Rearing Autonomous Children in Cold War Korea: Transnational Formations of a Liberal Order, 1950S–1960S

Rearing Autonomous Children in Cold War Korea: Transnational Formations of a Liberal Order, 1950s–1960s

Na Sil Heo

A thesis submitted in conformity with the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy Department of East Asian Studies University of Toronto

Rearing Autonomous Children in Cold War Korea: Transnational Formations of a Liberal Order, 1950s–1960s

Na Sil Heo

Doctor of Philosophy

Department of East Asian Studies University of Toronto

2020 Abstract

This study argues that the liberal project to raise children into autonomous subjects in 1950s and

1960s South Korea was crucial to transnational formations of a new Cold War liberal order. The study explores four realms of childhood — bedrooms, children’s literature, infant feeding, and children’s psychology — in order to illustrate how the seemingly apolitical issue of rearing children operated as a nexus for the construction of an anti-communist, capitalist society. In particular, the liberal ideas of autonomy, freedom, and individuality as a shared value system enabled the transnational circulation and coproduction of a Cold War liberal order. The disavowal of the political nature of rearing autonomous children was fundamental to the everyday practices of transnational anti-communism, in which people in multivalent roles such as mothers, children, home architects, psychologists, and educators actively participated. With sources ranging from children’s literature, women’s magazines, infant formula advertisements, home designs, psychological advice for children, and government publications, this study takes an interdisciplinary approach to the history of childhood, the sociocultural history of the Cold

War, and modern Korean history.

Chapter 1 examines how home architects and planners advocated for the “independence” of children’s rooms as necessary in cultivating children’s autonomy. Chapter 2 explores the children’s magazine Sonyŏn segye (Boys’/Children’s World) as a site of transnational Cold War modernism, insisting that children should cultivate their own autonomous creativity based on

“child-like” experiences and expressions. Chapter 3 examines the complex ways in which children were highly gendered and racialized along multiple lines of ethnicity, nation, and region through infant formula market campaigns targeting mothers. Finally, Chapter 4 examines how the psychological testing of children reproduced the ideology of capitalist competition as a form of freedom and equality and rendered the inequalities created by gender, class, and other variables as purely individual differences to be psychologically managed by the liberal individual. Taken as a whole, this study treats childhood as a fulcrum through which many enduring questions of national sovereignty, decolonization, postwar reconstruction, and anti- communism were contested within the Cold War milieu.

iii

Table of Contents

Table of Contents ...... iv

List of Figures ...... vi

Introduction ...... 1

Reconstruction of Families after the Korean War ...... 4

Decolonizing the Home ...... 7

Korea’s Participation in Transnational Anti-communism ...... 10

Child’s Autonomy and the Liberal Individual ...... 13

Chapter Outline ...... 16

Chapter 1 Independent Children’s Rooms: Designing Democratic Families in Cold War

Korea ...... 19

Cultivating Children’s Independence and Autonomy through Children’s Rooms ...... 24

Creating the New “Dish of Life” ...... 24

Autonomous Thought through Independent Children’s Rooms ...... 31

Designing Democracy in Homes During the Cold War ...... 36

Bedroom Democracy in Single-Family Homes ...... 36

Reproductive Politics in Domestic Spaces ...... 45

Privacy in Couples’ Rooms ...... 52

Conclusion ...... 61

Chapter 2 Children “Grown through Freedom”: Cultivating Creativity in Children’s Arts ... 63

Creating an Aesthetic World for All Children in Cold War Korea ...... 67

Cultivating Child-Like Creativity ...... 74

Stories of Cheerful and Adventurous Children ...... 87 iv

Conclusion ...... 99

Chapter 3 Racing Autonomous Baby Boys: Politics of Infant Feeding in Cold War Korea . 101

Construction of the Mother as a Liberal Subject with Infant Feeding Choices ...... 105

Selling American Technology and Racializing the “Oriental Body” and Korean Baby

Boys ...... 113

Weaning to Cultivate Baby Boys’ Autonomy ...... 125

Conclusion ...... 131

Chapter 4 Raising Emotionally Healthy and Competitive Children: Reproducing the Ideology

of Capitalism through Psychology ...... 133

Measuring Individuality Through Intelligence Tests ...... 141

Freedom to Compete Through Intelligence Testing ...... 147

Healthy Personalities and Emotions, and the Production of the “Sense of Inferiority” ... 155

Conclusion ...... 164

Epilogue Babies Born During the “Good Harvest Years” ...... 166

List of Figures

"Basic Organizational Chart"

Poster by the Planned Parenthood Federation of Korea

“Implementation of Family Planning”

“Special City of Seoul Super Baby Contest”

“A fall season when one fattens up!”

“To mothers and babies”

“What milk did the baby drink to become this chubby?”

“For safe delivery and for those with insufficient breast milk”

Introduction

“The habit of sleeping alone will cultivate children’s autonomous nature, and encouraging an autonomous lifestyle will greatly influence [their] social activities when [children are] grown up,” declared Yi Ch'ŏnsŭng, a seasoned architect who built his career during the colonial period, in a publication on housing for a primarily female audience.1 He believed that changing the design of Korean residences would directly transform the residents within them. If “autonomous nature” were to be cultivated from childhood, he believed it was necessary to grant them “independence” in the form of their own bedrooms. He envisioned children as the “pillars of the next generation” and the nation as a whole. Despite the familiarity of this trope of modernity, the meaning and significance of autonomy were creatively articulated by a wide range of people in South Korea in the early years of the Cold War — from educators to parents, psychologists, architects, literary writers, and pediatricians. The exact methods of raising children into autonomous adults, however, were not so well-defined. Will all children develop their autonomous nature if they sleep alone, away from parents, siblings, friends, relatives, and grandparents? From what age should children be made to sleep on their own? Should they sleep on the floor or in beds? Even as the Cold War liberal order agreed on the value of autonomy, there seemed to be multiple ways of achieving that goal. While Yi called for children to be given their own rooms, another writer believed that giving children their own closet space was also necessary.2 A writer of children’s literature expected children to cultivate aesthetic autonomy from reading his writing and demanded that his young readers cultivate their creativity, not in imitation of his work but rather based on their own everyday experiences and child-like aesthetic expressions. In contrast to images of a non-gendered baby tethered to a mother’s breast, prolific circulation of images of often-naked baby boys suggested their autonomy to be directly linked to their mother’s purchasing of infant formula to feed her infant. Wide concerns among psychologists, educators, and parents that children could fall prey to a “feeling of inferiority” or inferiority complex led to expectations that children resolve

1 Yi Ch'ŏnsŭng, “New House and New Lifestyle,” Saeroun chut'aek kwa saenghwal, Chut'aek (1960): 52. He was a graduate of Kyŏngsŏng Higher Industrial School and a former employee of the South Manchuria Railway Company during the colonial period. The “autonomous nature” was “chajusŏng” (自主性), and “autonomous” was “chayuljŏk in” in the original. 2 An Ŭisŏp, “My House Blueprint 3: A House Centered around the Living Room and the Kitchen: Na ŭi chut'aek sŏlgyedo 3: Kŏsil kwa puŏk chungsim ŭi chut'aek,” Yŏwŏn, May 1960, 297. 1

2 various social issues in school, home, and eventually society as liberal individuals. These four realms of childhood — bedrooms, children’s arts, infant feeding, and children’s psychology — constitute the key sites of the transnational formation of the Cold War liberal order in South Korea examined herein. In order to explore the various meanings and practices of rearing autonomous children in Cold War Korea, this study traverses four major themes: First, this study examines postwar reconstruction and Cold War formations, not through military, political, and diplomatic histories but through childhood and families. Childhood constituted a fulcrum through which many enduring questions of national sovereignty, postwar reconstruction, Cold War culture, and decolonization were contested, constructed, and lived through in South Korea during the Cold War. In the aftermath of mass death and displacement of the Korean War, children became a means through which families could be revived and the nation rebuilt. However, the question of how to rear children who were deemed appropriate for a nation-state that was newly liberated, divided, and struggling to reconstruct the nation after colonialism and the Korean War did not have a self-evident answer. The rearing of children, as this study argues, in 1950s and ‘60s South Korea was crucial to the new Cold War order. How and why childhood operated as a vital site of transnational anti-communism through liberal ideas of cultivating children’s autonomy is the main subject of this study. Second, this study conceptualizes decolonization from the Japanese Empire as a widely contested and participatory process that occurred not only at the level of national sovereignty but at the more fundamental site of the home. Formations of the new Cold War order entailed the incomplete, drawn-out processes of working through histories, memories, habits, and desires formed through and with the Japanese Empire. It also necessitated mothers to make uneasy decisions regarding new, unfamiliar American products, writers of children’s literature to encourage new ways of expressing emotions among young readers, and psychologists and educators to collabourate on devising new means of education which were regarded as correcting the colonial-era system. In other words, children were to be re-made and mobilized for the benefit of an anti-communist, liberal, capitalist nation-state in place of mobilization for the Japanese Empire’s total war. To accomplish this, architects, children’s writers, formula advertisers, psychologists, and teachers both invoked and rejected certain aspects of the Japanese Empire in order to make sense of the past and generate new meanings for the present and future.

Third, central to the formation of the new Cold War order was transnational anti- communism, which was not restricted to state-led projects by the US and Korean governments but encompassed the participation of ordinary people. Thus, this study turns to women’s magazines, childrearing manuals, marketing advertisements, psychological advice, architectural designs, to name a few. Just as decolonization occurred at home, anti-communism extended beyond the overtly anti-communist organizations into everyday lives. Anti-communism was a transnationally conjoined endeavor — with local specificities and contingencies — in which people in multivalent roles as mothers, children, home architects, psychologists, and educators were interpellated and actively participated. Fourth, this study suggests that construing children as liberal individuals with autonomy and independence was what enabled forms of anti-communism in South Korea to have transnational linkages, and for such forms of anti-communism to deny their own political nature within the Cold War milieu. Notions of childhood as untainted, pure, and innocent allowed for anti-communism’s elision of its own political nature, as well as occluding the political participation of those invested in the project of rearing autonomous children. The shared value system underlying children’s autonomy and independence enabled a wide participation in transnational circulation and coproduction of anti-communism across national, cultural, and ethnic divides. As much research has shown, the irony of the study of childhood is that the very subject of study — the children themselves — are rendered voiceless, the objects of adults’ political agendas and projects. Very few children’s perspectives are featured in histories of childhood. As such, children (especially those of pre-school age) often cannot and do not leave historical traces. Even when there are art works and writings by children, scholarship has shown the limits of such sources and the extensive adult mediation in what children could or were compelled to draw and write.3 Mona Gleason warns us of the allure of the “agency trap” in narrating histories of

3 Victoria M. Grieve, Little Cold Warriors: American Childhood in the 1950s (New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2018); Seth Bernstein, Raised under Stalin: Young Communists and the Defense of Socialism (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2017); Margaret Peacock, Innocent Weapons: The Soviet and American Politics of Childhood in the Cold War (Chapel Hill: University of Carolina Press, 2014); Marilyn Irvin Holt, Cold War Kids: Politics and Childhood in Postwar America, 1945–1960 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2014); James Marten, ed., Children and War: A Historical Anthology (New York: New York University Press, 2002); Ann Marie Kordas, The Politics of Childhood in Cold War America (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2013). Even when it comes to children who survived World War II, scholars are aware of the danger of relying only on sources, such as letters and memoirs written by children. See, Nicholas Stargardt, “Moments of Rupture: The Subjectivity of Children in the

4 children.4 Yet despite the seeming methodological paradox, a history of childhood reveals how childhood works as a powerful site and technology of power within cultural, social, and political relations, as children’s experiences of childhood are hardly separable from adulthood.5 Thus, this work does not intend to speak for the children who were born and grew up in South Korea in the 1950s and ‘60s but to treat childhood as a continuously moving and fluctuating nexus, enabling varying discussions of postwar memories, national reconstruction, and the restructuring of people’s lives in a divided, postcolonial Cold War Korea. At the heart of this project is the question of how and to what extent children, parents, teachers, psychologists, pediatricians, milk formula advertisers, and others participated in the Cold War — often without even knowing it.

Reconstruction of Families after the Korean War

In October 1953, just a few months after the signing of the Korean War Armistice Agreement, the women’s magazine Modern Women (Hyŏndae yŏsŏng) prefaced its inaugural issue with a declaration that revealed its editorial agenda: “Even if people have died, we will make a new life [sae sallim] with impervious senses, here, in this rough, empty space where wind mixed with the smell [of blood] blows.”6 The preface, titled “On Top of the Ruins,” was juxtaposed by an illustration of a mother holding a young girl in her right hand and a younger child on her back, walking along with a group of people carrying large loads. It was an apt illustration and statement that captured a country in the wake of mass death, displacement, and migration. Just like the people this illustration depicted, walking toward their unidentified destination to continue their lives despite the smell of blood across the land, the magazine signalled its intention to contribute to rebuilding a “new life” and to put wartime sensibilities of death, sadness, and the emptiness of life behind.

Second World War,” in Children and War: Past and Present, eds. Helga Embacher et. al. (England: Helion & Company, Ltd., 2013), 40–41. 4 Mona Gleason, “Avoiding the Agency Trap: Caveats for Historians of Children, Youth, and Education,” Journal of the History of Education 45, no. 4 (2016): 446–59. For a discussion on the methodological paradox of the history of childhood, see Journal of the History of Childhood and Youth 1, no. 1 (Winter 2008). 5 Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Vintage Book, 1995); Jacques Donzelot, The Policing of Families, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Pantheon Books, 1970); Nikolas Rose, Governing the Soul: The Shaping of the Private Self (London; New York: Routledge, 1990). 6 Pak Sŏnggyu, “On Top of the Ruins [P'yehŏ wi esŏ],” Hyŏndae yŏsŏng, October 1953, 15.

The Korean War was an event of mass displacement due to migration, war mobilization, and death. Even before the war, Koreans in Japan, Manchuria, the Pacific Islands, and South Asia began to head back “home” from being mobilized into military, industrial, and sexual labour during the Asia-Pacific War. In January 1950, before the outbreak of the war, almost nine hundred thousand people had migrated from North to South Korea.7 Between the first refugee migration in June 1950 and the second move in the cold winter of January 1951, many civilians fled for survival, and more than two million were accounted to have left their homes and fled southward.8 In addition, the Korean War made death seem ubiquitous. Out of a population of fifteen million North Koreans and twenty-five million South Koreans, more than four million died during the Korean War.9 Whatever the exact death toll, witnessing it on such a massive scale moved one Korean language teacher in the US Army Language School to pronounce: “The country is dead” in 1956, three years after the armistice was signed.10 An important facet of the study of the aftermath of this mass death and migration is that, in the 1950s, a large portion of the remaining Korean population was made up of children.

