need not hospitalize gay
soldiers to isolate them. Prior to the 2006 ­human rights regulations, Yol was
hospitalized, and his parents w ­ ere told of his sexuality. His commanding of-
ficers and military doctors also required Yol to sleep in a space separate from
the other soldiers. He dedicates much of his autobiography to his relationship
with his parents, but one detail he recalled with me was that his m­ other visited
once a week with fried chicken “­because she felt sorry for me b­ ecause I was
alone and no one liked me.” This happened even a­ fter his m ­ other found out
that her son was gay.
Yol’s lack of sociality—of meaningful interaction and social relations—­
produced trauma. As Lester argues, trauma arises from profound desocializa-
tion or one’s social relations being violently and radically severed.58 Yol was
being made sick on two fronts. Not only was the military hospitalizing Yol
for being gay, but as a result of the hospitalization and subsequent isolation,
he was traumatized. Sickness begets sickness. If de-­socialization is the cause
of such trauma, then the therapy for this trauma ­ought to be the stitching to-
gether of social relations and forms of affective collectivity.59
This form of trauma and trauma therapy are evident in Ch’an-­yŏl’s experi-
ence. For his part, he felt isolated from the other soldiers and the military as
a ­whole ­because of the hypermasculinity and heterosexuality that permeated
his daily life and interactions. Yet once he made a friend in his unit, someone
who was not gay but “­really warm and accepting” of p­ eople, he “was able to
endure” (ch’amŭl su issŏtta). A longtime friend I introduced in my previous
work, Tong-­hae, recalled a similar experience during his military ser­vice in
2010–12.60 During the summer of 2011 and several times afterward, he shared
with me that he felt lonely (oeropta), isolated (koripgam), and depressed
(uul hada) for much of his ser­v ice, but he had dreaded his ser­v ice long be-
fore he actually enlisted. Tong-­hae shared his personal journals from his
time of ser­v ice. Interspersed among the outpourings of hardship and sad-
ness ­were the shimmering moments of endurance that emerged when he

­Ripples of Traum | 339
spoke of his interactions with friends, including his entries about me. Th ­ ings
began to change slightly for Tong-­hae when he met Jin-gi, and they eventu-
ally admitted to each other that they w ­ ere gay. “It just happened,” Tong-­hae
explained during the summer of 2011. He wrote in his journal and explained to
me that it was not that he and Jin-gi talked about sex or being gay, but he did
not have to lie or pretend to be someone he is not around Jin-gi.
Despite ­these iterations of trauma therapy, Ch’an-­yŏl did contemplate kill-
ing himself many times but never followed through. Ung, an activist with Soli-
darity for lgbt ­Human Rights of ­Korea, did attempt suicide more than once,
although he was not successful.61 During one of the organ­ization’s twentieth-­
anniversary oral history proj­ect interviews, and then l­ater with me, he said
that when he joined the South Korean Air Force in 2005, he was bullied by
other soldiers and officers in his unit. He suspects that the bullying resulted
from his “gender expressions,” meaning that he did not necessarily conform to
the expected mold of the “Korean man” that o­ thers ­were performing. Instead,
he exhibited what both he and other queer ­people call kki, which implies a
sort of feminine gesturing and acting.62 This resonates with Insook Kwon’s
notion of militarized masculinity as “muscular body and male maturity” and
with Marcotte’s conceptualization of toxic masculinity as pressure and even
expectation of proving one’s “manhood” and violently safeguarding against ef-
feminacy.63 Ung’s experience lays bare the fear that both Sŏng-­min and Si-­u
harbored about their gender expressions being at odds with t­hose of other
soldiers and the potential vio­lence that arose from that incongruence.
­After his first suicide attempt, an act he “thought about for five days,”
Ung was hospitalized and treated for depression with prescription drugs. He
made friends with a few dif­fer­ent patients in the military hospital, many insti-
tutionalized for the same reason he was, and many admitted to Ung that they
­were gay. However, according to the 2006 ­human rights regulation that de-
tails the treatment of homosexual soldiers, the military is not allowed to use
the soldier’s sexuality as a basis for institutionalization. Regardless, if military
doctors believe that a soldier is prone to suicide or other forms of “accident,”
then he can be institutionalized. This method allows the military to institu-
tionalize gay soldiers and medicalize the category of kwansim pyŏngsa: ­these
soldiers are suicidal, depressed, and in need of medical attention. This is how
the military hospitalized Ung and all of the other gay soldiers he met in the
hospital. While their sexualities may not have been the explicit or official
cause of their institutionalization, their depression and attempted suicides
­were caught up in the interplay between their sexualities, gender expressions,

340  |  Timothy Gitzen

and the toxic masculinity of the military and other soldiers. In other words,
“depression” and “attempted suicide” may be the reported and medical diag-
noses for their institutionalization, but it was their inability to conform to or
perform toxic masculinity that led them down this path, exasperated further
by their sexuality. The military labeled Ung kwansim pyŏngsa when he was
released from the hospital and eventually discharged from the military only
nine months a­ fter being conscripted ­because the military saw his continued
presence as greatly disruptive of its culture and community. But he was quick
to add that this shortened ser­vice period is not universal b­ ecause many of the
army friends he met in the hospital w ­ ere required to go back to their units
­after they ­were discharged from the hospital and carry out the rest of their
ser­vice, even at the expense of the individual soldier making yet another at-
tempt to end his life through suicide. Part of his point in comparing the air
force to the army is to elucidate the arbitrary nature of ­Korea’s military com-
mands, rules, laws, and culture; he said that some of his friends fared just fine
while not conforming to certain forms of masculinity and displaying their
kki (or feminine gesturing), while ­others, like him, ­were bullied for it. Again,
par­tic­u­lar diagnoses during medical examinations are at the whim of the par­
tic­u­lar military doctor.64
My focus on Ung’s experience demonstrates how the relationship among
toxic masculinity, his sexuality, and his gender expressions manifest as a medi-
cal prob­lem (depression) ­because of the end result (attempted suicide). This
recursive formula pre­sents him as “unstable” and unable to work within the
military unit and system. As Foucault notes about prisons, “When one un-
dertakes to correct a prisoner, someone who has been sentenced, one tries to
correct the person according to the risk of relapse, recidivism, that is to say ac-
cording to what ­will very soon be called dangerousness—­that is to say, again,
a mechanism of security.”65 For Ung, the military judged his “risk of relapse”
as too high, and he was discharged, while ­others he knew returned to ser­vice,
often relapsing into attempted suicide but never being discharged early.
But dif­fer­ent military doctors and officers are analyzing that risk in dif­fer­
ent ways. Thus, ­there does not seem to be a uniform approach to the analy­sis
from unit to unit or between dif­fer­ent armed ser­vices. This lack of uniformity
fosters fear among soldiers, given their inability to know or even adequately
predict how they w ­ ill be treated by fellow soldiers, officers, and the military
system. This inability to know or predict feeds into the dread they anticipate
and experience before enlistment, also contributing to the toxicity of the mili-
tary and masculinity: they are physically sick with dread and pre-­traumatic

­Ripples of Traum | 341
stress ­because they are unable to predict how their gender expressions and
sexualities ­will be treated by ­those in the military. In this way, the lack of
uniformity—­whether it is intentional or not—is itself part of military disci-
pline and the production of toxic masculinity precisely ­because the precar-
ity of not knowing intensifies the already visceral experience and trauma of
military ser­vice.

Conclusion: The Temporality of Trauma

In this chapter, I have claimed that vio­lence is transferred from the military’s
anx­i­eties of same-­sex sexuality and gender variance onto the bodies of gay sol-
diers. I have also argued that this transference of vio­lence disrupts the tempo-
rality of trauma. Post-­traumatic stress implies a historicity to the trauma: that
the trauma took place in a past that is being ever experienced in the pre­sent.
Berlant provides a slightly alternative interpretation of trauma, saying it “does
not make experiencing the historical pre­sent impossible but pos­si­ble” and that
the “crisis ordinariness” of the con­temporary moment makes trauma a way for
one to experience the pre­sent.66 Building on ­those observations, my ethnogra-
phy asks: What about the ­future? Trauma extends far into the ­future, making
post-­traumatic stress particularly volatile b­ ecause an event in the past comes
to disrupt the ­future. As I have shown in this chapter, the possibility of a ­future
event can, in fact, produce just as volatile of an effect on the pre­sent, bringing
the ­future trauma into the pre­sent. This operation of pre-­traumatic stress is
made more virulent when we consider that the military is not a closed system
or a vacuum; it weaves through the civilian lives of everyday ­people in ways
not immediately seen.67
I have already shown how h­ uman rights organ­izations in South K ­ orea try
to preempt the vio­lence that sexual minorities might experience in the mili-
tary with training and education to help them cope with military life. Much
of this work also takes place in a more intimate setting between friends who
have gone to the military and t­ hose who are about to serve. In 2009, when I
was a student at Yonsei University and a member of Come Together, the lgbt
organ­ization at the university, older members regularly coached younger
members on how to ­handle themselves in the military to avoid detection or
unwanted attention. ­These types of conversations are common among most
men, but among sexual minorities they take on an air of urgency. As the open-
ing incident reveals, sexual minorities in the military are being rounded up,
prosecuted, and incarcerated, ostensibly for being gay.

342  |  Timothy Gitzen

 ­Future events leak, spilling into all modes of the pre­sent, thereby reify-
ing the futurity of trauma. For instance, I attended countless anti-­lgbt pro-
test events where t­hose in attendance—­mostly conservative Christians—­
bemoaned the immorality and threat of homosexuals in the military. During
one such rally in front of the Constitutional Court in April 2016, protesters
took advantage of 92–6 to ask, “Is anal sex a ­human right?” One par­tic­u­lar pro-
tester even wrote an article decrying the perils of homo­sexuality and used the
fall of the Roman Empire as an example for banning anal sex in the military,
claiming that ­because Rome had bath ­houses for sex and “homo­sexuality in
the military,” the military could not win wars and the empire was eventually
destroyed.68 My point is that t­ hese words and deeds by anti-­lgbt protesters
channel both the experiences gay soldiers have endured in the military and
potential experiences gay soldiers ­will have in the ­future. This vio­lence in the
pre­sent symbolizes what came before and what is to come, both reminders
and anticipation, where the act of forgetting is foreclosed by the constant bar-
rage of anti-­lgbt discourse and events.
Yet if pre-­traumatic stress and the ­future vio­lence that comes to orient
the pre­sent disrupt time, then they also displace space. The work of anti-­lgbt
protesters to continuously drum into all who ­will listen the perils of homo­
sexuality exceed both the time and space of the military and military ser­vice.
However, the system of toxic masculinity made so potent in the military is
what ­causes the spillover and the bleeding into other domains and times,
given that all able-­bodied men are required to serve and carry with them the
experiences and dispositions of military life.69 This observation returns us to
Ch’an-­yŏl’s story about the superior officer instructing soldiers to both kill the
­enemy and “rape their wives and ­women.” The raping of the enemies’ wives
and ­women is a potential act that attempts to further humiliate an already
dead ­enemy. It also demonstrates masculine dominance over the other and
demoralizes ­future enemies while enhancing the morality of the boys at home.
Yet for such a directive to be verbalized to t­ hese young conscripts in a country
whose government and politicians boast about democracy, h­ uman rights, and
equality for all is influential and dangerous. The effects of this directive mani-
fest both inside the military against female soldiers, as male-­on-­female sexual
vio­lence cases have increased, and also correspond to increased attention on
issues of sexual vio­lence, misogyny, and intense gender in­equality in the civil
sector.70
When we take both Ch’an-­yŏl’s story and his l­ater categorization as kwan-
sim pyŏngsa together, we can begin to remember and bear witness not only

­Ripples of Traum | 343
to the toxicity of the military but also to the inherent vio­lence of the state. For
rape to be normalized within the military, the vio­lence that stems from that
rape—­including Ch’an-­yŏl’s own disgust and trauma from hearing the story
and being reminded of the story through the hypermasculine environment
of the military—is not recognized by the state as a prob­lem. The prob­lem for
the state, embodied in the category of kwansim pyŏngsa, is the soldier who
does not conform, the soldier who bucks the system and indirectly (or di-
rectly) calls into question the validity of a system predicated on state vio­lence.
Ch’an-­yŏl did just this when he reported the story to his superiors, and Ung
did this when he attempted suicide. If Ch’an-­yŏl’s statement was direct and
verbal, Ung’s protest was a bodily response to a system hell bent on rooting
out gender and sexual difference. The military ignores this critique, prevent-
ing us from correlating military ser­vice and misogyny with sexual vio­lence
against w­ omen, and instead uses the system that gives rise to this vio­lence to
classify some already vulnerable soldiers as ill-­adaptive. Victims are thus made
victims twice over: not only do they experience the vio­lence, but they also are
then blamed for that vio­lence or ignored altogether. To know this fact before
service—to anticipate one’s potential victimhood—is to make one a victim in
the pre­sent, for even if experiences vary and not all gay soldiers are terrorized,
depressed, or made sick in the military, the potential for this vio­lence makes
the ­future precarious and the pre­sent traumatic.

Coda: Shimmers

I am reminded of the shimmers in Tong-­hae’s journal when I think of the

trauma produced by toxic masculinity. Th ­ ere ­were moments in his ser­vice,
some introspective and o­ thers interpersonal, when endurance was not only
pos­si­ble but unyielding. As skeptical as Berlant is when speaking of optimism
or even endurance, she also recognizes the possibility of agency and glim-
mers of potentiality: “In the scene of slow death, a condition of being worn
out by the activity of reproducing life, agency can be an activity of main-
tenance, not masking; fantasy, without grandiosity; sentience without full
intentionality; inconsistency, without shattering; and embodying, alongside
embodiment.”71 Simply getting by, surviving, can be enough. ­Doing so is it-
self a feat not always obtained, and when one does get by or survive, it is
certainly not without scars.
This chapter lays bare t­ hose scars and how they came to be in the world and
on the body. By interrogating the category of kwansim pyŏngsa alongside the

344  |  Timothy Gitzen

experiences of gay soldiers and the vio­lence manifested in the toxic system of
masculinity, I have demonstrated that this category of classifying unruly or ill-­
adaptive soldiers is itself violent and often carries with it a medical interpreta-
tion. To make gay soldiers sick twice—­both in their reaction to the military
and its toxic masculinity and in the soldier’s classification—is to transfer the
vio­lence of the military onto the bodies of soldiers. Caught up in this vio­lence
is an anxiety about gender and sexual “deviation,” an anxiety that bleeds into
the civilian fabric of South Korean culture and comes to or­ga­nize its sociality.
Yet the anticipation of this experience, and the potential vio­lence, produces
pre-­traumatic stress in ­future soldiers and materializes a “what-if ” event as an
embodied pre­sent. This vio­lence often goes unnoticed or forgotten, for even
if queer and ­human rights activists attempt to preempt the pos­si­ble troubling
situations one may experience during military ser­vice, that preemption of cri-
sis also manifests the crisis itself. In this way, that f­ uture crisis becomes a self-­
fulfilling prophecy of vio­lence.
Yet I still want to end with the shimmers, not in an attempt to erase the
vio­lence discussed in this chapter, but b­ ecause queer activists find strength
in ­those glimmers. They are hopeful, yes, but they also know that “fantasy,
without grandiosity” and “inconsistency, without shattering” can be power­ful
tools for survival. They w ­ ere for Tong-­hae and Ch’an-­yŏl, and while Ung may
have left his shortened ser­vice with more physical scars than ­others, the inflic-
tion of ­those scars was itself an act of disruption.

