※ Zoomanet[*] hosted a two-day camp last September entitled “Strengthening the Ability to Earn Money Humanely: a Record of the Work I Am Comprised Of”. It was a space for giving names to the work experiences that are not recognized socially or rewarded with money and are therefore made invisible, and for participants to identify the meaning of those experiences themselves. This series shares the writings of Obo, a 29-year-old woman who participated in the camp, in three installments. It also serves as a record of the past selves she could not contain in a resume.

 

[*] Ajumma is the Korean term for “middle-aged woman” or “married woman” which can also take on a derogatory tone. Zoomanet (pronounced ‘jummane’) combines the latter two syllables of this word and the suffix ‘ne’ to create a word that means “ajumma’s place/home”.  The organization describes itself as a “place that assists women’s independence and artistic growth”. Source: https://cafe.naver.com/zoomanett

 

▲ Participants of Zoomanet Camp 2017, “Strengthening the Ability to Earn Money Humanely: A Record of the Work I Am Comprised Of”. ©Zoomanet

Intimate Conversations

 

We gathered more closely, making a circle in a big room. The facilitator, Osol, began to speak.

 

“For about two years, I lived in Chuncheon. It was an important time when I reflected upon the times I had lived through with some distance. That time when I stopped everything and paused briefly was a very important period, but what should I call it? Are experiences that cannot be exchanged for pay or a license certificate not ‘work’? From now, we’ll bring forth the work that you believe is significant to you, regardless of the standards society has constructed—those times and experiences.”

 

Ssikssiki, who runs a small boxed lunch store, began to share her story first.

 

“I tried to focus on things that made me happy, but I couldn’t think of more than five. And even out of those memories, the most recent one is from eight years ago. These are things I’ve never mentioned before, things from the other side of my memory. One is about Cha’s dry underwear. When I was in my 20s, I worked at a facility for severely disabled kids. Most of the kids would wet their beds, and we instructors would try to fix it with hourly training. Then one day, the kid I was taking care of finally woke up with dry underwear! I think that experience is what made it possible for me to persist there for three years.”

 

She called forth her memories slowly, from one about making a magazine for disabled children to how she spent her father’s final month of life with him in a hospice ward. She called these “small joys”. The work was simple, she said, but she felt satisfied because she felt she had fulfilled her responsibilities. However, she noted that life afterward wasn’t simple.

 

Oneul followed with her story.

 

“While I was writing my master’s thesis, I did a lot of interviews. Listening to people’s stories, transcribing them, adding my analysis to them, creating new language around them—this kind of work always felt really good to me. One time I even became so obsessed with one interview that I didn’t even eat for two days. It was all I could think about. I think I felt a tremendous happiness as I immersed myself in the work. I thought I’d be able to continue that kind of work after graduation, but it didn’t turn out that way. I studied to criticize the world where everything was converted to numbers, but the academy these days is a world marked by the coldness of those numbers and a feudalistic atmosphere.”

 

The stories continued. Winter, the actor, had done all kinds of work to make a living, from staffing the free samples stand at a supermarket and being a parking lot attendant to teaching at an acting academy. Choyeon, who had gone to the UK to study film, said she had worked as a janitor, bartender, and kitchen assistant, sticking out to the very end at each job even when she had to endure harsh words. Everyone grins and bears it, I thought. In contrast, I had quit one job after not even two months.

 

▲ Taking the time to remember the work that comprises oneself. Each participant found a spot of their own and fell into deep thought. ©Zoomanet

 

Travel planner Nayoon said, “I’m the third daughter of a poor family. A daughter who shouldn’t have been born, in other words. So I think I constantly tried, subconsciously, to justify my existence. When I was young, I did that through my grades. When I look back on it now, it seems I studied like it was my job. It was really important to be called the family’s high-achieving daughter instead of an unnecessary third daughter.”

 

She said that even as an adult, hearing that she was bad at work was the worst thing she could imagine. She then brought up the story of how she was fired abruptly because she was ‘too good at her job’ and thus didn’t bolster her higher-up’s authority.

 

“The way that I’d been working, my time and the vision I had until then—all of those things fell apart. I was so hurt that I almost lost my mind. I think I changed bit by bit from that point. I started to wonder if it was right to be working incessantly to the point of self-exploitation.”

 

I was reminded of something my friend said: that work is something you shouldn’t do too well or try too hard to do well. But had I ever worked that hard? Even as I nodded my head, I chided myself for not being able to fully empathize with the story. It felt like everyone except me had been trying their best.

 

From the Outfield Bleachers

 

At that moment, a voice came from a corner.

 

“First of all, I want to say that I haven’t been trying my best. I was an outsider in the outfield bleachers.”

 

Who was this person? As I turned my head, Ruhuna had just begun to speak.

 

“Whether with job searching or going to school, I didn’t have much motivation. I wasn’t desperate, or whatever you might call it. I call myself an outsider in the outfield bleachers because if you go to a baseball field, the audience sits near first base if they’re rooting for the home team, or third if they’re supporting the visiting team. The outfield bleachers are where people who are neither sit. [When I’ve been there,] there were a lot of interesting people in the outfield bleachers. Couples who came because they couldn’t find a better place for a date, a middle-aged man who had gotten very drunk mid-day, an elderly man who seemed like a wise soul who’d descended from Gyeryong Mountain. I think I felt, ‘The outfield bleachers might be where I belong’.”

 

As I listened to Ruhuna say this is how she was, and that she wasn’t the type to be the athlete relentlessly competing on the field, I felt surprised and also jealous.

 

When writing a resume, or in the conversations at this camp, I felt anxious about how to fill in the blank periods of my past. So when I listened to the stories of how each person had tried their best, I felt troubled, and compelled to dress up my stories so that I could pass as someone who’d been trying their best, too. Yet, here was someone saying she hadn’t tried her best, that she was in the outfield bleachers. I wanted spring up and shout, “Me too!”

 

Only after midnight did the conversation come to a close. Those who had lingering memories continued to tell their stories, and I returned to our lodgings and unfolded my futon. After a shower with shockingly cold water, I lay down, my still-wet hair spread across the pillow. The smell of cow manure wafted in from a side door that had been left cracked open. The thoughts that had surfaced during the conversation did not subside easily. I waited for sleep to come, staring blankly into the ceiling.

 

[Writer profile] Obo: A jobseeker who has been writing a screenplay while holding various jobs as a part-time script writer, radio recording engineer, member of documentary film directing team, and member of a film company editing team. She wants to make a film of her own.

 

Published February 17th, 2018

Translated by Hoyoung Moon

Original article: http://ildaro.com/8126

 

◆ To see more English-language articles from Ilda, visit our English blog(https://ildaro.blogspot.com).

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