7 Kim Tong-chʻun, Chŏnjaeng kwa sahoe: Uri ege Hanʼguk chŏnjaeng ŭn muŏt iŏnna? (Seoul: Tol Pegae, 2000), 98. Between January 1948 to November 1948, 100,000 people migrated from North to South Korea. Between 1949 and 1953, 5,140,000 people are said to have migrated from North to South Korea. See Yi Hŭngt'ak, “Han'guk chŏnjaeng kwa ch'ulssallyŏk sujunŭi pyŏnhwa,” in Hanʼguk Sahoe Hakhoe, Hanʼguk chŏnjaeng kwa Hanʼguk sahoe pyŏndong (Seoul: Pʻulpit, 1992), 31–35. Despite not knowing the exact numbers, northerners migrating down south before the war was part of the “coming home” and displacement after the Asia-Pacific War. 8 Total number of people accounted to have fled during the Korean War is 2,400,000, according to Yi Hŭngt'ak, “Han'guk chŏnjaeng,” (Seoul: Pʻulpit, 1992), 33. Also see Kim Tong-chʻun, Chŏnjaeng kwa sahoe, 106–108; For a work that examines Pusan as a center of refugee migration, see Janice Kim, “Pusan at War: Refuge, Relief, and Resettlement in the Temporary Capital, 1950–1953,” Journal of American-East Asian Relations 24, no. 2–3 (September 2017): 103–127. See also, Janice Kim, “Living in Flight: Civilian Displacement, Suffering, and Relief during the Korean War, 1945–1953,” The Review of Korean History [Sahak Yonku] 100 (December 2010): 285–330. 9 Son Ho-chʻŏl et al., Hanʼguk chŏnjaeng kwa Nam-Pukhan sahoe ŭi kujojŏk pyŏnhwa (Pusan: Kyŏngnam Taehakkyo Chʻulpʻanbu, 1991); Yi Hŭngt'ak, “Han'guk chŏnjaeng kwa ch'ulssallyŏk sujunŭi pyŏnhwa,” in Hanʼguk Sahoe Hakhoe, Hanʼguk chŏnjaeng kwa Hanʼguk sahoe pyŏndong (Seoul: Pʻulpit, 1992), 31 cites 244,763 civilian deaths, 229,625 injured civilians, and 141,011 deaths and 717,083 injured in the South Korean military. But the numbers could be low as 1,300,000 popular loss in 1950–1953, according to Chŏn Kwang-hŭi, “Han'guk chŏnjaeng kwa Nam-Pukhan in'gu ŭi pyŏnhwa” in Hanʼguk Sahoe Hakhoe, Hanʼguk chŏnjaeng kwa Hanʼguk sahoe pyŏndong (Seoul: Pʻulpit, 1992), 65. Janice Kim, “Pusan at War: Refuge, Relief, and Resettlement in the Temporary Capital, 1950-1953,” Journal of American-East Asian Relations 24, no. 2–3 (2017): 104. 10 A quote by Chŏng Kyŏngcho as cited in Bernard Kogon, Report on the Juvenile Delinquency Problem in Korea (San Francisco: US Operations Mission to Korea, Office of Technical Cooperation, Community Development Division, Social Welfare Section, 1960), 4. The footnote for this quote is the following: “’Korea Tomorrow,’ by Kyong Cho Chung 1956.” The full citation for this is Kyong Cho Chung, Korea Tomorrow, Land of the Morning Calm (New York: Macmillan, 1956). In a short book review in the journal of The American Political Science Review 50, no. 2 (June 1956), 580, Chung was identified as, “a young Korean, educated in Japan and the United States, and now teaching at the Army Language School.”

Moreover, two million of these children were homeless, with one hundred thousand war orphans living on the street, along with many others who were homeless despite having a living adult family member (e.g., dependent children of war widows).11 Thus, with mass death and displacement during and after the war, children — orphans, juvenile delinquents, the abandoned, and students — became even more conspicuous, as many could be seen on the streets, selling small items like gum and cigarettes and shining shoes, in order to contribute to the survival of both their own and their families’.12 Especially after the Korean War, children became a symbol of the war violence committed by the communist enemy, a reason for peace, and hope for the future.13 Families’ and children’s futures became an important part of building a “new life” after the Korean War. In 1955, 41% of the total South Korean population was fourteen years old and under, and more than half the population was under the age of twenty.14 As in many countries after World War II, having children often marked new beginnings and desires to return to normalcy after experiences of war, displacement, and death of family members, making childhood a site of reconstruction.15 Compared to the 1% population growth from 1950 to 1955,

11 Kogon, Report on the Juvenile Delinquency, 4. For discussion of war widows and women’s war experiences, see Yi Chaegyŏng, Yun T'aengnim, and Cho Yŏngju, eds., Yŏsŏng(dŭl) i kiŏk hanŭn chŏnjaeng kwa pundan (Kangwŏn- do Hongch'ŏn-gun: Arŭk'e, 2013); Yi Im-ha, Chŏnjaeng mimangin, Han'guk hyŏndaesa ŭi ch'immuk ŭl kkaeda: Kusul ro p'urŏssŭn Han'guk Chŏnjaeng kwa chŏnhu sahoe (Seoul: Ch'aek kwa Hamkke, 2010). 12 Janice Kim mentions children as young as seven or eight participating in this war economy. See Kim, “Pusan at War,” (2017): 122. 13 For a discussion of how children, in particular orphans, became an object of American humanitarian aid and a means to fight against communism after the Korean War, see Eleana J. Kim, Adopted Territory: Transnational Korean Adoptees and the Politics of Belonging (Durham, NC; London: Duke University Press, 2010); Arissa H. Oh, To Save the Children of Korea: The Cold War Origins of International Adoption (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2015). 14 Korean Statistical Information, “In'gu ch'ong chosa,” accessed July 24, 2019, http://kosis.kr/statisticsList/statisticsList_01List.jsp?vwcd=MT_ZTITLE&parmTabId=M_01_01#SubCont. 15 In an oral history of Jewish population in Thessaloniki in Greece, the author reveals that the baby boom after the war was associated with “the new beginning.” Bea Lewkowicz, “‘After the War We Were All Together’: Jewish Memories of Postwar Thessaloniki,” in Mark Mazower, ed., After the War was Over: Reconstructing the Family, Nation, and State in Greece, 1943–1960 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000). In the case of the United States, see Marilyn Irvin Holt, Cold War Kids: Politics and Childhood in Post America, 1945–1960 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2014), 6. Tara Zahra, The Lost Children: Reconstructing Europe’s Families after World War II (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2011); Amy F. Ogata, Designing the Creative Child: Playthings and Places in Midcentury America (Minneapolis, London: University of Minnesota Press, 2013); Roy Kozlovsky, The Architectures of Childhood: Children, Modern Architecture and Reconstruction in Postwar England (Farnham, England and Burlington, VT, US: Ashgate, 2013); Sabine Fruhstuck and Anne Walthall, eds., Child’s Play: Multi- Sensory Histories of Children and Childhood in Japan (Oakland: University of California Press, 2017).

7 the post-Korean War baby boom generated an annual growth of 3% until 1963, further increasing the number of children.16 The cyclicality of childhood affirmed the endurance and continuity of family, nation, and history. In postwar Korea, as in many other places, childhood functioned as “both a repetition and a difference, a means of continuity and a mark of rupture.”17 This notion of childhood was based on the assumption that childhood implied potential, unlike those who were already adults or elderly. The power of the concept of childhood, therefore lay in the inability to pinpoint the future in a specific time and place. In the minds of literary writers, educators, psychologists, pediatricians, mothers, and retailers, children and family were key to familial, social, and national reconstruction. This study examines the aftermath of the Korean War not only as a time of death, extreme poverty, and homelessness but also as the birth of a new generation of children, and new conceptions of childhood.

Decolonizing the Home

The reach of decolonization, typically conceived of in terms of national sovereignty extended into many realms, including children’s bedrooms, aesthetic creativity, the science of infant feeding, and psychological health of children. Decolonization, broadly construed in this work as the various efforts to process and create distance from colonialism for the foundation of a new, postcolonial Cold War order, was a project in which many people participated from within their ordinary home lives. How could one transition from imperial to national subjecthood in a way that also befitted Cold War politics? How could one raise children not to be Japanese subjects but anti-communist South Koreans in a liberal, capitalist, democratic society? These were crucial questions at the intersection of decolonization and the Cold War. In other words, people worked through their colonial experience in the home, attempting to make sense of the waning Japanese Empire in their new lives. The home became a locus of both decolonization and the Cold War. Efforts to erase and creatively adapt the colonial experiences in the arena of childhood — from calls for greater

16 Yi Hŭngt'ak, “Han'guk chŏnjaeng kwa ch'ulssallyŏk,” (Seoul: Pʻulpit, 1992), 35. 17 Kristin Ross, Fast Cars, Clean Bodies: Decolonization and the Reordering of French Culture (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1995). I borrow Kristin Ross’s description of the Balzac allegory in the context of postwar France as childhood also had a similar function in South Korea after the Korean War.

8 independence for children to changing consumer habits (switching from Japanese infant formula to an American product), to encouraging children to be cheerful and not remain despondent — were implemented concurrently with the construction of the new Cold War order. The end of World War II coincided with the Cold War, ushering in a new era of “movement inward.”18 Not only did people returned “home” from battlefields, but children, family, and domesticity became an essential part of Cold War politics.19 As exemplified by the famous Kitchen Debate between the Soviet Union’s Nikita Khrushchev and the US Vice President Richard Nixon in 1959, appearance of the “good life” became an increasingly important site in which the Cold War was fought. Domesticity operated as a “democratic political ideology” through sentimental cultural productions, such as movies and broadways, in Cold War America.20 Indeed, as Heonik Kwon shows, the processes of decolonization and Cold War developments are inseparable, coeval, and conjunctive.21 It is imperative that we consider this relationship. Indeed, the denial of such a relationship is in itself a political project of the Cold War, contributing to what Lisa Yoneyama calls the “myth of ‘liberation and rehabilitation,’” in which the United States and, I suggest, also the South Korean state are construed as liberators and harbingers of freedom, liberal democracy, and capitalism while obfuscating the military, political, and ideological violence they jointly committed.22

18 Kristin Ross, Fast Cars, Clean Bodies, (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1995), 11. 19 See Elaine Tyler May, Homeward Bound: American Families in the Cold War Era (New York: Basic Books, 2018), which was first published in 1988 by Basic Books. 20 Christina Klein, Cold War Orientalism: Asia in the Middlebrow Imagination, 1945-1961 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003). 21 For a discussion on the need to bring in Cold War history to our study of postcolonial history, see Heonik Kwon, The Other Cold War (New York: Columbia University Press, 2010). In particular, see Introduction and Chapter 6, where he offers a sharp critique to bring postcolonial studies and the “bipolar history” of the cold war together. Kwon builds on other works, such as John Borneman, Subversions of International Order: Studies in the Political Anthropology of Culture (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1998). On historians’ efforts to bring together issues related to decolonization and the Cold War, see Leslie James and Elisabeth Leake, Eds., Decolonization and the Cold War: Negotiating Independence (London: Bloomsbury, 2015). 22 Lisa Yoneyama, Cold War Ruins: Transpacific Critique of American Justice and Japanese War Crimes (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2016). For discussion of civilian massacres and violence committed by the South Korean and US/UN military during the Korean War, see Kim Tong-chʻun, Chŏnjaeng kwa sahoe: Uri ege Hanʼguk chŏnjaeng ŭn muŏt iŏnna? (Seoul: Tol Pegae, 2000) and Dong-Choon Kim, “The war against the ‘enemy within’: hidden massacres in the early stages of the Korean War,” in Shin, Park and Yang, eds., Rethinking Historical Injustice and Reconciliation in Northeast Asia: the Korean Experience (New York: Routledge, 2007), 75–91.

Thus, the making of the new Cold War order entailed complex processes not simply of forgetting and severing colonial ties to the Japanese Empire but also of re-creating, re-living, and actively desiring the empire even after the empire formally disintegrated. In order to critique the positing of ruptures between colonialism and postcolonialism as part of the production of Cold War ideology, both continuities and discontinuities between the events of the Japanese Empire and the Cold War are observed in this study, examining how and when the colonial past is invoked, worked out, and often willfully ignored in the foundation of the new order. Certain parts of the colonial experience were perceived and recalled as colonial vestiges, and thus rejected, while others were diversely reconfigured as appropriate and necessary to the new order. In all these cases, the Japanese Empire proved to be tenacious, even in the midst of strengthening US military, economic, and political presence. The formal Japanese Empire was not automatically replaced with the new Cold War order. Rather, the two were in constant limbo, held in loud and quiet tensions and collusions. The “postwar moment” was not merely the reaching of an armistice at the end of the Korean War but a continuous working through of new formations in the Cold War milieu after the experience of Japanese colonization, the Asia-Pacific War, and the Korean War. Yet, especially from the latter half of the 1950s, when war reconstruction was underway and national reunification seemed increasingly unlikely, a growing sense of “post-ness” developed, and a belief that life could and should be recovered and restarted.23 The violent upheavals of the early twentieth century did not end abruptly, but a historical split was nevertheless perceived and proposed to be necessary for families, businesses, schools, and undoubtedly, the nation. Discussions of children entered this exploration as a means of conceiving of both the future and the past. This meant that previous experiences of colonialism, war, and death were creatively restructured into new lives. From this perspective, this study bridges the historical divides of colonialism, liberation, major hot wars, and the Cold War. Different sites of childhood traversed various temporal axes from the colonial to post-colonial and before and after the Korean War, and the shift from one order to another was not seamless, despite much ideological work expended to make it seem natural and trouble-free.

23 For discussion of the case in Greece, see Mark Mazoer, ed., After the War Was Over: Reconstructing the Family, Nation, and State in Greece, 1943–1960 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000).

Korea’s Participation in Transnational Anti-communism In historical narratives of South Korea in the second half of the twentieth-century, Korea’s relations with the United States dwarf relations with any other country. The United States has been a focal military, political, economic, and cultural power in narrating Cold War histories — not just of South Korea but also of many countries around the world. During the Cold War, South Korea was restructured into the American sphere of power, and Japan was repositioned as a junior partner in this sphere, claimed to be the “liberator” of formerly colonized nations.24 In efforts to explain and understand the reach of American power during the Cold War, scholars of postwar France, Germany, Korea, and other nation-states that formed Cold War alliances with the United States have turned to the question of Americanization.25 Ranging from topics like Hollywood films, Christianity, and chocolates to notions of masculinity and femininity, the intense focus on the United States in works on Americanization makes it difficult to determine where US Cold War influence begins and ends. Despite the deeply important works on the range of phenomena that fall under the category of Americanization, the term reinforces the US-centric logic of the Cold War and reaffirms it as the “winner” of the Cold War after the “end” of the Cold War. The United States, consequently, is positioned as the central effecter of political, economic, and ideological change in other countries, cultures, and peoples. Often times, Korea’s relations with the United States seem inextricably intertwined to the point that it becomes difficult, if not impossible, to think beyond the frameworks of Americanization and US- dependency.

24 As Meredith Woo-Cumings showed, it was American policy to revitalize the old colonial economic relations of the Japanese Empire through the “restoration of a truncated Co-Prosperity Sphere.” Meredith Woo-Cumings, Race to the Swift: State and Finance in Korean Industrialization (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991), 55. Yet, Woo-Cumings demonstrates the “power of weak states” in the South Korean state’s maneuverability within the unequal US-ROK relations. 25 Kim Tŏk-ho and Wŏn Yong-jin eds., Amerikʻanaijeisyŏn: Haebang ihu Hanʼguk esŏ ŭi Migukhwa (Seoul: Pʻurŭn Yŏksa, 2008). Literature on Americanization has especially been vibrant in studies of American relations with Europe. See Richard Kuisel, Seducing the French: The Dilemma of Americanization (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993); Alexander Stephan, ed., Americanization and Anti-Americanism: The German Encounter with American Culture after 1945 (New York: Berghahn Books, 2005); Reinhold Wagnleitner, Coca-colonization and the Cold War: The Cultural Mission of the United States in Austria after the Second World War (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1994). For other works where the central story is what the United States did to other countries to impose and persuade the “American” way of things, see Victoria de Grazia, Irresistible Empire: America’s Advance through 20th Century Europe (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2005); Laura A. Belmonte, Selling the American Way: U.S. Propaganda and the Cold War (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008).