Notes

Epigraph: Amanda Marcotte, “Overcompensation Nation: It’s Time to Admit That

Toxic Masculinity Drives Gun Vio­lence,” Salon, June 13, 2016, https://­www​.­salon​
.­com​/­2016​/­06​/­13​/­overcompensation​_­nation​_­its​_­time​_­to​_­admit​_­that​_­toxic​
_­masculinity​_­drives​_g­ un​_­violence.
1 Seohoi Stephanie Park, “ ‘ You ­Didn’t Even Have Oral Sex?’: South Korean Mili-
tary’s Gay Witch-­Hunt in Depth,” ­Korea Exposé, April 21, 2017, https://­koreaexpose​
.­com​/­military​-­witch​-­hunt​-­gay​-­soldiers; Sang-­hun Choe, “South Korean Military
Sentences Captain for Sex with Other Ser­vicemen,” New York Times, May 24, 2017,
https://­www​.­nytimes​.­com​/­2017​/­05​/­24​/­world​/­asia​/­south​-­korea​-­gay​-­soldier​
-­military​-­court​.­html​?­​_­r​=­0.
2 Taehan Min’guk Yukgun, “Yŏkdae chammo ch’ongjang,” 2017, http://­www​.­army​
.­mil​.­kr​/­webapp​/­user​/­indexSub​.­do​?­codyMenuSeq​=2­ 13408&siteId​=­army; Yi
Chi-­hŭi, “kmcf che 30-­dae hoejang Chang Chun-­gyu changno ch’wiim,” Sŏngyo
Sinmun, December 7, 2015, http://­www​.­missionews​.­co​.­kr​/­lib​/­news​/­479154.
3 Park, “You ­Didn’t Even Have Oral Sex?”

­Ripples of Traum | 345
 4 Choe, “South Korean Military Sentences Captain for Sex with Other Ser­
vicemen.” ­There has been a version of this antisodomy clause in the Military Penal
Code since 1962. The Military Penal Code replaced the National Guards Act as
the “military power” (kyŏngbidae), a Japa­nese colonial remnant that already had
a form of antisodomy clause in it since 1928. Historically, ­there have been several
cases of male soldiers being tried and convicted ­under this antisodomy clause for
engaging in consensual anal sex, primarily with other men. Furthermore, only one
of the individuals involved in the sex act need be a soldier; the other can be a civil-
ian, and the soldier can still be prosecuted. Straight men technically can be tried
and convicted for sodomizing a ­woman ­under this clause, but ­there have been no
reported cases of this happening. See Alvin Lee, “Assessing the Korean Military’s
Gay Sex Ban in the International Context,” Law and Sexuality 19 (2010): 67–94;
Yi Kyŏng-­hwan, “Kundae nae tongsŏngae haengwi ch’ŏbŏl e taehayŏ,” Kong’ik
kwa Inkwŏn 5, no. 1 (2008): 65–99; Kun Kwallyŏn Sŏngsosuja Inkwŏn Ch’imhae
Cha’byŏl Sin’go mit Chiwŏn ŭl Wihan Netŭ’wŏk’ŭ, “2008–2014 kunhyŏngbŏp
‘ch’uhaeng’joe p’yeji rŭl wihan hwaldong paeksŏ,” white paper, Seoul, 2014.
5 Oyman Basaran, “ ‘ You Are Like a Virus’: Dangerous Bodies and Military Medical
Authority in Turkey,” Gender and Society 28, no. 4 (March 2014): 562–82.
6 Syed Haider, “The Shooting in Orlando, Terrorism or Toxic Masculinity (or
Both?),” Men and Masculinities 19, no. 5 (September 2016): 555–65; Marcotte,
“Overcompensation Nation.”
7 I am indebted to Todd A. Henry for suggesting this concept.
8 David Valentine first suggested this term to me.
9 Erin P. Finley, Fields of Combat: Understanding ptsd among Veterans of Iraq and
Af­ghan­i­stan (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2011); Zoe H. Wool, ­After War:
The Weight of Life at Walter Reed (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2015).
10 Jasbir Puar, Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times (Durham, NC:
Duke University Press, 2007), 154–55.
11 Tom Boellstorff, A Coincidence of Desires: Anthropology, Queer Studies, Indonesia
(Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007). See also Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick,
Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy, Performativity (Durham, NC: Duke University
Press, 2003).
12 Henri Bergson, ­Matter and Memory (Mineola, NY: Dover, 2004).
13 Lauren Berlant, Cruel Optimism (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011),
80–81.
14 For discussions of queering military time, see Elizabeth Freeman, Time Binds:
Queer Temporalities, Queer Histories (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010).
15 Valerio Valeri, “Marcel Mauss and the New Anthropology,” trans. Alice Elliot,
hau: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 3, no. 1 (2013): 266.
16 Lesley Gill, Teetering on the Rim: Global Restructuring, Daily Life, and the Armed
Retreat of the Bolivian State (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000), 107.
See also Andrew Bickford, Fallen Elites: The Military Other in Post-­unification
Germany (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2011); Orna Sasson-­Levy,

346  |  Timothy Gitzen

 “Military, Masculinity, and Citizenship: Tensions and Contradictions in the
Experience of Blue-­Collar Soldiers,” Identities 10, no. 3 (2003): 319–45; Cynthia
Enloe, Maneuvers: The International Politics of Militarizing ­Women’s Lives (Berke-
ley: University of California Press, 2000).
17 Gregg Brazinsky, Nation Building in South ­Korea: Koreans, Americans, and the
Making of a Democracy (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2007);
Jin-­Kyung Lee, Ser­vice Economy: Militarism, Sex Work, and Mi­grant ­Labor in South
­Korea (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010); Seungsook Moon,
Militarized Modernity and Gendered Citizenship in South ­Korea (Durham, NC:
Duke University Press, 2005).
18 Moon, Militarized Modernity and Gendered Citizenship in South ­Korea, 12.
19 Moon provides a series of narratives regarding militarized masculinity that
combine “the old cultural value of filial piety with the relatively new value of
individual romance” where soldiers not only protect the nation but are also
filial and loyal sons to their ­mothers and continue to repay her love and support
“by serving in the military and protecting her” and also romantic partners with
­women. Moon contends that soldiers “acquire adult masculinity” through this
three-­pronged narrative of nation, ­family, and romance. Granted, ­family and
gender have changed significantly since the Park and Chun regimes, but what
is crucial to recognize is that ­family and heterosexuality are part and parcel of
both military ser­v ice and the defense of the nation: Seungsook Moon, “Trou­
ble with Conscription, Entertaining Soldiers: Popu­lar Culture and the Politics
of Militarized Masculinity in South ­Korea,” Men and Masculinities 8, no. 1
( July 2005): 66.
20 Moon, Militarized Modernity and Gendered Citizenship in South ­Korea, 13; Joo-­
hong Kim, “The Armed Forces,” in The Park Chung Hee Era: The Transformation
of South ­Korea, ed. Byung-­kook Kim and Ezra F. Vogel (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 2011), 168–99; John Lie, Han Unbound: The Po­liti­cal Economy of
South ­Korea (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1998).
21 Moon, Militarized Modernity and Gendered Citizenship in South ­Korea, 13.
22 Insook Kwon, “A Feminist Exploration of Military Conscription: The Gendering
of the Connections between Nationalism, Militarism and Citizenship in South
­Korea,” International Feminist Journal of Politics 3, no. 1 (2001): 26–54; Rachael
Miyung Joo, Transnational Sport: Gender, Media, and Global ­Korea (Durham, NC:
Duke University Press, 2012).
23 Horim Yi and Timothy Gitzen, “Sex/Gender Insecurities: Trans Bodies and the
South Korean Military,” Transgender Studies Quarterly 5, no. 3 (2018): 378–93. In
2015, only 1,045 men out of 350,828 conscripts ­were fully exempt from military ser­
vice; 7,213 men w ­ ere assigned second eligible conscription status, also known as
de facto exemption ­because ­those assigned this status bypass the two-­year ser­vice
requirement and are instead assigned to the Civil Defense Corps that meets once
a year ­until age forty. Military exemption is a problematic and violent category,
especially for trans ­women who do not meet the anatomical requirements for

­Ripples of Traum | 347
 exemption. For more on trans bodies and military exemption, see Yi and Gitzen,
“Sex/Gender Insecurities.”
24 Kun Kwallyŏn Sŏngsosuja Inkwŏn Ch’imhae Cha’byŏl Sin’go mit Chiwŏn ŭl
Wihan Netŭ’wŏk’ŭ, “2008–2014 kunhyŏngbŏp ‘ch’uhaeng’joe p’yeji rŭl wihan
hwaldong paeksŏ,” white paper, Seoul, 2014, 334. Gunivan, “Activist White Paper,”
334. This continues to be the justification of the Constitutional Court, as the more
recent 2016 Constitutional Court ruling reiterated this same claim.
25 Hyun-­young Kwon Kim and John (Song Pae) Cho, “The Korean Gay and Lesbian
Movement 1993–2008: From ‘Identity’ and ‘Community’ to ‘­Human Rights,’ ”
in South Korean Social Movements: From Democracy to Civil Society, ed. Gi-­wook
Shin and Paul Chang (New York: Routledge, 2011), 206–23; Timothy Gitzen, “The
Promise of Gayness: Queers and Kin in South ­Korea” (master’s thesis, Georgia
State University, Atlanta, 2012).
26 Hagen Koo, Korean Workers: The Culture and Politics of Class Formation (Ithaca,
NY: Cornell University Press, 2001); Jennifer Jihye Chun, Organ­izing at the
Margins: The Symbolic Politics of ­Labor in South ­Korea and the United States (Ithaca,
NY: Cornell University Press, 2009); Kwon Kim and Cho, “The Korean Gay and
Lesbian Movement 1993–2008,” 215.
27 It is impor­tant to recognize that my use of “queer activist” and “queer activism”
are not necessarily phrases activists themselves would use. Many ­will use the
phrase sŏngsosuja undong (sexual minority activism), or specifically refer to them-
selves as a trans activist (t’ŭraensŭ undongja) or hiv/aids activist (hiv/aids
undongja). Again, I use the nomenclature queer activist/activism to encompass
the variability in naming, while also highlighting that all ­these forms of activism
are aimed at dismantling normativity and patriarchy.
28 Catherine Lutz, Homefront: A Military City and the American 20th ­Century (Bos-
ton: Beacon, 2001); Lesley Gill, The School of the Amer­i­cas: Military Training and
Po­liti­cal Vio­lence in the Amer­i­cas (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004);
Sabine Frühstück, Uneasy Warriors: Gender, Memory, and Popu­lar Culture in the
Japa­nese Army (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007).
29 In the study of the militarization of ­women’s lives during international conflicts and
times of war, Cynthia Enloe boldly declares, “If we concentrate too exclusively on
­either ‘recreational,’ prostitution-­linked rape or on war­time rape, we risk missing
how rape has been used to militarize ­women ­under regimes preoccupied with what
they define sweepingly as threats to ‘national security’ ”: Enloe, Maneuvers, 123.
30 Marcotte, “Overcompensation Nation.”
31 Ann Cvetkovich, An Archive of Feeling: Trauma, Sexuality, and Lesbian Public
Cultures (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003), 3.
32 Rebecca Lester, “Back from the Edge of Existence: A Critical Anthropology of
Trauma,” Transcultural Psychiatry 50, no. 5 (October 2013): 754.
33 J. Wild, K. V. Smith, E. Thompson, F. Bear, M. J. J. Lommen, and A. Ehlers, “A
Prospective Study of Pre-­Trauma Risk ­Factors for Post-­traumatic Stress Disorder
and Depression,” Psychological Medicine 46, no. 12 (September 2016): 2571–82.

348  |  Timothy Gitzen

 34 Louise Amoore, The Politics of Possibility: Risk and Security Beyond Probability
(Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2013), 5; Andrew Lakoff and Stephen J.
Collier, eds., Biosecurity Interventions: Global Health and Security in Question (New
York: Columbia University Press, 2008); Carlo Caduff, “Anticipations of Biosecu-
rity,” in Lakoff and Collier, Biosecurity Interventions, 257–77.
35 Stacey Colino, “Fearing the ­Future: Pre-­traumatic Stress Reactions,” U.S. News
and World Report, May 24, 2017, http://­health​.­usnews​.­com​/­wellness​/­mind​
/­articles​/­2017-05-24​/f­ earing​-­the​-­future​-­pre​-­traumatic​-­stress​-­reactions; Nikolas
Grosfield, “By Making Politics Apocalyptic, Americans Give Themselves
Pre-­traumatic Stress Disorder,” The Federalist, November 8, 2016, http://­
thefederalist​.­com​/­2016​/­11​/­08​/­americans​-­give​-­pre​-­traumatic​-­stress​-­disorder​
-­making​-­politics​-­apocalyptic.
36 Joseph Masco, The Theater of Operations: National Security Affect from the Cold War
to the War on Terror (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014).
37 “Kwansim pyŏngsa hanbŏn nagin cchik’imyŏn tongnyodŭl i oemyŏn,” Han’guk
Ilbo, June 24, 2014, http://­www​.­hankookilbo​.­com​/­swv​/­d25840d6aa004bdf92a1d8
e2e018b854.
38 “Kwansim pyŏngsa hanbŏn nagin cchik’imyŏn tongnyodŭl i oemyŏn.”
39 Jennifer Yum, “In Sickness and Health: Americans and Psychiatry in ­Korea,
1950–1962” (PhD diss., Harvard University, Cambridge, MA, 2014).
40 Wŏn-­ch’ŏl Chŏng and Yŏngju Pak, “Kwansim pyŏngsa ŭi kun saenghwal
kwa kwajŏng e kwanhan yŏn’gu,” Ch’ŏngsonyŏnhak Yŏn’gu 19, no. 11 (2012):
91–115.
41 The use of this system of designation has only intensified in the aftermath of the
2014 Kosŏng Military Base shooting in Kangwŏn Province where a soldier open-­
fired and killed five other soldiers: “Kwansim pyŏngsa hanbŏn nagin cchik’imyŏn
tongnyodŭl i oemyŏn.”
42 In both this statistic and the broader claim that more than 22 ­percent of soldiers
are classified as kwansim pyŏngsa, the Ministry of National Defense bases its
analy­sis on squads of 8,000 soldiers, and of that 8,000, roughly 1,800 are classi-
fied as kwansim pyŏngsa. Of ­those 1,800, 300 are considered extremely severe (A
class), 500 are considered mildly severe (B class), and 1,000 are considered least
severe or capable of daily management (C class): “Kwansim pyŏngsa hanbŏn
nagin cchik’imyŏn tongnyodŭl i oemyŏn.” ­These statistics do seem to hold up
when compared with other statistics on kwansim pyŏngsa. That said, it is difficult
to know ­whether ­these numbers are representative of ­actual cases: See “Yuk,
hae, kong’gun pyŏngsa kaunde poho kwansim pyŏngsa piyul algo poni . . . ​21.8%
talhae,” Han’guk Kyŏngje, August 20, 2014, http://­news​.­naver​.­com​/­main​/­read​.­nhn​
?­mode​=L ­ SD&mid​=­sec&oid​=­015&aid​=0­ 003142338&sid1​=0­ 01.
43 Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, Volume 1: An Introduction (New York:
Vintage, 1990).
44 Foucault, The History of Sexuality.
45 “Kwansim pyŏngsa hanbŏn nagin cchik’imyŏn tongnyodŭl i oemyŏn.”

