Capsule Review: The Dawn of Everything

David Graeber and David Wengrow, The Dawn of Everything (2021)

Like a lot of folks, I came to Graeber and Wengrow by way of Guns, Germs, and Steel, which came out in 1997, and which I hadn’t read when I went traveling. Since the latter book is also on my reading list, I’ll discuss it later. And since everyone on earth is right now posting a picture of their copy of The Dawn of Everything on social media, I’ll skip the summary and jump to the stuff that’s most relevant to my own project, which is a travel book about India and an exploration of how India came to mean what it did to me and other Westerners.

The indigenous critique

If you’re interested in Asia as a field of academic study — and I’m interested to have a master’s degree in it — you become acquainted with the huge, if buried, influence that the Orient (which, unlike the more contemporary “Asia,” also includes Egypt and even Morocco) had on European thought and culture, particularly from the 18th century forward: not just tea and pajamas, but a whole intellectual framework that helped Europe to define what it was against what it was not. But if Orientalism is your orientation (excuse the pun), you can start to wonder why Native American culture didn’t have the same sort of impact.

The Dawn of Everything makes a convincing case that actually it did. In particular, Graeber and Wengrow highlight what they call the indigenous critique of European society, mounted by Northeastern native groups such as the Wendat (Wyandot) and Iroquois. This critique explains why Rousseau was writing about the origins of inequality in the mid-18th century, for an essay contest on that topic, one that you’d be hard pressed to find in medieval or Renaissance philosophy. Native American observers of European society were appalled at the poverty they saw, and also by what they perceived as the enslavement of all Europeans to their social superiors. They believed that they had better lives, and the data supports them: Europeans often defected to native societies, or chose to stay after having been captured in war, while hardly any Native Americans chose to enter settler or European society until their own communities had been largely destroyed.

This can all seem like a bit of sideshow if you’re trying to find the origins of Europe’s ideas about India, but it isn’t quite. First, it shows that Europe (and Americans of European descent) were passionately interested in alternative ways of ordering society and understanding reality, be they Indian, Chinese, Persian, or Native American. An overlooked impact of the Age of Discovery on Europe is that it made Europeans aware, in a way that they had not been, that things could be different. It’s notable that the Age of Discovery precipitates a long and unprecedented period of sociopolitical revolution in Europe and its colonies, in which I’d include not just the most famous cases — 1776, 1789, 1848, 1917 — but also everything from the Reformation and the Glorious Revolution to Romanticism and the scientific and industrial revolutions.

Here’s an example, in a wonderful little side note of the kind that makes The Dawn of Everything so much fun. Somehow in the 18th century, Europeans began thinking that the right sort of state was one that was ethnically and linguistically homogenous and run by bureaucrats trained in the liberal arts and selected through competitive exams. As an indigenous invention, this makes no sense, having no precedent in Medieval European politics. But it turns out Leibniz got the idea from the Chinese, who’d been running their empire along these lines for centuries, and he said so. He and his followers insisted that this was right for Europe, and their ideas were adopted.

Why India not Indians

The Dawn of Everything is also helpful if you want to know why Indian Indians and not American Indians became popular spiritual leaders in the 1960s, and why India not Native America is seen as the locus of ancient wisdom and enlightenment. The answer lies in the way that European conservatives answered the indigenous critique.

It’s worth remembering that back in the 18th century, there was little Europeans could hold up to show themselves as better than the Iroquois or the Wendat: not better health or sanitation, not more compassionate justice, certainly not democracy. What they did have, though, was farming and technology. These had not previously been seen as especially important in and of themselves, but they became crucial in the European response to the indigenous critique. Yes, argued the Europeans, Native Americans may be free and equal, but this is only possible because they are materially poor: no farmed land, no advanced technology. A theory was formulated about stages of development, from the barbarism of hunter-gatherers to agriculture and civilization.