But where does Korea fit in in such narratives of Americanization? Is it possible to go beyond questions of resistance and acceptance, however selective and partial, to narrate Korea’s participation in the Cold War without reducing South Korea to a mere recipient of American values, aid, and culture? Without ignoring or denying the unevenness of Cold War politics, in which the United States and the Soviet Union represented two global superpowers next to which South Korea can seem peripheral, this study of childhood builds on many cultural studies that strive to go beyond the US-centric understanding of the Cold War.26 Despite Korea’s unequal power relations with the United States in the 1950s and 1960s, the Cold War order was produced in South Korea conterminously (though unevenly) with developments in other places around the world. Many activities of everyday anti-communism reverberated in the United States and elsewhere, and Korea’s own role in making of Cold War anti-communism was part and parcel of the plurality of transnational anti-communism and the Cold War liberal order. As Janet Poole considers Korea a site of co-production of Japanese fascism, South Korea, I argue, was a site of coterminous production of the new Cold War order and played an active role in the creative processes, making anti-communism and the Cold War its own project as well as one that spoke to transnational linkages well beyond itself.27 South Korea, as Kristin Ross argues in the French case, “[entered] more and more into collaboation or fusion with American capitalism,” and the US-Republic of Korea (US-ROK) relationship cannot be simply characterized as a question of acceptance or rejection of Americanization.28 Shifting our focus to Korea and many other places that were not superpowers during the Cold War does not simply de-marginalize them in Cold War studies but offers a more nuanced understanding of the workings of the Cold War. The term, “transnational anti-communism,” shares such critiques and aims to decentre the United States as “orchestrator supreme” in local

26 Heonik Kwon, The Other Cold War (New York: Columbia University Press, c2010); Steven Hugh Lee, Outposts of Empire: Korea, Vietnam and the Origins of the Cold War in Asia, 1949–1954 (Montréal: McGill-Queens University Press, 1995); Greg Castillo, Cold War on the Home Front: The Soft Power of Midcentury Design (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010); Mark Mazower, ed., After the War was Over: Reconstructing the Family, Nation, and State in Greece, 1943–1960 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000). 27 Janet Poole, When the Future Disappears: The Modernist Imagination in Late Colonial Korea (New York: Columbia University Press, 2014). 28 Kristin Ross, Fast Cars, Clean Bodies: Decolonization and the Reordering of French Culture (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1995).

12 and transnational anti-communist activities.29 Emphasizing the transnational nature of anti- communism reveals how it emerged and intensified through the circulation of people, ideas, values, and commodities among multiple sites, networks, nation-states, and groups of people.30 The transnational approach does not erase historically produced distinctions and specificities, but draws attention to the linkages that permeate and flow through national borders. How, then, could a study of childhood reconfigure and extend the definition of anti- communism, including to those without any formal membership to an explicitly anti-communist organization, public or private? Is it possible for us to discuss the children born and grown in 1950s and ‘60s Korea as participants in anti-communism? How was Cold War anti-communism (un)articulated in postwar South Korea in multiple, creative ways? These are a few questions that this study addresses by locating childhood as a site of the production of transnational anti- communism and of widespread participation in the Cold War. Anti-communism was a highly adaptable and flexible phenomenon that could be seen in popular everyday literature such as magazines and publications intended primarily for women and mothers, including family and childrearing materials, children’s literature, advertisements for products targeted at children or mothers, and psychological writings. The Korean authoritarian, military regimes certainly participated in producing anti-communist content for the population to consume and took up violent means of managing and eliminating what they deemed to be Communists, North Korean sympathizers, spies, or political deviants.31 However, the long-lasting effects and power of anti-communism in South Korea, both then and now, should not be assumed to be solely the result of government calculations and their reach of power over the population. The cacophony of voices within anti-communism was undeniable in

29 Luc van Dongen, Ste´phanie Roulin, and Gilles Scott-Smith, eds., Transnational Anti-Communism and the Cold War: Agents, Activities, and Networks (Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire; New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014); Gavin Bowd, Madeleine Davis, Paulo Drinot, Dianne Kirby, Carl Levy, and Matthew Worley, “A Century of Anti-Communisms: A Roundtable Discussion,” Twentieth Century Communism 6 (Spring 2014): 22–58. For discussion of how this South Korean publication served transnational anti-communist purposes, see Andre Schmid, “Historicizing North Korea: State Socialism, Population Mobility, and Cold War Historiography,” American Historical Review 123, no. 2 (April 2018): 439–462. 30 For discussion of the transnational approach to history, see Petra Goedde, “Power, Culture, and the Rise of Transnational History in the United States,” The International History Review 40, no.3 (2018): 592-608; C. A. Bayly, Sven Beckert, Matthew Connelly, Isabel Hofmeyr, Wendy Kozol, and Patricia Seed, “AHR Conversation: On Transnational History,” American Historical Review 111, no. 5 (2006): 1441–1464. 31 Lim Chae-Hong, “The National Security Law and Anticommunist Ideology in Korean Society,” Korea Journal 46, no. 3 (September 2006): 80–102.

13 the formation of South Korean society. Anti-communism did not circulate only through government slogans and government-sanctioned textbooks for children in school. Nor was it simply a set of activities and ideologies that were practiced through formal membership in organizations with anti-communist goals. It was, just as importantly if not more so, circulated through an everyday lifestyle and value system that depoliticized and normalized ideas around raising children appropriate to a new nation-state. Paying attention to the diversity of what constituted anti-communism in Cold War Korea reveals how anti-communism often denied its own political nature and did not necessarily identify itself as anti-communism. As the following chapters will make clear, anti-communism manifested through a particular understanding of Communism and life in North Korea as being deprived of freedom, individuality, and autonomy was fundamental to South Korea’s sense of its own freedom and autonomy, supposedly granted to them and guarded by the United States. The formation of various alliances between South Korea and the United States reached into deeper, more fundamental historical processes, including the rearing of children who would eventually go into the military, politics, and economic participation. My research thus expands on the definition of anti-communism, which, as argued herein, mobilized a wide range of participants, including those who often did not associate themselves with politics.

Child’s Autonomy and the Liberal Individual

Conceptualizing the child as a liberal individual with his or her own autonomy, which was presented as completely bereft of ideology and politics, was important in developing anti- communism through transnational linkages. One could hardly describe the 1950s and early 1960s South Korea — with its military dictatorships, corrupt electoral process, official anti- communist ideology, and censored press — as independent, free, and autonomous. Such a political situation did not prevent parents, architects, psychologists, and literary writers from claiming the importance of cultivating individuality, freedom, and autonomy in children.32 How, then, could children be raised to become autonomous, independent adults with their own unique individuality? This was a common concern surrounding discussions of childhood in the contexts

32 Other works of childhood also identify liberal values, such as children’s independence, autonomy, self-discipline, as critical in conceptualizing childhood in the Cold War. See Ann Marie Kordas, The Politics of Childhood in Cold War America (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2013).

14 of children’s rooms, aesthetic creativity, weaning from mother’s milk, and psychological adjustment in society. University presidents and professors, leaders of government organizations, and literary and social critics (mostly male and some female) profusely wrote on issues related to women, children, and family, covering topics such as beauty, education, making clothes, health, rooms, games, and literature. The prominence of domestic issues in family and women’s magazines was in itself a political project that made childrearing primarily a women’s project. Popular literature that targeted women, such as the magazine Women’s Garden (Yŏwŏn 1955– 1970), played a crucial role in de-politicizing not only the female gender but also childhood and childrearing as a site of non-politics, deprived of gender, sexuality, race, and class. The rendering of childhood in such a way enfolded childhood as a fruitful site that made the politics of everyday anti-communism seem as mundane and apolitical as one’s home. Firmly built on liberal notions of children’s political and ideological innocence, childhood became a powerful locus that effectively obfuscated and deflected accusations of political mobilization.33 Through the normalization of such liberal notions of children’s independence and liberal individuality, childhood served as a site of the Cold War project of transnational anti- communism.34 On both sides of the iron curtain, children became an “innocent weapon” of Cold War rivalry.35 The project of cultivating children’s individuality and autonomy was touted as an example of liberal democratic subject-hood, antithetical to that of children of socialist or communist countries who were depicted as oppressed and lacking individual autonomy. Even though liberal democracy also participated in molding their children, the types of critique levelled against the politicization of children in socialist countries all but disappeared when considering the rearing of their own children. The notion that children “naturally” like to play and are pure and innocent, for instance, developed as a modern fantasy. Cold War liberal values

33 For discussion of political nature of such innocence, see Victoria M. Grieve, Little Cold Warriors: American Childhood in the 1950s (New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2018), 15. 34 See Eleana J. Kim, Adopted Territory: Transnational Korean Adoptees and the Politics of Belonging (Durham, NC; London: Duke University Press, 2010); Victoria M. Grieve, Little Cold Warriors: American Childhood in the 1950s (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018); Tarah Brookfield, Cold Comforts: Canadian Women, Child Safety, and Global Insecurity (Waterloo, Ontario: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2012); Marilyn Irvin Holt, Cold War Kids: Politics and Childhood in Postwar America, 1945–1960 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2014). 35 Margaret Peacock, Innocent Weapons: The Soviet and American Politics of Childhood in the Cold War (Chapel Hill: University of Carolina Press, 2014).

15 resting on such fantasies (re)affirmed certain types of political economies that were deemed suitable in constructing normative children. In this project, the interrelated themes of children’s independence, individuality, and autonomy cut through the chapters, as this liberal ideology, bolstered by a transnational logic, enabled anti-communism to exist and circulate as normative and unquestionable, without the explicit label of anti-communism. An architect that advocated giving children their own rooms, separate from that of their parents, did not claim the project as part of the larger anti-communist ideology. And yet, the assumption that families in socialist countries occupied one room and shared the kitchen and bathroom as communal spaces with other families — and, moreover, that such living arrangements were unsanitary, morally suspect, and evidence of economic poverty — produced transnational linkages of anti-communism that echoed in South Korea, the United States, West Germany, and other countries claiming to be liberal and democratic. Additionally, the disavowal and dis-acknowledgment of the ideological nature of home design was in itself a political project, depoliticizing the home and childhood. Integral to this Cold War liberal ideology of children’s autonomy and the liberal individual was its constant disavowal of hierarchical relationships along lines of class, national citizenship, sexuality, gender, and race. In reality, lived experiences, bodies, and ideas were stratified unequally and hierarchically along all these lines. In order to imagine an ideal national and Cold War liberal order, these issues and distinctions were often willfully negated or glossed over. One could easily imagine that a well-off family could afford a house large enough to give separate rooms to each child or children of the different genders while, in reality, many families could barely afford a one-room home during and after the Korean War. And yet, the Cold War ideology spurred the dream of children’s rooms to precede the actual existence of children’s rooms for most people, and the language of independence, freedom, and autonomy was deeply steeped into the ideology. Similarly, the existence of gender inequalities, differences, and discrimination were often denied under the seemingly gender-neutral term for children or “young ones” (sonyŏn), which claimed to refer to both boys and girls. Women’s magazines and architectural designs proclaimed that women’s positions as housewives and mothers should be considered of foremost importance in the design of the home, in order to lessen their domestic labour — yet they made little room for the idea of women earning wages outside the home, or of a man becoming the main house worker. In claims to equality, there was little to no room for critiquing the political,

16 socioeconomic, cultural, or ideological workings of the ideology surrounding children’s autonomy and the liberal individual. Equality as an ideal elided the questioning of inequalities of today. Thus, anti-communism that depended on the liberal values of independence and the autonomous individual while disavowing their inequalities, enabled the formation of transnational anti-communism in Cold War Korea. The Cold War liberal ideology masqueraded as a universal value system so that anything else became corrupt, communist, socialist, and backwards. Independence, for instance, was considered a basic value within the modern nation- state system and was specific neither to South Korea nor the Cold War milieu. However, such liberal values were articulated, disarticulated, and lived in various realms of childhood, rather than in terms of national sovereignty, with specific Cold War inflections. The nuances, inconsistencies, and complexes of anti-communism manifested not only through political organizational structures, but through values attached to everyday ways of living that were shared across many nations and regions. The connections between the ostensibly incongruent aspects of childhood and transnational anti-communism were reconstituted through the child as a liberal individual that was to become autonomous and independent.

Chapter Outline

This study argues that the liberal project to raise children into freedom-aspiring, creative, and autonomous subjects in 1950s and 1960s South Korea was crucial in transnational formations of a new Cold War liberal order. Childhood was not un-ideological, and it was certainly not innocent. Rather, it was made and remade into the unpolitical, innocent, and un-ideological concept within the Cold War milieu. The slipperiness of the concept of childhood enabled a varying constellation of efforts and desires to coincide. The efforts to recover and restructure the heteronormative family occurred through the call for children’s rooms as an embodiment of a spatial “independence” in domestic space, as discussed in Chapter 1. Through notions of independence and privacy (two major Cold War architectural concerns), democracy was rendered into bedrooms. The material design initiative of building houses and arranging spaces was a deeply ideological project. By understanding past Korean houses as “backwards” and “feudal,” architects sought not only to create new houses but also to democratize family relations by centering women as housewives and building rooms for children in domestic spaces. Behind

17 the proffering of the need to give children their own rooms were also concerns for the sexual privacy of the married heterosexual couple in the wider efforts to recover and restructure the heteronormative family after the Korean War. The project of single-family homes as the standard (as opposed to communal housing in Soviet Union, for instance) was also intertwined with American housing projects in places like postwar Europe and Puerto Rico. Thus, the making of houses and homes was part of not only South Korea’s national reconstruction after the Korean War but also the transnational production of the new Cold War order. Similar to shifting conceptions of household space, literature and arts for children were promoted for their capacity to capture and nurture autonomy in young readers. Chapter 2 examines the ways in which the children’s magazine Sonyŏn segye (Boys’/Children’s World) became a site of transnational Cold War modernism, insisting that children should cultivate their own creative, aesthetic autonomy through consuming art produced for them, and producing “child-like” art themselves. Children’s arts became a crucial site to recover the ideal of childhood innocence, and it intersected with the Cold War modernist ideal that children were naturally expressive, free, and uninhibited by form and social restrictions. Such modernist efforts, however, could not avoid dependence on the colonial ideology of “cheerful” children, undermining the efforts to break free from the colonial past in a war-torn, divided Korea. In Chapter 3 shifts the focus to the issue of consumption by examining the construction of the mother-consumer as the mediator between the consumer market and child. In particular, the chapter examines the complex, multivalent ways in which children — even from infancy — were highly gendered and racialized along lines of ethnicity, nation, region, and the East/West binary in order to make infant formula products appealing to mothers as consumers. Racial politics were fundamental to the Cold War order, and the “colonial legacy” returned through the market in interesting ways as Japanese brands of infant formula actively competed against an ascending American brand in magazine and newspaper advertisements. Furthermore, a wide circulation of the image of often-naked, bottle-fed baby boys bolstered the imagining of masculine, autonomous children as the ideal normative subject in Cold War Korea. Chapter 4 deals with wider social concerns surrounding the production of democratic, non-totalitarian subjects in Cold War Korea. Through psychological testing of children, the rising field of psychology further naturalized the ideology of capitalist competition as a form of freedom and equality and recast inequalities created by gender, class, and other variables as simply individual differences. According to this brand of psychology, socialization and

18 education entailed cultivating individual children that would learn to respond positively to social relations, not critique social structures, and not fall prey to a “sense of inferiority.” In reality, psychologists upheld, reproduced, and hid these inequalities through their knowledge production. Psychology “moved inward,” accentuating the understanding of individual differences but not the socioeconomic structures of inequalities, denying the political nature of psychology’s knowledge production and psychologists’ own contributions to the creation and intensification of anxieties stemming from socially constructed, hierarchical differences. The epilogue discusses how the stories of children and childhood that developed in early Cold War years in South Korea continue to reverberate beyond the temporal scope of this study. As the children of the “baby boom” years from the late 1950s to early ‘60s began having children of their own, beginning in the late 1970s, issues of family planning and birth control made the children of Cold War Korea in this study a major site of national development, as well as the transnational politics of population control and reproduction that were central to Cold War formations.

Chapter 1 Independent Children’s Rooms: Designing Democratic Families in Cold War Korea

In the first National Housing Competition held by the South Korean Ministry of Health and Social Affairs in 1958, the first-prize-winning design belonged to a young male architect, An Yŏngbae (安瑛培, 1932–Present). He was a winner in three different categories, one of which was Class 1: Single-unit Dwelling, also called, a “Single Family Residence Design.” This design featured two children’s rooms (adongsil) and one master bedroom (pubusil).1 In addition to the focus on an equal mixture of “Korean” and “Western” style, one of the highlighted attributes of this design was a complete separation of the “master’s room” and two “children’s rooms.” Designed for a married couple with one older child who would occupy one of the children’s rooms, and two younger children who would share a bigger children’s room, the design located the couple and three children at the two extreme ends of a rectangular house. The two ends were clearly spaced out by a living room in the center of the house. An’s prize-winning design for a “single family” would become a typical ideal of the time, notable in its emphatic attention to the separation of the parents’ and children’s rooms. This division of household spaces into parents’ and children’s spheres was articulated in terms of “independence” (tongnipsŏng, 獨立性) of rooms. The term tongnipsŏng denoted the separation of walled spaces literally, but was also linked semantically to other Korean terms that indicate one’s nature (song, 性) or inherent characteristics, including individuality (kaesŏng, 個性) and autonomy (chajusŏng, 自主性). Politically, “independence” (tongnip, 獨立) held great importance for the formerly colonized nation of Korea but also took up particular meanings within a Cold War value system in which housing was deeply a part. Thus, this chapter situates the prominence of the term “independence,” a central architectural concern at the time, within the multiple layers of contexts in Korea at the time.