­Ripples of Traum | 349
 46 Even though all men who enter the military are nineteen (the age of ­legal adult-
hood), soldiers are still beholden to the care of their parents without exception.
For more on ­family and sons, see Nancy Abelmann, The Melodrama of Mobility:
­Women, Talk, and Class in Con­temporary South ­Korea (Honolulu: University of
Hawai‘i Press, 2003); Timothy Gitzen, “Bad ­Mothers and ‘Abominable Lovers’:
Goodness and Gayness in ­Korea,” in Mothering in East Asian Communities: Politics
and Practice, ed. Patti Duncan and Gina Wong (Bradford, ON: Demeter, 2014),
145–57.
47 Lucy Williamson, “South ­Korea Military ­Faces ‘Barracks Culture,’ ” bbc, August 12,
2014, http://­www​.­bbc​.­com​/­news​/­world​-­asia​-­pacific​-­14448486; Paula Hancocks,
“Soldiers Face Murder Charge in South Korean Bullying Case,” cnn, Septem-
ber 3, 2014, http://­www​.­cnn​.­com​/­2014​/­09​/­03​/­world​/­asia​/­south​-­korea​-­military​
-­bullying; Sang-­Hun Choe, “Outrage Builds in South ­Korea in Deadly Abuse of a
Soldier,” New York Times, August 6, 2014, https://­www​.­nytimes​.­com​/­2014​/­08​/­07​
/­world​/­asia​/o­ utrage​-­builds​-­in​-­south​-­korea​-­over​-­military​-­abuse​.­html.
48 Insook Kwon, “Masculinity and Male-­on-­Male Sexual Vio­lence in the Military: Fo-
cusing on the Absence of the Issue,” in Militarized Currents: ­Toward a Decolonized
­Future in Asia and the Pacific, ed. Setsu Shigematsu and Keith L. Camacho (Minne-
apolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010), 223–50. Complication arises, accord-
ing to Kwon, given that many of the perpetrators of sexual abuse ­were themselves
subject to sexual abuse by their superiors. Many do not immediately interpret the
abuse as abuse, but as male camaraderie and intimacy common of soldiers.
49 Ji-­hye Jun, “Can Military Be Trusted?” ­Korea Times, August 5, 2014, http://­
koreatimes​.­co​.­kr​/­www​/­news​/­nation​/­2014​/­08​/­116​_­162339​.­html.
50 Chong-­dae Kim and Yim Tae-­hoon, Kŭ ch’ŏngnyŏn ŭn wae? Kundae kasŏ toraoji
mothaetta (Seoul: Namu wa Sup, 2014), 54–61.
51 Claire Lee, “Avoiding Psychiatric Treatment Linked to ­Korea’s High Suicide Rate,”
Korean Herald, January 27, 2016, http://­www​.­koreaherald​.­com​/­view​.­php​?­ud​
=­20160127001146; “Chŏngshin chilhwan insik kaesŏn doaeddajiman pujŏngjŏk
insik yŏjŏn,” Yŏnhap Nyusŭ, December 23, 2014, http://­www​.­yonhapnews​.­co​.­kr​
/­bulletin​/­2014​/1­ 2​/­23​/0­ 200000000AKR20141223115200017​.­html​?­input​=­1195m.
52 One’s stability and ability to work within a unit is less about how that affects the
individual, though it is certainly part of the pro­cess of categorization and gaze;
rather, this issue is more about how one works and fits in with a group and how
the individual jeopardizes the safety and security of the military unit. For Foucault,
this logic is indicative of the broader appeal and purpose of both discipline and
security: military discipline is tasked with “managing and organ­izing a multiplicity,”
but it does so by presenting as the discipline of an individual. This is, therefore, not
a case of “individual versus group” dynamic, but far more nuanced as a recursive
relationship between the individual and multiplicity where the outcome must be
gauged at the level of population while still considering the lives of individuals as
members of a population: Michel Foucault, Security, Territory, Population: Lectures at
the Collège de France, 1977–1978 (New York: Picador, 2007), 12.

350  |  Timothy Gitzen

 53 Yol Chŏng, Pŭrabo kei raip’ŭ (Seoul: Narŭm Puksŭ, 2011).
54 For more information on the history of draft evasion and conscientious objec-
tors in South ­Korea, see Youngoh Jung, “The Normalization of Universal Male
Conscription in South Korean Society and the State Regulation of Draft Evasion
and Conscientious Objection: 1950–1993,” Trans-­Humanities 7, no. 3 (2014):
125–61; Soo-­Hyun Mun, “An Analy­sis of the Debate over Conscientious Objection
in ­Korea,” Seoul Journal of Korean Studies 25, no. 2 (2012): 243–74; Vladimir Tik-
honov, “Militarism and Anti-­Militarism in South ­Korea: ‘Militarized Masculinity’
and the Conscientious Objector Movement,” Asia-­Pacific Journal: Japan Focus
7, no. 12 (2009): 1–35.
55 Kun Inkwŏn Sent’ŏ, “Pijŏn,” 2016, http://­www​.­mhrk​.­org​/­about​/­#vision.
56 Tong-­kyu Kim, “Tongsŏngaeja rago palk’inŭn sun’gan kun ŭn chiok iŏtta,” The
Hankyoreh, September 27, 2011, http://­www​.­hani​.­co​.­kr​/­arti​/­politics​/­defense​
/­498122​.h­ tml#csidxdc0f1fc066e60b2befde6a3a3db31d4. For instance, ­there was
a case where a soldier confided in a superior his sexuality to strategize on how he
could survive the remainder of his ser­vice. While such counseling and admis-
sions ­ought to be kept private in accordance with the ­human rights regulation,
the superior eventually told ­others. The soldier was required to take a mandatory
hiv/aids test and to also submit proof of his homo­sexuality, which the soldier
was forced to document with and submit to his superior photo­graphs of a sexual
encounter with another man while on leave.
57 Pobjech’ŏ, “Pudae kwalli hullyŏng,” 2016, http://­law​.­go​.­kr.
58 Lester, “Back from the Edge of Existence.”
59 Cvetkovich, An Archive of Feeling.
60 Gitzen, “Bad ­Mothers and ‘Abominable Lovers.’ ”
61 Suicide is the leading cause of death for South Koreans between age ten and
thirty—­among the highest percentages in the world—­and most scholars, doctors,
teachers, and journalists agree that the cause is the fiercely competitive ­education
system and what ­these victims perceive to be a tough job market: Sophie Brown,
“Despite Small Decline, South K ­ orea Remains a Global Suicide Blackspot,” Time,
September 25, 2013, http://­healthland​.­time​.­com​/­2013​/­09​/­25​/­despite​-­small​
-­decline​-­south​-­korea​-­remains​-­a​-­global​-­suicide​-­blackspot; Kwanwoo Jun, “Suicide
Rate Falls in Seoul but Still Very High,” Wall Street Journal, October 7, 2013,
http://­blogs​.­wsj​.­com​/­korearealtime​/­2013​/­10​/­07​/­suicide​-­rate​-­falls​-­in​-­seoul​-­but​
-­still​-­very​-­high; Simon Mundy, “South K ­ orea Strug­gles to Cut Suicide Rate as
Change Takes Toll,” Financial Times, October 7, 2013, http://­www​.­ft​.­com​/­intl​
/­cms​/s­ ​/­0​/e­ 3106e28-2f43-11e3​-­ae87-00144feab7de​.­html#axzz2jWnPogl4.
62 ­­There is no single translation of this word, and it is often used more as slang than
a proper Korean term. En­glish equivalents would include femme or camp, but the
genealogy of the term and the practice of kki does not necessarily follow that of
femme or camp.
63 Kwon, “A Feminist Exploration of Military Conscription,” 35; Marcotte, “Over-
compensation Nation.”

­Ripples of Traum |  351

 64 Numerous in­for­mants, both activists and soldiers, said that most of the military
doctors are younger, having just finished medical school before enlisting as a
military doctor.
65 Foucault, Security, Territory, Population, 7.
66 Berlant, Cruel Optimism, 81.
67 Enloe, Maneuvers; Lutz, Homefront.
68 Tae-­ung Lee, “Tongsŏngaeja (sŏngsosuja)dŭl ŭi chinjŏnghan inkwŏn kwa haeng-
bok ŭl wihayŏ,” K’ŭrisuch’ŏn Tu’dei, April 25, 2017, http://­www​.­christiantoday​.­co​
.­kr​/n­ ews​/­299621.
69 Sealing Cheng, “Assuming Manhood: Prostitution and Patriotic Passions in
­Korea,” East Asia 4, no. 18 (2000): 40–78.
70 “Chŏng Sŏng-ho ‘yŏgun taesang pŏmjoe p’okjŭng . . . ​Ch’ŏbŏl ŭn sombang
mangi,’ ” Yŏnhap Nyusŭ, September 15, 2016, http://­www​.­yonhapnews​.­co​.­kr​
/­bulletin​/­2016​/­0 9​/­13​/­0200000000AKR20160913148200004​.­html; Tong-­jun
Kim, “Kunin sŏngp’ongnyŏk, t’ŭksuganggan, kangjech’uhaeng, chun’ganggan
e taehan hyŏnsiljŏk munje wa kunhyŏngbŏpsang ch’ŏbŏl . . . ​sŏngp’ongnyŏnk
chŏnmun Kim Kwang-­sam pyŏnhosa,” Asia News Agency, November 3,
2015, http://­www​.­anewsa​.­com​/­detail​.­php​?­number​=­914628; Jung Youl Seo,
Donald A. Lloyd, Seok In Nam, “Work-­Family Conflict and Intimate Partner
Vio­lence in the South Korean Military: Mediating Role of Aggression and
Buffering Effect of a Counseling Resource,” Journal of ­Family Vio­lence 29, no. 8
(2014): 839–47; GIKorea, “Does South ­Korea Have a Violent Crime Prob­
lem against ­Women?” rok Drop, May 25, 2016, http://­www​.­rokdrop​.­net​/­2016​
/­05​/­south​-­korea​-­v iolent​-­crime​-­women​-­problem; Elsie Hu, “Violent Crimes
Prompt Soul-­Searching in ­Korea about Treatment of ­Women,” National
Public Radio, July 6, 2016, http://­www​.­npr​.­org​/­sections​/­parallels​/­2016​/­07​/­06​
/­484135201​/­v iolent​-­crimes​-­prompt​-­soul​-­searching​-­in​-­korea​-­about​-­treatment​
-­of​-­women.
71 Berlant, Cruel Optimism, 100.

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K’ŭrisuch’ŏn Tu’dei

352  |  Timothy Gitzen

New York Times
rok Drop
Salon
Sŏngyo Sinmun
Time
U.S. News and World Report
Wall Street Journal
Yŏnhap Nyusŭ

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Kun Kwallyŏn Sŏngsosuja Inkwŏn Ch’imhae Cha’byŏl Sin’go mit Chiwŏn ŭl Wihan
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Amoore, Louise. The Politics of Possibility: Risk and Security Beyond Probability. Dur-
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Basaran, Oyman. “ ‘ You Are like a Virus’: Dangerous Bodies and Military Medical
Authority in Turkey.” Gender and Society 28, no. 4 (2014): 562–82.
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Berlant, Lauren. Cruel Optimism. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011.
Bickford, Andrew. Fallen Elites: The Military Other in Post-­Unification Germany. Stan-
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356  |  Timothy Gitzen

 Chapter Ten

MOBILE NUMBERS AND

GENDER TRANSITIONS
THE RESIDENT REGISTRATION SYSTEM,
THE NATION-­S TATE,
AND TRANS/GENDER IDENTITIES

Ruin
TRANSLATED BY MAX BALHORN

A
 
few years ago, I visited my local municipal government office to
obtain a new national identification (id) card. At the time, I did
not think twice when a government employee took my fingerprints.
It seemed like a completely natu­ral procedure, and the only part that ­really
both­ered me ­were the smudges of black ink left on my fingertips. Getting my
prints taken was not particularly enjoyable, but I was looking forward to get-
ting an id card and curious to see how it would turn out. I had put it off for
quite some time and submitted the paperwork only due to my ­mother’s in-
cessant prodding. My hesitation, however, had nothing to do with the move-
ment to abolish national id cards or the campaign against compulsory fin-
gerprinting; I had been aware of national id cards since primary school but
thought l­ ittle about their significance. I only realized what the first digit of the
second half of a national id card stood for much l­ ater, and even then I did not
consider it a particularly problematic issue.1 Is this evidence of how deeply
internalized the mechanisms of citizen control have become? Does getting
one’s prints taken for a national id card ultimately signify complete submis-
sion to the state? Or, instead, is re­sis­tance and disavowal simply an effect of
power that, in the end, affirms and upholds the domination of the state?
 As this chapter’s subtitle suggests, the text unpacks how the state polices
gender through the use of national id cards and numbers before discuss-
ing the ongoing strug­gle over the meanings surrounding national id cards
in South K ­ orea ­today. The chapter forgoes a detailed history of the Chu-
min Tŭngnokbŏp (Resident Registration Act), instead reconstructing con­
temporary debates while reading the politics of the nation-­state, national id
numbers, and gender from a transgender perspective. Moreover, it seeks to
uncover the pos­si­ble implications and meanings of changing one’s ­legal sex in
the ­family register (hojŏk) as a transgender person.
The Nation-­State, National ID Numbers, and the Military
At eigh­teen, I was put in the system
Fingerprints from my ten fin­gers
If I dis­appear, ­will I be tracked down?
A Korean person is their id card. . . .
Inscribed in my head, my id number
I cannot erase it, I cannot forget it
Inscribed in my brain ’til the day I die
­Because it’s always with me.
—­Sinawe, “Chumin tŭngnokjŭng” (National id Card)2

A Brief History of the Resident Registration System

and Citizen Making

South ­Korea’s current resident registration system consists of three major

components: assigning national id numbers, recording addresses of resi-
dents, and collecting fingerprints for the issuing of id cards. The system has
changed significantly since its inception.3 Identity tags (hop’ye) of the Chosŏn
era (1392–1910) arguably could be considered the precursor to the current
resident registration system. As the South Korean scholar Kim Yŏng-mi notes,
“Although the system’s primary objective was to identify and rec­ord individu-
als’ identities, in practice, the system operated to harness manpower for the
military and keep track of debtors through id card issuance and surveillance.”4
The identity tag system was a means to regulate the duties of subjects, such as
forced ­labor and military ser­vice; to do so, it recorded in detail the identity,
residence, age, and physical features of adult males. Ultimately, however, the
system failed to achieve the desired result.