This evolutionary model became incredibly influential. You’ve probably absorbed it without necessarily thinking about it. It turned hunter-gatherers, even those with complex political societies, into primitives, children in a state of nature. Children might say things that are profound, and they may have a certain sort of wisdom, but they’re not gurus, not World Masters. No true dialogue is possible between them and us.

Putting people into prehistory

Maybe the best thing The Dawn of Everything does is put human agency back into prehistory. History is full of individuals; even if you’re opposed to the Great Man school of historiography, you have to acknowledge that people like Alexander and Genghis Khan and Muhammed and Martin Luther and Napoleon made a difference, and that history would have taken a different course without them. So it has always felt odd that prehistoric groups are treated more like wild animal herds, migrating in search of food or because of changing climates but never because some individual prophet heard a voice telling him to or because an unbearable political climate pushed people to escape it. Graeber and Wengrow marshal archeological evidence and impressive interpretive acumen to show that we can, in fact, see these kinds of activity in prehistoric societies, even if we don’t know the names and dates precisely. The Dawn of Everything is above all a humanizing book, and for that it deserves the attention and praise it’s receiving.

Capsule Review: Be Here Now

Ram Dass, Be Here Now (1971)

When I was preparing for my trip to India in 1997, I lived with my grandparents in their Upper West Side apartment. My room had been my grandmother’s psychology studio, and it was lined with her books. (As an adolescent, I found the Kinsey Report.) I remember the odd, square book with the trippy purple cover staring out at me: REMEMBER NOW BE HERE NOW HERE BE NOW BE NOWHERE NOW BE HERE NOW BE HERE NOW.

I never opened it back then, far too focused on being elsewhere soon to bother with being here now. But somehow it crept back into my consciousness sometime last year. Be Here Now came to me at a moment when I needed it (which is something that would have surprised neither Ram Dass nor my grandmother) and played no small part in unlocking the door to my current writing project.

Be Here Now has no official author, but it’s by Ram Dass, born Richard Alpert, a smart Yid from Boston who found his way to Harvard, then to psychedelics, and finally to India. The book couldn’t be more of its moment if it were wearing a beaded macrame dress (it almost is) and listening to Joy to the World by Three Dog Night (it almost is). It’s divided into two sections. The first is a kind of graphic novel, all swirly psychedelics, about Alpert’s journey to becoming Ram Dass. The second is a cookbook, more or less, for tuning in and dropping out and going on a spiritual journey like Alpert did, with chapters on everything from breathing exercises to sex (with a delightfully honest admission that no one involved in writing the book really knows how to handle sex and spirituality) to starting an intentional community.

The time capsule quality of this thing is inescapable, from its visual style to its groovy dude diction. I was born in Marin County, California, in 1974, so this whole vibe is one that’s familiar from my childhood. Be Here Now is my madeleine. It’s full of absolute horseshit nonsense, as you would expect it to be, but it’s also wonderful, so sweet and lovely and loving and full of hope from a time when spiritual transformation seemed immanent and we didn’t know yet the Hare Krishnas abused kids. Like the best of that era, it achieves its saintliness by eschewing it. Dass is just another holy schmuck on the path, and he makes you realize you’re one too, and that it’s all OK. Just be where you are. Be here now.

Capsule Review: Heart of Darkness

As research for a travel book about India and Nepal, I’m reading a whole bunch. I figure I might as well post some short reviews of these books as I finish them.

Conrad, Joseph, Heart of Darkness (1899)

I first read Heart of Darkness in high school and didn’t get it. This may have something to do with its intentional vagueness, or with the fact that I’d never been outside the US to experience the dislocations that come with encountering an alien environment and culture. Not incidentally, this was also the first book I read after I started getting high every day, so there’s that.

