REVISANDO RESULTADOS

The karaoke bar in the Korea Haus was a popular place during the time of my

fieldwork. Karaoke- meaning literally ‘empty orchestra’ -was invented in Japan, in the 1970s and has since spread all over the world, the available music repertoire, differing from country to country. It is a form of entertainment in which amateur singers sing along with recorded music, using a microphone and a sound system. Usually the song is a well-known pop song, rendered acoustic to replace the voice of the original singer with that of the amateur. Lyrics are displayed on a video screen, usually with a moving symbol or changing colour to guide the singer along.

Both spaces serve as spaces for cultural production, the kitchen at home serves to create continuity, while the karaoke bar is frequented by the second generation, the kyopos, only. In the course of my fieldwork, going karaoke- singing was a popular pastime for my informants, with the karaoke bar providing the space for negotiating identity, and a common channel and a focus point for debate and expression of difference. Within this setting, the kyopos differentiated themselves both from the parent generation and wider German society, while at the same time difference and continuity were performed and processed.

The importance of this place can only be understood within a certain context and on closer examination of the way the patrons make use of that space, the types of behaviour displayed and the construction of the space itself. The locality is important in not being immediately visible to the outside and also being an important meeting place for the

kyopos in Frankfurt. Thus it is not only a space in itself but a space that kyopos

constitute as a stage not only for singing, but for the performance of identity, which is separate from the first generation, removed from and yet connected to the spaces shared with parents.

Other than it being hard to find the karaoke bar in the Korea Haus differs from other places in Germany, where karaoke is sung as a special event on special occasions. To

my knowledge and amongst my German friends, karaoke is still regarded as a fad, a test of courage to see who is brave enough and torture everyone else with their singing. By contrast, the karaoke bar is a specialized place where karaoke is sung every night of the week. Inside the Korea Haus, it provides a focal point for kyopos who live scattered all over Frankfurt and work in diverse places.

My informants described ‘karaoke’ as a semi-traditional Korean pastime, although they consistently used the Japanese word ‘karaoke’ to describe it. They told me that the ‘traditional’ Korean way would combine drinking in a group and singing individually within a social gathering. Later, my use of the word ‘karaoke’ to describe to first generation informants about this pastime, caused confusion amongst them, where they insisted that ‘karaoke’ was ‘Japanese’ only. However they recognized the described setting as ‘Norae- Bang’, while the kyopos used the word ‘karaoke’. In modern- day Korea the word ‘karaoke’ is used to describe bars of doubtful reputation, mainly

catering to Japanese businessmen and male tourists (Otake & Hosokawa, (1998: 186) in Mitsui & Hosokawa (1998)).

During my fieldwork, going out to karaoke bars was part of participant observation research, and the bar I most often went to with informants was inside the Korea Haus in Frankfurt am Main. The Korea Haus is located close to the main train station and the red-light district in Frankfurt, within easy walking distance to my flat. It serves mainly as a Korean restaurant, a revolving door at the glass front, a flight of stairs downwards towards a large dining room that is slightly too plush and at the same time too utilitarian to feel like a restaurant. At the time of my fieldwork, large fishtanks separated long tables that were lined with rococo-style chairs that were upholstered in burgundy red. Later queries turned out that it mainly caters to large tourist groups from Korea. Being conveniently situated opposite Frankfurt’s main train station, well-connected to the airport and close by a large parking lot for tour buses, the restaurant mainly catered to bus tours. However, it also houses a karaoke bar, and amongst my informants going to sing karaoke was a popular form of entertainment.

On a typical evening I’d go there with a friend, who was also an informant, usually Alex, quite late in the evening, sometimes as late as two o’clock in the morning, usually to find familiar faces, such as Kathrin and Jong-Soon, singing karaoke already. In order to get to the bar that is located behind the restaurant, one must cross the entire dining

area- usually darkened in the evenings- for a door at the very back. From the outside, especially late at night, one can easily pass the bar by a thousand times without ever realizing that it is there. Sometimes even the front door to the darkened restaurant is locked, and one must ring the doorbell to gain entrance. It is a hidden place, only for those who know where it is and how to find it, and in that sense an exclusive place, removed from the nightlife around the main train station.

The heavy steel door at the back of the restaurant, past the fish tanks and the cream- coloured faux rococo chairs and tables, leads down a narrow corridor, past the toilets and a door to the left at the end leads into the bar. The bar itself is small and dark, filled with plush sofas in dark colours, arranged in pairs facing one another across a low table. Closest to the door is the counter where one can purchase drinks and request songs. The decoration behind the bar consists of plastic flowers in pinks and light blues, and small figurines, which several of my informants somewhat derisively referred to as “the sort of kitsch Koreans like”, meaning the first generation, rather than kyopos.