358 | Ruin
 During the Japa­nese colonial period (1910–45), resident registration was
not simply based on home addresses. Instead, it identified individuals ac-
cording to f­amily relations, with the male as head of each h­ ouse­hold. As war
mobilization intensified and military conscription was introduced across the
peninsula, detailed statistics became necessary to evaluate and categorize the
male population. The result was the Chosŏn Kiryuryŏng (Korean Residence
Law) of 1942, the precursor to the Resident Registration Act enacted by the
Park Chung Hee government in 1962.
­After liberation in 1945, the resident registration system became deeply
implicated in the ideological confrontation between right and left and the
circumstances surrounding the Korean War. Although the need for detailed
statistics to control the citizenry quickly became apparent in the wake of
founding the Republic of K ­ orea in 1948, the pro­cess of becoming a South
Korean citizen was neither natu­ral nor without friction. Outside Seoul, and
especially in rural areas, it took quite some time for the real­ity that a new
government had been established to truly make an impression on residents.
In areas where conflict between the right and the left was particularly fierce,
the pro­cess of “recognizing the existence of the modern nation-­state” did not
take place ­under the direction of a central government. Instead, it unfolded
within the contexts of vio­lence and ideological censorship engendered by the
conflict between ppalgaeng’i (a derogatory term for communists) and sangol
taet’ongnyŏng (supporters of Syngman Rhee).5 The pro­cess of becoming a
citizen began in this context.6 Against the backdrop of ideological polariza-
tion of communism against anticommunism and the ongoing Korean War,
national id cards ­were issued only ­after a thorough evaluation of one’s po­
liti­cal convictions. Individuals suspected of being ppalgaeng’i w ­ ere excluded
from receiving id cards. The pro­cess of becoming a South Korean citizen was
7

firmly rooted in anticommunist ideology and, as a result, produced categori-

cally “anticommunist citizens.”8 Likewise, identification cards, issued by local
cities or provinces during the war, “defined South Korean national identity
as complete obedience to the commands of the nation-­state as necessary for
survival and compelled individuals to internalize anticommunism as the offi-
cial national ideology. More simply, national id cards identified South Korean
citizens as non-­leftists.”9
­After the Korean War, the state attempted to discipline citizens by issuing
national id cards on the pretext of tracking down North Korean spies. Al-
though this plan was met with considerable re­sis­tance from citizens and po­
liti­cal opposition, it was implemented and carried out regardless. The system

Mobile Numbers and Gender Transitions  |  359

persisted despite criticisms of its in­effec­tive­ness in capturing spies ­because it
justified random searches and “assisted in tracking down draft dodgers and
­those who avoided properly registering their residence.”10 In terms of the need
for the new state to secure its borders through the formation of a standing
army, turning inhabitants into citizens and potential soldiers was, by exten-
sion, a major objective of the resident registration system. Therefore, the per­
sis­tence of the resident registration system was partially due to its utility as a
policing method to survey and control citizens.11
The resident registration system was further consolidated and fortified
by the Park Chung Hee administration during the 1960s. In 1962, citing es-
pionage as a pretext once again, the Kiryubŏp (Residence Act) and Resi-
dent Registration Act ­were enacted. However, this pro­cess was not without
friction and difficulties. The system managed to consolidate itself in a form
similar to its current iteration due largely to the international situation at
the time—­specifically, the military relationship between South Korea and
the United States immediately before the Vietnam War and the backdrop
of small armed skirmishes occurring between the North and the South in
the mid-­to late 1960s.12 The reduction of U.S. troops in South K ­ orea due to
their deployment to Vietnam, border skirmishes with the North, and spy
provocations all brought about a state of quasi-­war on the peninsula. At
this historical moment, the state deployed the resident registration system,
assigning unique identifying numbers to each citizen. Writings from 1970
by government employees in charge of this system clearly demonstrate its
objectives:
The management of the citizenry and its ­labor power is the basis for the con-
struction and prosperity of the nation. Moreover, if national defense is the
most impor­tant objective of the nation, then the citizenry itself must fulfil its
duty of national defense. To concentrate the collective force of the citizenry in
one place, the ­labor force must also be thoroughly managed. . . .
Originally, the purpose of the Resident Registration Act was to seek out
impure ele­ments that threatened the state and to facilitate investigations of
unlawful activities. However, the growing centralization of information that
has resulted from the registration and issuance of national id cards is produc-
ing clear and evident benefits.13
Not only does the resident registration system cata­log the residence and
movement of citizens and provide basic information for administrative pur-
poses, it also strengthens the nationwide initiative to eradicate Communist

360 | Ruin
 influence as well as establishes a system for rationally managing the country’s
manpower.14

As is clearly demonstrated in t­ hese passages written, respectively, by U Kwang-­

sŏn, a local section chief, and Kim Tae-ho, the resident registration director at
the Department of the Interior, the national id card and number system ­were
implemented to realize state policies concerning the efficient use and manage-
ment of citizens, although they did not rely on the resident registration system
alone. As President Park stated, “­There is such a ­thing as a ‘second economy’
that exists on a psychological level—by which I mean cultivating a national
consciousness and a level of understanding commensurate with modern-
ization.”15 In this sense, the Saemaŭl Undong (New Town Movement), the
Kungmin Kyoyuk Hŏnjang (National Charter of Education), state-­issued
textbooks, and high school military drills ­were part of this “second economy,”
all of which ­were aimed at making forms of control more familiar to the body.
As demonstrated ­earlier, the national id card system was pivotal in disci-
plining citizens ­because it standardized the citizenry and compelled them to
identify with the state.

GENDER’S PECULIAR ABSENCE FROM THE DEBATE

As has been shown, debates surrounding the resident registration system thus
far have focused on how the system controlled and managed citizens in the
name of national security during the formation of the South Korean nation-­
state and on ­human rights violations in the form of collecting excessive per-
sonal information, such as fingerprints. This view is true of arguments both for
and against the resident registration system.16
Criticisms of the resident registration system framed in terms of ­human
rights easily find support and sympathy. However, h­ uman rights are not an
essential or absolute category; they are constantly contested and negotiated.
Who ­really qualifies as h­ uman in the language of universal h­ uman rights? How
are the categories of h­ uman and h­ uman rights constructed? ­These questions
are under-­discussed and pose a substantial challenge to advancing discussion
on ­human rights.
When confronted with the existence of transgender ­people, most individu-
als respond with sentiments such as, “­They’re ­human, too,” and, “Even they
deserve rights.” However, ­those who (can) speak from such a position do not
question their own subjectivity from a position of self-­awareness, and instead

Mobile Numbers and Gender Transitions  |  361

otherize transgender p­ eople as “subjects to be recognized,” while failing to ac-
knowledge humanity’s brutal history of dehumanization.17 Historically, not
all ­humans have been or currently are considered h­ uman. In modern Eu­rope,
African ­woman ­were put in cages for amusement. In South ­Korea, perpetra-
tors of spousal abuse often defend themselves by saying, “I was not beating
just anyone. I was beating my wife.” Hunting nets are used to catch “illegal”
workers, and school principals in South ­Korea regularly urge gay and lesbian
students to transfer to other schools b­ ecause of their sexuality. The question of
who is categorized as ­human is always contested; it is an uneven and selective
concept. The “universal” in universal h­ uman rights is always a m ­ atter of one’s
experience and positionality. If the relative nature of h­ uman rights is not inter-
rogated, mechanisms of power remain obscured.
Another point in need of further scrutiny (and the subject of this chapter)
is the relative absence of gender in t­ hese debates. Most debates concerning the
resident registration system take the system’s dependence on a binary division
of sex for granted. Most debates also avoid addressing how the military con-
scription system and national security initiatives brought about the division
and demarcation of sex between 1 (or 3) and 2 (or 4) on national id cards in
the formation of the modern nation-­state. Fi­nally, the possibility that some-
one may be at odds with a state-­assigned id number, or that someone may
choose not to live in accordance with the sex printed on a national id card, is
not sufficiently recognized or discussed.

Strug­gle(s) Surrounding National ID Numbers

MILITARY CONSCRIPTION, REGULATING GENDER,

AND F­ AMILY RELATIONS

­ fter 1968, the government launched a full-­scale implementation of the na-

A
tional id card system, invoking the need to root out North Korean spies and
improve public administration. This “administration” took the form of random
searches of citizens and was justified using the rhe­toric of social cohesion and
combating “communist provocation.” The military system was at the heart of
this logic. Although the Constitution of the Republic of ­Korea stipulates that
all citizens have a military duty to the country, the targets of military conscrip-
tion are men who have been deemed “normal” and therefore eligible. Precisely
this point is absent from debates about the resident registration system and
national id numbers. The question of why citizens are divided between 1 and

362 | Ruin
2 in their national id numbers is completely absent. This oversight could be
the result of ­people regarding the binary division of sex and gender as straight-
forward and believing that ­those born belonging to neither sex can ­later be
assigned an immutable sex.
Further research into the context ­under which bodies have been divided
between 1 and 2 in national id numbers is needed. It is unclear ­whether a bi-
nary understanding of gender—­and the mandate to live as one’s assigned gen-
der for the rest of one’s life—­was a common attitude prior to the national id
number scheme being established or ­whether this was a consequence of the
nation-­state’s military conscription policy, which strictly identified citizens as
­either male or female. For example, on South Korean birth registration forms,
sex is designated as e­ ither “(1) male” or “(2) female.” However, on birth cer-
tificates sex is designated as “male, female, or undetermined.” Assuming that
birth certificates are produced prior to registering a birth, it can be surmised
that the proj­ect of citizen making demands that all South Koreans eventually
be incorporated into the state as only one of two sexes, despite the acknowl­
edgment that not all ­people are born to one sex. The maintenance of the sex
binary solidifies maleness for the purpose of securing the manpower essential
to the operation of the military conscription system, which is considered the
duty of all South Korean citizens. Although relatively l­ittle is known about
premodern conceptions of gender on the Korean Peninsula, the current gen-
der binary is central to sustaining a functioning military and cap­i­tal­ist nation-­
state. The separation of public and private spheres and the gendered division
of ­labor are pos­si­ble only in a society that presumes the existence of two sexes.
Accordingly, ­those who do not conform are considered problematic beings
(“undetermined”) who simply cannot exist (outside of choosing 1 or 2).
That said, the regulation of sex cannot be understood exclusively as a prob­
lem of military conscription. On the occasion of introducing the individual-
ized national id card system, one government official, U Kwang-­sŏn, stated,
“Through increasing the efficiency of the ­Family Register Act (Hojŏkbŏp)
by the consolidation of familial ties according to the male head of each
­house­hold, the act conforms to the princi­ples of f­ amily structure necessitated
by the Law of Domestic Relations (Ch’injokbŏp).”18 In Korean, terms used to
refer to ­family members and relatives, such as imo (aunt), samch’ŏn (­uncle),
ŏnni (older s­ ister when used by a younger ­woman), nuna (older s­ ister when
used by a younger man), hyŏng (older b­ rother when used by a younger man),
oppa (older ­brother when used by a younger ­woman), ŏmma (­mother), and appa
(­father) differ slightly in meaning according to place and local culture but are

Mobile Numbers and Gender Transitions  |  363

also firmly rooted in sex and social status. However, it is not simply the sex of
the person being referred to that determines which term is used but also the sex
of the speaker. For example, when someone calls another person ŏnni (older
­sister), it reveals not only that the person referred to, but also the speaker, is a
­woman. The term nuna (older s­ ister) operates in the same way insofar as it re-
veals that the speaker is male. Therefore, in f­ amily relations, it is rare for some-
one regarded as male to use the terms ŏnni and oppa (older ­brother).19
The statement that the resident registration system and numbers “conform
to the basic princi­ples of f­ amily composition necessitated by the Law of Do-
mestic Relations” reveals the state’s intention to firmly base the ­family and kin-
ship systems on the sex binary. By extension, we can also infer the state’s inten-
tion to prevent the existence of “troublesome” individuals who fail to conform
to this binary and who thereby challenge the Law of Domestic Relations.

CHALLENGING NATIONAL ID NUMBERS, CALLS FOR ABOLISHMENT,

AND OTHER DEMANDS AT THE MARGINS

Jacob Hale is a trans man who recounted the following episode, highlighting
the issue of pronouns and sex binaries: “For example, once when my f­ather
started telling a story about one of his memories of me as a child, he said:
‘When Jake was a ­little boy . . . ​, I mean a ­little girl . . . ​, I mean a ­little child . . . ​, he . . . ​,
I mean she . . . ​, I mean . . . ​, I do not know what I mean!’ ­There he broke off.”20
My sex was assigned male (1 on my national id card) at birth, but I use both
nuna and ŏnni. Within the heteronormative space of the ­house­hold, I say nuna
to refer to my older s­ ister, but outside the h­ ouse I use ŏnni or a nickname to
refer to her. Am I male when I say nuna and female when I say ŏnni? Rather
than using the term “male-­to-­female” or “trans ­woman,” I usually identify my-
self as trans. In this situation, should I be referred to as “he” or “she”? I use the
term “trans” to refer to myself rather than “trans male” or “trans female,” and
occasionally I refer to myself as a female-­to-­male trans ­woman. Disregarding
the number on my national id card, what pronouns or ­family terms can ­others
use to call me? Calling my older s­ ister nuna is a habit that has formed over the
past twenty years. Although I have never identified as male, if the term “son”
is used to refer to me during the time before I identified as trans, then what
words are pos­si­ble to refer to me now? In the case of a trans w ­ oman who says
she was not born male and has always been female, what words in our existing
lexicon can accommodate her experience of attending an all-­male ­middle and
high school? As regards trans ­women who experience enlisting in the army

364 | Ruin
and being subjected to physical exams, do the words “­woman” and “­daughter”
­really capture the entirety of their lived experiences? When referring to trans-
gender ­people, words that “clearly” reveal sex always encounter t­hese prob­
lems. Transgender ­people are constantly a moving target ­under the current
binary of sexed language; when words attempt to fix them in language, vari­
ous contextual nuances and personal experiences are inevitably erased. When
I am called a “man,” this term refers to me, while at the same time it does not;
the same is true when I am represented in language as a ­woman. When the
word “­woman” is used to refer to me, the parts of my male life and experiences
as a son ­until now are erased or concealed.
Nevertheless, ­these experiences do not mean that transgender p­ eople
are completely irrelevant to the sex binary and heterosexuality; nor are they
beings who transcend gender altogether. The idea that transgender p­ eople
simply traverse or transcend the bound­aries of gender is a dangerous one.21
In fact, many transgender ­people are currently demanding revisions to their
­family registers and wish to change the first digit in the second half of their na-
tional id numbers. Are ­these desires tantamount to conforming to the control
mechanisms of the nation-­state and therefore in conflict with the campaign
for completely dissolving the resident registration system?
As demonstrated e­ arlier, most discussions surrounding the resident regis-
tration system focus on the issue of ­human rights. As a result, “the obligation
to always carry identification and prove one’s identity is now being seriously
questioned.”22 Although I agree with the implications of this statement, it rests
on the problematic assumption that the speaker’s state-­issued national id card
can and does properly represent their identity.
In South Korean society, proof of resident registration (chumin tŭngnok
ch’obon) and other personal information is unnecessarily demanded for em-
ployment and other everyday pro­cesses. Government rec­ords concerning sex-­
reassignment surgery remain on one’s proof of resident registration (recently,
as a temporary mea­sure, individuals are allowed to erase such rec­ords, but in
princi­ple a rec­ord remains). Therefore, applying for a job forces transgender
­people to out themselves and declare, “Yes, I’m transgender.” In an environment
where employees frequently end up resigning or “resigning as a result of strong
suggestion” ­after being outed in the workplace, such rec­ords on one’s resident
registration convey to employers the following message: “Just do not hire me.”
Many transgender p­ eople who elect to receive hormone therapy or other
medical treatments often speak of having experienced suspicion and rejection,
especially when asked, “Are you ­really who you say you are?” When registering

