I: 한국의 언어 [Hangugui Eoneo, ‘Language in Korea’]

Navigating the subway in South Korea's capital city of Seoul is an easy feat for native Anglophones and Mandarin-speakers alike. With audio directions issued in Korean and English, and maps posted prominently in all three languages, Seoul's metro efficiently serves the linguistic needs of the majority of its users. But it may also be of use to those studying the balance of languages spoken in Korea. Subway signage and announcements make it clear that Korean, English, and Mandarin are the languages most prevalent in Korea today. Further, Seoul's subway system topographically reflects this reality in miniature. As Kang (Reference Kang2011) explains, 이촌 [Ichon] Station derives its Korean name from Chinese: ‘[i]n Chinese characters, Ichon means two villages. There are two villages on an island in the middle of the Han River … giving the area its name.’ China's early linguistic influence on Korea is thus evident in the name Ichon itself. Meanwhile, more recently developed areas bear names like 가산디지털단지 [Gasan Dijiteol Danji, ‘Gasan Digital Complex’] and 구로디지털단지 [Guro Dijiteol Danji, ‘Guro Digital Complex’]Footnote ¹ . In each case, a key part of the area's name derives from English's growing prominence in Korean society. But while such an analysis gives some insight into Korea's diverse languages, because the subway is a public institution, it necessarily ignores unrecognised dialectical and mixed forms of these languages. To find these, one has to exit the subway and encounter the unpoliced linguistic reality that is Seoul proper.

Enter Konglish: from the corner stores offering deals of ‘원 플러스 원’ [won peulleoseu won, ‘one plus one,’ i.e. buy one, get one free], to advertisements inviting customers to a mall's ‘grand open’ [grand opening], Konglish is present throughout Korean public space, whether composed in Roman letters or Hangeul.Footnote ² That said, while specific examples of Konglish are often immediately discernible as Konglish, the term is surprisingly difficult to define. Lawrence (Reference Lawrence2012: 72–73) builds off his own definition of Konglish as a ‘contact vernacular’ of English, explaining that it is ‘a spoken, not codified language and its vocabulary has undergone too much transmutation to be simply labeled loanwords,’ before conceding that Konglish might also ‘rather be conceptualized as a sub-variety of Korean, in the form of words and phrases.’ Similarly, Kim (Reference Kim2012: 17) classifies the different ways in which Konglish is a Korean language that ‘skilfully adapt[s] English’ vocabulary as a ‘legitimate part of the Korean lexicon,’ but concludes by arguing that Konglish is equally a Korean form of English: ‘[v]iewing [Konglish] as broken, imperfect English … ignores an important fact that when English is planted in another soil, it adapts to its unique climate, acquiring the color and texture from its new environment to suit its speakers’ needs.’ This disparity reflects the complicated status of Konglish that is absent from the metro map: as neither an Anglicised version of Korean, nor a Korean dialect of English, Konglish languishes in a linguistic no-man's-land.

Indeed, while it is clear that Koreans tolerate the use of Konglish on signage and in shops, it is equally evident that they believe Konglish has no place in formal settings. For example, former President Park Geun-hye's supposedly poor command of English has resulted in repeated accusations of Konglish use. Lee Chang-sup's (Reference Lee2014) ‘Let's Find Ways to Avoid “Konglish”’ condemns the President's use of ‘golden time’ as opposed to ‘precious time.’ Similarly, as Tudor (Reference Tudor2015) notes, in response to the death of Singaporean Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew, President Park wrote that ‘[t]he Korean people join all of Singapore in mourning his loss’ (thereby implying that Lee himself was the one to lose something, rather than Singapore). Tudor's diagnosis of the reaction to Park's use of ‘Konglish’ is not optimistic: ‘Korean society judges people … on the ability to take exams that test their mastery of pedantic grammar rules and obscure vocabulary that the average native English speaker has no idea about.’ Konglish use in an official capacity therefore attracts bitter criticism from Koreans because of Konglish's low status within the country.