Towards the far end is a slightly elevated stage with a small TV screen for the singer so that he or she can face the audience, two microphones and a large screen behind the stage, showing the song’s video and announcing the song- number coming up next. While most of the sofas are arranged towards the wall, there are two larger sofas in the middle, lengthwise to the screen and bar, catering for larger groups. The walls are painted in a dark blue, the entire place is dimly lit and usually quite smoky. Smoking is something nearly everyone does. The rules are straightforward: there is a minimum amount one must spend on drinks and no limitation to the amount of time spent on stage singing.

On entering, one habitually greets the bar-staff behind the counter with an indicated bow, not to do so would be impolite. Bowing to the bar-staff who was usually an older man in his late fifties is considered to be natural, as a mark of respect to one’s elders. Once the bar staff returns the bow and indicates towards the sofas, one sits down, the bar-staff comes to take your order and brings ledgers, pens and scraps of paper. Usually patrons choose beer, though the later the night the more popular stronger drinks, such as whisky, become. One chooses a song from the book, writes down the song’s number on the paper and hands it to the bar-staff. My first experience at the karaoke bar, briefly

after settling in Frankfurt, began with my utter astonishment at almost exclusively finding Korean songs in the ledger.

The bar was never too crowded not to find seating space, but was usually well-filled, though always with more men present than women. After entering and indicating a small bow to the elderly man operating the bar and the karaoke machine, we’d find somewhere to sit and greet others. The proprietor would then come to give us the booklets containing the songs and a basket of crisps, taking our drinks order. Generally, beer in jugs was the preferred drink but later at night stronger drinks, usually American whisky or rice wine was drunk.

A little small-talk conducted in German with acquaintances would follow and then we’d choose a song to sing. All conversations were in German, but the majority of songs were in Korean and the behaviour in keeping with ‘traditional’ Korean socialising. Most of my informants either spoke little or no Korean at all, so conversations in the karaoke bar were held in German. Chats revolved around everyday issues and gossip. The only Korean words in such chats referred to Korean food or spirits, which have no German equivalent. The evening would continue with small-talk, generally enquiring about life, in between rushing up on stage to sing another song. The songs were mainly in Korean, pop-songs that were popular in Korea, recently or not so recently and for most part slow ballads were the favourite ones to be chosen.

Even if someone some of them didn’t speak Korean, many of my informants were used to singing along phonetically, due to the prevalence of English pop music in the German charts. Being used to singing along in a language other than German, picking up Korean songs wasn’t difficult. But, since I never listened to Korean pop music at home, and unable to speak Korean or read basic Korean, I had to pick from a much smaller

exclusively English selection of pop-songs89. During my time visiting the karaoke bar in the Korea Haus, there were no German songs in the ledgers. It stands to reason whether this was due to explicit design, the general prevalence of English pop music in German charts or importing the tapes from Korea. The latter is the most likely explanation however the bar prided itself with a badly hand-painted sign that it also offered Chinese, Japanese and Thai songs. However, I never found a Chinese, Japanese or Thai song in

89 _{Korean has a rather straightforward phonetic alphabet, which makes it possible to read properly without}

actually knowing the language. Had I been able then to read the Korean alphabet and known a few songs, I could have sung in Korean as well.

the ledgers90. Eventually, while drinking and eating crisps, which are always provided and free of charge, one’s number comes up and then it is time to run for the stage to sing. No matter how badly one sang, a song always ended with applause, and returning to socializing and small-talk. Then one returned to one’s seat, and chatting and

conversation would resume, till it was time to leave.

One evening was different: two young German women came to the karaoke bar. They came with a group of kyopos and immediately stood out, being blonde and identifiable as being ethnic Germans. This rendered them visible outsiders. Like me, the two young women could only sing English songs and settled on a fast pop tune to perform together. Both of them went up on stage, laughing and jostling one another. Both of them were visible embarrassed to stand on stage with the lights on them, passing by others who showed frozen smiles.

As a matter of fact, when they approached the stage, everyone around them went silent and watched them. While they were struggling with the long-corded microphones, they were trying to push one another to the front of the small stage. Neither of them seemed to know the song very well and they struggle with the fast pace of the tune, as well as reading the words on the screen quickly enough. In short, they did quite badly, and much worse than anyone else I had ever seen and heard perform at the karaoke bar. It was never unusual for strangers to pick up a microphone to support a struggling singer, but in this case not even the group they were with showed any inclination to help. Soon afterwards, the two young women left without their kyopo friends. Once they were gone, the evening continued as normal, as if the interruption had never happened, and no one said anything about it. “They probably didn’t enjoy themselves. And there are mostly Korean songs in the books.” Alex commented when I asked him what he thought. “Not everyone likes karaoke.”

To fully comprehend what happened that evening this event needs to be contextualized by looking at the discourses surrounding kyopo identity and the way in which the karaoke bar is used and understood.