Mobile Numbers and Gender Transitions  |  365

for a credit card or mobile phone membership card over the phone, they must
give their national id number and date of issuance to prove their identities,
to which operators often respond, “Please ­don’t try to register with someone
­else’s information.” Calls often end with the phrase, “We ­can’t verify your iden-
tity.” Does this mean that one’s identity and sex can be verified by the sound
of one’s voice? What exactly does my national id card prove about me? ­After
one’s voice changes as a result of hormone treatment, the act of revealing one’s
national id number over the phone is no longer to confirm identity but, rather,
to prove that one is not a spy or a criminal. One transgender person reported
being ­stopped at a sobriety checkpoint. Upon presenting their id to police, the
officers claimed to be unable to verify their identity and demanded to finger-
print them. According to another individual, they hated the inevitable rejec-
tion and suspicion when using their national id card so much that, even when
involved in a car crash that was the other driver’s fault, they did not file a com-
plaint rather than involve police. While t­ hese examples indicate prob­lems when
national id cards serve as the exclusive method of verifying one’s identity, they
also highlight the necessity of considering how transgender ­people navigate the
current system to conduct their lives. In such situations, what does the resident
registration system prove about a person and ­under what circumstances? Does
it prove anything at all? In this context, can demanding to change one’s sex in
the ­family register ­really be criticized as strengthening and upholding the le-
gitimacy of the nation-­state? Changing one’s national id number can be seen
as (re-)integrating oneself into the existing system, but it is also a self-­affirming
act for transgender ­people ­because it can guarantee that a transgender person
­will no longer be denied selfhood by the society that surrounds them.
One trans male stated that if he w ­ ere able to change his sex in the f­amily
register and change the first digit of the second half of his national id number
to a 1, he would no longer have to over-­represent his masculinity and could
pay proper attention to his femaleness. This statement demonstrates how
intensely national id numbers regulate gender expression. That is to say, the
efforts of transgender ­people to change their ­legal sex in the f­amily register
and the number on their national id cards reveal the strength of national id
numbers as a mechanism of control. Transgender p­ eople living as if they never
changed their national id number, having sex-­reassignment surgery, or chang-
ing their sex in the ­family register are often interpreted as simply desiring to
assimilate into the existing system. Such a judgment risks missing the context
that informs this decision. Instead, this decision must be read for what it re-
veals about how power operates in South Korean society.

366 | Ruin
 When talking with ­people who do not identify as trans, they often ask my
opinion about the legality of transgender ­people strategically changing na-
tional id cards, which they likely heard about on the news. Questions about
­whether changing ids should be punished or not, or w ­ hether one considers
changing ids as an understandable choice, conceals the operation of deeper
social systems that force transgender ­people to exchange ids in order to con-
duct their lives in the first place. Upholding the illegality of the act while still
debating ­whether it should be punished or not ignores inherent prob­lems of
the law itself and, on a social and cultural level, overlooks the excessive de-
mands placed on individuals to continuously identify themselves. (Regard-
less, for transgender ­people national id cards deny rather than affirm their
identity.) If we fail to talk about the cultural and structural aspects of the law,
such as having to submit a copy of one’s f­amily register when being hired or
showing one’s id at a bar, we inevitably condemn certain individuals to the
status of “illegal sojourners.” Transgender ­people swapping national id cards
demonstrates that ­these cards operate as the strongest proof in forming and
guaranteeing one’s status and identity in South Korean society.
Compared with non-­trans-­identified ­people, ­there is a certain tendency for
transgender ­people to internalize an excess of maleness or femaleness; only
then can they be recognized as “a real man” or “a real w ­ oman.” However, the
pro­cess of being deemed “real” is also a pro­cess of disavowal, such as when
­people comment, “You may be transgender, but you ­really do seem like a guy/
girl.” Changing one’s ­legal sex in the f­ amily register as well as one’s national id
number allows transgender ­people to assert their identity without the need
for excessive gender repre­sen­ta­tion and demonstrates that the meanings held
by national id cards are not so ­simple ­after all. This is precisely ­because af-
firmation can erase the pro­cess of disavowal. Therefore, the act of transgender
­people changing their ­legal sex and swapping national id cards should not
be condemned as upholding accepted ­legal and state apparatuses. Instead, it
should be understood as an opportunity to interrogate the context in which
the resident registration system exercises its excessive control over citizens in
the first place.

LAWMAKING AND MEDICAL DISCOURSE: “ILLEGAL” H

­ UMANS

In this context, passage of the currently pending Sŏngjŏnhwanja Sŏngbyŏl

Pyŏnggyŏng Tŭng e Kwan Han Tŭkpyŏlbŏp (Special Law on Transgender
Gender Reassignment) would be a significant development.23 However, this

Mobile Numbers and Gender Transitions  |  367

law ­will also place transgender ­people within the language of ­legal statutes
and risks defining certain transgender p­ eople as l­egal and o­ thers as illegal.
The law also risks forcing transgender p­ eople to undergo unwanted medical
treatments or surgeries to conform to new l­ egal requirements for changing the
­legal status of one’s sex.
In fact, the activism surrounding the Special Law on Transgender Gender
Reassignment and the meanings of the Special Law itself are as ambiguous as
­those of the resident registration system. The most vis­i­ble aspects of present-­
day transgender activism are ­legal reform efforts aimed at passing the Special
Law. However, it is pos­si­ble to criticize the limitations of ­legal reform while
also questioning the priority of l­egal reform itself.24 Current activism focused
on ­legal reform has its limits, such as calling for more regulatory mea­sures and
potentially neglecting to debate the prob­lems of existing laws. Although not all
activism aimed at ­legal reforms suffers from ­these prob­lems, the Special Law
requires revising ­family registers to change one’s l­egal sex status and therefore
forces transgender ­people to ­either conform to certain ­legal conditions or be
excluded entirely. The law has the effect of creating and expanding stricter con-
ditions and criteria for determining who is a “true transgender person.”
Relying on the proposed Special Law and other ­legal reforms to resolve
issues concerning the ­legal status of sex entails obvious limitations when
considering the lived experiences of transgender p­ eople. The current system,
­under which a doctor assigns a baby’s sex as ­either 1 (or 3) or 2 (or 4) at birth,
and is henceforth known and managed by the state accordingly, creates the
fundamental conditions that compel transgender ­people to demand the right
of changing their ­legal sex. Therefore, this prob­lem cannot be solved by ­legal
reform; on the contrary, abolishing t­ hese ­legal structures altogether may be a
more fundamental and effective solution. Calls for ­legal reform do not prob-
lematize existing l­ egal structures and, instead, create new laws that conform
to current ­legal discourse. This does ­little to problematize current thinking
(and even when it does, it takes place within existing ­legal discourse) and
does not necessarily guarantee further victories for transgender ­people in
the ­future.
Nevertheless, efforts to abolish ­these ­legal structures are not necessarily
preferable. In some regards, the difference between abolishing and reform-
ing laws is negligible. Arguments for abolishment and reform both operate
on the assumptions of ­legal discourse and ascribe to law a privileged posi-
tion. ­Legal reform movements propose that new laws can solve existing prob­
lems, whereas movements to abolish such laws argue that the law itself is the

368 | Ruin
prob­lem and therefore appear to challenge ­legal discourse. However, a politics
based on an “if t­ here ­were no law” logic sustains and strengthens the authority
of the law itself and is the desired effect of law and discourse. ­Legal reform and
abolishment movements are not very dif­fer­ent insofar as they assume law to
be the main determinant in solving our prob­lems.
This is not to say that we should stop pursuing l­egal reform or that we
should not abolish persecutory laws. Both efforts are needed and they depend
on the situation. Nevertheless, if we want to avoid adopting laws as our sole
analytical criterion, how can we conduct our activism in such a way that cur-
rent laws and discourses are understood as relative concepts among many and
not as the singular criterion of action? How can we recognize the usefulness
of the law while still regarding it as relative? Even h­ ere, such concerns con-
ceal the fact that gender and sexuality are products of discourse and presume
that gender and sexuality exist outside the law and discourse. Gender in con­
temporary society conceals its status as “­either male or female, and immutable
from that which a doctor assigns at birth.” Therefore, the belief that abolishing
­legal statutes would result in more ­free expressions of gender and sexuality is
also an effect of law and discourse.
Another issue to consider is why the state, through the medium of gyne-
cologists and doctors, is endowed with the authority to determine each citi-
zen’s sex and compel them to live according to that assigned sex. P ­ eople are
not always born strictly male or female, and the distinctions among male, fe-
male, and intersex are always ambiguous.25 Regardless of this fact, the assign-
ment of an immutable sex is enforced by the nation-­state and realized through
the resident registration system. Furthermore, requirements informing sex-­
confirming surgery make it such that doctors ultimately decide w ­ hether pa-
tients correctly conform to norms associated with each sex. For example, if
a trans ­woman communicates that she is female, but a doctor decides other­
wise, what is to be done? In an example from the United States, a­ fter a trans
­woman finished a period of counseling, the psychologist judged that, b­ ecause
the ­woman wore pants to the session, she was not a “real ­woman” and needed
to receive further counseling. When one’s idea of femininity (or masculin-
ity) fails to correspond to a doctor’s definition of femininity (or masculinity),
the determination of who is a “true” transgender person is made by a doctor
according to normative standards fixed in discourse. However, regardless of
­whether one is transgender or not, few ­people manage to conform perfectly to
ideal gender norms prevalent in South Korean society. We all lead our lives in
constant tension with ­these gender norms, constraining our freedom in turn.

Mobile Numbers and Gender Transitions  |  369

 If that is the case, instead of individual practices such as fingerprinting and
the resident registration system, should we not instead criticize the entire sys-
tem that incorporates subjects as only one of two genders and that excludes in-
dividuals who refuse to live by t­ hose terms? Moreover, we should not criticize
the demands of transgender ­people to change the ­legal status of their gender
as integrating themselves into the regulatory mechanisms of the nation-­state.
Instead, we should ask why p­ eople feel compelled to do so and consider the
meanings that can be extrapolated from this action.

What Does Your National ID Number Say about You?

I once heard a w ­ oman say that ­because she is a ­woman, she has both testicles
and ovaries. A dif­fer­ent ­woman (a “biological female”) stated that b­ ecause she
is a w
­ oman, she regularly administers the “male hormone,” testosterone. An-
other man indicated that he is a man with a clitoris, and another ­woman said
that she is a ­woman who has a penis. A trans man I know suggested that even
if he received breast reduction surgery, he wants to keep his vagina. Another
lesbian/asexual transgender person said that she has a penitoris and can get
an erection.26
Although most p­ eople interpret bodies in ways similar to how a national id
number strictly assigns a fixed sex to a corresponding body, the methods by
which we interpret our own bodies are not so ­simple. ­There are trans ­women
who, in the past, had “straight” or lesbian relationships that produced c­ hildren.
Are erections and ejaculation experiences only of men? Why is it taken as
common sense that pregnancy and birth are impossible in a relationship be-
tween two ­women? Is it not a product of constant disciplining in a system that
tells us ­there are only two genders and that pregnancy and birth are pos­si­ble
only between a man and a w ­ oman? Moreover, why is the common response
that a pregnancy was pos­si­ble only b­ ecause the w ­ oman used to be a “straight
guy” considered such power­ful evidence to deny the validity of transgender
lesbian ­women? Does a trans man who gives birth prove that he is not “­really
transgender” and can always “return to his previous sex”?27 In a relationship
between a trans man and trans ­woman who decline surgery for the sake of
having a baby, a trans man can get pregnant. The person who gives birth to
this child is both a trans man and the f­ ather; the m
­ other is a trans w
­ oman who
did not bear the child. In this context, the words of the poet Chŏng-­ch’ŏl are
more applicable than ever: “­Because my ­father birthed me and my ­mother
raised me.”28 The belief that a ­women can never become a ­father and a man

370 | Ruin
can never become a ­mother, as well as the presumption that a ­father is always
a ­father and a ­mother is always a ­mother, not only informs opposition to same-­
sex marriage and homophobic rhe­toric, but also upholds the notion, enforced
by national id numbers, that all ­people belong to one of two genders.
I have a penitoris, and I am a female-­to-­male trans ­woman, but when some-
one meets me and comes to know the first number in the second half of my
national id number, what is it that they know about me? When one knows
what genitals someone possesses, or the first digit of the second half of some-
one’s national id number, what does that purport to say about them, and what
is one r­ eally knowing about them? The simplest method for forging a national
id card is simply changing the photo­graph. What this means is that the in-
formation on a national id card does not exactly correspond to me; rather,
it is only temporarily linked. The belief that one corresponds exactly to the
content of one’s national id card is simply an act of adjusting me to conform to
the contents of the card. Therefore, just ­because someone says my outward ap-
pearance is that of a man, in no way does that correctly identify me as male.29 I
suspect that saying one knows is tantamount to the desire to think one knows
about a body, and the subsequent desire to control and regulate that body.30 I
believe that this suspicion constitutes a fruitful point of departure for debates
surrounding transgender ­people and national id numbers.

Notes

This chapter was originally published in Korean as Ruin, “Pŏnho idong kwa
sŏngjŏnhwan: Chumin tŭngnok chedo, kungmin kukka kŭrigo t’ŭrensŭ/chenjdŏ,”
in Kwiŏ Iron Munhwa Yŏn’guso Moim, ed., Chendŏ ŭi ch’aenŏl ŭl tollyŏra (Seoul:
Saram Saeng’gak, 2008): 26–46. Copyright © English, by Max Balhorn. All rights
reserved.
1 South Korean national id numbers are composed of thirteen digits. The first six
digits reflect the holder’s date of birth. The seventh digit is determined according
to the holder’s assigned sex. Men and ­women born before 2000 ­were assigned 1 or
2, respectively, and ­those born ­after 2000 ­were assigned 3 or 4.
2 Sinawe, “Chumin tŭngnokjŭng,” track 9 on Ŭnt’oesŏnŏn, Toremi, 1997, compact
disc.
3 For more on this discussion, see Hong, “Chumin tŭngnok chedo nŭn p’asijŭm
ida”; Hwang, “Uri nara chumin tŭngnokjŭng hyŏnhwang kwa kaesŏn panghyang”;
Kim, “Chumin tŭngnok chedo idaeron an toenda”; Kim, “Kukka ŭi kungmin
kwalli ch’egye wa inkwŏn”; Kim, “Chumin tŭngnokjŭng ŭn wae saenggyŏnna”;
Kim, “20 segi han’guk esŏ ŭi ‘kungmin’ ”; Kim, “Chumin tŭngnok chŏngpi wa
chibang haengjŏng t’onggye samu”; Mun, “Sinbun tŭngnok chedo kaep’yŏn nonŭi