II: 영어 대 한국어 [Yeongeo dae Hangugeo, ‘English vs. Korean’]

It is not, however, immediately obvious why this should be so. As I turn now to my investigation, I will begin by considering the status of the Korean language within South Korea. By examining Korean's function in resisting Japanese imperial occupation (1910–1945), and the key role of its evolving legal and cultural status during the formation of modern South Korea, it will be clear that Korean pride in ‘pure’ Korean demonstrably survives to this day. As Cho (Reference Cho2002) contends, throughout the period of Japanese occupation, the Korean language and alphabet became recognised symbols of resistance to Japanese rule. This nationalist fervour led the Linguistic Society of Korea to issue the first spelling reform since King Sejong's invention of the Hangeul alphabet five centuries earlier, and ‘formally inaugurated written literacy in Korea’ (Cho, Reference Cho2002: 8). In so doing it also established an important link between land and tongue in the Korean psyche. When the colonial government reacted predictably by ‘banning the use of the Korean language in public domains,’ for example, this only ‘further reinforced the growing significance of the language as an ideological symbol’ (Cho, Reference Cho2002: 9). These early movements therefore represent the beginnings of modern Korea's pride surrounding its own language.

This pride grew stronger following Korea's liberation at the end of the Second World War, even as the Korean War dashed any dreams of an independent, united Korea. From its foundation, South Korea has consistently worked to ensure Korean's survival and pre-eminence, removing ‘massively adopted Japanese vocabulary … from the lexicon in the name of purifying the Korean language, which was widely perceived to be “contaminated”’ (Cho Reference Cho2002: 11; emphasis added). Further, the government legislated that official documents must be written only in Hangeul. While this effort took several decades to remove Chinese characters from Korean publications, as Cho (Reference Cho2002: 12) notes, it was largely successful: ‘a vast majority of Koreans [born after 1950] have a rather limited knowledge of Chinese characters … and are often dubbed as the “han'gul generations.”’ This way, the government worked against Korea's linguistic history by removing foreign elements from Korean publications, thereby contributing to the emphasis Koreans place on the ‘purity’ and ubiquity of their language.

Modern Korea reflects this nationalist history. Consider how Korea celebrates the creation of Hangeul with a national holiday. As the Korean Tourism Organization (2016) explains,

This excerpt demonstrates what Hangeul means to Koreans – not simply a national script, but a conscious improvement on the Hanja that prevented ‘people of lower social status with little or no access to education’ from learning to read and subsequently from fully contributing to Korean society (Korea Tourism Organization 2016). In addition to the holiday, Korea honours King Sejong by placing him on the ₩10,000 note, and the King Sejong Institute is responsible for growing the Korean language internationally. Contemporary Koreans therefore regard their language and alphabet with prestige. While it may be attributable in part to the Japanese occupation, its emphasis on ‘pure Korean’ is as important today as it was at the close of the colonial period more than seventy years ago.

This is not to argue, however, that Korea adopted an isolationist policy, or was able to prevent external linguistic pressures from penetrating its borders. I will now shift focus, and consider the growing prominence of English throughout South Korea following the Second World War. As I will demonstrate, Koreans’ attitude towards English reflects both generational and class-informed anxieties throughout Korean culture. Whereas Koreans value ‘purity’ when it comes to their own language, they also admire the considerable financial commitment that fluency in English demonstrates, and the success it offers young, educated speakers.

As Collins (Reference Collins2005: 421) explains, the Japanese exit from Korea meant an entrance for English: in an impoverished Korea, occupying American ‘GIs were the sine qua non source of cash and consumer goods,’ and many Koreans perceived their American occupiers, and the English language, not as a colonising force but as a means towards greater prosperity. Further, as Korea industrialised, English's reputation grew as a crucial component of national success and economic plenty. Meanwhile, because learning a foreign language is costly and requires years of study, English began to adopt generational and class connotations within Korea. This way, ‘[b]y the late 1970s and early 1980s, English had become part of middle-class pretension and cosmopolitanism, although, with the emphasis … on reading and grammar, speaking skills remained rather undeveloped’ (Collins, Reference Collins2005: 423). This has had two important effects on contemporary Korean society. Firstly, because the emphasis later shifted from reading and grammar to overall fluency, older Koreans have considerable apprehension about speaking English compared to younger Koreans. Secondly, the class division based on English capacity has continued to the present day.