I read it again late in my trip to India (still stoned), and then I felt it in my bones. My little tourist sojourn , riding in buses and trains and sleeping in hotels, had generated a shocking amount of rage and frustration in me. I was nowhere near “Exterminate the brutes,” but I could see how one would get there. I faced no great risks, ate restaurant meals, and had just completed a liberal arts education specifically designed to imbue me with a sense of shared humanity, and how many times had a combination of heat, exhaustion, mild illness, and culture shock driven me to screaming into the face of some person who made less money in a year than I was carrying in my money belt? And screaming at them because they were doing it wrong, whatever it was: preparing food, or overcharging me for something, or taking me to the wrong place. My tantrums were grotesque, and I knew they were, but I didn’t always have complete control over them. I could see how for Kurtz and men like him, under conditions far more extreme, the path from tantrums to mass murder was not a long or difficult one. I didn’t really hold myself above that either. Set the conditions, and any of us may turn out to be a monster.

Now, reading it yet again decades later, it still holds its power, though it’s less shocking than it once was. I don’t really buy the critiques, most famously from Chinua Achebe, that the book is a racist, colonialist depiction of Africa as the Dark Continent. It’s a book about racism and colonialism, deeply skeptical and with a fierce, burning anger at the supposedly civilized and civilizing forces of Europe that fired cannons into the forest and enslaved and starved the Africans they were supposedly saving. There is no Kiplingesque celebration of the white man’s burden to be found in Heart of Darkness. The name itself is a redirecting of the “darkest Africa” trope toward Kurtz’s dark heart, his hollowness, the dark heart of the whole European enterprise.

Heart of Darkness had a profound effect on me when I read it in India, clarifying a dangerous and ugly strain in my own mind — my own heart of darkness. It’s a book that holds up, a rare critical voice from the highwater period of European colonialism, published two years before Kipling’s Kim but seeming more contemporary to Orwell. Well worth a read now, especially if you’ve ever been angry and flustered in a place that was not your own.

New Year Goals and Dreams

It’s a new year, our third of the pandemic. I’ve never been one for new year’s resolutions, and things are about as unresolved as we’ve ever known them. Still, it’s worth reflecting on where I hope this year will take me.

Working on my book is my big personal goal. I’ve done nearly five thousand pages of reading for background research and assigned myself another nine thousand or so. As I read, new avenues open up, so the reading list may well grow. Still, I’ve set a goal of finishing all this research, including interviews with family members, by my birthday in September. As delightful as all this research is, at some point I need to finish and actually write.

And that will be a different challenge, one I’ve been putting off. I will be interested to see how far I get and what I can create once I begin.

Ancillary to that, I’ve also been poking around Twitter, following authors I’m interested in, making some little stab at connecting to the wider world. When (not if) this thing gets written, I want to publish it, and I want someone to read it. I don’t have much of a plan mapped out for that stage, but I figure having some writers who know who I am and think I’m clever is a first step.

Hopes

There are other things I want to do that are out of my control. I want to stand in a crowd without fear. I want to go to Gangnam and eat at Brick Oven Pizza. Above all, I want to visit the US and see my family.

Will that be possible? We really don’t know at this point. I was hopeful, last summer, that maybe this February would have been plausible, but now America is on fire with COVID.

But I miss my family. There are two babies I haven’t yet met. The other kids are growing up. My parents are getting older. I realize that these kinds of long separations were more common in the past, but we’ve never had to be apart this long. It will be good to be together again.

The long and winding road

So much comes from asking the right questions.

As part of the writing project I mentioned back on my birthday, I’ve compiled a sprawling reading list to answer questions that have emerged as I’ve begun to think about my travels in India.

One of the books that’s a bit further afield is a brand new work, The Dawn of Everything, by David Graeber and David Wengrow. I’m only a little way in, but already it has helped to reframe a great deal. They argue convincingly that the Enlightenment, and European ideas of equality and freedom — concepts rarely discussed in the Middle Ages — emerged from a serious intellectual engagement with a broad Native American critique of European society. (There is also a fascinating aside in which they point out that Europe, seemingly out of nowhere, adopted a system of culturally uniform states administered by liberal arts-educated bureaucrats who passed competitive exams, and did so after Leibniz and his followers specifically cited China as a model of statecraft, and that no one ever talks about this.)