Mobile Numbers and Gender Transitions  |  371

 e issŏ kaein chŏngbo ŭi poho wa chumin tŭngnok pŏnho ŭi yŏkhal”; Pak, “1960
nyŏndae chungban anbo wigi wa che 2-­kyŏngjeron”; U, “Chumin tŭngnok kwa
hojŏkbŏp kaesŏn pangan”; Yi Sŭng-­hun, “Kanch’ŏ i aniranŭn kŏl chŭngmyŏng
hae pwa.”
4 Kim, “Chumin tŭngnokjŭng ŭn wae saenggyŏnna,” 140.
5 No, “Haebang ihu kukka hyŏngsŏng kwajŏng e taehan chibangmin ŭi insik,” 82.
6 For more on this pro­cess see, Kim, “20 segi han’guk esŏ ŭi ‘kungmin’ ”; Kim, “Chu-
min tŭngnokjŭng ŭn wae saenggyŏnna”; No, “Haebang ihu kukka hyŏngsŏng
kwajŏng e taehan chibangmin ŭi insik.”
7 Kim, “Chumin tŭngnokjŭng ŭn wae saenggyŏnna,” 145.
8 Kim, “20 segi han’guk esŏ ŭi ‘kungmin,’ ” 36.
9 Kim, “Chumin tŭngnokjŭng ŭn wae saenggyŏnna,” 146.
10 Kim, “Chumin tŭngnokjŭng ŭn wae saenggyŏnna,” 147.
11 Kim, “Chumin tŭngnokjŭng ŭn wae saenggyŏnna”; U, “Chumin tŭngnok kwa
hojŏkbŏp kaesŏn pangan.”
12 For more background concerning the situation at the time, see Moon, Sex among
Allies; Pak, “1960 nyŏndae chungban anpo wigi wa che 2-­kyŏngjeron.”
13 U, “Chumin tŭngnok kwa hojŏkbŏp kaesŏn pangan,” 65–67.
14 Kim, “Chumin tŭngnok chŏngpi wa chibang haengjŏng t’onggye samu,” 80.
15 Pak Chŏng-­hŭi, “­There is such a ­thing . . . . ,” in Pak, “1960 nyŏndae chungban
anpo wigi wa che 2-­kyŏngjeron,” 267.
16 For a list of scholarly articles central to the debate surrounding the resident regis-
tration system, see the sources cited above in note 3.
17 Ch’ae, “Sŏngjŏnhwan cheguk-­empire, sŏngjŏnhwan hŭpyŏlgwi-­vampire,
sŏngjŏnhwan simp’an-­umpire.”
18 U, “Chumin tŭngnok kwa hojŏkbŏp kaesŏn pangan,” 55.
19 Although such usage is rare, it does occur. In South Korean gay culture, men often
refer to each other using the term hyŏng (older ­brother), but also use the term ŏnni
(older ­sister). Also, among a group of siblings in which the majority are female, a
male sibling might use the term ŏnni (older ­sister) to refer to his older siblings.
20 Hale, “Tracing a Ghostly Memory,” 113.
21 For further discussion, see Ruin, “Chendŏ rŭl tullŏssan kyŏnghapdŭl (gender
dysphoria).”
22 Kim, “Kukka ŭi kungmin kwalli ch’egye wa inkwŏn.”
23 This section is based on a pre­sen­ta­tion I gave at the Gradu­ate Student Confer-
ence on Law and Society (Pŏp kwa sahoe taehagwŏnsaeng moim chipdanhoe) on
April 21, 2007, titled, “Pŏp ŭrosŏ ŭi chendŏ/seksyuŏlrit’i.”
24 At the time of writing this chapter, the conditions for changing the l­ egal status
of one’s sex set forth by the Special Law ­were as follows: “(1) Receive written
opinions from two doctors as defined per the second statute of the Medical Ser­
vice Act (Ŭiryobŏp), including one psychiatrist. (2) Unable to reproduce (3) Not
married.” ­There are vari­ous opinions concerning how ­these conditions should
be interpreted. Some say that the conditions are insufficient and overly flexible,

372 | Ruin
 making it pos­si­ble for anyone to easily change the ­legal status of their sex in the
­family register, while ­others criticize the law for being excessively regulatory and
restrictive. My opinion agrees with the latter, and I am quite critical of the law. For
example, the second condition demands one be “unable to reproduce,” but does
this mean that taking hormones for a set amount of time is sufficient, or is receiv-
ing sex-­confirming surgery required? If one is sterile or infertile, does this mean
the person does not need to take hormones? What about a female-­to-­male trans
man who has not taken hormones but has gone through menopause and therefore
is “unable to reproduce”? As one can see, ­there are many ambiguities, meaning the
final decision would likely be de­cided by a judge. (I am not arguing ­here that the
law should be stricter with additional regulations.)
25 For more on this discussion, see Hong, “Sŏng chŏnhwanja ŭi sŏngbyŏl kyŏljŏng
e taehan pŏpjŏk chŏpgŭn”; Fausto-­Sterling, “The Five Sexes”; Hegarty, “Inter-
sex Activism, Feminism and Psy­chol­ogy”; Kessler, “The Medical Construction
of Gender”; Kessler, Lessons from the Intersexed; Turner, “Intersex Identities”;
Wilchins, Queer Theory, Gender Theory.
26 The neologism “penitoris” (p’ellit’orisŭ) combines the words penis and clitoris,
and can be used by both trans ­women and trans men. See also Ruin, “Uri nŭn ŏdi
ro kanŭnga: T’ŭraensŭ’ chendŏ hogŭn ‘to’ e kwanhan tansang,” Idae Taehagwŏn
Sinmun, November 15, 2006.
27 This language comes from the criterion to change one’s ­legal sex put forward by
the Supreme Court of South ­Korea.
28 Chŏng-­ch’ŏl was a Korean scholar, poet, and statesman who lived during the
sixteenth ­century of the Chosŏn Dynasty.
29 Such claims are often met with the response, “That could be used to avoid
prosecution for a sexual crime,” or “That is concerning ­because it could be used
to avoid military ser­vice.” The first statement rests on the assumption that only
men commit sex crimes and that sex crimes only occur in heterosexual relation-
ships. This statement not only conceals the real­ity of sexual vio­lence in same-­sex
relationships (that is to say, it idealizes and romanticizes same-­sex relationships),
but is also oblivious to the fact that ­there is no validity to the claim that a sex of-
fender could claim to be a ­woman as a way to avoid prosecution for a sex crime. In
the latter case (although I do not know why avoiding military ser­vice would be an
issue in the first place), this is covered by the criminal code and military law. What
is more, this sort of reaction is similar to ­those who opposed the Special Law on
Sexual Crimes (Sŏngp’oknyŏk T’ŭkpyŏlbŏp), claiming it would be abused by
­women in order to extort money from men.
30 To continue, what does it mean to make assumptions about another’s gender
based on appearance? A trans ­woman who decides against hormone treatment
or other medical treatments is often read by o­ thers as male, but what do one’s as-
sumptions about gender truly reveal about that person? What did one ­really know
about that person? When I hear someone assume something about another’s
gender, I often ask them, “How do you know that person is not perhaps trans

Mobile Numbers and Gender Transitions  |  373

 or gay?” This question is often deflected by the listener as irrelevant and out of
context. This response makes me sad ­because it confirms that the very existence
of trans, gay, and queer ­people is still something that must be explic­itly explained.
Even when heteronormativity is questioned, it still operates as a conventional unit
of analy­sis; trans and queer ­people seem to exist as complete ­others occupying
the margins of heteronormative space. In such conversations, is outing oneself the
only way for one’s identity to be recognized?

Works Cited

NEWSPAPERS AND MAGAZINES

Idae Taehagwŏn Sinmun

MUSICAL RECORDINGS

Sinawe. “Chumin tŭngnokjŭng.” Track 9 on Ŭnt’oesŏnŏn. Toremi, 1997, compact disc.

KOREAN-­LANGUAGE SOURCES

Ch’ae Un-jo. “Sŏngjŏnhwan cheguk-­empire, sŏngjŏnhwan hŭpyŏlgwi-­vampire,

sŏngjŏnhwan simp’an umpire: Rejŭbiŏn p’eminijŭm kwa t’ŭraensŭjendŏrijŭm
ŭi kyŏnggye punjaeng.” Paper presented at Che 13-­hoe Yŏsŏng munhwa iron
yŏn’guso k’ollok’ium, Seoul, South ­Korea, 2006.
Hong Ch’un-­ŭi. “Sŏng chŏnhwanja ŭi sŏngbyŏl kyŏlchŏng e taehan pŏpchŏk
chŏpgŭn.” In Sŏngjŏk sosuja ŭi inkwŏn, ed. Han In-­sŏ and Yang Hyŏn-­a, 89–132.
Seoul: Saram Saenggak, 2002.
Hong Sŏk-­man. “Chumin tŭngnok chedo nŭn p’asijŭm ida.” Wŏlgan Mal 171 (2000):
184–87.
Hwang Po-­yŏl. “Uri nara chumin tŭngnokjŭng hyŏnhwang kwa kaesŏn panghyang.” In
Han’guk haengjŏng hak’oe tonggye haksul palp’yo nonmunjip, 519–38. Seoul: Han’guk
Haengjŏng Hakhoe, 2004.
Kim Ki-­jung. “Chumin tŭngnok chedo idaeron an toenda.” Wŏlgan Mal 158 (Au-
gust 1999): 142–45.
Kim Ki-­jung. “Kukka ŭi kungmin kwalli ch’egye wa inkwŏn.” Paper presented at Segye
inkwŏn sŏnŏn 50-­chunyŏn kinyŏm haksul haengsa palp’yomun, Seoul, Febru-
ary 26–­March 1, 1999.
Kim Po-­hyŏn. “Chumin tŭngnok chedo wa chibang kongmuwŏn chedo kŭrigo
chibang haengjŏng yŏnsuwŏn.” Taehan Chibang Haengjŏng Kongjehoe 47, no. 542
(1998): 116–20.
Kim Tae-ho. “Chumin tŭngnok chŏngbi wa chibang haengjŏng t’onggye samu.”
Chibang Haengjŏng 19, no. 206 (1970): 80–87.

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Kim Tong-­ch’un. “20 segi han’guk esŏ ŭi ‘kungmin.’ ” Ch’angjak kwa Pip’yŏng 106 (Win-
ter 1999): 30–47.
Kim Yŏng-mi. “Chumin tŭngnokjŭng ŭn wae saenggyŏnna.” Naeil Rŭl Yŏnŭn Yŏksa 25,
(September 2006): 139–49.
Mun Hong-an. “Sinbun tŭngnok chedo kaep’yŏn nonŭi e issŏ kaein chŏngbo ŭi poho
wa chumin tŭngnok pŏnho ŭi yŏkhal.” Kajokbŏp Yŏn’gu 18, no. 1 (2004): 217–47.
No Yong-­sŏk. “Haebang ihu kukka hyŏngsŏng kwajŏng e taehan chibangmin ŭi insik.”
Tonghyang kwa Chŏnmang 62 (2004): 48–93.
Pak T’ae-­gyun. “1960 nyŏndae chungban anbo wigi wa che 2-­kyŏngjeron.” Yŏksa
Pip’yŏng 72 (Fall 2005): 250–76.
Ruin. “Chendŏ rŭl tullŏssan kyŏnghapdŭl (gender dysphoria): T’ŭraensŭ/jendŏ
chŏngch’ihak ŭl mosaek hamyŏ.” Yŏ/sŏng Iron 15 (November 2006): 289–304.
Ruin. “Uri nŭn ŏdi ro kanŭnga: T’ŭraensŭ’ jendŏ hogŭn ‘to’ e kwanhan tansang.” Idae
taehagwŏn sinmun, November 15, 2006.
U Kwang-­sŏn. “Chumin tŭngnok kwa hojŏkbŏp kaesŏn pangan.” Chibang Haengjŏng
19, no. 205 (1970): 48–69.
Yi Sŭng-­hun. “Kanch’ŏp i aniranŭn kŏl chŭngmyŏng hae pwa.” O Mai Nyusŭ, July 18,
2003, http://­www​.­ohmynews​.­com.

ENGLISH-­LANGUAGE SOURCES

Fausto-­Sterling, Anne. “The Five Sexes: Why Male and Female Are Not Enough.” Sci-
ences 33, no. 2 (1993): 20–25.
Hale, C. Jacob. “Tracing a Ghostly Memory in My Throat: Reflections on Ftm Feminist
Voice and Agency.” In Men ­Doing Feminism, ed. Tom Digby, 99–129. New York:
Routledge, 1998.
Hegarty, Peter. “Intersex Activism, Feminism, and Psy­chol­ogy: Opening a Dialogue on
Theory, Research, and Practice.” Feminism and Psy­chol­ogy 10, no. 1 (2000): 117–32.
Kessler, Suzanne J. Lessons from the Intersexed. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University
Press, 1998.
Kessler, Suzanne J. “The Medical Construction of Gender: Case Management of Inter-
sexed Infants.” Signs 16, no. 10 (1990): 3–26.
Moon, Katherine H. S. Sex among Allies: Military Prostitution in U.S.-­Korea Relations.
New York: Columbia University Press, 1997.
Turner, Stephanie S. “Intersex Identities: Locating New Intersection of Sex and Gen-
der.” Gender and Society 13, no. 4 (1999): 457–79.
Wilchins, Riki. Queer Theory Gender Theory: An Instant Primer. Los Angeles: Alyson,
2004.

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CONTRIBUTORS

Pei Jean Chen is an assistant professor of Taiwanese Lit­er­a­ture at National

Chengchi University in Taiwan. She received her PhD degree from the Depart-
ment of Asian Studies, Cornell University, in 2016. Her current book proj­ect,
The Politics of Love: Modern Sexuality in Colonial Taiwan and K­ orea, offers a new
cultural history of the colonial world order by comparing Taiwanese and Ko-
rean constructions of love and sexuality and their historical responses to West-
ern and Japa­nese imperialism.
John (Song Pae) Cho is a visiting assistant professor in anthropology at
Davidson College. A recipient of fellowships from the ­Korea Foundation and
the Social Science Research Council for Transregional Research, Cho writes
and teaches on subjects surrounding transnational lgbt studies, Korean and
East Asian studies, neoliberalism, and the Internet.
Chung-­kang Kim is an assistant professor in the Department of Theater and
Film at Hanyang University in South ­Korea. Her research considers the realms
of Korean and East Asian cinema; cultural studies; gender, race, and sexuality
studies; and (trans)national visual culture.
Timothy Gitzen is a postdoctoral fellow in the Society of Fellows in the Hu-
manities at the University of Hong Kong. His ethnographic research centers
on ­matters of sexuality and national security in South K­ orea tethered to the
particularities of queer activism and the relationship between vari­ous institu-
tions and gendered and sexualized bodies.
Todd A. Henry is an associate professor of history and the inaugural director of
Transnational Korean Studies at the University of California, San Diego. He
specializes in modern ­Korea, with an interest in everyday life ­under Japa­nese
colonialism. He also explores mass media, sexual medicine, and state polic-
ing in the geopo­liti­cal contexts of American militarism and Cold War knowl-
edge formations. Henry is the author of Assimilating Seoul: Japa­nese Rule and
the Politics of Public Space in Colonial ­Korea, 1910–1945 (2014) and is currently
completing a book on the understudied place of queerness in South ­Korea’s
authoritarian modernity.
Merose Hwang is an associate professor of history and program coordinator
for the Asian studies minor at Hiram College. She is a former research fellow
at the Institute for Korean Studies, Yonsei University, and a visiting scholar at
the Institute for the Study of Religion, Sogang University. Her research con-
siders the relationship between folk and institutionalized religions.
Ruin is a lead researcher at the Institute for Trans/Gender/Queer Studies in
Seoul and director of the Korean Queer Archive. Zher main research inter-
ests include tracing the history of transgenderqueer persons in South K ­ orea
and advancing critical ways of thinking about gender/sexuality and vio­lence.
Ruin’s English-­language research appears in TSQ, vol. 3, nos. 1–2 (May 2016).
Layoung Shin is the ASIANetwork-­Luce Foundation Postdoctoral Teach-
ing Fellow at Lewis and Clark University. As a sociocultural anthropologist
and teacher of cultural politics, Shin examines questions of race, sexuality,
and class while researching queer youth, desire, and fandom culture in South
­Korea.
Shin-ae Ha is a research professor at the Center for Northeast Asian Humani-
ties and Social Sciences, Institute for Korean-­Chinese Relations Studies, Wonk-
wang University, South K ­ orea. Her research considers the realms of Korean
and Northeast Asian lit­er­a­ture. Her current research centers on colonialism,
gender, and cultural geography revealed in modern fiction during the 1930s
and 1940s. She is the author of Asia Trou­ble: The Imagination of Asia’s Regional
Identity and Decentering Cultural Geography (2018).
John Whittier Treat is professor emeritus of East Asian Languages and Lit­er­a­
tures at Yale University. His publications include Writing Ground Zero: Japa­nese
Lit­er­a­ture and the Atomic Bomb (1995), G
­ reat Mirrors Shattered: Homo­sexuality,
Orientalism, and Japan (1999), and The Rise and Fall of Modern Japa­nese Lit­er­a­ture
(2018). He is currently writing a study of Korean writers u­ nder Japa­nese rule.

