"Come and play with us, Danny"

I'm not at school today because it's Election Day, and for that I am intensely grateful. I'm less grateful for the sensory onslaught that is Korean campaigning, although, to beat this theme to a pulp, I'm grateful for the chance to see it, and also that it doesn't last anywhere near as long as it does in the US.

I believe I heard that there's only an Election Day every 4 years (though the presidential term is 5 and they're not voting on him--that must be a different thing), so I'm lucky to be here in an 'on' year. From what I can tell, the election is for every office other than president...city, district, local...provincial? (not being able to read more than the names on the signs, I'm a bit underinformed)

Whether the start date is by decree, I don't know, but there was a big bang and suddenly campaigning was everywhere, comprised (whether in Gyeongju, Cheongju, or Seoul) of 3 main components:

1. Posters and banners. The banners are strung up between posts at every intersection, and the posters line every wall, one bordering the next in a tight collage that echoes the people themselves. A patchwork picturing candidates in various "action" poses...brandishing a pen, making an 'open arms' gesture, beckoning the viewer...reminiscent of the cloying head shots Newsweek adopted for its columnists a few years back. My EEP students last week were doing creative writing, about what they would do if they were invisible, and one boy (who I really have always liked) finished with, "and I use a scissors and cut election announcement paper. Because they have so many space. Also they look like dirty things."

2. Loudspeakers on trucks. Usually the domain of fruit vendors and religious proselytizers, these have all been co-opted by the candidates, the volume cranked to 11, and set to roam the streets blasting songs with tunes like 'Mary had a little lamb' and 'If you're happy and you know it', with new lyrics presumably detailing the person's fitness for office. These are catchy enough that I've accidentally learned a few of the candidates' names. I must have spent a bit of karma because none of them have parked outside my window, a miserable fate that elicits my profound sympathy for anyone it was visited upon. (the aforementioned student also planned to take advantage of his invisibility to "use a needle and prick wheel of election campaign cars. Because they are so noisy." Good kid.)

3. Dancing ajummas. An ajumma, for those of you who haven't heard me use the term, is a lady somewhere between middle age and dotage. They're iconic in Korea, known for attitudes worthy of a DeNiro movie, clothes with lively patterns, and a vampirish aversion to sun. And for wages that could never possibly be enough, they've been donning sashes and white gloves and dancing for hours on street corners. If it rains, they throw clear plastic ponchos over the getup and keep at it. Strangely, my neighborhood hasn't gone in much for the dancing, preferring instead an eerie chanting (inspiring the title of this post). Several packs of them stand at the subway station entrance droning couplets at 5-second intervals (rhyming in Korean is easy because every sentence ends with "ib ni da" or some variation). There's one candidate who has braces and employs not ajummas, but young people who hold his picture over their faces and talk on cell phones behind it. Going to the subway is creepy enough, but the lot that station themselves across the street from my apartment could drive me to distraction. I look forward to abandoning the ritual of getting up at 6 to close the window.