Their insights come from asking a brilliant question: Why did Europe become obsessed with liberty and equality when it did? Instead of reiterating either Rousseau or Hobbes, as most scholars of prehistory tend to do in trying to understand ancient human societies (it’s there in Guns, Germs and Steel, which came out the year I went to India), they start by asking how Rousseau and Hobbes came to be interested in a supposed state of nature, and how they came to believe that inequality was something that happened, not something that always was.

The Enlightenment as an encounter

Their answer focuses on a neglected element of the Enlightenment, which they argue was to a great extent a response to Native American critiques of Western society. They point out that one of the reasons travel literature became so popular in that era was that it revealed alternative social possibilities: the way things were was not the way they had to be.

This dovetails with a track closer to my own study, which is the idea of an Oriental renaissance in Europe, a kind of sequel to the Greco-Roman renaissance with which we’re familiar. The emergence of ancient literatures predating the Bible, especially Sanskrit literature, inspired a burst of creativity and critique in Europe in the nineteenth century that led, circuitously, to Helena Blavatsky locating her mystic Masters in Tibet, to Nietzche naming his most famous work after an ancient Persian, to the invention of Shangri La in 1931, to Nazis adopting the swastika, to people like Aldous Huxley and Timothy Leary and Allen Ginsburg and Ram Dass voyaging to India in search of wisdom, to the Beatles recording “Within You, Without You,” and to yours truly taking a Cosmic Air flight through the Himalayas.

The biggest joke

I’ve worried sometimes that all this reading — I’m 3000 pages in, with 5000 pages to go, if I don’t add any more books — is a way of avoiding the actual writing. But then I think back to my master’s thesis, a mere 48 pages that emerged from four years of graduate school and two separate research trips to Korea. It takes time to gather all the pieces.

If you want an example of the long, discursive process of creation, you can do worse than watching Peter Jackson’s four-million-hour Get Back documentary. There’s a lot of screwing around, and a lot of journeying down interesting but fruitless byways, to create “Let It Be” and “Don’t Let Me Down,” and there are also unexpected serendipities like the appearance of Billy Preston that make things work. I have to remind myself to let the journey unfold — which is something I suppose I had to do in the first place back in India.

I was struck by Paul McCartney talking about his own time in India, when he wasn’t much older than I was back in 1997. “We probably should have been ourselves a lot more,” he says, and George Harrison replies that this is the biggest joke — that they’d gone to India to find their true selves. Then he adds, “if you were really yourself, you wouldn’t be any of who we are now.”

Is that why I went to India? And was I myself while I was there? Part of being confronted by cultures so different from my own was coming to grips with who I actually was, what was me and what was merely my situation. It’s the question Conrad asks in Heart of Darkness, and it’s the question that encounters with new cultures posed to Europeans in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

Bonus: The reading list

If this all feels a little wandery and unfocused, that’s because it is. That’s where I’m at, and it’s great to be here. More will unfold as the research continues! For those of you who want to read along, here’s the list so far.

Conrad, JosephHeart of Doarkness
Dass, RamBe Here Now
Dass, RamGrist for the Mill
Dass, RamThe Only Dance There Is
Diamond, JaredGuns, Germs, and Steel
Douglas, EdHimalaya: A Human History
Eck, Diana L.Banares: City of Light
Gemie, Sharif and Ireland, BrianThe Hippie Trail: A History
Graeber and WengrowThe Dawn of Everything
Guha, RamachandraInda After Gandhi
Heller, JosephSomething Happened
Keay, JohnIndia: A History
Kerouac, JackOn the Road
Liechty, MarkFar Out
Rushdie, SalmanMidnight’s Children
Rushdie, SalmanThe Moor’s Last Sigh
Said, EdwardOrientalism
SaldanhaMusic tourism and factions of bodies in Goa
Schwab, RaymondOriental Renaissance: Europe’s Rediscovery of India and the East, 1680-1880
Washington, PeterMadame Blavatsky’s Baboon
Whelpton, JohnA History of Nepal

Twenty Years Ago Today

Today marks twenty years since I first arrived in South Korea, knowing next to nothing about the place. My main purpose was to live abroad for a year anywhere that would pay me enough that I could then go traveling in India and Nepal. Those were the places that interested me.

