Seoul's Public Breakups

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A Log of Things - Seoul's Public Breakups

They stood just beside the main thoroughfare of Hongdae station, Seoul’s student capital. She was crying, head hanging down like a wilting flower. He appeared ready to have the whole ordeal over with. Together, they were dressed for an afternoon of shopping and selfies. There was no yelling or a kiss goodbye, only solemn acceptance. He had the tact to give back the gimbap she had made for him that morning. A final token of their relationship. Then it was over.

The first time I saw a couple breaking up publicly in Korea, I was amused. The fifth time, I was curious. Each breakup followed a distinct pattern: a couple apparently primed to spend an afternoon together, a public space like a subway station or teeming street, a seeming indifference for their location, a dejected and crying girl, and an apathetic looking guy. This scene has replayed itself enough that we’ve created a game out of spotting it. Back, on your right, we’ve got a crier. It sounds awful, laughing at people going through a heartbreaking moment, but there’s an element to these breakups that feels like a stage play. An all too common and melodramatic stage play at that. I wanted to know why a soon-to-be-single student would choose the most public place imaginable to end a relationship and why they each conjure a sense of déjà vu?

Economics is the first culprit behind the rash of busker breakups. Renting an apartment in Korea is a monumental task, often requiring an initial deposit in the tens of thousands of dollars. That barrier to entry is simply too much for recent graduates. Considering Korean college graduates face a rigidly competitive job market, only the best and brightest (those with the highest test scores) get career jobs out of school. The rest, they live with their parents, maybe into their 30s. 60% of graduates in their 20s still live with their folks, almost double the rate in the USA.

With no place to co-habitate, Koreans take to the streets, cafes, motels, and DVD rooms to spend alone time with their significant others. Couples sip Caffe Bene coffee at 3 A.M. or sing karaoke at a norehbang until the sun comes up, avoiding the responsibilities and demands of living at home. So, you’re young, dissatisfied with your relationship, and have nowhere “safe” to break it off, what do you do? Rent a private DVD room? Well that’s a waste of 10,000 won. Go to a quiet park? That’s far too discreet. In the eyes of a romance-addled twenty-something, there’s only one option: on a busy path, right between H&M and that decent Vietnamese restaurant.

As a location, public grounds are a curious but understandable selection, but what about the theatrics? The splitting lovers make no effort to hide the situation by going into the nearest alley. In fact, they seem to revel in the spectacle. My theory, and it is only a theory, is twofold. First, K-Dramas, as a form of media, have pierced into the zeitgeist, creating the common emulation of what is seen on screen. Second, Korean culture is obsessed with outward perception: how things look rather than how they are. The two are related, reinforcing one another’s importance to Koreans at large.

The typical Korean Drama TV show is discernible by a few recurring trends. They are typically around 20 episodes long at an hour per episode. They feature sagas of youthful love between attractive leads. They end in hyper-emotional scenes that seem laughable when translated into English. These K-Dramas create unrealistic expectations about relationships and single-handedly drive the culture of dating. Restaurants and parks can become famous overnight if seen in a popular series. Ramen, coffee, and electronics brands are also blatantly product placed. K-Dramas are essentially a brochure for what young Koreans want to be eating and drinking and who they want to be dating. Obviously, this phenomenon is not unique to Korea, but it is valuable to understand that K-Dramas permeate through the culture.

The soon-to-be former couple that is awkwardly having a serious, emotional experience, then, is subconsciously influenced by the media content they consume. Given their general idolization of the Korean media landscape – K-pop singers are referred to as idols, so the use of “idolization” seems appropriate in this instance – and that their favorite drama star recently had a breakup, it doesn’t seem too far a stretch that an impressionable couple would choose to be emulative in their separation. Whether we like it or not, we are all affected by what we watch and read; it just so happens that Koreans gravitate toward the dramatic.

For better or worse, appearance is important in South Korea. The beauty industry is the most common example, where cosmetic shops are a dime a dozen and rejuvenating facemasks are a dozen a dime. However, the beauty culture is more than just makeup and lotions. South Koreans undergo more plastic surgery – primarily double eyelid and nose-job procedures – than anyone else in the world. Roughly one-third to one-fifth of Korean women have had at least one procedure done. The country largely prescribes to one idea of beauty, and so young, aspirational Koreans are willing to go to any length to meet that idea.

The workplace is also subject to this appearance oriented atmosphere. Employees are encouraged, if not outright mandated, to work excessive hours of overtime. From a Korean boss’ perspective, working more is equivalent to being a better employee, regardless of efficiency. To stay late and spend the whole day messaging friends is valued more than completing work in a timely manner and clocking out. In 2015, South Koreans managed to work almost 400 more hours than the OECD average in 2015 (2,114 to 1,749) while earning 15 fewer dollars of GDP per hour worked ($31.8 to 46.8). The data fits the narrative: work more, do less.

The Samsung salary-man who spent 80 hours behind his computer this week, the high-school-aged student who got a double eyelid surgery as her gradation present, the newly ex-girlfriend quietly sobbing as thousands pass her by; these people are interconnected. They are indicative of the greater culture of showmanship in South Korea. The couple on the street, unintentionally and through no fault of their own, is engaged in some sort of voyeuristic display to the world of a “bona fide” breakup. They want to know that other people know of their grief. It begs the question: If no one is around to see your breakup, did it actually even happen?

South Korea is a country of its own devices, remaining fairly insulated, both ethnically and behaviorally, for going-on a thousand years. There are some things, living here, that I can't just rationalize, but I don't want to indict Koreans. There's nothing wrong with breaking up in the subway or getting plastic surgery. However, I do find these breakups to be symptomatic of the culture's peculiarities and, perhaps, negative traits. Beauty, honesty, privacy, and narrow-mindedness are all concepts I have battled with in Korea, and the veneer of the roadside breakup is simply another vehicle through which discuss these topics. Take what you will from this post, but please, next time you decide to end a relationship, do it where you won't block traffic.