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Ever since I first encountered the tolerant sadness of wedded Korean women, I've been interested in the institution of marriage here. I've never heard a female here talk positively about her relationship: their grievances against husbands run the gamut from silent neglect to hyper-jealousy. They don't know anything about sex because they've barely had it - most've only dabbled to procreate and now that the ring's on the finger and baby's in the crib, the man of the house is 'engaged' elsewhere. It's said that 90% of all Korean men cheat on their wives at whiskey clubs and company shindigs. This is an accepted part of society here. A Korean friend recently told me about a rowdy social with his new corporation, where the bosses hired everyone hookers as a bonding experience. In this country wives get the shaft, although never in the good way.

I am sure the reality isn't as atrocious as the portrait - I have seen many couples happily walking hand-in-hand beneath cerulean skies, enjoying the day with their children. I notice high school kids curled up against each other in cafes, asleep, together despite their curfews and their monumental academic stress. I can't ever picture them asleep on split beds, bitter and divided. I refuse to believe that infidelity and lovelessness is everywhere.

And yet the institution of marriage here often seems to be a facade, a photo-op with tragic results. We once brazenly walked into a wedding held in Myong-dong Cathedral. Behind the bride and groom, an enormous cache of lights ensured a maximum level of picturesque moments: the altar was as carefully planned as a movie set. As the newly-wedded couple walked down the isle, we stood to congratulate them in our own boorish Western way - we had been moved - but they stopped halfway and returned to the altar for photographs. They had pantomimed walking out of the church for the sake of the wedding video. The guests began to leave, their presence superceded by pictures and an overwhelming lust for recorded memories. The couple smiled obligingly for the flashbulbs as workers began to take down the decorations around them.

It felt somehow wrong, somehow hollow. Weeks later, Belinda described a wedding she and Dook attended a few weeks back and her findings opened my mouth wide.

The gathering was huge but most of the guests were socializing in back rooms - not even bothering to witness the ceremony. As the vows were finalized, people began pouring into the main hall to give white envelopes to the couple: wedding gifts, cash, to the tune of 50 or 100 bucks per guest. Then most of them left hurriedly as food was served. One hour in, one hour out.

Belinda was told (and told me... and I'm telling you) that many people attend weddings specifically for the purpose of giving money. Some families attend several unions a weekend, forking out dough each time. Why would anyone want to do that, I wondered, my mouth inexplicably full of chicken. If you're going to a wedding and have to pay for it, I think you'd damn well want to stay for the food instead of rushing off to the next ceremony. There might be free chicken! But Belinda elaborated fearsomely.

The connection between guest and the couple is sometimes featherweight, most often facilitated between the groom's parents and their extended social network. Every time a parent attends the wedding of an associate's progeny, no matter how remotely affiliated, they record the amount of their gift in a little diary. When their own child marries, the wedding guest list is compiled from this diary. Every family that has received money in the past now owes money. It is understood that they will attend the ceremony, paper envelopes in hand, at the risk of delivering a terrible insult by declining the invitation. They will return the investment, and this is often what weddings are called: an investment, a 'second job'.

And this is why marriage is such a sullied institution in Korea. Marriage is not a celebration of friends and family and coming together: it is a glorified fundraiser. The wishes of the groom and bride are brushed aside. A small wedding with close friends is an impossible dream. To earn money for a future together, you have to begin that future in an overlit hall full of avaricious, disinterested strangers.

This is why unhappy mothers push oh so hard for their daughters to marry without love, why the age of thirty signals desperation and failure. Parents who have invested in marriage get no return if their child doesn't wed. They have delivered countless white envelopes into the hands of virtual strangers. They expect recompense: for their child's perceived future, for themselves. In Korea, parents survive old age on the financial support of their descendants alone.

This is why divorce is made impossible: by a woman's family, not by her spouse. The debts have all been paid at the first wedding - a second would never receive gifts. In the parents' minds, divorce is a crashing financial failure tenfold worse than simple marital unhappiness. What's worse, the children of divorced parents can't live with either of them: by government mandate, the split couple are branded unfit parents. One of the kids in my homeroom comes from a broken family and he lives with his grandparents. Although his mother is still a large part of his life, she cannot be his legal guardian. Ending an unhealthy relationship has never been so costly. Starting over has never been so difficult.

This is, I think, why wives in Korea are taken for granted so easily and abundantly. They are tied to their vows with bonds stronger than those found in any religious text. Their own family threatens excommunication; their children are held hostage.

I have heard that, since most weddings take place in specialized halls on the fifteenth floor of some building and not a church, the act of "I Do" is simply a picture show of pomp until the couple actually registers their union at City Hall. I have also heard that some wives, entrusted with this task, secretly don't ever register, which gives them an easier avenue of escape later down the road. So perhaps there is hope in subversion and tactile rebellion, somewhere deep down inside this mess.

I would like to think that change is coming, a revolution of young Koreans who realize that weddings should not be mistaken for a lending cartel. I would hope that, one day, mothers will realize that it is not their duty to inflict the same unhappiness on their daughters that they themselves endured. Perhaps fathers will think twice before rushing their offspring up the isle just so they can claim lucrative marriage doweries from corporate overlords.

But for now, I think one particular tradition in Korean marriage encapsulates the current state of things quite nicely. The best man often requests the groom to hoist the bride's mother onto his back and do deep knee bends in front of the congregation, ajima perched precariously on his shoulders, to prove to everyone that he is strong. This crazy stunt supposedly shows the whole world how much he loves his new wife.

How much he loves his wife... who he might not even love, because he might've met her two months ago through a parentally-enforced matchmaking service. And perhaps she's reached the end of her 'silver' years and been guilt-tripped-strong-armed into reclaiming a costly investment. But hey, maybe they actually like each other a little. Maybe they'll learn to love, once they have no other choice. Maybe, just maybe, he's part of the 10% who believe in marital fidelity.

And at least he can lift her conniving mom onto his back. Right on up there, strong as an ox he is! That's pretty good, right?

Right?

Posted by Chris at 08:36 AM >> Commentations (2)