Back then no one was interested in South Korea, which was almost militantly boring. People wore Western clothes, all the buildings were new and bad and dull, and what traditional culture existed was either hidden from view or presented in anesthetized form in folk villages and anemic heritage performances. As Michael Breen points out in The Koreans, the big palaces in Seoul weren’t even lighted at night, something that most countries do to show off their most significant monuments. Korea was still promoting itself mainly as a business destination: “Dynamic Korea, the Hub of Asia.” (The assistant director of the school where I taught once asked me, in all seriousness, “So, do you think Korea is dynamic?”) In 2002 Korea hosted the FIFA World Cup, a generic bid for global outreach if ever there was one.

The country was known (to the extent that it was known) for its economic miracle, transforming from a country that accepted aid from Ethiopia into a global powerhouse. But the transformation of the past two decades is almost as astonishing. At this particular moment, the Korean drama Squid Game is taking over the world on Netflix. Korean artists BTS and Lisa from Blackpink are topping global music charts. The Korean film Parasite won Best Picture at the Oscars in 2020; Minari, a Korean-language American film, was nominated in 2021. And chances are good you’re reading this on a Samsung smartphone, because Korea’s biggest company is the world’s leading maker of the signature technology of our era. Korea has become a cultural powerhouse, something you wouldn’t have predicted if you’d seen the fashions and heard the pop music back in 2001. My arrival predated the first major breakthrough of hallyu, the Korean wave: the drama Winter Sonata would take over the hearts of Japanese women in 2002.

How this all happened is a long story, but it’s notable that a lot of it was intentional at the highest levels. When I was working for the South Korean government at the UN, sometime between 2004 and 2008, a diplomat explained to me that if Korea was going to have power in the world, it would have to be soft power — cultural power. It’s not accidental that Swedish megaproducers got the visas they needed to work with Korean pop stars or that Korean dramas ended up on Iranian and Malaysian TV networks.

I remember being startled by the number of people in 2012 who wanted to talk to me about something called “Gangnam Style.” By then I’d left the Korean government job, but I was still studying Korean and even learning traditional Korean dance, so people knew I was the Korea guy. And suddenly this middling Korean pop song was getting all kinds of attention. What baffled me was that it was satire, of all things — satire of K-pop and of a certain element of Seoul society. I had no idea what this all meant to people who knew nothing about either of those things. It was as if Seinfeld suddenly shot to popularity in rural Indonesia. I still don’t really know what the Korean wave looks like to its fans. I’ve known Korea too long. I knew Korea before it was famous.

A lot has changed for me too in twenty years. That first visit was meant to be temporary, and it was, and yet here I am, with a wife and daughter and a permanent resident card in my wallet, working for that most Korean of companies on that signature product. My life was changed by an accidental encounter on my way to somewhere else. That was, in fact, how it was for most foreigners who got involved with Korea, from Hendrick Hamel to Douglas MacArthur and beyond. I’m proud to call South Korea my home, to play my small role in this latest transformation, and to be a part of raising the next generation in this extraordinary place.

Let’s see what the next twenty years brings!

The Year of Stories

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity.

William Wordsworth, Lyrical Ballads

Tranquility

Some years ago, I took up traditional Korean dance for a while. At the start, it was just me and my teacher and these three old ladies, all of us practicing basic movements. At the end of the hour, when my shoulders ached and I was drenched in sweat, the old ladies would be laughing and smiling with the teacher. I couldn’t figure out how they did it.

