Korean winters are fucking cold. The summers are hot and wet, and walking outside sometimes feels like walking into a warm bath. That's not to say it's a bad place to visit. The spring is beautiful, and the florescence of cherry blossoms paint the country side a gorgeous shade of pink and orange. Dry dead bushes turn from churned twigs and mangled sticks into bright expositions of vivid green. The autumn is awesome too. Leaves cover the ground as they fall, and kids race to stomp and crunch them on their way to school. Walkways are sheltered by yellow, orange, and fiery red trees. Still, the winters are fucking cold.
The harshness of the winter is why Koreans cherish the spring so much; after enduring the frigid temperatures, frozen side walks, and the piercing wind, springtime is a welcomed relief. My experience of these chilly winters was made easier thanks to modern heating, thick blankets, and my knock-off Northface jacket bought for ₩30,000 in Iteawon.
In ancient times winters meant a struggle for survival. A staple of Korean cuisine is kimchi- a product of these harsh Korean winters. The mountainous landscape made it hard to grow food, and in preparation for the winter ancient Koreans would ferment cabbage and bury it in the ground to keep it from fully freezing over. This became a much valued source of vegetables during the cold season. Over time, spices and flavors were added to turn this dish from a survival tactic to an essential part of almost every Korean meal.
Kimchi is just one example of the Korean ability to make the best out of a dire situation. It is in the Korean character to endure- to fight. Before embarking on a difficult situation, it is common to hear Koreans shout "FIGHTING!" as a way to bolster their spirits. These situations can be anything from taking a school exam to fighting in cage for Road FC. Once on a rafting trip through river rapids our Korean guide had us yell "Fighting!" every time we came up on a rapid, and then again after passing the white water.
Many people have used the metaphor of a fight to represent struggles in life. Ronda Rousey's book centered on the idea that her life was a fight, and Chael Sonnen regularly refers to getting out of bed in the morning as a fight. But to Koreans fighting is not just a personal character trait that makes one tough or willing to endure- it is a cultural identity.
Being Korean is tough. To survive both as a sovereign nation and as a distinct cultural group, Koreans have had to fight. From the Mongol Invasions, to the Japanese occupation, to the civil war that split it into north and south, fighting drives Korean history. Not just militarily either.
Immediately following the Korean War, the south was left in an economic abyss. Stubbornly and tirelessly, South Koreans built one of the most influential nations on the globe in terms of technology and culture. The millions of people that watched "Gangnam Style" on Samsung and LG devices are a testament to how hard they've fought. So is the recognition of Tae Kwon Do as an Olympic sport practiced all over the planet.
From having to bury cabbage in the ground for survival to having the whole world doing an invisible horse dance, Koreans have come a long way. The ability to endure is more than a personal virtue to Koreans. Instead, it is a national ethos.
Chan Sung Jung's aggression, Samsung's rivalry with Apple, my friend Hyung Su's fight with cancer,
and even the fucking cold winters are all examples of how Koreans fight. Fighting is what is expected; fighting is Korean.
Thursday, March 28, 2019
Saturday, March 9, 2019
The Fight Fan
My grandpa was a fight fan. Before we had cable, he would put on a thin jacket and his dodger blue baseball cap before heading out to the nearest bar that had the Chavez fight. My uncle Hugo would go with him sometimes. When they got back, I'd be on the sofa sleeping, Hugo would wake me up as he set up the other sofa to sleep on. I'd ask him who won, and he'd always reply "Chavez." Every fucking time.
As I got older, Hugo and I shared a bedroom instead of the living room. We even got cable, and eventually a box in every room. Hugo and I would watch Raw and Nitro interchangeably. We even discovered how to get scribbly PPV's for free. Jim Ross's colorful commentary did more than just fill in the gaps left by the static on the screen, he sucked us into the story and action. My grandpa wouldn't watch though, "It's fake," he'd say and go back to the living room. No one else in the family understood why Hugo and I watched pro-wrestling. They thought AAA was fun since it was more acrobatic, and everyone enjoyed a movie marathon featuring "El Hijo del Santo." Still, American pro wrestling wasn't their thing.