378  | Contributors
INDEX

activism: Christian right and, 285; com- biopolitics, 11, 16, 25–26, 29, 177, 210, 226,
ing out and, 273, 309–11; essentiality 265–66, 283
of, 30; heteronormativity and, 24; ­Bitter, but Once More [Miwŏdo tasi
Korean military and, 29, 324–38; hanbŏn] (film), 180
­legal reform and, 2, 9, 314, 368–69; Bloch, Ernst, 100
national identification numbers and, Boellstorff, Tom, 111, 325
30; pogal and, 284; public scrutiny Bow, Clara, 109
and, 4; queer, 30, 205–7, 242–44, 305, boyd, danah, 304
326; rights-­based, 276; the United Broken Branches [Naeil ro hŭrunŭn kang]
States as an inspiration for, 31; youth, (Pak), 206
305 Buddy (magazine), 206
Adorno, Theodor, 101–2 bulletin board ser­vices (bbses), 274–77
Among Ourselves [Kkiri Kkiri], 274–75, Bureau of Public Information, 187–88
328 butchness. See masculinity
Another World [Pyŏlgŏn’gon] (magazine), Butler, Judith, 71, 176, 186
130, 147–48
Appenzeller, Alice, 168 capitalism: Cold War, 26, 207–9; colonial,
Asian queer studies, 20–24, 39n55, 42n72, 12; heteropatriarchy and, 240–41;
310, 325 homonormativity and, 298–301;
Auld Lang Syne (So), 2016 indigenous rituals and, 74; in ­Korea,
authoritarianism, 4, 7–9, 17–20, 25, 31, 22–23, 26, 221, 241; lgbt identities
178, 186–93, 205–10, 218–28, 232–43, and, 264–65, 300; love and, 122;
268, 327 neoliberal, 26, 281; queer immigrants
and, 313; queer youth subculture
Baudelaire, Charles, 99, 102 and, 298; time and, 105, 111. See also
Bech, Henning, 108 neoliberal gay
Berlant, Lauren: on aspirational nor- capitalistic voyeurism, 209, 218–31
malcy, 282; on crisis ordinariness censorship, 177–79, 186–93, 218, 242, 359
and trauma, 325, 332, 342; on cruel Chang Chun-­kyu, 323–24
optimism, 9, 96, 100, 110; on poten- Chang Ki-­yŏng, 218–19
tiality, 344 Chang Tŏk-jo, 166
Berry, Chris, 265 Ching, Yau, 301, 313
Bersani, Leo, 100 Ch’ingusai [Between Friends], 274–75,
Between Friends [Ch’ingusai], 274–75, 277, 328
277, 328 Cho, John (Song Pae), 299–300, 310–11
Ch’odonghoe [Birds of a Feather], 274 coming out, 264, 273, 296, 298, 309–11
Ch’oe Chin-­sŏk, 93 Companion [Pallyŏ] (Pak Yŏng-­hŭi), 151
Ch’oe Chŏng-­hŭi, 166 Confucian biopolitics, 265, 283
Ch’oe Nam-­sŏn, 62–69, 95, 121 Confucianism, 120, 126, 265–66, 283
Ch’oe Yŏng-­hŭi, 153 Confucian kinship, 11–18, 61–62, 68–72,
Choi, Hyaeweol, 69 81n67, 83n88, 117–20, 126, 136n1, 206,
Chŏng Chi-­yong, 93 240, 265–83, 310–11
Chŏng Hye-­yŏng, 119 Confucian Parental Governance, 268, 271
Chŏng Sŏk-­tae, 124 consumerism: authoritarian ­Korea and,
Cho P’ung-­yŏn, 187 207, 219–22, 226–27; postauthori-
Chosŏn Ilbo (daily), 187, 193 tarian, 20–32; queer, 32n3, 265–67,
Chris­tian­ity: fundamentalist, 1, 10, 207, 274–79, 283. See also citizenship;
242; love in, 118–19, 131 neoliberal capitalism
chrononormativity, 25, 75, 110–11, 271 Creation [Kaeybŏk], 60
Chugan Han’guk (weekly), 219, 221–26 criminality, 125, 210–18, 240–42
Chugan Kyŏnghyang (weekly), 220 Crow’s Eye View [Ongando] (Yi), 94–97
Chugan Yŏsŏng (weekly), 226, 238 cruel optimism, 9, 110
cinema. See film Cruel Optimism (Berlant), 96
Circle of Nine, 93 cultural rule, 56, 58
citizenship: anticommunism and, 359; Cvetkovich, Ann, 332
consumerism and, 241–42; disciplin- cyberculture: homo­sexuality and, 274–81;
ing and, 25, 188, 209, 270, 326–28, ­women and, 303–5
359–61; familialism and, 241–42;
gender and, 158, 361–62; homo- Daily News [Maeil sinbo], 121
normativity and, 297–301; military Daum, 267, 279–80
ser­vice and, 270, 326–28, 362–64; Davis, Madeline, 211
neoliberalism and, 300–301; norma- “Daybreak” [Yŏmyŏng] (Ch’oe Chŏng-­
tivity and, 17, 23, 29, 170n29, 208–10, hŭi), 160–69
219–20; state protections of, 2, 29–30 debuting, 273. See also coming out
Cocteau, Jean, 95–96 D’Emilio, John, 298
Cold War, 7–10, 17–20, 23–30, 177–78, Department of Culture and Public Infor-
205–9, 214, 220, 226, 241, 268 mation, 188
colonial drag, 55–75 depression: colonial w ­ omen and, 134;
colonialism: language and, 125–26; love in lit­er­a­ture, 163–65; in the military,
and, 117–36; masculinity and, 266, 331–32, 336–42; same-­sex love and,
268; media and, 55–74; nationalism 148
and, 135; queerness and, 8–20, 56; Detailed Enforcement Plan for the Purifi-
same-­sex love and, 117–36, 146–52, cation of De­cadent Culture, 187
210; shamanism and, 55–75; spiritual dignity, 243–44
assimilation and, 57–63, 69; time discipline: military, 318n30, 327, 334,
and, 91–111; Wings and, 109–11; 342, 350n52; national id cards and,
­women and, 17, 152–60, 166–69 359; schools and, 306–7, 310, 315,
Come Together, 342 319n32; of sexualities, 15, 56, 215, 277;

380 | Index
 of shamans, 67; state and, 277–79; tions of, 15, 215, 226–31; depic-
war­time, 161 tions of male readers and, 231–40;
discrimination, 6, 31, 43n79, 58, 153, 280, Kaesalgu and, 129; weeklies and, 19,
296–301, 306–11, 314, 318n31, 325 208–10, 219
Divinity Church, 61 female masculinity, 27, 215–18, 296, 314
Doherty, Thomas, 189 filial piety conventions, 25, 133, 206,
“­Don’t Ask about Our Erotic Life” (Sŏ), 215–18, 229–30, 240, 254n78, 310–11,
228–31 347n19. See also Confucianism
Doty, Mark, 100 film: A-­grade, 187–88; arrests of directors,
drag: colonial, 55–75; Male Kisaeng and, 187; con­temporary South Korean,
185–86; ­women and, 295 205–7; culture, 179; family-­planning,
Drucker, Peter, 298–99 179; politics of gender and sexuality
Duggan, Lisa, 298–99, 315 and, 175–93; state-­controlled produc-
tion, 176–80
East Asia Daily [Tong’a ilbo], 55–56, Film Law, 179
58–59, 69–70, 73 Foucault, Michel, 177, 334
Eastern Learning [Toghak], 60 Frankl, John, 102, 110
Edelman, Lee, 100–101, 111, 134 futurism, 100, 111, 134, 272
education: cultural, 71; homophobia in,
306–9; in the military, 335, 342; sex, Garber, Marjorie, 186
123; war and, 168; ­women and girls gay marriage. See marriage
and, 16, 73, 119, 154, 312–13. See also gender: assigned sex’s relation to, 369–70;
girls’ schools binary conceptions of, 12, 266;
Em, Henry, 98, 109 citizenship and, 361–62; colonial-
Eng, David, 312–13 ism’s relation to, 17–18, 21, 56, 72,
entertainers: female, 12, 55, 58; male, 76n12, 84n101, 151–66; comedy films,
175–93 175–93, 209; female masculinity and,
Erni, John, 265 27, 215–18, 296, 314; ­labor and, 215–
Eunuch, A [Naesi] (Yu), 190 16; nationalisms and, 120, 124–29,
133–36, 179; queer per­for­mance of,
Faceless ­Things [Ŏlgul ŏmnŭn kŏtdŭl] 27, 72, 83n82, 84n90, 215–18, 295–303,
(Kim), 283 313–15; sex and, 21, 29–30, 229, 369.
failure, 111 See also intersex ­people; transgender
familialism, 9, 11, 25–26, 265–67, 290n71. ­people
See also Confucianism; female mas- Gill, Lesley, 327
culinity; transgender ­people girls’ schools, 130–31, 146–52, 154, 306–7.
families, 101, 281, 298, 311–14, 327, 329. See See also schoolgirls
also filial piety conventions; kinship global queering, 2, 8, 263
­Family Register Act, 363 Golden Demon [Konjiki], 121–22
Fanon, Frantz, 128 Gossiping for Trifles [K’ongch’ilp’al Saesa-
fashion, 154 mnyuk] (play), 134–35
female homoeroticism: Chugan Grand­father’s Real Estate Agency [Odae
Kyŏnghyang and, 220–21; depic- pokdŏkbang] (film), 187

Index | 381
Gray, Mary, 309 Iban Inspection, 306–7
Gunivan, 338 identity politics, 7–9, 11, 20, 24–26, 176,
265
Habermas, Jürgen, 273 Im Chong-­guk, 93
Halberstam, Judith [ Jack], 98–100, intersex ­people, 21, 29–30, 229, 369
110–11 intimate events, 117–36
Hale, Jacob, 364 I Prefer Being a ­Woman [Yŏja ka tŏ choa]
Han Sang Kim, 251n56 (film), 180
Heartless [Mujŏng] (Yi), 129 Ivancity, 267, 279–80
Heavenly Church Monthly [Ch’ŏndogyo
Hoewŏlbo], 60 Jack’d, 324
Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 90 Jameson, Fredric, 103
Henry, Todd A., 269, 284–85, 326 Japan. See colonialism
heteronormativity: queer romance and, Japa­nese Buddhism, 57
231–40 Jealousy [Chilt’u] (film), 230
History Compilation Committee, 64–66 Jie-­Hyun Lim, 208
homoeroticism, 205–44 “Journey, The” [Haengno] (Chang),
homonationalism, 24, 301; chrononorma- 154–69
tivity and, 110; definitions of, 24
homonormativity: Berlant on, 282; Kam, Lucetta Yip Lo, 312
female masculinity and, 314–15; Kendall, Laurel, 57
insufficiency of, 282, 297; Korean, Kennedy, Elizabeth, 211
306–9; neoliberalism and, 298–301; Key, Ellen, 119–20
visibility and, 309–15 Kim, Chung-­kang, 269
homophobia, 3, 10, 26–30, 209, 227, 242, Kim, Tae-­gon, 61
277, 285, 290n78, 297–307, 330, 371 Kim, U-­chang, 94
Homosexual Co­ali­tion Committee, 328 Kim/Cho Kwang-su, 1–5, 243
homo­sexuality. See homoeroticism; Kim Hwal-­lan, 168
queer; rights; visibility Kim Hyŏn-ju, 127
Hong Ch’ŏn, 187 Kim Kyŏng-­min, 271–74
H.O.T., 295 Kim Myŏng-­sun, 120
Hŏ Yŏng-­suk, 130–32, 147 Kim Seong-­Nae, 63
­human rights: lgbti movement and, Kim Sŭng-­hwan, 1–5, 243
24; in the military, 323, 328, 336–45; Kim Sun-­nam, 300
resident registration system and, Kim Su-­yong, 190
361–62, 365; sexual minorities and, Kim Tae-ho, 361
9; students and, 306; violations, 361; Kim T’ae-ik, 55
­women and, 235, 253n76. See also Kim Tong-in, 119, 130
rights Kim Yŏ-je, 125, 150
Hwang Sin-­dŏk, 130–32, 147 Kim Yun-­kyŏng, 124
Kinema Junpō (film journal), 109
iban (second-­class citizen), 26, 264, 272, kinship: choice and, 123; Confucian, 15,
274–78, 281, 295–96, 302–3, 305 117; cultural purity and, 209–10;

382 | Index
 heteropatriarchy and, 239; identity suicide in, 133; translation, 121–22;
and, 22; Korean War and, 5; lesbians ­ omen in, 120; ­women’s, 154–69. See
w
and, 25; nonconforming practices of, also poetry
5; prewar structures of, 212; queer, Liu, Petrus, 57, 75
206–7, 216, 218, 224, 227–28, 231–32, Long and Regrettable Dream [Changan-
236, 240–44. See also families mong] (Ch’oe), 121
Kkiri Kkiri [Among Ourselves], 274–75, love: Chris­tian­ity and, 118–19, 131; decolo-
328 nization of, 134–36; female same-­sex,
Klein, Christina, 208 129–34; ­free, 117; male same-­sex,
­Korea Central Daily [Chosŏn Chung’ang 126–29; modern, 118–23; sex and,
Ilbo], 73 119–20, 126
Korean Association of War­time Patriots, Love and Marriage (Key), 119
152–53 Luciano, Dana, 271
Korean Broadcasting Station, 275
Korean Queer Culture Festival, 305 Madame Freedom [Chayu puin] (film),
Korean studies: in the 1920s, 62; queer- 178
ing, 8; tropes in, 272 Male Hairdresser [Namja miyongsa]
­Korea Theater, 182 (film), 180, 184, 191
Kukje Theater, 181–82 Male Kisaeng [Namja singmo] (Sim),
Ku Pong-­sŏ, 185–86, 188–98 181–93
Kuriyagawa Hakuson, 120 Male Maid [Namja singmo] (Sim),
Kwon/Kim Hyun-­young, 311 175–76, 180–81, 184
Kwŏn Podûrae, 118–19, 121 Male Maid II [Namja singmo II] (film),
Kyŏnghyang Sinmun (daily), 182, 215 180
March 1 Uprising, 55, 58, 61, 64, 69, 119
lalas, 25, 312 Marcotte, Amanda, 323, 331, 340
Law of Domestic Relations, 363–64 marginalization, 5, 9, 12–13, 16, 20, 24,
Lee, Sharon Heijin, 266–67 30, 75, 176–77, 192–93, 230, 301, 312,
Les Misérables (Hugo), 121 315n1
Lester, Rebecca, 332, 339 marriage: heterosexual, 15, 148, 210,
Lew, Walter, 95–98 311–12; in lit­er­a­ture, 119; same-­sex,
liberal community building, 285 1–5, 8–9, 19, 101, 243–44. See also
liberal identity politics, 24 weddings
liberal inclusion, 2–3, 8, 31 Martin, Fran, 132
liberal individualism, 265 masculinity: female, 27, 215, 217–18,
liberalism, 15, 20, 24, 27, 265, 268 ­295–315; feminist scholarship and,
liberal pluralism, 9 266; Korean, 72; in the military,
liberal regimes, 208 28, 270, 324–45; patriarchal, 215;
lit­er­a­ture: colonial, 126–29; love in, 119, schools and, 302–3; toxic, 30,
122; modern Korean, 91–111, 120; 329–31
nationalism and, 93–94; politics of mass dictatorship, 209
sympathy in, 127–29; postcolonial, Mauss, Marcel, 327–28
103–4; scholarship on, 97, 109–10; Maybe Love [Ai ka] (Yi), 128