And then, after maybe six months of doing these same dumb movements again and again — arms up, arms down, arms up, arms down — one day I felt my shoulders drop. I stopped trying and just danced. What had been so exhausting, so effortful, became natural and easy.

Two years into being a husband and a father, something similar seems to have happened. I’ve felt something slip into place. I’m not striving anymore, or trying to make it all be a certain way. I’m just doing it.

Spontaneous overflow

With that settling into my new roles came an unexpected burst of creativity.

Half my lifetime ago — I was 23 then, just out of college, and today I’m turning 47 — I spent four months in India and Nepal. I’ve wanted to write about it ever since, but somehow the writing never came.

Until now. What began as a little blog post about how technology has changed travel — digital maps and social media replacing guidebooks and backpacker cafes, that sort of thing — suddenly turned into the stories themselves.

I’d held onto these stories for years, feeling like I had no right to tell them — like they wouldn’t be interesting unless I had some excuse for them, some unifying theme or grand idea. But then I thought about all those New Yorker articles about that summer the writer worked in a grocery store or chopped wood or whatever, and I realized that stories are just stories. They’re interesting if you’re interested.

At first I worried that this sudden outpouring of writing about long-ago travel was a kind of nostalgia trip, a pining for a way of life foreclosed by fatherhood and a global pandemic. But that wasn’t it. It was something like the opposite, in fact. I’m not pining anymore for the road. I’m home. Maybe at last I can write about that long-ago trip because it’s finally over.

Recollecting

So now I’m literally re-collecting — transcribing my old notebooks (thanks Mom for taking pictures of all those pages while studiously not reading them!), getting in contact with long-forgotten travel partners (thanks Zuck!), reading histories of India and Nepal and the Hippie Trail and the Goa party scene. What will emerge from all this? I don’t know. But for now, as Toni Morrison put it, I’m writing the book I want to read.

The start of a reading list.

It’s great to have a new project. My family think it’s cool that I’m writing. My daughter likes to hear the little stories about falling off a camel or getting lost in the Himalayas as they come back to me. Maybe in some way this is all for her. Being a dad means telling your kid the stories that shape her world and give her a sense of wonder to go out into it.

So this year is the year of stories, of emotion recollected in tranquility. It’s the start of a new journey, but a journey that can only be undertaken from the comfort of home.

In the Woods

If you’ve spent time hiking in the Korean mountains, you know they can be more treacherous than they look. The trail gives way to open granite slabs, or clings to an unexpected cliff edge, or there’s a rope you need to pull yourself up by, and a chasm waiting below if your grip fails.

But in my experience, these visible danger spots aren’t where you get hurt. The twisted ankles and surprise tumbles come on the way down, at the end, when your legs are shaky and your mind has wandered from the trail to the cool drink you’ll have when you reach the inevitable country restaurants at the bottom of the mountain. The end of the trail stretches out longer than you thought it would. You see a drink machine and think you must be almost done, but the drink machine won’t take your money, and the trail veers unexpectedly into a boulder-strewn riverbed. The packs of overdressed hikers you passed on the way up seem to have disappeared. You start to wonder if you’re even on the right path. You look around for shortcuts.

This is where we are now with coronavirus in Korea. The sense of impending crisis is long gone. We know the end is near, but we’re not sure how long it will be until we get there, and we’re tired. We’re all going to get vaccinated sooner or later, but we hoped it was sooner, and it’s later. We’ve watched our friends and family get vaccinated in the US or elsewhere, watch as life back home has started getting back to normal — a normal, it should be noted, that looks a lot like how things have been pretty much all along in Korea, but still.

It’s easy to get frustrated under the circumstances. As far as vaccines go, the short-lived program to give leftover AstraZeneca doses to people under 60 felt especially demoralizing. It was never more than marginal — the no-show rate is just 2% — and the rollout of the Naver and Kakao reservation platforms was a technical feat, but it still felt like a bait and switch. It’s the broken drink machine before the boulder field.