90 _{Even without knowing these languages, differentiating Korean, Chinese, Japanese and Thai writing is}

7.2.‘And then I realized how German I was’ – Experiences of Hybridity

“My elderly neighbour was forever annoying me, complaining to me about this or that, even about the way I walked up the stairs. But it wasn’t only her

stairwell, was it? So I gave her a piece of my mind. She was so shocked. How dare I? A good Korean girl is always supposed to keep silent and swallow her own opinion, especially when talking to her elders. You’re supposed to be respectful, just because they’re older than you, and for that they expect you to just roll over [kuschen]. That’s when I realized how German I am.”

Sophie told me this story about a stay in Korea, while on business. In this section, after having looked at intergenerational relationships, and the process of positioning within a framework of outward ascription, I am exploring another facet to the formation of kyopo identity. In order to fully comprehend the complex processes of identity negotiation, it is necessary to explore the ‘German aspect’ of kyopo identity narration, setting them aside from parent generation, adding another aspect that is unique to the second generation. Central to these narratives are experiences of visiting Korea, and the realization that ‘Korea’ is insufficient as an essentialized point of identification, necessitating a more nuanced approach. I will briefly discuss cultural transmission and transformation by the way of food to illustrate the realization of hybridity, whose negotiation I will further explore in discussing the karaoke bar.

Relative to the first generation, the process of self-identification of second generation children is more complex and often entails the juggling of competing allegiances and attachments (Portes and Rumbaut, 2001:150). By being situated within two cultural worlds, the children of migrants must define themselves in relation to multiple reference groups and to the classifications into which they are placed by their native peers,

schools, the ethnic community, and the larger society. Pressure from peers and from parents can tighten the tug of war of ethnic and national loyalties (2001:152). Warner and Strole (in Portes and Rumbaut 2001) introduced their study of an American city as “part of the magnificent story of adjustment of ethnic groups to American life” and went on to predict that “oncoming generations of new ethnics will climb to the same heights [of adjustment]” (2001:45). However the tale of how foreign minorities come to terms with their new social surroundings and are eventually absorbed into the mainstream of the host society, is not as simple and inevitable as Warner and Strole portray it within the American context. The complexity and the transition of second generation identity depends on several factors, such as the history of the immigrant first generation, the

pace of acculturation amongst parents and children and its bearing on normative integration, the barriers, cultural and economic confronted by second generation youth in their quest for successful adaptation, and the family and community resources for confronting these barriers (2001:46). These are precisely the sort of challenges kyopos face the negotiation of identity. Narratives of visiting Korea shed a light on the

complexity the second generation experiences, which play out in the karaoke bar. These narratives highlight the experience of “difference” and “othering”, where my informants did not quite expect it, leading to questions about belonging, after the expectation of ‘belonging’ in Korea did not come true. Christina said about the first time she visited Korea, when she was twelve years old:

“I remember that the first thing I thought was ‘wow, they all look like me’. Black hair, brown eyes, you know. I thought that that was cool. Meeting my family was really exciting too. I had only ever heard about them, and all the stories about Korea, as it used to be. Guess what, no rice paddies, no pagodas, it was all really urban. It wasn’t at all what I had imagined. It was nice to visit, but it was nice to come home.”

The realization that Korea was not the parental generation’s reflection of Korea, is plain in the above statement. The ‘homeland’ of her imagination, and indeed her parents’ stories, did not exist, and neither did she feel she fitted in. Another informant said: “I only visited Korea two or three times, and it’s been a while since I went. It doesn’t really draw me back there, although I still have family there. I speak some Korean, and as long as I keep quiet, I can pass for Korean, but in Korea people told me how different, how very different I was. They act differently, and while I think I acted more Korean, than I do in Germany, I was still different.”

My informant had expected to fit in seamlessly, and instead experienced a sense of alienation. The experience of the ancestral homeland became a confrontation with culture. ‘Origins’ combine ‘here’ and ‘there’. The language of origins emphasizes ideas about descent and roots, and substantiates ideas of an authentic, pure, a-historical core culture confined within the borders of the ‘fatherland’. This necessitates a return to the land of origin as a touchstone in the construction of a new identity, Fortier (2000:96) writes. This encounter was not one that mediated ‘Koreanness’ in known and

experienced parameters, but one that “is localized, transposed, transformed and translated through the (postmodern) state” (Chrtstou, 2006:146) of Korea. Christou

(2006) writes about return migrants to Greece, who experience a series of negotiations and deconstructions that ultimately lead to a redefinition of their own identities. “In a sense, their own personal plan of action, that is, the return to the ancestral homeland as a triadic project of identification (locating the self), closure (transplanting home) and belonging (eradicating migrancy), becomes a plan unfeasible to implement, a mission impossible and a life-story incomplete” (Christou, 2006:147).

My informants’ narratives were not about a desire to relocate, but about an expectation to fit into the parental Korea that they knew from their parents’ memories, and their own experiences at home, hence the ‘known and experienced parameters’. The result

however, was what Christou (2006) calls “a life story incomplete”. Not incomplete as deficient, I argue, but the realization of another facet to my informants’ life story. Another informant said: