[Field Notes]

A Gay Man Rides the Hope Bus

Writing when there is nothing in particular you want to say is a grueling task. You might ask, then why not just not write? In one of her essays, the writer Noh Hee-kyung said that “a writer is a laborer who writes eight hours a day.” She said that this kind of diligence is what makes a good writer. That, perhaps, is why I have to keep typing right now, even though I can’t quite organize what I want to share with you. Of course, I don’t consider myself a good writer, nor do I particularly aspire to become one. Still, there is at least a little something I want to share with you, so I write—telling myself that this isn’t pressure imposed by others or by a deadline, and tapping away at the keyboard as a small act of consolation to myself.

A Brief Summary of the Hanjin Heavy Industries Situation

When Hanjin Heavy Industries built a new shipyard in Subic Bay, the Philippines, it promised to continue operating its domestic shipyards. It also signed a “special labor–management collective bargaining agreement” stating that it would secure three consecutive years’ worth of domestic orders and refrain from artificial restructuring such as downsizing or shutting down domestic plants.

However, over the past two years, operations at the Ulsan and Incheon shipyards were suspended, resulting in the dismissal of more than 3,000 in-house subcontracted workers. At the Yeongdo shipyard, after two rounds of layoffs, labor and management agreed to halt further dismissals—but that agreement was broken this year when layoffs were once again carried out.

Kim Jin-sook, a senior advisor to the Korean Confederation of Trade Unions, has been staging a protest related to the Hanjin Heavy Industries situation. As of July 9, 2011—the departure date of the Hope Bus—she had been living, eating, and sleeping atop Crane No. 85 for 185 days.

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I got off at City Hall Station with a bag full to bursting and a head completely empty. From a distance, I could see busy heads moving between long lines of buses. Seeing your black hair under the blazing sun, I was reminded—apologetically—of oversized, industrious ants. But for me, awed by the scale of it all, the thought felt oddly liberating. The reason you and I gathered here was to board the Hope Bus in support of Kim Jin-sook and in connection with the Hanjin Heavy Industries struggle. The background you might want to know about Hanjin Heavy Industries is laid out above. Kim Jin-sook has spent her third season 35 meters above the ground, close to the blue sky—but I don’t imagine that hearing this makes you think of anything romantic. To meet her, 185 buses set out for Hanjin Heavy Industries in Yeongdo, Busan (in reality, more than 195 buses, vans, and even planes departed). I had thought the Hope Bus was something like a cultural festival. Looking back, I should have corrected that misunderstanding earlier, seeing the tightly packed flags and the many red-lettered placards in your hands. Instead, still holding onto that misunderstanding, I boarded Hope Bus No. 36—the “Queer Bus.” From the songs we sang inside the bus, your intense emotions spilled over to me. Borrowing a few lines from the adapted lyrics of “Jinsuk’s Meaning,” set to the tune of “Your Meaning,” it went something like this: “Jinsuk, our beloved Kim Jin-sook. There is no one—no two, three, or four—like Kim Jin-sook. (Win the Hanjin struggle!) A world without Jinsook has no meaning at all. Let’s go together. Ride the Hope Bus. Gather in front of Hanjin. Let’s make Jo Nam-ho’s rotten eyes well up with tears, just once. (Jo Nam-ho, be ready.)” Inside the bus, the plums, soy milk, snacks, and other treats that Jo* had prepared turned into a miracle of loaves and fishes—everyone ate their fill, and there were still energy bars and mini honey cookies left over.

By the time we arrived at Busan Station and got off the bus, heavy rain was falling. There were people waiting there to share that rain, which cooled your hearts that had burned all the hotter under the summer sun. Standing before the soaked song of Line 3 Butterfly, I could see excitement in your eyes. Rain seeped through hastily donned ponchos, but the “peace march” began. Chants that sounded unfamiliar—calls to abolish non-regular employment—rang out, along with minjung songs. In the midst of it all, Korea’s only gay chorus, G_Voice, sang boldly: “You Will Never Walk Alone,” “Song of the Alley Cat,” “You Can’t Stop the Beat,” and more, drawing repeated calls for encores. Suddenly, I remembered a distant day on my way to school, when blind masseurs were protesting on the Han River Bridge over legislation related to massage licenses. I had been nearly an hour late and cursed them silently in my head. If I had told you that memory, you would probably have criticized me. Now, standing inside a protest line I had always viewed from a distance, I told myself this was for non-regular workers in this country. Though I felt reassured by a protest that looked different from my preconceptions, I still didn’t have the courage to meet the eyes of bus passengers waiting for the march to pass. After crossing Yeongdo Bridge, the march stalled. Standing on tiptoe, I looked ahead and saw a large, round yellow light shining through a sea of flags—like a scene from a movie. Ahead lay what you might know as the Hope Bus’s defining image: mutual anger and confrontation, shouting, violence, tear gas, and arrests. A nearby hospital kindly opened its restrooms and provided a place to rest. I remember a college student being led in by people on either side, unable even to open his eyes. His swollen red face was streaked with tears and mucus. Through the night, food of unknown origin passed from hand to hand, and spontaneous cultural performances—songs, impassioned speeches—continued without pause.

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Morning came. The sun rose. Cheerful sunlight dried bodies soaked through the night. But as someone put it, that sunlight only burned your face red, as if heaven were preparing the next trial. Those who had been busy all night endured the passing hours beneath umbrellas turned into parasols. The dawn hour when the peace march was supposed to end had long passed, and you ate breakfast—stew handed out from a food truck. I wondered if you had already anticipated how this march would end. Didn’t you know we wouldn’t be able to push through the young riot police sweating inside thick uniforms? Perhaps I was the only one who didn’t know. Even so, you told me that what we were doing still had meaning. The sunlight was no longer cheerful. Fewer and fewer mouths echoed the chants to abolish non-regular employment. As both the police and the Hope Bus participants grew exhausted, G_Voice stepped forward—comrades behind them, police in front—and sang “You Can’t Stop the Beat” and “Open the Closet Door.” I don’t know if it gave you strength. After a final phone call with Kim Jin-sook sometime after 2 p.m., the second Hope Bus dispersed, promising a third.

I didn’t want to write this piece. To be honest, I’m someone who can speak with even less conviction than you about issues of non-regular workers, labor, and Hanjin Heavy Industries. I didn’t feel qualified to fight like others or to clearly articulate my stance on behalf of workers and minorities in this country. I also didn’t want to pretend to agonize over these issues more than I actually do. So perhaps it’s shameful that I focused mainly on recounting events as they happened. The march blocked by police barricades felt powerless. There were many flags, but few people stepping forward into struggle. During the phone call with Kim Jin-sook, many minorities in this land shed tears. The words of thanks from Hanjin workers we met as we left Yeongdo hurt my chest. The sight of someone throwing their body in front of a police car—so the Hope Bus could pass first—was desperate. Even though the buses were arriving only sporadically, and it would have made little difference if the police car passed, I understood why he did it. Still, the memory remains unpleasant.

In many moments, I found myself looking on with a double gaze, unable to articulate what the right action should be, or for what purpose. So I’ll end this piece here, somewhat ambiguously. The impressions and judgments are yours. I don’t want you to catch me fabricating emotion, forcing myself to cry where it isn’t true.

Chingusai / Gil (길)