But the trail does have an end. Teachers and high school seniors will be vaccinated during the summer break in July. A timetable for people under 60 is supposed to be announced in the third week of June, just a couple of weeks away. Herd immunity by November is still the goal.

When you’re in that boulder field, tired and thirsty, there’s nothing to do but keep moving and stay cautious. That’s where we are, and that’s what we need to do.

Old School

Most people don’t know this about me, but I was an award-winning rapper way back when. I was recognized for my rap game before Native Tongues, before Colors, before N.W.A. or “Boyz-n-the-Hood.” I have a certain claim to having been there early, if not actually at the beginning.

That I was recognized by the Kiwanis Club of San Rafael, California, bears mentioning. As a sixth grader at Miller Creek Middle School, in Marinwood, I won second prize in a contest they sponsored to make promos for a sober graduation. If this sounds like the whitest thing ever, that’s because it was.

The idea to make a rap was not my own. That came from, I think, my social studies teacher, who was also the art teacher. I have no idea what she knew about rap or why she thought I ought to try it. At that point, I only owned two rap albums, Run-DMC’s Raising Hell and The Beastie Boys’ License to Ill. I’d seen Breakin’ 2: Eletric Boogaloo in the theater, and I remember my dad saying he liked “You Be Illin’.” We had only recently stopped calling the genre “break dancing music.” In the next year or two, I’d get to know the Colors soundtrack, Kool Moe Dee, and the dirty raps of 2 Live Crew and Too Short. But that was all in the future. In sixth grade, The Beastie Boys were everything. I remember a field trip where the entire bus was chanting “Paul Revere.” No idea where we were actually going.

I may have known next to nothing about hip hop, but I took the rap recording very seriously. I can’t recall now where I got my beats, but I must have had them. I can’t remember any lyrics except for the final words, delivered with all the toughness I could muster: “Don’t … drink … and driiiiive.” I do remember laboring over one particular line where I could put the rhythmic emphasis either of two ways, and I liked them equally. I worked hard on my delivery.

I didn’t know anything about the Kiwanis Club or similar organizations. My grandfather was a Freemason because it made his father-in-law happy, but he had zero interest in it by the time I was born. My parents were hippies who didn’t go in for that sort of thing. We did Indian Guides instead of Boy Scouts. So the award ceremony, held at a Kiwanis luncheon, was like a visit to a foreign country. They started with grace and then the Pledge of Allegiance. It freaked me out. I’d never heard anyone say grace before. Hamotzi, sure. Grace, no.

The prize was two shares of Pacific Gas & Electric, worth about forty dollars, which, if I had held on to them until today, would be worth about twenty dollars. I don’t remember ever selling them, but I must have. It’s not much, but I can say honestly that I got paid for my award-winning rhymes before Jay-Z or Biggie or Pac ever did.

Hotel, motel, Holiday Inn, Kiwanis Club.

Hagwonomics

Nearly twenty years ago, I came to Korea to teach English at an after-school academy. As a starting teacher, I got 2.1 million won a month and a place to live. Astonishingly, this is still exactly what new teachers get. The exchange rate has hardly budged for decades, always hovering around 1100 won per dollar, which amounts to about $1900 a month, or $23,000 a year. What has changed is how much those dollars are worth in real terms, and also how much everyone else in Korea is earning.

Inflation and GDP

Let’s look at inflation first. If hagwon salaries kept up with inflation, the starting rate would be about 3.1 million (about $2850 a month, or $34,000 a year) — not exactly riches, but above the median personal income in the United States. (US and Korean inflation have tracked closely, so the same is roughly true in dollar terms.) Throw in the free housing, and you’ve got a salary that was close to what dot-coms were handing out in those years to inexperienced college grads, and something well above what you could get starting out in publishing (these are the fields I poked around in, so it’s what I know about).

But in terms of wealth and what it feels like, a huge factor is how much you’re making compared to people around you. And that’s where things have changed most drastically for English teachers in Korea.