1 Ministry of Health and Social Affairs, First Prize Winner’s Work in the First National Housing Competition (Seoul: Ministry of Health and Social Affairs, 1958), 17. The English translation is directly from the original text. The design was by An Yŏngbae and Ch'ŏn Pyŏngok, technical staff of the Korea Reconstruction Bank. 19

In architectural texts produced in the United States contemporaneously, privacy was much more emphasized, so that bedrooms were discussed in terms of separation, increased privacy, and many times, the separation between the “bedroom wing” or “sleeping unit” from the entertaining or family area.2 Within the growing youth culture, privacy for teenagers, in particular, through separate bedrooms equipped with home electronics, became an ideal and, increasingly, a reality for many families in post-World War II America.3 Without this type of consumption-oriented youth culture in Cold War Korea, independence, rather than privacy, became a prominent vehicle through which the separation of children from parents into separate bedrooms was articulated. Interlinked with the notion of independence was widespread Cold War concerns of privacy. Privacy could not be guaranteed, as it was reasoned, without the independence of the rooms, especially between parents and children. Thus, the concern of granting “independence” to children through spatial division simultaneously served to conceal and euphemistically present another Cold War anxiety – the sexual intimacy of the married heterosexual couple. Dianne Harris, in particular, examines how privacy within homes was one of main architectural concerns in Cold War America.4 Similarly, privacy in domestic space was an important issue for architects in postwar Japan.5 Thus, a particular model of privacy circulated powerfully in transnational postwar reconstruction efforts, interlacing with Cold War anxieties regarding the power of a totalitarian state to invade one’s homes, minds, and hearts. Thus, as Deborah Nelson demonstrates, “the sanctity of the private sphere was generally perceived to be the most significant point of contrast” between democracies and totalitarian regimes.6 It was part of the larger ideological project that made privacy analogous to liberal democracy, and an alleged lack

2 I draw my understanding of American home architectural texts from various secondary sources, such as Dianne Harris’s work, as well as primary sources, such as Small Homes Council, Research Designed Homes: Living Units (University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, 1951). 3 Jason Reid, “‘My Room! Private! Keep Out! This Means You!’: A Brief Overview of the Emergence of the Autonomous Teen Bedroom in Post-World War II America,” Journal of the History of Childhood and Youth 5, no. 3 (Fall 2012): 419–443. 4 Dianne Harris, Little White Houses: How the Postwar Home Constructed Race in America (University of Minnesota Pres, 2013). 5 Laura Neitzel, The Life We Longed for: Danchi Housing and the Middle Class Dream in Postwar Japan (Portland, Maine: MerwinAsia, 2016), ch. 1. Although the author does not present the issue as a “Cold War anxiety” but a postwar concern, similar concerns were shared in Japan as well. 6 Deborah Nelson, Pursuing Privacy in Cold War America (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), xiii.

21 of privacy to Communism as a totalizing, invasive power. The domestic privacy and independence of rooms, especially in their specifically spatial nature, were thus seminal to South Korea’s self-image as protecting individual privacy through spatial arrangements within the home. Framing the separation of children’s rooms as a means of granting children their independence, privacy, and autonomy overlapped with the desire to raise children who would grow into autonomous, independent adults befitting a postcolonial nation-state fully immersed in postwar reconstruction in the Cold War milieu. This chapter argues that the intense focus on independence as a spatial imperative in interior domestic space, especially in discussions of children’s rooms, was enmeshed in the transnational processes of making houses and homes a vital site of not only South Korea’s postwar reconstruction but also the production of the new Cold War order. Mass destruction in Europe during World War II made mass housing a crucial practical and political concern for Europe’s postwar reconstruction led by the United States.7 In places like West Germany, where the Soviet “threat” could be just next door, domesticity was wielded as a powerful weapon for Cold War rivalry.8 As Greg Castillo artfully showed in his examination of midcentury designs of homes in Germany, the United States, and the Soviet Union, “If nomadic living invited Marxist subversion, rooted, middle-class domesticity was the logical antidote.”9 Hygiene of domestic spaces also became an important issue of decolonization in postwar France.10 Since Communism was envisioned as a global threat, anti-communism through middle-class domesticity also had to operate on a transnational scale. Thus, it was not simply about making homes in war-torn Europe or any other particular place but rather, as Nancy Kwak argues, making a “world of homeowners.” 11 The Korean War, which destroyed an

7 Paul Betts and David Crowley, “Domestic Dreamworlds: Notions of Home in Post-1945 Europe – Introduction,” Journal of Contemporary History 40, no. 2 (2005): 213–236. See other articles included in the journal issue. 8 Greg Castillo, Cold War on the Home Front: The Soft Power of Midcentury Design (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010). 9 Ibid, 19. 10 Kristin Ross, Fast Cars, Clean Bodies: Decolonization and the Reordering of French Culture (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1995). 11 Nancy Kwak, A World of Homeowners: American Power and the Politics of Housing Aid (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2015).

22 estimated six hundred thousand units of housing in South Korea alone, and the presence of its Communist counterpart in the North made South Korea a geopolitically strategic site of transnational anti-communism wielded through domesticity.12 In his 1959 congratulatory speech celebrating the completed renovation of Freedom Village, which was located two kilometers south of the demilitarized zone (DMZ) but also right across North Korea’s own Peace Village, the ROK Minister of Social and Health Affairs, Son Ch'anghwan, told the residents to “live firmly as if to flaunt to the Communists, until the north-south unification will be realized . . .”13 The imagined and real “specter” of North Korea made issues surrounding domesticity not simply one of improving everyday life but of continuously re-conceptualizing the nation-state in contrast to the North Korean state power that was purportedly threatening the independence, autonomy, and privacy of South Korean subjects. After the end of World War II, publicizing home designs, furniture, model homes, and household gadgets was an important avenue for Cold War politics. American suburban homes were displayed around the world, including the 1950 How America Lives exhibition in West Berlin and the 1959 American National Exhibition in Moscow, a site of the famous “Kitchen Debate” between the US Vice President Richard Nixon and the Soviet Union’s Premier Nikita Khrushchev. In South Korea, numerous architectural designs, including those of single-family homes, were displayed at the Anti-Communist Center (pan’gong hoegwan), an institutional space that promoted life in democratic countries as successful and thriving, while propagating a sense of the “darkness” of communist life. Given the postwar devastation and poverty in Korea, discussions of domesticity focused less on the household gadgets and appliances featured prominently in the “Kitchen debate” between Nixon and Khrushchev. Rather, Korean housing discussions prioritized the independence of rooms over convenient appliances, with the belief that refrigerators, televisions, and dishwashers would and should come only after the establishment of independent rooms. Thus, even without the involvement of the state or explicitly anti-communist organizational structure, the issue of children’s rooms in its manifestations through values of independence, individuality, autonomy, and privacy contributed

12 The number of homes destroyed during the Korean War was according to the number given here: Korea Housing Corporation (Taehan chut'aek kongsa), Thirty-Year History of the Korean Housing Corporation [Taehan chut'aek kongsa 30nyŏnsa] (Seoul, Korea Housing Corporation, 1992), 83. 13 Korea Housing Corporation (Taehan chut'aek kongsa), Thirty-Year History of the Korean Housing Corporation [Taehan chut'aek kongsa 30nyŏnsa] (Seoul, Korea Housing Corporation, 1992), 92.

23 to occluding the complex politics of domestic space that were interweaved into active, everyday forms of anti-communism. Presented as a natural priority and often taken for granted as a (future) necessity of every family, the designing of children’s rooms into the physical household space simultaneously reconfigured what it meant to “democratize” family relations. In rethinking democratic selfhood, childhood served as a fulcrum around which specifically conceptualized notions of independence and privacy could be articulated and circulated. The twin pairs of rooms — children’s rooms and the married couple’s rooms — reflected the desire to embrace the nuclear family as a reflection and production of normative subjects in a liberal, capitalist society while denying the political nature of such a conceptualization by appealing to the rhetoric of human nature, desires, and needs. Housing was one of the main venues in which such claims to universality worked: by depoliticizing the types of housing in liberal capitalist societies but politicizing those in socialist, communist countries as sub-normative Other against which to reaffirm their own normativity. Thus, the issue of independence of children’s rooms worked to both indirectly and directly critique the socialist notion of collectivity, group membership, and state-led housing programs in North Korea, in particular, and socialism, in general, despite the fact that the South Korean state also arose as the most efficient and resourceful power to address the housing issue in the postwar period. Importantly, values of independent rooms and privacy of individuals through the division of household spaces both depended on and co-produced anti-communism. An understanding of North Korea as a place that destroyed the family — not only through the instigation of the Korean War but also through party-led organizations, women’s participation labour outside the home, and provision of state childcare centres — was central to South Korea’s participation in the new Cold War order. Independent children’s rooms, it seemed to promise, could free not only the children but also the whole nation from authoritative powers of the past, present, and future. This chapter first examines how separate children’s rooms (adongsil, 兒童室) were understood to be fundamental in cultivating autonomous thinking and independence in children so that they would grow up to be likewise in adulthood. Such independence was, however, premised on the heteronormative family with three children or fewer being housed in a single- family home — certainly not reflective of the national average at the time. The making of independent children’s rooms was thus interpolated into politics of population control and reproduction in the Cold War milieu and relied on such transnational circulation of intellectual exchanges among architects, government-sponsored housing design competitions, and the

24 proliferation of various subjects related to domesticity in women’s magazines. The second part of this chapter will focus on the notion of privacy, specifically, that of the married heterosexual couple, as tightly tethered to the discussion of independent children’s rooms. Democracy, then, through domestic spatial notions of independence and privacy, was rendered into bedrooms that subsumed and deflected the questioning of Korea’s political state into the cyclicality and mundanity of daily life.

Cultivating Children’s Independence and Autonomy through Children’s Rooms Creating the New “Dish of Life”

“In order to develop autonomous thoughts in children, I would like to give [them] independent rooms,” declared Yi Haesŏng, a professor of architecture and one of twenty-three male authors featured in Yŏwŏn, a prominent women’s magazine, in a volume on housing in 1960.14 As one of many “experts” on housing, Yi was not alone in justifying the need for children-specific rooms based on values of independence and autonomy. Yi clearly conceptualized domestic space as critical in raising certain types of subjects, and that without granting children their own room, adults might jeopardize not only the future of the children but that of the whole family and the nation as well. Simply put, children needed to be given their own rooms in domestic space, often metaphorically referred to as the “dish of life.” Reflecting a belief in the relationship between spatial arrangements and people’s subjectivity, rather than solely on efficiency or hygiene, was a part of modern discourse with profound implications for conceptualizing domestic spaces. “Housing is a dish in which we put our lives. In this dish, fathers, mothers, and sons and daughters lead our lives,” said Kim Chungŏp, a prominent architect well-known for his design of the French embassy in Korea, in the opening of an article on renovating an old house into an economic, convenient, and happy home.15 Architects often used the metaphor of a vessel or “dish of life” to describe and introduce their writing on various topics related to housing. Likened to the way in which the shape of a

14 Yi Haesŏng, “Children’s Room,” in Chut'aek (Seoul: Yŏwŏnsa, 1960), 117. 15 Kim Chungŏp, “Theory of Renovating a Korean House [Han'guk kaok kaeryangnon]” Yŏwŏn, September 1956, 136–141.

25 dish determined the shape of its contents like “water in a quadrilateral dish,” in the minds of architectural designers, the materiality of housing determined the “shape” and type of the life lived by its occupants.16 By this logic, a happy life could not be constructed without the physical structure that would make such a life possible. One of the ways that these types of life were discussed was through the call to democratize the family, an issue that extended widely beyond architectural concerns. In articulating the change towards a democratic family, Kim Hŭich'ang, a writer for broadcast programs, argued that family should transform from one with a “head of household-centre” to a “child-centre” so that “there is no longer the superiority and inferiority of authority, no walls that are blocked, no difference between the young and the old, and no distinction of ideologies.”17 As one educator and advocate of home economics in public education said, “if the family is not democratic, then the society cannot be democratic.”18 According to her argument, the project of democratizing the family should come before an attempt to democratize society, placing more weight on her professional field but also on the concept of democracy at the intimate, everyday level of the family. Another editorial presented a negative example of the democratization of family, one characterized as “abusing” and “feeding children anything” while the father and parents-in-law, as the “central characters” in the family, are respected.19 There was much desire to “democratize” (minjuhwa) the family relations, however fraught the attempt may have been. Interior spatial designs were part of the larger effort to envision and construct new family relations. In the project of democratizing family relations through domestic space, giving children their own rooms arose as an important issue. Children, according to the metaphor, needed the appropriate spatial independence to foster independent, autonomous thinking. Designers assumed that a house that had the physical form of independence had the potential to produce children with independent natures and autonomous thinking. This particular notion of independence was based on critiques of the housing structures in the Chosŏn period (1392–1897), which were deemed to be antithetical to the Cold War vision of

16 This particular example was from An Yŏngbae and Kim Sŏnkyun, New Housing [Saeroun chut’aek] (Seoul: Pojinjae, 1964), but the metaphor was a prevalent one stated by both architects and non-architects alike. 17 Kim Hŭich'ang, “Special Issue: New Parents’ Position and Ethics of Children [T'ŭkchip: Saeroun pumo ŭi wich'i wa chanyŏ ŭi yulli],” Yŏwŏn, May 1960, 64, 67. 18 Kim Punok, “New Directions of Home Economics Education” [Kasa kyoyuk ŭi sae panghyang], Education [Kyoyuk], 1956 (1), 72. 19 “The Management of an Ideal Family,” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, December 8, 1958.

26 national progress. Instead of treating Chosŏn housing structures as a source of architectural inspiration, they were seen to represent the hierarchical, patriarchal characteristics of an older family system, which allegedly stifled the transformation towards democratic family relations. In his three-part historical account of Korean housing, Chu Namch'ŏl characterized middle- and upper-class Chosŏn housing as posing strict divisions between men and women through separate structures for women (anch'ae) and men (sarangch'ae), as well as many families of servants in the servants’ quarters (haengnangch'ae).20 A rather specific class norm of housing — the well- to-do yangban — remained an ideal for most people. Yet, a class-specific housing structure came to represent the universal Korean housing of the past, positioned as the antithesis against which modern housing was to be fashioned. Although the class system was much more rigid, and thus such multi-structure housing was neither dream-able nor attainable for most people then and now, such critiques of elite Chosŏn housing implied that the new Cold War order was characterized by a nonexistence of the class system. By conceptualizing Korea’s past housing structures as creating and perpetuating both gender and class hierarchies, the architects presented their own work as eliminating existing gender and class inequalities, which in reality continued to exist and reconfigured in Cold War Korea. Since housing structures in the past were read to have created and perpetuated both gender and class hierarchies, many architects sought to reform such inequalities by inserting not only children’s rooms but also centralizing women’s role as housewife. In the second national housing design competition, An Yŏngbae again won first place in “Class I: Urban Type Self- Help Home.” According to competition requirements, the design was set at a family size of five and had separate children’s room and master bedroom. In a short description of the rationale for his design, he placed much focus on the housewife’s role in the house. Reminiscent of common characterization of the housing structure in the Chosŏn period, An’s design was described as follows: “This house is designed to give a pleasant feeling to the housewife, while she is

20 Chu Namch'ŏl, “Research on Changes and Development of Korean Housing (II) [Han'guk chut'aek ŭi pyŏnch'ŏn kwa paldal e kwanhan yŏn'gu],” Kŏnch'uk 9, no.2 (July 1965): 9–19. Sarangch'ae, anch'ae, and haengnangch'ae were all detached structures within the property wall. Sarangch'ae was placed near the entrance gate, as it was considered the men’s quarters for accepting guests, studying, and sleeping. Anch’ae, located at the farthest or “innermost” location from the entrance, was for women. Haengnangch'ae was for servants.