Jamie Shinhee Lee (Reference Lee2014: 33) contends that ‘English is possibly the most revered and at the same time the most feared foreign language in contemporary Korea … affect[ing] academic and professional success and the importance of speaking English is bolstered by the idea of globalization.’ Complicating this fraught relationship is the aforementioned anxiety older Koreans experience over their own English skills, a problem that has intensified ‘due to increasing opportunities of international travel and exposure to English language-medium pop culture products’ (Lee, Reference Lee2014: 36). Consequently, ‘[c]haracters using English in Korean television dramas are generally polarized into two types: educated successful professionals or undereducated and unsophisticated middle aged or senior citizens aspiring to fit in or promote their social standings’ (Lee, Reference Lee2014: 34). This is evidently a self-sustaining problem. As Lawrence (Reference Lawrence2012: 71) argues, ‘Korean parents spend millions of won … on extra-curricular English classes at language institutes or hagwons, covering 73 per cent of domestic English education costs.’ This exacerbates the generational and material divide between Koreans who speak ‘good’ English, and those whose familiarity with the language is limited to their facility in Konglish.

As discussed previously, Koreans today place a high value on both the English and Korean languages, but for historically different reasons. While they are proud of Korean's unique alphabet and the perceived purity of their national tongue, they also admire the considerable resources one has to invest from infancy to speak good English. I will now proceed to consider the cultural status of Konglish inside Korea, and argue that Konglish's status is inextricably tied to that of its parent languages. In so doing I will also review recent articles decrying Koreans’ increasing use of Konglish and clearly delineate its cultural value within the country.

III: 한국에 있는 콩글리시 (Hanguge issneun Konggeullisi; ‘Konglish in Korea’)

I have already noted the negative reactions to President Park Geun-hye's supposed Konglish use, and briefly argued that Park's presidential status was inherently incompatible with Konglish usage in the Korean public psyche. Despite these criticisms, however, President Park did not experience the brunt of public backlash against Konglish use. That honour instead belongs to South Korea's capital city, Seoul, whose Metropolitan Government recently conducted a widely-criticised campaign to replace its official slogan, and eventually settled on the admittedly awkward construction ‘I-Seoul-U.’Footnote ³

Figure 1. ‘The New Seoul Brand’

Since the decision, notes Lee Hyun-jeong (10 December, Reference Lee2015), ‘[t]he new slogan has been embroiled in controversy, with many calling it nonsensical “Konglish.”’ Taking this recent development as a case study, I will now look at Korea's response to Seoul's new slogan in reference to the attitudes surrounding Korean purity and English cultural capital I have just discussed. In so doing it will be clear that, although Konglish is alive and well in Korea today, its low status is a direct result of that country's perceptions of its parent languages.

Firstly, no mixed language is likely to be well received by speakers who treasure the purity of their native tongue, whether in Korea or abroad. As Lawrence (Reference Lawrence2012: 73) notes, Konglish, like Chinglish and Janglish, is a ‘potential contact vernacular’—a hybrid between English and the local tongue. The key to interpreting Konglish's prestige is in breaking down the implications of this mixed status. ‘The[se vernaculars] are “potential”,’ continues Lawrence, ‘in that they are not considered languages, but subsections of languages.’ In this way, Konglish is already at a disadvantage compared to Korean because it does not have any official status. Further, they are ‘contact’ because they are a product of English's contact with local languages, which is to say that Konglish's mixed nature automatically means that it violates Koreans’ love for purity in terms of their own language. Lastly, ‘[t]hey are “creative” in that they are not static, but dynamic with new elements appearing and some disappearing over time’ (Lawrence, Reference Lawrence2012: 73). This mutability also irritates Koreans, whose prescriptivist view of how their language should function implies that Korean usage should be static, with change only occurring when introduced by important persons or institutions like King Sejong, the Linguistic Society of Korea, or the national government.

Consider also the emphasis Koreans place on their language and alphabet as a means of uniting Koreans. As Rahman (Reference Rahman2015) notes, an unfortunate side effect of English's increased prominence in the South is a linguistic fracturing of the peninsula: ‘[s]even decades of separation has seen even the language of North and South Korea split into two different dialects,’ she argues, and blames the ‘floo[ding of] the South Korean vernacular with words borrowed from English’ that in turn ‘produc[e] misunderstandings, hurt feelings and sometimes even laughter.’ According to Rahman, approximately one third of everyday vocabulary is different in the two countries. Konglish opponent Lee Chang-sup (Reference Lee2014) meanwhile posits that widespread Konglish use will not simply alienate the North, but also the Anglophone West: ‘Konglish may have even more detrimental effects such as discouraging tourists from visiting Korea, hampering business deals and deepening the misunderstanding between North and South Koreans and Koreans and Westerners.’ Konglish therefore further separates the two Koreas, and is perceived as threatening to alienate Western tourists and investors. It consequently undermines, however indirectly, the perceived purity of Korean and the utilitarian legacy Koreans attribute to Hangeul.

