Smoke

I've fallen into the habit of smoking a cigarette on the way home from the subway or the bus, but I always feel self-conscious doing so, like a teenager sneaking off to do something forbidden. It's acceptable, of course, for men of all ages to smoke in public, but I've yet to see a woman walking and smoking casually the way men do. The other day, when I went with Nina to the airport to see her off, I saw an elderly woman, elegantly dressed, light up and smoke next to an ashcan, and that was probably the first time I've seen a woman smoke out of doors.

It's okay now (as opposed to, say, 10 years ago), for women to smoke indoors in mixed company, at a bar or a coffee house. In such places catering to young people, I don't get a second glance. A few months ago, when two Japanese female classmates and I left KB's farewell party to get a bag of ice, we lit up, and a young man driving past in a truck probably gave himself whiplash when he did a double-take of us standing in front of a convenience store, smoking. And this was in Shinchon, one of the party spots in town, where you can go into any bar and see women lighting up.

I know full well that women have the same right as men to destroy their lungs, but I can't help but feel awkward when I do it in public. That night in front of the convenience store, I sarcastically yelled out, "Hello!" to the truck driver as he passed, annoyed and buoyed by a couple beers and the presence of two other smokers, but walking home in this quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Seoul, I find myself using my bag as a shield to hide my cigarette when I pass people.

It's possible that if I spoke Korean better, I'd not feel so cowed by social expectations -- if I could at least defend myself against a derisive comment with a sharp retort, I might be more openly defiant about it. But as I can't, I walk and take quick drags and watch out for approaching pedestrians. I just don't want to deal.

No one has actually ever said anything to me when I've smoked in public, but it's a possibility. In a society where all older men are "uncles," all older women are "aunts," and all people of grandparent age are "grandmother" or "grandfather," you're a fair target for commentary. Korea is the most homogeneous country in the world, and people feel a strong sense of ethnic identity. In a sense, everyone's family here. A whole nation of parental figures.

Which is bad and good. "Just leave me alone," my American-bred, independence-loving side mutters sullenly. But I know that behind the meddling, nosy exterior of Koreans (mostly older men and women, not so much the Westernized youth), there's a deep well of jong.

Jong is a complicated concept, which can be translated in a number of ways: feeling; emotion; love; affection; sentiment; passion; human nature; sympathy; compassion; heart. It's the reason why an official at the immigration office might give someone the 7th extension on their visa, if that someone were to sob out a tale of wanting to get married to their Korean boyfriend but being stymied by his parents' disapproval. (Heard that tale from a Japanese friend.) Or why a store owner might complain loudly at a beggar and then hand her some food. (Saw that on a TV drama.) Or drive a friend and his daughter and his daughter's visiting friend to a place he's seen 50 times and wait while they tour around. (See the May 11 entry on Uncle Know-All.)

I don't remember who it was, but I heard a couple of Koreans talking about the practice of paying for the person behind them at a toll on a highway. They laughed about it. "Paying it forward" is a noble concept, but jong isn't about making the world a better place. It's about acting from the heart.