Index | 383
media: censorship and, 20; digital, 304–5, Movement to Support National Produc-
318n26; gendered subjects and, 27; tion, 191
ideological state apparatuses and, Mo Yun-­suk, 152–53
178–83, 276; mass dictatorship and, Muñoz, José Esteban, 56, 71, 100–102, 110
17–18; North Korean, 10; postcolo- Murayama Chijun, 59–60
nial, 55–62, 119–20; queerness and, M Youth Center, 304
15, 19, 23, 27, 31, 126–28, 139n29, 208,
210–18; sensationalism of, 9, 132–33, Nandy, Ashis, 128
218–31; shamans and, 71–72. See also national identification (id) cards, 358–71;
film challenges to, 364–67; military
medicine, 124–25 system and, 362–64
military: antisodomy legislation in the, nationalism: colonialism and, 117–35;
324, 333, 337–38, 343; citizenship ethnic, 168; female homoeroticism
and, 270, 326–28, 362–64; homo­ and, 213, 231, 235, 241; gender and,
sexuality in the, 323; ­human rights 120, 124–29, 133–36, 179; Irish, 103;
regulations in, 337–39; masculin- Israeli, 309; the military and, 334–35;
ity in, 270, 323–45; medicalization postcolonial, 266–68; shamanic,
in the, 336–42; motherhood and, 55–75; socialist, 31; Wings and, 111
150–69; rape in the, 330–31, 343–44; neoliberal capitalism, 26–27, 281, 283, 298
sexual abuse in the, 335; suicide and neoliberal familialism, 9
the, 335–36, 339; surveillance in the, neoliberal gay, 264, 278–81
285, 331–36; toxic masculinity in the, neoliberal globalization, 31
323–45 neoliberal identities, 28
Military ­Human Rights Center, 323, neoliberal individualism, 25, 281
337–38 neoliberalism: aspirational normalcy and,
Military Punishment Law, 306 282; gay men and, 26, 267, 283–84;
military rule, 56–57 homonormativity and, 298–303
Ministry of Culture and Education, 178 New Novel [Sin sosŏl] (Cho), 122
modernism, 99, 103. See also lit­er­a­ture newspaper weeklies. See weeklies
modernity: colonial, 8–20, 69, 91, 106, 123, New ­Women, 119–20, 130, 148
131; Confucianism and, 117; elitist Nikov, Kurasenin, 66
rhe­toric of, 62; Kim and Hong and, North ­Korea, 7, 10–11, 31, 178, 212–13
149; Korean, 4, 32, 56, 209; love
and, 135, 150–51; ritual specialists One’s Own Sin [Ona ga Tsumi] (Yuho),
and, 74–75; sexual minorities and, 121
205; Taiwan and, 265; ­women and, Ordinance on Students’ ­Human Rights,
152–54, 156, 159, 168 306
Moon, Seungsook, 327 Ordinance 386, 59
Mori Ōgai, 121 Ozaki Kōyō, 121
Morning Light [Chogwang] (literary
magazine), 146 Paek Ak, 126–27
motherhood, 150–69 Pagoda Theater, 272
Motojirō, Kajii, 93 Pak T’ae-­wŏn, 102, 151, 160

384 | Index
Pak Wŏn-­sun, 2 27; marginalization and, 5, 9, 12–13,
Pan-­Asianism, 165, 168–69 16, 20, 24, 30, 75, 176–77, 192–93, 230,
Park Chung Hee: film and, 176–80, 186– 301, 312, 315n1; non-­normative prac-
88, 192; resident registration and, tices and, 4–5; temporality, 90–112;
359–60; on second economy, 361 as unruly subjects, 9–21, 32, 93, 212,
Petty ­Middle Man­ag­er, A [Samdŭng kwa- 241, 345; youth subculture, 298
jang] (film), 179 queering (global), 2, 8, 263
poetry, 94–97 queersploitation, 241, 251n56
pogal [homosexual], 26, 264, 272–74, 281, queer studies, 8, 20–24, 42n72, 45, 57, 63,
284. See also yangbogal 208, 297–98, 310, 325
politics: authoritarian, 4, 7–9, 17–20,
25, 31, 178, 186–93, 205–10, 218–28, race, 153
232–43, 268, 327; Cold War geopoli- rape, 330–31, 343–44. See also vio­lence
tics and, 7–10, 17–20, 23–30, 177–78, Rebirth [Chaesaeng] (Yi), 122
205–9, 214, 220, 226, 241, 268; of recognition (politics of), 3, 5, 30, 60,
dignity, 243–44; discrimination and, 220–21, 228, 239, 242–43, 255n89, 268,
6, 31, 43n79, 58, 153, 280, 296–301, 273, 283, 297–302, 309
306–11, 314, 318n31, 325; identity, 7–9, Regulations on Religious Activities, 57
11, 20, 24–26, 176, 265; lifestyle, 273, Regulations on Religious Propagation, 57
276; nationalism and, 4, 13, 17, 32, religious journals, 60
117–35, 266–68, 334–35; queer, 2–3, religious studies, 62
298; regimes, 9–10, 18, 26, 186, 205, “Remembering Queer K ­ orea,” 6–7
207–9, 327; visibility and, 9–10, 18, “Remon” [Lemon] (Motojirō), 93
24–26, 186, 205, 207–9, 327. See also resident registration. See national identifi-
­human rights; rights cation (id) cards
Poole, Janet, 109 Resident Registration Act, 358–61
Portrait of a Beauty [Minyŏdo] (Pak), rights: -­based activism, 26, 276; citizenship,
146, 149–50, 160 4; civil, 275; discrimination and, 30;
post-­traumatic stress disorder (ptsd), gay men and, 26; lgbti movement
332, 342. See also pre-­traumatic stress and, 24, 29, 301, 306, 328; military ser­
Povinelli, Elizabeth, 118, 123 vice and, 327, 338–40; ­women’s, 119,
pre-­traumatic stress, 326, 332–33, 337, 156, 167. See also h­ uman rights
341–43. See also depression Ritchie, Jason, 309
Pro-­Japanese Lit­er­a­ture [Ch’inil Munhan- Robertson, Jennifer, 134
gnon] (Im), 93 Rofel, Lisa, 299
propaganda, 160–69 Romance Papa [Romaensŭ ppappa]
Psychopathia Sexualis (von Krafft-­Ebing), (film), 179
123
Saeki Junko, 120, 125
queer: counterpublics, 273, 277; discrimi- same-­sex love: colonialism and, 117–36;
nation against, 6, 31, 43n79, 58, 153, female, 129–34; male, 126–29; pathol-
280, 296–301, 306–11, 314, 318n31, 325; ogization of, 124–25; terminology
globalization, 263–64; liberalism, 24, for, 123–24; war­time and, 146–69

Index |  385
“Same-­Sex Love” (Kim), 150 Special Law on Transgender Gender
same-­sex ­unions, 5, 19, 73, 205–44. See Reassignment, 367–68
also marriage Spires, Anthony, 265
schoolgirls, 123–26, 146–69, 210. See also Spirit Worshipers’ Guild, 55–57, 60–61,
girls’ schools 71–74
schools, 297–98, 302–3 Spring Dreams [Ch’unmong] (film), 187,
second economy, 361 190
self-­harm, 30. See also suicide Story of Kim Yŏn-­sil [Kim Yŏn-­sil jŏn]
Seoul City Youth Centers, 304 (Kim), 119–20
Seoul Imperial University, 60 straight time. See time
Seoul National University (snu), 275 Studies of Sexual Desire and Psychoanalysis
Seoul Theater, 182 (Sakaki), 124–25
shamanic nationalism, 62–69 subjects and subjectivities: colonial and
shamanism: female, 67, 70–72; media postcolonial formations of, 17–18,
repre­sen­ta­tion of, 55–59, 72; per- 21, 56, 72, 76n12, 84n101, 151–60, 167;
secution of, 58; Siberian, 64–65; dictatorship and, 17–18; erasure of,
transgenderism and, 65–66 272–73; homoeroticism and, 211,
Shin, Layoung, 265 214–15; marginalization and, 5, 9,
Shin Film, 176, 181 12–13, 16, 20, 24, 30–32, 75, 176–77,
Shintō, 61–62, 69–71 192–93, 230, 301, 312, 315n1; narrative
Short Stories from the Peninsula (vari­ous and media formation of, 211, 214–21,
authors), 155 242; nationalisms and, 69, 120,
Sim U-­sŏp, 180, 189, 192 124–29, 133–36, 179; sexual formation
Sinch’on Park, 296 of, 135, 194, 273, 283; transnational
Sinhŭng Church, 61 migration and, 22–23, 26; unruliness
Solidarity for lgbt ­Human Rights of and, 9–21, 32, 93, 212, 241, 345; visibil-
­Korea, 328, 338, 340 ity and, 9–11, 20, 265, 277–78, 290n71,
Song, Jesook, 311–12 297–98, 303–5, 11
Sŏ Tong-­jin [Seo Dong-­jin/Dong-­jin suicide: double, 125, 132–36, 148–52, 157,
Seo], 34n19, 274–75, 286n6 210; in lit­er­a­ture, 120, 128; media por-
South ­Korea: authoritarian era of, 4, 7–9, trayal of, 214, 238–40; in the military,
17–20, 25, 31, 178, 186–93, 205–43, 268, 335–36, 339–41
327; Cold War politics and, 7–10, Sunday Seoul (weekly), 183, 219, 238, 240,
17–20, 23–30, 177–78, 205–9, 214, 220, 272, 275
226, 241, 268; discrimination in, 6, 31, sympathy, 126–28
43n79, 58, 153, 280, 296–301, 306–11, Syngman Rhee, 178
314, 318n31, 325; modernity and, 4,
8–20, 32, 56, 62, 69, 91, 106, 117, 123, Tan, Chris, 309
131, 135, 149–59, 168, 209, 265. See also Tang, Denise Tse-­Shang, 299, 312
nationalism; North ­Korea; queer; Tears of Sympathy [Tongjŏng ŭi nu]
rights (Paek), 126
Sowŏn Sungsinin Chohap, 55–57, 60–61, Tears of the Twin Jade [Ssangongnu]
71–74 (Ch’oe), 121

386 | Index
temporality. See time 324–45; resident registration system
time: queer, 75, 91, 98–99, 107; straight, and, 359; sexual, 343–44; state,
74–75, 98, 107, 325; trauma and, 13, 28–29, 31, 176; transfer of, 325;
325–26, 342–44 against ­women, 330–31. See also rape
Tokyo (Yi), 101 visibility: coming out and, 309–11; drag
Tong’a Ilbo (daily), 212–14, 216 performers and, 71; fear of, 297,
Tongdaemun Theater, 182 303–5; gay men and, 26, 290n71;
Tonghak, 60 homosexual, 283–84, 297, 306–7;
Tongil Theater, 182 Korean ritual workers and, 62;
toxic masculinity, 28, 30, 72, 197n22, online, 290n71; queerness and, 11;
323–45 queer politics and, 9, 20, 265, 298;
transgender ­people: in China, 312; same-­sex marriage and, 9; sexual
colonialism and, 56; definitions of, minorities and, 21; suicide and, 133;
80nn59–60; discrimination and, ­women and, 27, 297–98, 301–15. See
31, 297; exclusion and, 315; law and, also coming out
33n6, 368–70; ­legal reform and,
367–70; media repre­sen­ta­tion of, Warner, Michael, 273, 277
212–18, 229; the military and, 28; war­time: female same-­sex love dur-
national identification (id) cards ing, 146–69; motherhood during,
and, 13, 29–30, 364–67, 370–71; queer 150–69
studies and, 21–24, 31; resident regis- Weaker Than a ­Woman (Clay), 121
tration and, 361–62; shamanism and, weddings, 5, 19, 73, 205–44. See also
63–69; vio­lence and, 29–32; visibility marriage
and, 315. See also female masculinity; weeklies: B-­film reviews in, 183; capitalis-
gender tic voyeurism in, 209, 220; criminal-
translation, 121–24 ity in, 210–18; female homoeroticism
trauma, 323–45 in, 205–44; gendered ­labor and,
Troublers [Puron han tangsin] (Yi), 207 215–16; same-­sex weddings in,
Trump, Donald, 31 218–31; suicide in, 238–40
Tsubouchi Shōyō, 121 Weston, Kath, 123, 255n89
Tsukiji ­Little Theater, 101 Wild Apricots [Kaesalgu] (Yi), 129
Tylor, Edward B., 65 Wings (film), 109
“Wings” [Nalgae] (Yi), 90–112, 272
U Kwang-­sŏn, 361, 363
Ulysses ( Joyce), 103 yangbogal, 43n76
­Uncle “Bar” at Barbershop [Ibalso Yi-­ssi] Yang Ho-­kyŏng, 300
(film), 207 Yi, Horim, 339
unruly subjects, 9–21, 32, 93, 212, 241, 345 Yi Chŏng-su, 221–25
utopianism, 96, 99–102, 110 Yi Chŏng-­suk, 127
Yi Chŏng-­u, 274–75
vio­lence: criminality and, 210–18; female Yi Kwang-su, 127–28, 132–33
homoeroticism and, 240–42; insti- Yim Tae-­hoon, 323–24, 338
tutional, 206, 238; in the military, Yi Nŭng-­hwa, 62–69

Index | 387
Yi Sang, 90–112 Yonsei University, 267, 275, 342
Yi Sŏk-un, 125 Youth [Sonyŏn] (magazine), 121
Yi [Song] Hŭi-il, 206 Yu Hyŏn-­Mok, 187, 190
Yi Tŏk-yo, 130 Yu Jong-­yul, 119, 131
Yi Yŏng-il, 180 Yun Ch’i-ho, 133
Yongsan Theater, 182 Yun Chin-ho, 300
Yŏnhap Productions, 181 Yun Ik-­sam, 188

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