hankyoreh

The author and her wife. (Photo: Kang Hee-ju)

The middle-aged couple was very polite when they came to purchase stuff we had sold on a second-hand sales platform. They shared a well-mannered greeting and did not ask any impertinent questions.

I could sense the mildness in their expressions. I was quite struck by how calm the woman was and by how attentively the man observed her. It was the kind of image you might see in a painting entitled “Cultured People.”

If these were the only people I encountered doing second-hand sales, if people like these were my neighbors, I would be happy seeing them from one day to the next.

Soon afterward, a delivery truck driver arrived. The two of us each carried an item to help with the heavy things. But the woman waved us off, telling us to let the men do it.

“Let the men do it” — for the two of us, those words bring back memories.

One time, we went to a coffee shop with another couple, and when the buzzer went off, I went to get our drinks, only to have our friend’s husband follow after me. My wife was about to get up too, and our friend said, “Let the ‘men’ do it.”

When we hear other people use those words, the two of us look at each other and laugh.

This time, I was the one being assigned the woman’s role. I’m used to carrying things, so it would have been no trouble for me, and those people looked like they needed a bit of help. There were a lot of items to be moved.

I looked over at my wife, and I could tell she was struggling with the weight of what she was carrying. I quickly relieved her of the burden. The woman seemed astonished.

“You’re really kind to your sister,” she said.

(Getty Images Bank)

It’s a compliment I often hear. People say they’ve never seen sisters like us. I’m seen as an older sister who is unusually kind to her younger sister.

At a realtor’s office, a bed and breakfast owner asked us whether we were sisters and then commented on how nice it was to see such sisterly affection when the older sister was so “tough” and the younger sister was so “sweet.”

They say that married couples resemble each other. Indeed, the two of us have similar eyes, noses, mouths, expressions, and ways of speaking.

That’s how much I get the look of love in my eyes, even when everyone else concludes that I must be my wife’s older sister. It’s something that people have remarked on even when they’re too polite to ask away any personal questions. “I guess it’s too obvious,” I thought, and made up an excuse on the spot.

“Oh, she’s been frail since she was a kid,” I said.

So now I was the trusty older sister devoting her life to her fragile younger sister. Would that be enough?

After hearing the reason for the odd behavior, the person nodded — and we were “sisters” again. After all, couples and sisters are both family, right?

So we tend to more or less pass ourselves off as sisters, whether it’s while doing second-hand sales, traveling, eating at a restaurant, or riding in a taxi with a particularly chatty driver.

In the past, I gave a different answer.

“We’re married.”

Living in Germany for so long, I got used to nobody being particularly bothered by me being a lesbian. If someone did mistake my relationship with my partner for something else, I would explain that we were actually a couple, and they would typically offer a mild apology — and that was it.

Is a lesbian really something so unusual? We’re really quite ordinary, wherever you go in the world. Even so, I didn’t need to make the other person uncomfortable.

But after arriving in Korea, I became someone who was very unsettling and discomforting to others. I would make casual remarks about myself and feel the mood cool sharply. My being a lesbian was not a “casual” disclosure.

In Korea, the word “lesbian” carried much more weight, and my ordinary self became something very out of the ordinary. When in Korea, I would try my best to do as the Koreans do so that I could do something important with my life. Then people would tell me, “Look at you, all Korean now.” It was meant as a compliment.

Before leaving the country, I’d gotten rid of most of my furniture, leaving me with camping chairs and tables to do my writing at. (courtesy of author)

That well-mannered middle-aged couple bought items from us, the happily married couple next door. They thought we were sisters. If we’d just pretended to be sisters from the beginning, she would have found assurance in his moment of surprise. 

Why did I equivocate when she remarked “What a good big sister!”? It was obvious that they were good people. 

When I stop to think about it, there always seems to be an abundance of good people in the circles I walk in. Yet even such kind, gentle and admirable people exhibit a sudden change in demeanor when presented with a lesbian. No matter how they try, they cannot hide their perplexity, which makes me uncomfortable in turn. They end up retrieving a story about how their in-law’s cousin’s niece’s friend once met “a gay” while traveling abroad. Some of them even proclaim, “I have no prejudices against homosexuality,” thereby revealing their prejudices. 

I also have no prejudices against straight people, but I’ve never told anybody that. The inability to conceal one’s flabbergasted condition in front of the person who inspired those feelings makes you look uncouth. 

I have my own experience of assuming a good person I know is gay — only to find out they’re in a straight relationship. At that moment, I had to struggle to hide my surprise. Being dumbfounded and outwardly showing your dumbfoundedness are two different things. It’s a matter of attitude. 

People normally considered gentlemen and ladies, refined members of Korean society, fail to maintain their composure in front of us. I don’t go out of my way to see people blush with embarrassment during trivial moments in daily life. But still, couldn’t I have just brushed aside that gentle couple’s comments and moved on with the conversation?  

“We’re actually married.” 

My family, friends, and coworkers all know about my sexual orientation. Yet I refrain from telling everyday acquaintances about who we really are. Because it’s uncomfortable. Most lesbian couples in Korea will be viewed as sisters, and have likely adapted to passing themselves off as sisters with considerable skill. My wife and I occasionally tell ourselves the following:

“Just because they don’t know, doesn’t mean we don’t exist.” 

Had that gentle, cultured couple ever seen a lesbian before? Who knows. For all I know, they could be like my parents, with a daughter who is openly lesbian. Even if they aren’t, had we told them that we’re married, wouldn’t they have mobilized their wit and said something like, “Ah, no wonder! You resemble each other like sisters do!”? I really hope so. 

I really hope that I, a perpetual worry wart, told a white lie in front of people who would have kept their cool. Because anyone can tell that they’re good people, I’d like to think that people I’m closer to — coworkers, relatives — people who are more than just how-do-you-do acquaintances, would have told them without any concern that we’re sexual minorities. I’m pretty sure they would. 

“Have a good one! Thanks for the deal!”

“Bye! Hope you find it useful!”

We said our parting greetings several times. It felt good to offload a hefty chunk of our worldly possessions before our move to Germany. My wife and I patted each other on the back and headed back inside. It was a quick, satisfying deal. And then I thought:

“Has anyone we met ever truly seen a lesbian?”

By Kim Na-ri, Korean lesbian and writer

Please direct questions or comments to [english@hani.co.kr]