For example, a girl's elder brother is "oppa," but a boy's elder brother is "hyeong." Husband of a girl's elder sister is "hyeongbu," but husband of a boy's elder sister is "maehyeong." My aunt on my mother's side is "Imo," whereas my aunt on my father's side is "Gomo" (special side note about that - when you go into a restaurant and you're not sure of the status of your waitress, you revert to calling her "Imo," because everyone knows, as my Korean friend explained to me, that everyone is more fond of their mother's sister than they are of their father's sister).
Needless to say, it gets a little confusing. I just want to know one word for aunt, one word for brother, and one word for friend instead of having to remember the special name for my father's sister's youngest daughter's husband. But from the Korean perspective, they can't understand why on earth we would want to put ourselves through the elongated possessive ordering of saying "My neighbor's daughter's boyfriend's parents' dog attacked me last night."
Also, because Korean people have a special name for every kind of relationship, this means they want to know everything about you when they first meet you. It's very common for me to meet a new person, and they'll never ask me my name, but for 15 minutes they'll fire a battery of questions at me, such as "Where are you from? What is your job? Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? Who was your first lover? How long are you staying in Korea? But no seriously, WHEN are you planning to get married?"
At first, it felt a little strange to be asked so many personal questions, especially when they were coming from my male students. But it felt even stranger to have a 30-minute conversation with someone, only to have it end abruptly once the Korean person was satisfied about how I was going to fit into their society, because I would stare at them as they walked away and silently ask "But what is your name?"
The reason why they don't feel the need to ask a person's name is because their job is considered to be more important. Thus, everyone addresses one another based on their title. When I want to call out to one of my friends at school, I say "San Sang Nim!" ("Teacher!"), or "SSAM" for short. Yes, you would think that every teacher within earshot would turn around when hearing this, but miraculously, the teacher you're aiming for seems to know when it's he or she who's being called upon.
When you go into a hospital, you address each person there as "nurse" or "doctor," and if you bump into your friend while shopping at the local market, you address her as "chubu," which means "housewife," because raising children is considered to be an honorable full-time job, so it's important to address such a woman with the respectful title.
We Westerners like to say our name immediately upon introduction, as if our name and name alone will somehow signify everything the other person needs to know about us. And maybe that was true centuries ago, when our surname related to our job, such as Blacksmith, Farmer, or Builder. But nowadays it holds no other meaning than the people we're related to, which is why the introduction can oftentimes be followed with, "Ohhhh, is your mother's sister's husband's father the owner of the bank?"
I'll end this post with what originally inspired me to write it, which was the encounter I just had with the local restaurant owner of the place where I like to buy my gimbab (any number of ingredients rolled up with rice in a dried seaweed wrap):
I've been going to this restaurant for several months now, and I always walk in and say "Chomchi gimbab hana poja, ju-sey-oh," which means "please give me one tuna gimbab to go please." I don't know why it took so many months for the Imo at this restaurant to finally have the courage to barrage me with the typical set of introductory questions. Perhaps my pronunciation has improved and she therefore thinks I might speak a little more Korean now, or perhaps she was trying to get up the nerve to ask me the questions in English but gave up. Or maybe the way I was dressed today lent an air of approachability. I don't know. But whatever the reason, she meekly handed me my gimbab then in rapid succession hit me with "Are you Russian? Oh, teacher? Where? How old are you? Are you married? No, do you want to marry a Korean man?" When I finished explaining the origin of my particular type of species, she seemed much more relaxed and confident and then smiled at me as she put extra radishes in my bag and said, "Service-ee for beautiful woman."
I had no idea that I had been stressing this poor old lady out by not offering up this vital information about myself from the very first time I stepped foot into her restaurant, but I'm glad she had the courage to approach me today. Hopefully she'll no longer look terrified every time I stop by, and with any luck I'll continue to score free radishes based on my looks. I just wish I knew her name.