Moreover, Seoul's new logo goes so far as to blend the Roman and Hangeul alphabets together. As Fouser (Reference Fouser2015) notes, ‘[t]he “O” in “I.Seoul.U,” … has a small line above it to evoke the image of the Hangeul grapheme “○” [ieung].’ While I have noted that Koreans write Konglish in either Roman script or Hangeul, the blending of the two within a single word is not common. Its use in the logo therefore threatens to increase the discomfort with English already noted amongst older Koreans, and Koreans with weaker English skills. Fouser continues, noting that the entire rebranding project reflects Seoul's deliberate shift away from traditional Korean culture towards an emerging internationally-flavoured culture:

It should come as no surprise, then, that the city will spend approximately 2.3 billion won ($2 million USD) to advance the new slogan, with plans including a major K-pop concert (Lee, 10 December Reference Lee2015). This way, Seoul's Konglish slogan demonstrates a willingness to violate ‘pure’ Korean and even to consciously alienate older Koreans with inferior English for the sake of the youthful and inviting image the city wishes to project.

Having returned to English from Korean, we must also consider how English affects Konglish's perception in Korean society. As Mufwene (1997, cited in Seargeant, Reference Seargeant2010: 100), explains, hybrid Englishes are often at a status disadvantage to Standard English from the moment they are named, and this naming ‘has to do more with [those] who have appropriated and speak them than with how they developed and how different they are structurally from each other.’ Thus, ‘the lexical unit used for the name will be chosen from the semiotic resources available,’ and will in turn produce a hybrid name (Seargeant, Reference Seargeant2010: 99). While not strictly speaking a form of New English (cf. Song), mixed Englishes like Konglish likewise receive names that ‘are occasionally used as derogatory markers for what is perceived as an amusingly flawed attempt to master a standard variety of English’ (Seargeant, Reference Seargeant2010: 107; emphasis added). Detractors also attempt to judge hybrid Englishes by the rules of Standard English, interpreting the new vernacular's own rules as bad English. This pejorative treatment has repeated itself in the case of ‘I-Seoul-U.’ As Fouser (Reference Fouser2015) argues, the slogan has its own internal logic: ‘“I.Seoul.U” is a neologism that captures the coolness of Seoul visually,’ and Lee Hyun-jeong (10 December, Reference Lee2015) notes that the city has defended the catchphrase as one ‘based on wordplay that is a new trend in city branding.’ Despite these claims for unique use of language, Lee also notes the enduring controversy surrounding ‘I-Seoul-U’, with critics blaming the slogan's Konglish usage for its ambiguous meaning.

These criticisms betray the class divisions between English-speaking Koreans. In his apologist article, ‘I.Seoul.U: The Case For,’ Salmon (Reference Salmon2015) contends that the slogan's critics demonstrate a clear educated-class bias: ‘[j]udging from the Interweb chitchat, you could be forgiven for thinking that every English-speaking resident of this fair city holds an advanced degree in marketing communications, or has 20 years’ experience in a global advertising or PR agency.’ Salmon then asserts that such posturing is condescending to the committee tasked with choosing the slogan: ‘[o]ne of the key messages emerging from this colossal group whine is, “I am a native speaker of English, by God! How dare Seoul come up with a new slogan without consulting me!”’ Lee Hyun-jeong's (4 November, Reference Lee2015) analysis of the response supports this classist reading of the criticism: ‘“I will Seoul you,” “I will Incheon you.” A flood of mockery and parodies hit social media when Seoul City decided on its new slogan “I.Seoul.U.”’ These detractors are again judging Konglish by Standard English grammatical rules, thereby reinforcing the notion that Konglish is in some way inferior to Standard English.