27 working, and she may do her work easily without any help of the maid.”21 Other winning entries and honorable mentions also echoed the same attention to the housewife’s movement centering around the kitchen, kimch'i jars, outdoor laundry, and other domestic work areas including rooms in which to supervise children. The first Honourable Mention in the publication stated, “For the urban type, the housewife should be considered important.”22 “Housewife” (chubu) was a term with spatial and class inflection, and the increasing attention and expectation of the wife-mother to manage and do all domestic work was intended as another way of articulating the wife- mother’s independence from the hierarchical relationship of the housewife and the maid. To reflect such an ideal, these small-scale urban homes had only two bedrooms and no room for housemaids or other family members, including the parents of the conjugal couple. One of the central criticisms of Chosŏn housing was a lack of independence of rooms. In these older housing structures, according to architectural descriptions, rooms were adjacent to each other, as in an L-shaped arrangement with no hallways, and each room had multiple entrance ways, both from the outside the building structure and from other connected rooms. It meant that one could and would need to cut through another room in order to get from one room to another without having to be “outside” the structure. Put differently, each room had multiple entranceways that made rooms accessible through other contiguous spaces. If a house of the past was characterized as a person having to go through his brother’s room in order to get to his own room without being exposed to cold winter winds, a modern house sought to ensure that he could get to his room from a main, indoor living area, which Yi Ch'ŏnsŭng deemed as more social than private, in order to get to the more private space of the bedroom.23 Thus, independence in this context meant each room was not accessible through another room but rather through a single doorway from an explicitly social space such as the living area. At the same time, the conjuring of specific Chosŏn-style housing as Korea’s universal past worked to deny the changes that took place in the colonial era. From the early 20th century,

21 Ministry of Health and Social Affairs, Prize Winning Works in the 2nd National Home Design Contest [Che 2 hoe chŏn'guk chut'aek sŏlgye hyŏnsang tangsŏn chakp'umjip] (English and Korean) (Seoul: Ministry of Health and Social Affairs, 1959), 16–19. 22 Ibid, 28–31. Designers were Kim Hoejung, Sŏ Namsik, Im Yongt'aek, who received “Honorable Mention” in the “Class I: Urban Type Self-Help Home.” 23 Yi Ch'ŏnsŭng, “New House and New Lifestyle” [Saeroun chut'aek kwa saenghwal], Chut'aek (Seoul: Yŏwŏnsa, 1960), 35–56.

Japanese architects and home reformers made similar critiques of “traditional” Japanese homes, which encompassed similarly multi-purpose, connected rooms. Wealthy Koreans and prominent Korean architects during the colonial period also experimented with combining the “male” and “female” spheres of the house in order to spatially reflect a modern understanding of living space.24 Yet, such colonial-era reform efforts were understood not to embody the liberal ideal of independence. The idea of housing befitting the nation was to leave behind all things related to colonialism and to envision a new beginning in the Cold War milieu. The 1950s were a time in which architects attempted to theorize this modern, “new” life through domestic space, thereby both implicitly and explicitly producing the notion of “old” housing and life. Yi Ch'ŏnsŭng opened Yŏwŏnsa’s Chut'aek volume with a piece called, “New House and Life.” Chut'aek included multi-authored, separate, but interrelated pieces on the living room, bedrooms, children’s rooms, kitchen, basement, building materials, lighting, and furniture, among others. It began with a conceptual mapping of three spheres of life: individual, labour, and social. Yi’s conceptual framework for life in domestic space was neatly summed up in a diagram of three circles (see Figure 1.1 below). One of the circles was stacked tangentially on top the other two in the form of a triangle, but with none overlapping. A triangle was then drawn by connecting the centers of each circle. The top circle was labelled the “individual sphere,” the right bottom circle the “social sphere,” and the left bottom the “labour sphere.” Although the home was envisioned to be more or less a private space compared with the rigid world of employment and politics, it was also conceptualized as having elements of both private and public in fluctuating degrees, depending on the activities taking place throughout the day. Yi proposed that all aspects of a family’s life could be contained in these three spheres of domestic life, simply moving from one point to another within a triangle circumscribed within the three circles, with the exception of the toilet and sink, to which both family members of all ages and occasional guests were seen to need an equal degree of accessibility. Criticizing Koreans for quickly “covering” postwar destruction with make-shift houses while praising the people of postwar Germany for quietly and patiently living in burnt basements while waiting for good housing to be built, Yi invited his readers, not just architectural experts, to think through and discuss the “concepts of dwelling” (chugŏ ŭi kaenyŏm) before resorting to

24 Im Ch'ang-bok, Han'guk ŭi chut'aek, kŭ yuhyŏng kwa pyŏnch'ŏnsa (P'aju: Tolbegae, 2011).

29 building substandard, un-modern housing.25 Simultaneously, his invitation claimed that a good house was possible for all; it was to be an egalitarian dream. Understanding the “basic organizational chart” of domestic living was important to Yi’s theorization of this egalitarian dream, and of good, modern houses deemed appropriate for Koreans. It is significant that Yŏwŏnsa’s editors began the volume with a piece that explained the concept of the three spheres of home life, written by Yi, instead of diving right into the issue of the materiality of housing. As the editor’s message revealed, Chut'aek purported to be about materializing the happy life for everyone, not just for those with wealth. In other words, while erasing the class nature of housing, it was seen a means through which happiness and progress could be realized regardless of class, a materialization of liberal ideology. Such an erasure of the essentially class nature of housing was part of the Cold War order that “the good life” in the form of homeownership, nice furniture, and separate bedrooms was available to all in a democratic society, not just to those with money or an upper-class background. This diagram of triangulated spheres was repeatedly utilized throughout the volume by different authors, highlighting how prevalent the concept of the three spheres was among architectural circles, superseding the dichotomy of private and public.26

25 Yi Ch'ŏnsŭng, “New House and New Lifestyle” [Saeroun chut'aek kwa saenghwal], Chut'aek (Seoul: Yŏwŏnsa, 1960), 36. 26 An Yŏngbae and Kim Sŏnkyun had a similar diagram, with a “study” room probably for the male head of household in the “private sphere” on the line that connected the bedroom and the living room. An Yŏngbae and Kim Sŏnkyun, New Housing [Saeroun chut’aek] (Seoul: Pojinjae, 1964), 163.

Figure 1.1. "Basic Organizational Chart" in Yi Ch'ŏnsŭng, “New House and Life” [Saeroun chut'aek kwa saenghwal],” Chut'aek (Yowŏn, 1960), 42. Note: “TERRACE” and “LIVING ROOM” were originally notated in English in capital letters, while the other labels were translated from hangul.

As seen in Yi’s chart depicting homelife, the activity of sleep was at the very center of the individual sphere. Sleep was described as “absolutely individual,” a paradigmatic symbol of individual privacy.27 Thus, a family member was “not to invade” another family members’ “zone of life” (saenghwal kwŏn), and this was often enacted by incorporating only one door to each room in architectural designs, and restricting access to rooms by their connections to the living room (“social”) rather than directly opening into another “private” zone. In an ideal home, a child, for instance, would need to leave her “private” zone and enter either the living room or a hallway, deemed to belong to the social sphere, before being able to enter their parents’ room. Even in a design where the children’s and couple’s rooms share the same wall, the children’s

27 Yi Ch'ŏnsŭng, “New House and Life” [Saeroun chut'aek kwa saenghwal],” Chut'aek (Seoul: Yŏwŏnsa, 1960), 42.

31 room was described to have been positioned “opposite” from the couple’s room, not “next to it” or “adjacent,” as if to linguistically, though not spatially, distance the rooms.28

Autonomous Thought through Independent Children’s Rooms

Words like independence, individuality, and autonomy dominated the rationale behind the need for children’s rooms. In a design for a study room for three children, an architect planned it specifically as a children’s room “in order to cultivate independent and autonomous thinking.”29 In a co-authored work, An Yŏngbae and Kim Sŏnkyun emphasized the importance of cultivating “autonomous thought” (chaju kwannyŏm) in children from a young age as a reason for making children’s rooms.30 Architects who received honorable mention in the category of Urban Homes in the Second National Home Design contest explained that they designed the “couple’s room” on the east end and the children’s room on the west end so that “there will be no interruptions (chijang) in their study.”31 The intention was to allow children their own space to play and study in the form of an “independent individual room,” which was deemed “absolutely important in the issue of education of children, particularly the development of autonomy and individuality.”32 One author went to the extent of titling his piece, “Children’s Rooms that Nurture Individuality [kaesŏng] and Autonomy[chajusŏng],” and argued, “I think that one can cultivate [in children] the habit of organizing one’s own belongings and cleaning, and thus cultivate individuality and nurture independence and autonomy.”33 If writers specified what this independence and autonomy might look like, they usually listed accessing and organizing one’s clothes, books,

28 Chang Sŏkchŏng, “Four Types of House with Building Costs Around 200,000 hwan” [Kŏnch'ukpi 20man hwan naeoe ŭi ne kaji chut'aek],” Yŏwŏn (1959 September), 235–242, 236. 29 Chŏng Sŏng-ho, “Design of Children’s Study Rooms [Ŏrini kongbubang ŭi tejain],” Yŏwŏn, September 1959, 247–247. 30 An Yŏngbae and Kim Sŏnkyun, New Housing [Saeroun chut’aek] (Seoul: Pojinjae, 1964), 73. This monograph was widely used as a university textbook at the time. 31 The winners were Kim Hoejung, Sŏ Namsik, Im Yongt'aek. Ministry of Health and Social Affairs, Prize Winning Works in the 2nd National Home Design Contest [Che2hoe chŏn'guk chut'aek sŏlgye hyŏnsang tangsŏn chakp'umjip] (English and Korean), 28–31. Interestingly in the English version of the “same” content, it was explained that their design “provided rather quieter boys’ room for their educational purpose” (emphasis added). 32 An Yŏngbae and Kim Sŏnkyun, New Housing [Saeroun chut’aek], (Seoul: Pojinjae, 1964), 61. 33 Pak Kyŏngsun, “Children’s Rooms that Nurture Individuality and Autonomy” [Kaesŏng kwa chajusŏng ŭl k'iunŭn adongsil], Yŏwŏn, April 1960, 282–284.

32 toys, and other belongings without the help of the mother as examples. Most of the time, however, notions of independence and autonomy were invoked, repeated, and emphasized without clearly defining why and how these values manifested in raising and educating children through the household spatial structure. Children’s rooms, especially for those in school-age years, also called for recommendations on specific furniture designs, arrangement, and alternative space-saving strategies. For children just entering elementary, various writers recommended equipping the children’s room with furniture such as a desk and chair, a closet space in which children should organize their own clothes and choose their own outfits, and a bed as to avoid leading children to lose focus in their studies, “wasting time to naps and chats” on heated ondol floors.34 Children’s rooms were planned as multi-purpose rooms not only for sleeping but also for playing, studying, and reading, and floor plans often showed the essentials of a room, including a bed (often a bunk bed), desk and chairs, and sometimes some form of storage or closet space. In a design for a children’s “study room,” to be shared among three siblings, the designer equipped the room with beds and chairs on wheels and a wall-floating desk, to enable the children to “play freely” by tucking away the furniture when not in use.35 The call for the independence of children, in the eyes of some, extended even to children under one year old.36 After briefly outlining the significant developmental stages based on an infant’s age in months, the writer of the section “Children’s Room” suggested that, considering the amount and intensity of labour required from the mother in taking care of the infant, a separate infant’s room would not be necessary or practical.37 However, the writer critiqued the “common practice” of children sleeping in their mother’s arms, claiming it resulted in unhygienic practices and the potential to smother the nursing child to death. Thus, the author recommended preparing separate beds for children and to develop the habit of children sleeping by themselves, albeit in the same room as the parents. In order to accommodate the separation of a sleeping infant from the mother, a set of illustrations with specific numerical measurements

34 Ibid. 35 Chŏng Sŏngho, “Designs of Children’s Study Rooms [Ŏrini kongbu pang ŭi tejain],” Yŏwŏn, September 1959, 246–247. 36 An Haesŏng, “Children’s Room” [Adongsil], Chut'aek (Yŏwŏnsa, 1960), 106–119. Author was identified as a professor of architecture at Hanyang University. 37 Ibid.

33 were shown under the heading “Furniture Needed for Childrearing.” It included a crib and a rocking bassinet for separate sleeping, a high chair for eating separately from adults, as well as a play fence with a standing child depicted within the fenced area with no adults depicted nearby.38 This particular author was very aware of the distinct stages of child development, recommending different spatial arrangements, whether of using a crib or providing a separate room, depending on the child’s age and distinct development characteristics. The spatial cognate to independence, through both rooms and furniture for children, was separateness, especially from the mother. The trope of “separateness,” however, was not static, as children’s growth and development in mind and body made it a much more complex issue. As one can surmise, an infant was understood to necessitate a different type and degree of independence from a child in primary versus secondary, or even post-secondary school. While it might have been acceptable for an infant to sleep in the same room with parents, although preferably in a separate sleeping place, occupying the same room as the parents was understood to be increasingly unacceptable as children grew older. In a “housing meeting” held in October 1958 by the Korean Housing Administration, Ch'oe Isun, a female professor at Yonsei University and a pioneer of home economics in Korea, identified fifteen years of age when children start middle-school as the necessary time to give each child his or her room.39 Another writer recommended giving separate rooms to each child from the age of six in order to cultivate “the mentality of independence.”40 An Yŏngbae mentioned the age of thirteen as a time when a child should be given his or her own room.41 As children grew, the spatial arrangements were also deemed necessary to change along with them in order to cultivate their individuality through the division of household spaces. Their conclusions did not always fit neatly into a clear agreement, reflecting the fact that this type of thinking was a work in progress. For many, however, it was deemed a topic worthy of discussion and debate.

38 Ibid, 109. 39 “Housing Meeting,” [Chut'aek chwadamhoe kirok], House & Home [Chut’aek] 1, no. 1 (July 1959): 58–64. While the article dates the meeting to October 5, the English translation identifies it as having occurred on December 5th. 40 An Pyŏngŭi, “Study [Sŏjae],” Chut'aek (Seoul: Yŏwŏnsa, 1960), 222. 41 An Yŏngbae, “Our Country’s 20 Years of Housing Architecture [Uri nara chut'aek kŏnch'uk 20nyŏn],” Review of Architecture and Building Science [Kŏnch'uk] 10, no. 1(February 1966): 18–21.

Concerns about children’s sexuality also appeared in these floor plans, as well as in verbal discussions of children’s rooms. In order to maximize the use of space, many writers suggested partitioning off sections of a room with a curtain or a moveable partition if giving separate rooms to children of different genders was not possible for financial or other reasons, although sharing a room among same-sex siblings was deemed acceptable.42 Besides the fact that curtains constituted a highly permeable barrier and a poor form of soundproofing and/or visual obstruction, the recommendation also ignored the fact that class was directly linked to the ability to provide any type of separation, be it through a curtain or an actual wall, among children of different genders and age groups, as well as other adult family members. Ironically, the construction of children’s rooms meant that children were to be well- contained, managed, and placed under surveillance within the home; it was exactly this “safe” containment that was called independence. The value of independence had multiple faces, like being spatially separated from opposite-sex siblings, while also placing children under constant surveillance and instruction of parents, usually the housewife-mother. For instance, the kitchen and living space were often conceptualized as both the housewife’s work area and children’s play space during the day, and architects often expressed the intention to enable the constant surveillance of children by the housewife-mother, allowing a multi-tasking approach to housework and child-supervision in the kitchen, dining, and living areas. Such supervision/surveillance of the children was not presented as oppressive, but rather in terms of lightening the housewife’s work load to perform both housework and childcare. One of the criticisms of the “old” style housing in Korea was that working in the kitchen meant that the supervision of children and guests was not possible.43 The modern conception readily assumed the normality of constant multitasking of a married woman in domestic space, especially without a housemaid. Instead, it was presented as shifting the center of the house from the male head of household (kajang, 家長), deemed feudal, to the woman as a central figure around which modern and progressive domestic spaces should be planned. The logic was that by amending the architectural design of homes, the nation’s sovereignty, power, and progress could also be liberated. The centering of the child as a site of national reform meant that a child’s independence was to be nurtured in order to ensure their

42 Chŏng In'guk, “Bedrooms [Ch'imsil],” Chut'aek (Seoul: Yŏwŏnsa, 1960), 90. 43 An Yŏngbae and Kim Sŏnkyun, New Housing [Saeroun chut’aek], (Seoul: Pojinjae, 1964), 85.