Boxing was another story though. The crowning jewel of 90's piracy, a black box, befell on La Habra California. Now the fights came in clear (WWF pay per-views too). Suddenly, Saturday nights were devoted to Tyson, De La Hoya, Vargas, Roy Jones, and Trinidad (Sundays to Austin, HBK, and The Undertaker).
When there was a Mexican fight, we all watched. As a kid I remember the excitement in the air as we all cleaned up the house to get it ready for guests. My uncles and aunts would come over, and occasionally a few friends from work too. I'd argue with Hugo about how the fight would go. My grandpa would routinely check in and see if the event had started. My grandma always downplayed how good the Mexican boxer was in order not to get her hopes up. My mom and aunts would start getting nervous and pray for our fighter to win.
Once the fight finally started the excitement was palpable. Everyone sat around the TV, the youngest of us had to sit on the ground, but it didn't matter. I was just so happy to be there. All the adults watched eagerly, reacting to every blow with cheers and shouts. When the Mexican fighter was hit my aunt Ivonne would cover her eyes in fear. My mom would yell at the opponent to stop it and call him names, careful not to curse as she was a good catholic woman. "Malo! Feo!"
I remember the respect these men on the TV got. How they seemed larger than life. How they would radiate confidence. How they would dig deep and charge into the fire without a trace of fear. They were everything my pudgy 10 year old ass wasn't.
But mostly, I remember how my grandpa watched the fights. How calculating he looked as he observed every movement, every step and punch so carefully. I remember how much he admired these guys, and how proud he'd look when the Mexican won. I remember how objective he was too. How his bias never really got the better of him when watching; while everyone would look for excuses if the Mexican lost, he'd shrug and say "asi es." His reverence for the sport was infectious, and it has stayed with me since. It is the one thing he really left me after he passed, it is the one thing that always brings me back to him. I am a fight fan today because mi abuelito was one first.
As I got older, Hugo and I shared a bedroom instead of the living room. We even got cable, and eventually a box in every room. Hugo and I would watch Raw and Nitro interchangeably. We even discovered how to get scribbly PPV's for free. Jim Ross's colorful commentary did more than just fill in the gaps left by the static on the screen, he sucked us into the story and action. My grandpa wouldn't watch though, "It's fake," he'd say and go back to the living room. No one else in the family understood why Hugo and I watched pro-wrestling. They thought AAA was fun since it was more acrobatic, and everyone enjoyed a movie marathon featuring "El Hijo del Santo." Still, American pro wrestling wasn't their thing.
Boxing was another story though. The crowning jewel of 90's piracy, a black box, befell on La Habra California. Now the fights came in clear (WWF pay per-views too). Suddenly, Saturday nights were devoted to Tyson, De La Hoya, Vargas, Roy Jones, and Trinidad (Sundays to Austin, HBK, and The Undertaker).
When there was a Mexican fight, we all watched. As a kid I remember the excitement in the air as we all cleaned up the house to get it ready for guests. My uncles and aunts would come over, and occasionally a few friends from work too. I'd argue with Hugo about how the fight would go. My grandpa would routinely check in and see if the event had started. My grandma always downplayed how good the Mexican boxer was in order not to get her hopes up. My mom and aunts would start getting nervous and pray for our fighter to win.
Once the fight finally started the excitement was palpable. Everyone sat around the TV, the youngest of us had to sit on the ground, but it didn't matter. I was just so happy to be there. All the adults watched eagerly, reacting to every blow with cheers and shouts. When the Mexican fighter was hit my aunt Ivonne would cover her eyes in fear. My mom would yell at the opponent to stop it and call him names, careful not to curse as she was a good catholic woman. "Malo! Feo!"
I remember the respect these men on the TV got. How they seemed larger than life. How they would radiate confidence. How they would dig deep and charge into the fire without a trace of fear. They were everything my pudgy 10 year old ass wasn't.
But mostly, I remember how my grandpa watched the fights. How calculating he looked as he observed every movement, every step and punch so carefully. I remember how much he admired these guys, and how proud he'd look when the Mexican won. I remember how objective he was too. How his bias never really got the better of him when watching; while everyone would look for excuses if the Mexican lost, he'd shrug and say "asi es." His reverence for the sport was infectious, and it has stayed with me since. It is the one thing he really left me after he passed, it is the one thing that always brings me back to him. I am a fight fan today because mi abuelito was one first.
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