In 2001, the per capita GDP in Korea was $11,561 (2001 dollars). As an English teacher, you were making nearly double the per capita GDP, and you didn’t have housing expenses. This didn’t make you rich exactly, but it was enough money that you could afford luxuries many people couldn’t while still saving money.

In 2019, the per capita GDP had soared to $30,644. A hagwon salary is now around 75% of per capita GDP. Again, with the free housing, it’s not nothing. And inflation hasn’t kept up with the rising incomes, so what exactly does this mean in real terms?

Korean business have, of course, found ways to help people part with their greater wealth. In 2001, no one had a smartphone or a 40-inch flat-screen TV. Starbucks and the many homegrown Korean equivalents weren’t yet ubiquitous. There’s been a huge expansion in the available fashion, cosmetics, entertainment, cuisine. More Koreans have cars, and they’re nicer cars. More Koreans have foreign sneakers. More Koreans drink foreign beer, or drink wine. More Koreans travel abroad. Korea’s housing stock has improved, so a lot of people live in places that are nicer than a teacher’s one-room. A typical date costs more. And teachers are lower on the economic ladder than they once were.

Why salaries haven’t budged

So here’s where I’m gonna get into some conjecture, but if I had to guess why salaries haven’t changed in decades — why they have, in real terms, declined — I would give three reasons: Korea’s more appealing than it was, living abroad is more popular than it was for Westerners, and Korean demographics are changing.

The Korea of 2021 is not the Korea of 2001. When I first came here, there was no Korean wave. Winter Sonata was in the future. Bong Joon-ho had made just one movie, and it was a flop. Kpop was low-budget and derivative. Japan was cool, and China was the future, and Korea was nondescript. No one in the US knew about Korean culture. I remember going to a kimchi expo at COEX in Seoul back in 2002, where kimchi producers were declaring their plans to make fermented cabbage a global food. It seemed naive and a little sad. I would not have guessed that twenty years later, suburban Americans would be buying jars of the stuff at the local H Mart. Back then, my head would whip around when I spotted another Westerner because there weren’t many of us. To quote Monty Python, Korea felt like “a close second to Belgium when going abroad.”

At the same time, living abroad has become far more appealing that it was. Stagnant economies in North America and Europe are the push, but it’s the pull that has changed dramatically. These days (well, pre-pandemic, anyway), you can land in country not speaking the language and do most of what you need with a smartphone: book a hotel, hail a taxi, navigate public transit, even translate a menu. You can also message and video chat with the folks back home. Dating and social apps make it easy to meet locals and other expats and to find social events. None of this was easily available twenty years ago. I had to go across the street to the PC room just to check my email. To be an expat then was to be isolated in a way that’s barely imaginable today. Living abroad is just way, way easier than it was.

Meanwhile, Korea has had a low birth rate for years. The 0-14 population was 9.2 million in 2006 and 5.5 million in 2020. There are half as many kids, which doesn’t exactly translate to half as many teaching jobs — increased wealth can mean smaller class sizes and a higher percentage of kids in after-school academies — but it does suggest a declining number of teaching positions.

Thoughts for the future

It’s hard to know what the shape of the world will be after the pandemic is over, but it seems likely that people will again want to travel and live abroad, and that Korea’s social capital will be at least as strong as it was in 2019. And Korea’s economy has held up relatively well. Meanwhile, Korea’s demographic decline has only deepened.

Without new laws or a change in demand, the long, slow decline in teaching salaries should continue. Will the pandemic engender a shift to remote learning? I’m guessing parents will still want personal exposure to real, live foreigners. What might change is the reliance on inexperienced, largely unqualified teachers. As Koreans get wealthier, they may begin to demand a greater level of professionalism from their English teachers: a teaching degree, perhaps, or at least a certification.

But for now, it’s still 2.1 million and a one-room for any college graduate from the right countries. That’s just not quite the deal it once was.