35 independence in the future. In the second issue of the Korean Housing Administration’s journal, Chut’aek, an article by Chang Kihwa, a female writer, argued the lack of children’s rooms as an issue was not limited only to rural housing, which was seen to lack separate spaces along generational and gender lines.44 Using the inclusive pronoun, “we,” the author invited and challenged the readers to “make independent” children’s rooms as soon as the “economic power” permitted such independence, implying that it should be made a priority for any financially capable families, not just rural ones. She did not dwell on problematizing the lack of such “economic power” to give their children their own rooms, or offer remedies for those who did not have it or might never achieve it. She readily assumed that economic power could be attained in the future, positing the making of children’s rooms a universal possibility. However, according to Chang, the problem was not simply about the economic incapability to realize children’s spatial independence. Rather, it was also about “old habits” and customs. Architecture as a material reform, for many, certainly came with social consequences. Chang stated, “If children continue to live a life where they are always oppressed under strict parents, their individuality [kaesŏng] is killed, and courage lost, there will come great injuries in the future. By choosing a room for their use, I think they will be able to develop their own individuality [kaesŏng], play and study freely, and have fun.”45 Chang seemed to believe that the “old” customs allowed parents to exercise excessive power and control over their children, resulting in the loss of children’s individuality. Independence encompassed the ideas of individual personality, freedom, choice, creativity, and rights, and was based on the assumption that children needed their own spatial independence in order to foster and support their psychological independence, character development, and uniqueness as autonomous individuals. While a lack of children’s rooms was not unique to Korea, the focus on it as a national flaw allowed the author to implicitly critique the national character and to propose resolving a deep, serious national problem that many architects saw through the lens of children’s bedrooms. Such a lack of children-specific rooms would result, according to Chang, in detrimental damage to the nation and its path towards progress. Making this leap from domestic to national issues, Chang reasoned that the reason Korea was “lagging behind in comparison to other countries

44 Chang Kihwa, “Lovely Children’s Room [Choa hanŭn adongsil],” House & Home [Chut'aek] 1, no. 2 (1959): 72–76. 45 Chang Kihwa, “Lovely Children’s Room [Choa hanŭn adongsil],” House & Home [Chut'aek] 1, no. 2 (1959): 73.

36 when it comes to invention and discoveries” was the nation’s inability to “sufficiently cultivate” its children’s individuality (kaesŏng), which was the basis of both “power of originality” [tokch'angnyŏk, 獨創力] and “production power” [chejangnyŏk, 製作力].46 The establishment of individual rooms, which was a manifestation of individual freedom, another writer said, was universal in Europe and the United States, but Korea was “very backwards” in this respect.47 Taken as a universal value, the separation of rooms particularly articulated the necessity of independence in children’s rooms. The movement towards including these ideas on childrearing in the ideological design of homes was part of a vision of progress of which independence as a domestic spatial requirement was presented as crucial evidence. While the figure of the child in an independent bedroom enabled the social critique of the nation, it operated as a powerful means to render a deep class issue into a national one, thereby generalizing the issue to be a problem of modernity that was applicable equally to all Koreans. By positing a lack of children’s rooms as a national problem, not one of class or war mass destruction, class issues were avoided and shunted aside as irrelevant to the larger housing problem. Moreover, as a national problem to be solved in the near future, it mirrored the ideology of liberal developmentalism, which promoted ideals for the future on the assumption of continued economic growth to be shared by everyone, such that eventually all people will have the wherewithal to afford children’s rooms. It displaced the class issue of not everyone being able to afford children’s bedrooms in one’s home to future universalism based on a current denial and future possibilities.

Designing Democracy in Homes During the Cold War Bedroom Democracy in Single-Family Homes

The issue of independent children’s rooms was not simply about giving a separate space to children in any type of home. It was specifically about single-family homes that were to be qualitatively different from the collective and communal housing that was understood to be characteristic of Communism. Not only did nuclear families need their own kitchen, bathroom,

46 Ibid. 47 Yi Ch'ŏnsŭng, “New House and New Lifestyle” [Saeroun chut'aek kwa saenghwal], Chut'aek (Seoul: Yŏwŏnsa, 1960), 42.

37 and bedroom separate from other families, architects in Cold War Korea also assumed that individual family members were to be spatially separated into different rooms. The normative vision that everyone deserved a good home and should be homeowners particularly reinforced the ideal of the heteronormative family with children. In other words, the idea that the entire multi-generational extended family should not share a single room, especially for sleeping, occurred alongside certain assumptions about the type of families and homes that were perceived as under threat by Communism. It operated under the assumption that such a lack of separation between families and between family members was detrimental to building “healthy” and happy family relations. In the late 1950s and early ‘60s, writers in women’s magazines and journals on housing not only assumed that people were building their own homes and provided information on the “correct” design principles to incorporate, but also that each family had different financial capability and family composition and needs by which to alter the spatial designs of their homes. Texts on housing often included advice and instructions on financial loans and applications, selecting appropriate building sites and building materials, laying the foundation, designing the interior layout, as well as explaining the legal requirements for building a house. Despite deeply ingrained class inequality in various housing structures, housing was to be an integral part of the dream of universal attainability, according to one’s own taste, needs, and financial capabilities. It was not a mere coincidence that the single-family house was the first category in the first housing design competition in South Korea, and the category that received the most enthusiasm in terms of submission. It was enmeshed in the Cold War order through direct governmental and inter-governmental financial aid programs. The first nation-wide housing design competition was commissioned by the Ministry of Health and Social Affairs in early 1958 and promised a monetary prize of 8,450,000 hwan, a direct result of the International Cooperation Administration (ICA) Aid Program. The competition was the first governmental project funded by the ICA Aid Program, which was part of US foreign policy in South Korea, focusing on housing aid through finance. When An Yŏngbae submitted his designs in the competition, he was working at the Korea Reconstruction Bank (KRB), which had received aid from the ICA, helping to design standard housing layouts to be built with loans. The KRB was an institution that served as one of the conduits through which American aid dollars flowed into different individuals, groups, and businesses. ICA housing aid was distributed in the form of finance granted to civilians, with the

38 actual housing to be built by civilian builders according to designs drafted by the ICA staff, such as An with the consultation of future occupants.48 In addition to a much higher pay than his previous workplace, An was already involved in designing the interior space of small-scale, detached, single-family homes that were not only intended to be normative but could also be mass produced along just a few model lines. In his 2011 interview, An reminisced on the relationship between the work he was already doing as part of the ICA housing program, in terms of his interest in housing, as well as the “concepts” shared between the ICA aid houses and his own winning designs in the competition.49 Prior to joining the ICA, he was already interested in homes, particularly the standardization of housing criterion, but the influence of the ICA program and subsequent encounters with US architectural knowledge production were significant to An’s successful career and his work in the field of architecture.50 While working at the KRB, he also had ample access to major American architectural magazines, like the Architectural Record (1891–Present) and Architectural Forum (1892–1974). Commissioned in January 1958, the results of the first National Housing Competition were published in the following May under the English title, Prize Winner’s Work in the First National Housing Competition as well as in local newspapers.51 Employing the familiar rhetoric that the desire to “own a good home” in order to “live comfortably with family” was a natural human desire, the publication reaffirmed the need for every individual to have a home and to have a family.52 Such sweeping references to “natural human desire” worked to naturalize a particular capitalist form of housing, a rhetoric that often effectively concealed the politics behind it. Homeownership, particularly of single-family homes, was presented as a normative

48 For discussion of the role of state and finance in Korea’s development from the 1950s, see Jung-en Woo, Race to the Swift: State and Finance in Korean Industrialization (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991). 49 An Yŏngbae, Pae Hyŏngmin, Yu Tongsŏn, and Ch'oe Wŏnjun, Oral History of An Yŏngbae [An Yŏngbae kusuljip], (Seoul: Mat’i, 2013). 50 When he was asked about which sources he read for his master’s thesis, he mentioned Japanese and German sources, as well as “other foreign countries.” An et al., Oral History of An Yŏngbae, 89. 51 Ministry of Health and Social Affairs, Prize Winner’s Work in the First National Housing Competition [Che 1 hoe chŏn'guk chut'aek sŏlgye, kŏnch'uk chajae hyŏnsang tangsŏn chakp'um]. Local newspapers also announced some of the winners of the completion. For example, see “66 Prize Winners of the National Housing Design Awarded [Kungmin chut'aek sŏlgye tŭng tangsŏnja 66myŏng sisang],” Tonga ilbo, April 30, 1958. 52 Ibid.

39 ideal (not necessarily a reality) as part of American Cold War ideology.53 Although alternate housing structures and communal systems were possible, various texts on architecture naturalized the individual desire for a private, non-communal, home. Governmental and popular writings likewise naturalized clothing, food, and shelter as three components that were basic to human life. Yŏwŏn consistently carried the Clothing-Food- Shelter (衣食住) series, where more-or-less public figures’ houses and family members were introduced to readers.54 Son Ch’anghwan, the Minister of Health and Social Affairs (1957– 1960), also described “shelter” as “one of three elements in human life” and that “dwelling is the basis for social activities and happiness of a family.”55 Song Insang, the Minister of Reconstruction, stated that the goal of the competition and housing projects was so that “every family can occupy a house.”56 However, it was a specific conceptualization of the 住 chu (shelter) that was promoted in these texts, one that sought to recurrently occlude its specificities. In the 1950s and early 1960s Korea, the single-unit family was the basis of all designs. Interestingly, out of five “classes” or competition categories in the First National Housing Competition, 65 of 140 total entries were for Class I: Single Family Residence Design (or Single-Unit Dwelling), and the jury were disappointed by both the quantity and quality of other classes on row houses, apartments, new communities, and building materials. Even in Class 4: Master Plan of Communities, 48% of the total housing units were set by the competition itself to be single-family homes, 20% row houses, and 32% apartment houses. With the participation of an American aid organization in the competition, the American housing officials’ desire to proselytize the single-unit family homes as the standard type of housing was very well reflected in the first housing design competition. 57 This American standard for modern housing was

53 Nancy Kwak, A World of Homeowners, (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2015). 54 Laura Neitzel, The Life We Longed for: Danchi Housing and the Middle Class Dream in Postwar Japan (Portland, Maine: MerwinAsia, 2016), 4. In Japan, the three pillars of life centering on clothing, food, and shelter were central to discussions of what Neitzel called, “the revolution of everyday life,” in Japan after World War II. 55 Ministry of Health and Social Affairs, First Prize Winner’s Work in the First National Housing Competition (Seoul: Ministry of Health and Social Affairs, 1958), 6. 56 Ibid, 7. 57 Nancy Kwak, A World of Homeowners: American Power and the Politics of Housing Aid (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2015).

40 appropriated in various ways by Korean architects, reflected by the dominance of submissions for the single-family homes. The value of single-family homes was also promoted via other mediums. Yŏwŏn published several translated versions of articles from the popular American magazine Parents, where one writer declared that a single-family home was the house of the future because communal housing such as apartments had no space for one to “catch a breath.”58 In a series of editorials on the national power of the United States and the Soviet Union in a local newspaper, the writer employed a classic Cold War comparative of the two powers, in order to weigh the “merits and demerits” of various systems in the two places. In particular, it was stated that in major Soviet cities, one room per one family was the standard, whereas wooden or mud structures were considered “housing” (chut’aek) in the Soviet Union.59 The invocation of lack of space in both the US and South Korea reveals the global nature of the housing issue after World War II. Reconstructing damaged houses and constructing new ones were part of the global movement to return to “normalcy,” an antithesis to the war experience of poverty, migration, and lack of housing. However, it was not to be just any kind of housing, but a particular type presented as universal. Thus, although the reconstruction of houses was presented as a return, in actuality, it represented the building of a new order. This new order was not to be achieved through multiple families in one structure, separated simply into different rooms with many shared spaces between families, but through detached single-family homes. In the Soviet Union, the Khrushchev era was marked by its shift to mass housing through “separate apartments” rather than communal apartments, as part of the project of de- Stalinization, postwar reconstruction, and achieving Communism.60 The housing policy under Khrushchev declared: “To every family its own apartment.”61 In response to a prolonged housing crisis after World War II, Khrushchev built more housing in the form of “separate apartments”

58 William H. Syaik'ŭ, “Housing Life after Fifty Years [50 nyŏn hu ŭi chut'aek saeng hwal],” Yŏwŏn (July 1959), 297. This article is cited to have been “reprinted” from the American magazine, Parents. 59 “National Power of the United States and the Soviet Union [Mi so ŭi kungnyŏk 3],” Tonga Ilbo, December 29, 1958, 2. 60 Christine Varga-Harris, Stories of House and Home: Soviet Apartment Life during the Khrushchev Years (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2015). 61 Lynne Attwood, Gender and Housing in Soviet Russia: Private Life in a Public Space (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2010).

41 instead of communal apartments during the relatively short 1956-1960 period than the much longer 1918 to 1946 period.62 The family as the basic unit of a domestic space was not unique to South Korea, but it is important to note that Communism was often characterized in the eyes of South Korean writers on architecture by mass communal housing, kommunalka, or even wooden or mud structures. Moreover, such housing types were often understood to be destructive to family and family values. The proliferation of the notion of privacy firmly rested on the critique of places like the Soviet Union and North Korea as lacking the spatial separation between nuclear families, even though that was neither the case in these places nor did every South Korean have such privacy themselves by any means, let alone a house to live in in many cases. Thus, despite the fact that Khrushchev emphasized the construction of apartments for nuclear families in the Soviet Union from the late 1950s on, the narrative of communal housing in the Soviet Union and other socialist countries was reinforced and replayed in Cold War politics.63 The idea of the “single-family” in itself was not essentially democratic or more “natural.” In fact, both democratic and socialist countries took up the nuclear family as the basis of democracy and communism, respectively. Single-family apartments under Khrushchev were part of the larger project towards renewing communism in the Soviet Union. In Korea, conversely, single-family homes took on the meaning of democratic family life in liberal capitalism. Family as the most fundamental social unit was critical to South Korea’s claim to being a free and democratic society and was poised against the alleged destruction of the family in North Korea. Roy Richard Grinker argues that both North and South Korea accused each other of destroying the family, in fact, with South Korea accusing the North of requiring “loyalty to the state” over the family, and North Korea accusing the South of demanding the same for “loyalty to capital.”64 Thus, South Korea’s anti-communism operated on the critique of the North Korean state as totalizing its power at the expense of family relations, without the need to examine how the relations of capital could affect South Korean families in negative ways. In fact, South Korea

62 Christin Varga-Harris, Stories of House and Home, 2. 63 For a work that centralizes single-family apartments as part of a “Soviet story,” see Steven E. Harris, Communism on Tomorrow Street: Mass Housing and Everyday Life after Stalin (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013). 64 Roy Richard Grinker, Korea and Its Futures: Unification and the Unfinished War (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998).