Lastly, I-Seoul-U presents an opportunity for the educated class in Korea to deride others for speaking English imperfectly. Consider the personal reaction of Sohn Hye-won, head of public relations for the main opposition party New Politics Alliance for Democracy (now the Democratic Party of Korea), cited by Lee (4 November, Reference Lee2015) : ‘[a]s a Korean designer, I'm embarrassed, to be frank. Despite the simple words, the forced listing of them confuses the meaning.’ Here, Sohn reflects an implicit component of the classist critiques to which I have been referring – not simply Konglish's supposed inferiority to Standard English, but also a condemnation of the proletarian means by which the city selected the slogan. Sohn is embarrassed as a designer, not as a citizen of Seoul (or even a government official). As Fouser (Reference Fouser2015) explains, while the selection process did consult experts, it relied heavily on input from ordinary citizens: armed with 16,000 suggestions from the public, a small panel of ‘experts’ selected three potential slogans, and after further consultation with 1000 citizens ultimately chose ‘I-Seoul-U.’ While Fouser himself asserts that the ‘city of Seoul should be complimented for opening up the project to citizen involvement,’ even Salmon's (Reference Salmon2015) pro-Konglish article laments that ‘[t]he entire process was carried out by amateurs.’ As Sohn and Salmon's comments indicate, there is a clear perception that the selection process should have been left to those who know better. This reflects a larger Korean attitude to Konglish prevalent in the discourse surrounding its use. For example, in his ‘Follies of Konglish,’ Lee Hyon-soo (Reference Lee2014) concedes Konglish a right to exist, and even gives it ‘language status,’ but nevertheless criticises its speakers for their presumption: ‘[t]he language has its own life. If Konglish is widely used in Korea, there is nothing anybody can do about it. But it is disconcerting that many Koreans wrongly believe that Konglish is genuine English.’

The manifold reasons that Koreans fail to value Konglish as they do Korean and English are therefore clear. Konglish's non-status places it at a marked disadvantage to formally acknowledged languages like Korean and English. Meanwhile, its blended nature violates the Korean reverence for ‘pure’ Korean, and drives North and South further apart linguistically, while potentially alienating Westerners. Further, its supposedly incorrect grammar again results in a yet lesser status, and presents an easy target for educated Koreans to demonstrate their own English skills. It lastly allows the well-educated to distance themselves from its speakers, and to openly disapprove of its non-prescriptivist nature. In the case of ‘I-Seoul-U,’ these factors have all contributed to generate an unprecedented backlash, bolstered in turn by the logo's mixing of the Hangeul and Roman alphabets and the marketing campaign surrounding the slogan, each of which alienates older, more ‘traditional’ Koreans in an attempt to win over the young.

Conclusion: ‘Konglish 화이팅!’ [Hwaiting!, ‘Fighting!’]

Despite these criticisms, however, there is hope for Konglish, and for the ‘I-Seoul-U’ campaign. In the case of the latter, Salmon (Reference Salmon2015) champions the flexibility of the new slogan:

Similarly, while he concedes that Konglish use might alienate English speakers, Salmon is correct to point out that the primary target of the campaign is not Anglophones, but tourists visiting from countries with their own, established mixed-Englishes: ‘the target demographic for Seoul tourism promotion efforts is not the U.S., U.K., Canada or anywhere else in the Anglosphere. The obvious, natural focus for Seoul tourism promotion is China and Japan.’ These factors considered, it is likely that the slogan will prove a success.

As for Konglish itself, the future is also bright. Although I have demonstrated that Koreans’ aversion to Konglish is deep-seated, its use continues to proliferate throughout South Korea, and there are good reasons that it should do so. Lawrence (Reference Lawrence2012), for example, goes so far as to actually measure Konglish and English usage on city signage throughout the country. Interpreting his data, he argues that despite the longevity of English's presence in Korea, its popularity, prestige, and usage continue to grow: ‘[i]n any region of the country, certain shops frequently have English signs, including coffee shops, sports equipment dealers, clothing stores, car dealers, fast food restaurants, hair salons, hotels, pensions, beer bars and wine stores’ (Lawrence, Reference Lawrence2012: 89). He then demonstrates that Konglish's viability and ubiquity in Korea is inextricably tied with that of English: ‘in most cases, as English increased Korean decreased. The data also showed a positive correlation, as in many cases, as English increased, so did Konglish’ (Lawrence, Reference Lawrence2012: 86). While many Koreans may scoff, Konglish's continued survival in Korea is evidence of its utility and versatility - as long as English remains ascendant in Korea, Konglish will continue to thrive.