42 positioned itself as the protector of family, and one important means of doing so was to champion the single-family home. A General Survey of North Korea: 1945–‘68 relied on a characterization of North Koreans as restrained and essentially shackled by numerous organizations including the labour unions, the Communist Party, and unions for women and children.65 The book problematized the prevalence and forced membership in such organizations to the point that one did not have the time to spend with family, and argued that party-centered organizations induced family members to criticize and accuse each other for the sake of the collective.66 In short, it painted the family system in North Korea to be in crisis. In this context, housing was an important part of transnational anti-communism in a myriad of ways in Cold War Korea. The 1958 competition was remembered by An, the winner of the single-family home category, as marking an important moment in the history of housing architecture in Korea, and he recalled that one of the ways that the winning works were disseminated to the public was through an exhibition at the Anti-Communist Center (Pan’gong hoegwan).67 Despite the claims to single-family homes as universal rather than specifically capitalist or anti-communist, they were nevertheless imbued with the potential power to defeat communism by showcasing of architectural technology, designs, and materiality as freedom and progress. The universalization of the single-family home as a basic human desire erased the possibility of making alternative domestic spaces available. Furthermore, the argument that children and parent-couples each needed their own room (and the assumptions that this was a universal need denied by communistic living arrangements elsewhere) ignored the fact that such separation of parents and children was far from reality in South Korea at that time. The single- family as the defining unit of domesticity was a factitious ideal in postwar Korea. In June 1959, the Ministry of Health and Social Affairs commissioned a second nation- wide housing design competition and, in September of the same year, announced the prize- winning designs, which were widely circulated in both professional journals and popular magazines. They were published in the first issue of the Korean Housing Administration’s

65 Puk'an yŏn'gam kanhaeng wiwŏnhoe, Puk'an ch'onggam: 1945–’68 [A General Survey of North Korea: 1945– ‘68] (Seoul: Kongsan'gwŏn munje yŏn'guso, 1968). 66 Ibid. 67 “Our Country’s 20 Years of Housing Architecture,” Review of Architecture and Building Science [Kŏnch'uk] 10, no.1 (February 1966): 18–21.

43 journal, Chut'aek (House and Home). 68 In September 1960, The Review of Architecture and Building Science (Kŏnch'uk) also published the winners’ floor plan designs along with the designers’ names and a short description or highlights of the winning designs.69 Unlike in the United States, where housing design competitions were sponsored by private companies through home and architectural magazines, such as House Beautiful, House and Home, and Life, in South Korea, a governmental organization sought to mobilize housing designs as a national issue. Foreign aid, dominated by US dollars, supported various housing projects in multifaceted ways. The Ministry of Health and Social Affairs’ housing design contest was also supported financially and expertise through the OEC (Office of the Economic Coordinator for Korea, 1953–1959). The judging committee for the Second Housing Design Contest included not only Koreans but consisted of an equal number of US Operations Mission to Korea (USOM Korea) members including Hugh D. Farley, J. David McVoy, Martin Millar, Daniel Speakman, and William H. Johnson.70 The prize-winning floor plans published as results of the two national housing competitions contained room labels in English and Korean, speaking to the fact that the contest participants had English speakers already in mind when they designed their submissions. Korean architects designed homes not only for Koreans, therefore, but also for the Americans involved in Korean affairs. The Korean Housing Administration’s (KHA) dual positioning with the Korean government as well as the United Nations Korean Reconstruction Agency (UNKRA, 1950– 1958), an international aid organization, was especially important in the immediate post-Korean War period. Under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Social Affairs, the KHA built houses that relied on aid from UNKRA in the form of building materials until the aid began to taper off around 1955.71 In 1959, they began publication of the organization’s journal, Chut’aek, which was also written out as “House & Home” in English on its main cover page and was bilingual like the housing competition. At the same time, House & Home was also a popular monthly

68 While I translated Chut'aek as “housing” in general throughout this chapter, the Korea Housing Administration’s journal, Chut'aek has its title in both Korean and English on the cover. In English, it is titled, House & Home. 69 “Prize Winning Designs in the Second National Home Design Contest [Che 2 hoe chŏn'guk chut'aek sŏlgye hyŏnsang tangsŏnjak],” Review of Architecture and Building Science [Kŏnch'uk] 5, no. 5 (1960): 58–60. 70 “Prize Winning Designs in the Second National Home Design Contest,” Review of Architecture and Building Science[Kŏnch'uk] 5, no. 5 (1960): 58. 71 Korea Housing Corporation (Taehan chut'aek kongsa), Thirty-Year History of the Korean Housing Corporation [Taehan chut'aek kongsa 30nyŏnsa] (Seoul, Korea Housing Corporation, 1992), 87.

44 shelter magazine published from 1952 by Time Inc. in the United States. In its inaugural issue, the editors of the American magazine claimed that its main purpose was “to help Americans find a better way of living by giving them better homes at prices they can pay.”72 Despite the fact that most homes featured in the magazine would have been accessible to only certain Americans, the phrase “house and home” captured the editorial desire to play the role of an expert in transforming the physical structures of a house into the more abstract, ideologically charged idea of the home. Similarly, the KHA — and by extension the writers in Yŏwŏnsa’s Chut'aek — also operated firmly on the belief that housing could and should transform subjects within the physical structure, while their audiences were continuously instructed, informed, reprimanded, and coaxed to dream of owning a home. Housing was about much more than just the physical structures or building materials; it was a complex web of the material, economic, political, cultural, and social. American aid dollars also funded housing projects in South Korea through the sending of Korean students to American universities. An, for instance, studied at Michigan State University and the University of Washington for a year between 1961 and 1962.73 Michigan State University in East Lansing, Michigan was an important site of Cold War transnationalism through many scholarly exchanges and training.74 An was originally funded by the US State Department to study housing from the perspective of urban planning at Michigan State University (rather than architecture per say) with the assumption that South Korea needed housing not architecture.75 But only after a semester, stemming from his personal interests in

72 “Cornerstone for a New Magazine,” House and Home, January 1952, 107. 73 In his 2008 original preface to the book, Spaces of Flow and Addition [Hŭrŭm kwa tŏham ŭi konggan: An Yŏngbae ŭi han'guk kŏnch'uk ikki] (Seoul: Tarŭn Sesang, 2009), An thanks these architects, Norman F. Carver (1928–2018), who taught at Michigan State University; and Philip Thiel (1920–2014), who taught at the University of Washington, in addition to Camillo Sitte’s written works, for his developed interest in exterior space (page 9). Some of Carver’s design works include the US Embassy in Seoul, Korea in 1955 and many residential designs, predominantly in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Other architects who were notable in his training and career include Paul H. Kirk and Victor Steinbrueck at the University of Washington and Charles Barr at Michigan State University. 74 Mire Koikari, “The World is Our Campus”: Domestic Science and Cold War Transnationalism between Michigan and Okinawa,” in Cold War Encounters in US-Occupied Okinawa: Women: Militarized Domesticity, and Transnationalism in East Asia (Manoa: University of Hawaii, 2015). 75 An Yŏngbae, Pae Hyŏngmin, U Tongsŏn, Ch'oe Wŏnjun, Oral History of An Yŏngbae [An Yŏngbae kusuljip], (Seoul: Mat'i, 2013), 43–47. See page 69 regarding the source of funding as the State Department. On page 92 of the same book, he recalled that it was through the ICA fund. See page 94 for more detailed discussion of Myles Baylan at Michigan State University, who tried to convince An to stay at Michigan to study urban planning, which he deemed would be more useful for Korea’s situation.

45 architecture, he requested to be sent elsewhere to focus on architecture, and he did study architecture at the University of Washington in Seattle, Washington for a semester.76 Thus, American aid dollars enabled An to study in the United States, but An’s own personal interests strongly shaped his training, experience, and professional oeuvre. As Nancy Kwak’s work shows, the housing programs that centered on the “term ‘self help’ denoted support for self-determination and national sovereignty, not a rising American empire.”77 As Puerto Rico was treated to be a successful case of self-help housing, ICA-funded training in the United States also required An Yŏngbae to visit Puerto Rico because “systems of low-cost housing and self-help housing were good.”78 The first issue of KHA’s journal Chut’aek reported on Yi Yŏngbin’s visit “to the United States to inspect the activity, organization, and function of community for the Aided Self-Help Housing Project in Puerto Rico; and carefully study the possibility to apply the Aided Self-Help Housing Project for the Korean Housing Development.”79 Likewise, the first major category outlined in the second National Housing Design Competition was the Class I: Urban Type Self-Help Home, in which An Yŏngbae received first prize. Within the new Cold War structure, the model of the “self-help home” was actually a model of single-family homes set up for a nuclear family of five at most.

Reproductive Politics in Domestic Spaces

Thinking through the number of household occupants was fundamental to architectural planning of domestic spaces. Assuming the conjugal couple would remain the same, the number of children was a variable that could alter whether or not a home was appropriate for a family. Designing the physical space went hand in hand with the issue of family composition, particularly the number of children. Even before the national family planning campaign that began in 1962, the architecture of domestic spaces provided opportunities for people to have a material outlook on family planning. In other words, it did not necessarily take the state’s

76 Ibid. 77 Nancy Kwak, A World of Homeowners, 89. 78 Ibid.; An Yŏngbae, Pae Hyŏngmin, U Tongsŏn, Ch'oe Wŏnjun, Oral History of An Yŏngbae [An Yŏngbae kusuljip], (Seoul: Mat'i, 2013), 106–107. 79 Yi Yŏngbin, “The Study for the Community Activity of Aided Self-Help Housing Project [Chajo chut'aek kŏnsŏl ŭl wihan chohap hwaldong e kwanhan sogo],” House & Home [Chut'aek] 1, no. 1 (July 1959): 25.

46 initiative to dictate a specific, ideal number of children in order for people, including architects, magazine readers, and couples, to start thinking about the appropriate number of children a nuclear family should have. Such “planning” of the family was not simply a state agenda. If architectural drawings and images belong to “a cognitive realm that is in equal parts map and dreamworld [sic],”80 then both semi-governmental and popular magazines and their supplementary publications invited their many readers to insert themselves into the clean, guileless two-dimensional homes on paper and to participate in dreaming of/making them a reality for themselves and the nation. Home design efforts were part of the desire to design not only the physical structures of a home but also that of family relations during the Cold War.81 The ethos of planning, whether of the house or family size, was part of the practice of the “scientification of life” (saenghwal ŭi kwahakhwa). It was assumed such planning, designing, and management would increase the efficiency, quality, and satisfaction of life. These floor plans literally did not make room for any more than three children at most. To make demands for the independence of children’s rooms in the normative family was to claim the need to reduce the number of children per couple. Often employing the eugenic rhetoric and nuance of the “quality” of the offspring, children’s rooms were enmeshed in the politics of intervention in sexual practices in the name of “family planning.” Simply put, a child’s independence could not be guaranteed with so many siblings at once. In order to accommodate such independence and nurturing of independent qualities among children, families were to be planned according to the limitations of domestic space. In the late 1950s, Yŏwŏn published many articles that explicitly and implicitly discussed eugenics and limiting the number of children (sana chehan or sut'ae chojŏl). Architectural planning often assumed some form of family planning. The first volume of the Compendium on Modern Women’s Life discussed various topics of health, including a substantial amount of discussion and persuasion for the reader to participate in family planning practices. It also included seven years’ worth of menstrual cycle tracker charts, as an important step in a “perfect” way for avoiding pregnancy if

80 Dianne Harris, Little White Houses: How the Postwar Home Constructed Race in America (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2013). 81 For specific discussions of the relationship between population control and reproduction in the Cold War context, see issues in “Population Control and Reproductive Politics in Cold War Asia,” East Asian Science, Technology and Society 10, no. 4 (December 2016).

47 done correctly.82 Citing how widely the United States practiced eugenics, especially by medically limiting the mentally ill’s reproductive capability until 1955, a doctor at the Seoul National University (SNU) Hospital advocated active birth control for South Korea as part of individuals’ family planning practices.83 Not everyone advocated for family planning, and many were especially adamant against abortion as a means of controlling the number of children. In July 1958, a local Korean newspaper included pro- and anti-birth control (sana chehan, 産兒制限) opinions,84 including well-known literary figures such as the famous children’s literature writer, Ma Haesong, and the author of Madame Freedom (Chayu puin), Chŏng Pisŏk, as well as a catholic priest, a prosecutor attorney, a female poet, a play writer, and a housewife. Those who clearly opposed birth control often emphasized that a large population was tantamount to national power, argued abortion was murder, and positioned birth control as going against what was deemed a part of nature. The mass deaths resulting from the Korean War elevated debates surrounding the number of children to a new level, so that many people explicitly mentioned the number, “one hundred million,” to show their desire to see the nation’s “family” to continue growing. Yun Hyŏngjung, a priest, mentioned Japan’s population of one hundred million, while “Red China” (chunggong) had up to five hundred million; and the female poet, Mo Yunsuk, bitterly stated, “Didn’t a country like Red China give a share [of their military power] from what’s called the human-wave strategy (inhae chŏnsul)?”85 Even for those who supported birth control, their position was one of reluctance with qualifications, declaring abortion was wrong but that the quality of children should be the focus rather than the quantity, especially for the poor. But many also admitted that they themselves had six or seven children (read as “many”), revealing the contradictions between their own lives and the political position they took regarding birth control in public spaces. Having “too many”

82 Health [Kŏn'gang] (Seoul: Yŏwŏnsa, 1958). 83 Yi Ilsŏn, “A Supporting Argument from the Viewpoint of Medical Eugenics,” [Ŭihak chŏk usaenghak chŏk kyŏnjiesŏ ŭi ch'ansŏngnon],” Yŏwŏn (1956.2), 32–39. For discussion on the relationship between eugenics and disability, see Eunjung Kim, Curative Violence: Rehabilitating Disability, Gender, and Sexuality in Modern Korea (Durham: Duke University Press, 2017). 84 “Birth Control is Retrogression of Nature [Sana chehan ŭn chayŏn e ŭi yŏkhaeng],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun (July 6, 1958): 4. 85 Ibid.

48 children was often deemed an act of thoughtlessness and irresponsible behaviour, especially when education and quality childcare could not be provided. To explain her support for birth control, Yi Kyehyang, identified as a housewife, stated, “Wouldn’t it be a greater sin, if one only gave birth animalistically even when one cannot properly feed and educate? Thus, I wonder if it isn’t modern people’s intelligent lifestyle to limit, so that people can think about their own reality and to have only [a number of children] that they can feed and educate with their own power.”86 Thus, despite taking formally different positions regarding birth control, there was a consensus against abortion, limiting the potential of national power by limiting the population, and using birth control to accommodate “animalistic behaviour” (tongmul chŏk haengwi) of uncontrolled sex, and agreement on the value of increasing the quality of children over quantity. The linking of individual responsibility and “power” to feed and educate children was part of a class ideology that placed the blame for poverty on the poor and their own inability or lack of self-control when it came to having children. As part of Yŏwŏn’s special issue on family planning, Sim Yŏnsŏp (1923–1977), as a foreign news editor of the Orient Press (Tongyang t'ongshin, 東洋通信), contributed a piece with the title, “The Vicious Cycle of Fecundity and Poverty.”87 Not only did he relate having a high number of children to poor families, but he also considered “family planning” (kajok kyehoek) different from “blind birth control” (sana chehan). Family planning, as opposed to “mere” birth control, for him, meant that a couple do not simply have fewer children to get out of poverty but to contribute to the national population meaningfully.88 Although he did not prescribe a specific number in this piece, from the many anecdotes and examples, the “appropriate” number was deemed to be two — one child for “wife’s share” and one for the “nation’s share,” but refusing “one’s own share,” that is, the husband’s share.89 In reality, an average number of children born in 1960 was more than six, making the goal of two or three children far from the actual norm of the day.90 Advocates of

86 Ibid. 87 Sim Yŏnsŏp, “The Vicious Cycle of Fecundity and Poverty [Tasan kwa pin'gon ŭi ak sunhwan],” Yŏwŏn, September 1959, 66–68. 88 Ibid. 89 Ibid. 90 John P. DiMoia, “‘알맞게 낳아서 훌륭하게 기르자!’ (Let’s Have the Proper Number of Children and Raise Them Well!): Family Planning and Nation-building in South Korea, 1961-1968,” East Asia Science, Technology and Society: An International Journal 2 (2008): 369.

49 family planning and designers of homes shared the Malthusian logic of locating the origins of poverty in population, particularly the high number of children, without the need to fully examine the dynamics of war devastation and war economies.91 Limiting the number of children, thus, was closely linked to the materiality of the ideal middle-class domestic spaces. The ideal of separate rooms between parents and children meant that the number of children must be limited to achieve a middle-class home structure that enabled spatial separation along gender and generational lines. Home designs usually identified the family composition to indicate the ideal number of occupants within the given space. The description often began with the “husband-wife” duo as two persons, followed by different terms referring to the status of their children such as “student,” “children,” and “infants.” In a daily newspaper, Yi Ch'ŏnsŭng proposed a two-bedroom house as the “ideal home,” based on a family of three or four, centered on the married couple, plus a child or two. The ondol floor room was for the parents, but the children were to occupy a non-ondol room equipped with a bunk bed, enabling a two-person occupancy in one room.92 Citing his future vision of life becoming increasingly mechanized (kigyehwa), not only did Yi eliminate the need for more than one children’s room, but also a room for a housemaid and grandparents. Small-scale house designs for newlywed couples often explicitly stated that the design could accommodate the family until two children were born. Not only were children to be capped at two or three (unless a family was willing to sacrifice space or was financially capable of moving to or building a bigger house), but home designs implied the necessity of children to complete a normative family. Eugenics during the late and early 20th century was transformed into representations of individuals’ own choices in the “planning” of the family. This “planning,” however, was simultaneously part of national reconstruction and developmental plans. With the two-generation household set as the normative family, the long-term stay of extended family members and grandparents was a point of critique for many architects. Such a practice was rendered into a cultural problem, not one of class. In his article in Chut'aek by Yŏwŏnsa, Yi was critical of many “Korean practices,” such as relatives and guests visiting homes unannounced and staying for extended periods of time, and “eating and sleeping” at the

91 Eric B. Ross, The Malthus Factor: Poverty, Politics and Population in Capitalist Development (London: Zed Book, 1998). 92 Yi Ch'ŏnsŭng, “Proposal of the Ideal Home,” [Isang chut'aek ŭi sian], Tonga ilbo, July 18, 1958, 4.

50 home (kajŏng) because of a lack of social infrastructures such as hotels for guests.93 Thus, the normative family emphasized a two-generational household composed of the heterosexual couple and their children, the number of which was to be “planned” and controlled. By the 1960s, slogans such as “[Let’s Have] the right number of children and raise them well,” were circulated by the Ministry of Health and Social Affairs and the Planned Parenthood Federation of Korea (PPFK, Taehan Kajok Kyehoek Hyŏphoe) in colour posters. In one particular poster, the official slogan was juxtaposed with the phrase, “[Let’s] not suffer by having many” (See Figure 1.2). Introducing the “lippies loops” method of birth control, the image of two happy children, one girl and one boy, was contrasted to an image of an unhappy family. Three unhappy-looking children were drawn in a basket on the woman’s head, and another set of three unhappy-looking children appeared in an A-frame carrier worn by a man holding a walking stick. In short, a total of six children were depicted as “too heavy,” an unmanageable burden that made the couple’s backs bend down low. Moreover, the whole family was represented to be un- modern and implicitly rural with their clothes, the large basket on the woman’s head, and the A- frame on the man’s back.94 The poster explicitly and implicitly sought to educate the audience not to burden themselves with too many children, and that a high number of children could be associated with financial difficulties and poverty, decreasing the quality of life and happiness for all family members.

93 Yi Ch'ŏnsŭng, “New Housing and Life [Saeroun chut'aek kwa saeng hwal],” Chut'aek (Yŏwŏnsa, 1960), 38. 94 For the specific images analyzed here, see Commemoration of Re-opening of Land and Housing Museum [T'oji chut'aek pangmulgwan chŏnsidorok] (Chinju: Land and Housing Museum of Korea, 2015), 186. For more information on family planning in 1960s South Korea, see John P. DiMoia, “‘알맞게 낳아서 훌륭하게 기르자!’ (Let’s Have the Proper Number of Children and Raise Them Well!): Family Planning and Nation- building in South Korea, 1961–1968,” East Asia Science, Technology and Society: An International Journal 2, (2008): 361–379.

Figure 1.2. Poster by the Planned Parenthood Federation of Korea. Source: Commemoration of Re-opening of Land and Housing Museum [T'oji chut'aek pangmulgwan chŏnsidorok] (Chinju: Land and Housing Museum of Korea, 2015), 186.

Family planning, however, was not solely about the number itself. Focusing on the number of children often elided the gender of children, suggesting an ideology of gender equality. On the contrary, messages around family planning were also about the gender of babies considered in family composition. If the sexes were different, two children meant two children’s rooms, while one room could easily suffice if the children were of the same sex. The discussion of the number of children occluded the fact that the values attributed to boys and girls were not equal. The images of a normative nuclear family mostly featured baby boys, rather than girls. A poster that visually promoted the first Five-Year Economic Plan (1962–1966) featured a father distinctly leading his first child, a son, by his hand, and the child was also linked to his mother who was carrying another much smaller (almost invisible) child on her back (See Figure 1.3).95 It was not by coincidence that the government included such an image of a family “goal” as part of the grand economic plan to be realized in five years.

95 Commemoration of Re-opening of Land and Housing Museum [T'oji chut'aek pangmulgwan chŏnsidorok] (Chinju: Land and Housing Museum of Korea, 2015), 183. Also available online at the Land and Housing Museum (T'oji chut'aek pangmulgwan) Gallery, accessed September 2, 2019, http://museum.lh.or.kr/pavilion/pop_gallery.asp?legacy_idx=13286.

Figure 1.3. “Implementation of Family Planning.” For the full poster promoting the First Five- Year Economic Plan, see the Land and Housing Museum (T'oji chut'aek pangmulgwan) Gallery, http://museum.lh.or.kr/pavilion/pop_gallery.asp?legacy_idx=13286, accessed September 2, 2019. The issue of children’s rooms was part of larger discussions on domesticity, and it effectively occluded various issues. In discussions and advocacy for children’s rooms, children themselves were not at the center of concern. Idealizing the existence of children’s rooms in new (future) homes fulfilled the desire to posit a rupture. It assumed that the call for and existence of children’s rooms meant that children were in reality respected and valued equally as adults. The idea of children’s rooms, however, harboured many other desires that were not necessarily for the benefit of the children. Anxieties and desires for the sexual freedom of the heterosexual couple without jeopardizing the children’s (perceived and real) purity often eclipsed the value of children’s independence and autonomy. The social discourse of the normative, heterosexual, nuclear family pressured actual families, after years of war and dislocation, when many could not meet such norms. Discourses surrounding children’s rooms worked to reinforce familiar and existing prejudices and inequalities, while simultaneously setting new norms.

Privacy in Couples’ Rooms

“And the point to be especially emphasized for housing in the new age is to establish each family member’s privacy,” declared Yi Ch'ŏnsŭng, a professional architect in a popular daily in July

1958.96 Another architect presented a house design with an “independent couple’s bedroom,” and that the house was designed to “maintain the independence of couple’s life at 100 percent.”97 As if to further the privacy of the couple’s bedroom, the designer positioned it at the farthest point from the entrance, as well as diagonally opposite from the children’s room, which was located by the main entrance. In more spacious and well-to-do homes, the separation of the two generations was further ensured by placing them on different floors. An Yŏngbae’s own home, which he designed and built in 1965, positioned his elderly parents and children’s rooms on the first floor, while he and his wife had a room on the second floor.98 Additionally, the elderly parents’ and children’s rooms were separated by a more flexible sliding door, which could be left open to make a larger play space for his children during the day, while no flexibility was permitted surrounding the couple’s room.99 Privacy, often written out as an English loan word p'ŭraibŏshi, was a term related to individuality and independence with specific spatial connotations. P’ŭraibŏshi was not to be violated, especially during the activity of sleep. It was a value that was touted to be at the heart of democracy and freedom but also, in its English and foreign denotation, a value that was presented as still novel in Korea. Critique was sometimes leveled at the “old Korean house” that had a large common space (marubang) and, at other times, towards the feudal system (ponggŏn chedo). An stated, “The collapse of the feudal system established the freedom of the individual and brought big changes to the content of living space. That is, it made a clearly individual’s place inside the living space to emerge.”100 For him, the “separation of bedrooms that centralized sleep” within the home was paradigmatic of the space of the individual.101 The desire to have and protect one’s p'ŭraibŏshi was to claim the values of freedom, to be severed from others’ gaze, and to protect the highest value of what it meant to be an individual. As this logic went, one

96 Yi Ch'ŏnsŭng, “Proposal of the Ideal Home,” Tonga ilbo (July 18, 1958): 4. 97 Chang Sŏkchŏng, “Four Types of Housing with Construction Fees under 200,000 Hwan [Kŏnch'ukpi 20man hwan naeoe ŭi ne kaji chut'aek],” Yŏwŏn, September 1959, 235–242 and 236. 98 An Yŏngbae, Pae Hyŏngmin, Yu Tongsŏn, Ch'oe Wŏnjun, Oral History of An Yŏngbae [An Yŏngbae kusuljip], (Seoul: Mat’i, 2013), 31–33. 99 Ibid. 100 Yi Ch'ŏnsŭng, “New Housing and Life,” Chut'aek, 38. 101 Ibid.

54 could not be an individual without privacy. The word, p'ŭraibŏshi, was uttered in a Cold War understanding that was antithetical to the socialist notions of collectivity, based on the critique of a presumed absence of privacy in North Korea. Understanding the North Korean state-party to have total power over its people, people in North Korea were seen to be deprived of privacy because the state-party was always watching, manipulating, and controlling them. Thus, the notion of privacy was central to (and simultaneously produced) the anxieties of the Cold War as it was deemed a marker of the vital difference between democracy versus totalitarianism.102 Where technological advances of sound and visual recording and surveillance translated into concerns of possibly compromising domestic privacy in places such as the United States, South Korea’s war-torn conditions produced different understandings of privacy.103 Much was at stake in producing and reproducing privacy through, but not only through, domestic spaces because it enabled the production of difference between democracies and totalitarian regimes.104 However, privacy, fantasized as equally distributed and self-evident, was deeply political, hierarchical, and patriarchal. The various efforts to make “new” relations for the married heterosexual couple were well- reflected in inconsistent and varied labels for the couple’s bedroom. In comparison to the labeling of rooms for children as children’s room or simply as a room or ondol room, the usually larger/largest room was reserved for the heterosexual adult couple, and the labels in floor plans were more inconsistent and varied. They included “husband-wife’s sleep room,” “husband-wife room,” “sleep room,” “inner room” [anbang or naesil, 內室], and “housewife’s sleep room” [chubu ch'imsil]. In the labeling of children’s room, adong (child) and chim (sleep) do not appear together in room identification labels used in floor plans.105 On the other hand, the frequency in which the activity of sleeping as an integral component in the naming and thus the purpose of the parents’ room shows that the privacy of the sleeping activity and of the rooms between the parents and children were not conceptualized equally.

102 Deborah Nelson, Pursing Privacy in Cold War America (New York: Columbia Press, 2002). 103 Harris, Little White Houses, 123–125. 104 On Cold War claims to difference between democracy and totalitarian regimes, see Deborah Nelson, Pursuing Privacy. 105 “Children’s sleep room” [adong ch'imsil] does appear within the subsection devoted to “Sleep rooms” in Yŏwŏnsa’s Chut'aek, but this was not a label for a room in a floor plan.

Similar to critiques of the purported lack of independence of rooms in Korea’s past housing structure, the making of a couple’s room was part of an effort to democratize family relations. In upper-class houses, according to Chosŏn customs, the separation of the sexes from seven years old (including for the married couple) was the norm, so that there were “male” and “female” spheres of activities.106 T’aejong (r. 1400–1418) decreed for husbands and wives to sleep separately, and the sarang structure (the men’s domain) consisted of a room for sleeping as well.107 This may be one of the reasons why some floor plans consisted of a room just for the “housewife” but, generally speaking, most floorplans sought to combine the husband and wife within the same sleeping room. If the Chosŏn housing structure accommodated the practice of husband and wife sleeping separately (pubu pyŏlch'im, 夫婦別寢), at least for the well-to-do families, the modern spatial order demanded the unification of the heterosexual couple by co- sleeping in the same room on a regular basis. In Democracy and National Morality (minjujuŭi wa kungmin todŏk), Ch'oe Hyŏnbae, a scholar of Korean language, defined the new husband- wife relationship, appropriate to a democratic society, as one of the “union [kyŏrhap] of a man and a woman of equal character,” and sharply criticized the hierarchizing of the male over the female in the “old morality” system.108 In his three-part historical account of Korean housing, Chu Namch'ŏl characterized middle- and upper-class Chosŏn housing as having a strict division between men and women through the housing structure of anch'ae and sarangch'ae.109 The convention of a husband occupying a room by himself while the wife-mother occupied a different room with children or other family members was considered to be feudal, sometimes read as “rural,” and lacking in gender equality. The production of the couple’s bedroom was contingent on an understanding of the types of housing that were described as feudal, backwards,

106 Architectural Institute of Korea, History of Korean Architecture [Han'guk kŏnch'uksa] (Seoul: Kimundang, 2011), 526. 107 Ibid, 530. Sarangbang, a room within the Sarangch'ae, was used for the male head of household to receive male guests and to conduct “public” affairs, but the structure also had a ch'imbang for the male head of the household to sleep separately from the wife. 108 Ch'oe Hyŏnpae, Democracy and National Morality [Minjujuŭi wa kungmin todŏk] (Seoul: Chŏngŭmsa, 1953); photoreproduction, Oesol ch'oe hyŏnbae chŏnjip 18 (Seoul: Ch'aeryun, 2019), 7. 109 Sarangch'ae and anch'ae were usually detached structures within the property wall. Sarangch'ae was placed near the entrance gate, as it were considered the men’s quarters for accepting guests, studying, and sleeping. Anch’ae, located farthest or “innermost” from the entrance, was for women. Chu Namch'ŏl, “Research on Changes and Development of Korean Housing (II) [Han'guk chut'aek ŭi pyŏnch'ŏn kwa paldal e kwanhan yŏn'gu],” Kŏnch'uk 9, no.2 (July 1965): 9–19.

56 and irrational. Home layouts envisioned modernity and democracy in the form of the husband and wife occupying the same room; “equality” of the sexes was to be embodied in the “husband- wife’s sleeping room.” Thus, privacy in this context was not about the privacy of the family as a whole from the potential gaze of outsiders. It was less about the privacy between someone sleeping and another watching TV at the same time, nor was it necessarily about the wife, husband, and children all as individuals. Rather, it was focused on the privacy of the heteronormative couple’s sexual intimacy, particularly at night, when all members of the family were in their rooms, not in the living area, which were often times centered in between rooms. Discussions of house interiors often began by establishing a fundamental relationship between the common activity of sleeping as the most private individual act and the bedroom as a personal space to ensure the independence/privacy of that very activity. Indeed, sleeping was a universal activity, but privacy conceptualized in relation to the activity and sexual intimacy was historically produced. In many housing floor plans, children’s rooms were drawn as a distinct room or a set of rooms, labelled sometimes as another smaller “bedroom” (ch’imsil) but often as “children’s room” (adongsil), as if to reveal the desire to contain children only to the children’s room. The identification of room occupants as “children” signaled that children as an identity marker were integral to visions of postwar domesticity based on the heteronormative family. The most serious issue seemed to be the mixing of adults and children, a lack of separate rooms for the parent and their children. It was problematized as jeopardizing not only the development of children’s autonomy, but also that of the nation. The most severe critique of a lack of separation between parents and children was spatialized into a critique of rural housing. Stating that the “countryside” should correct not the “place of sleep” but rather the “attitude towards sleep,” the first point was co-sleeping (honch’im, 混寢) regardless of age group and sex.110 Furthermore, the writer specified that while the head of the household slept in the biggest room, the rest of the family resorted to overcrowded sleeping (kwamil ch'wich'im, 過密就寢) practices.111 The Chinese character combination revealed this “mixing” of age as well as sex and implied chaos, ambiguity, and impurity in both moral and health terms. Such practices invoked a

110 Yi Chŏngtŏk, “Plan of a Rural House” [Nongch'on chut'aek ŭi sŏlgye], Chut'aek (Seoul: Yŏwŏnsa, 1960), 361. 111 Ibid.

57 wartime experience of overcrowding due to lack of housing, which was associated with rapid spreading of diseases, sexual indecency, and poverty. The critique was simultaneously about overcoming colonial conditions of living that often merged with visions of war destruction (especially the contemporary slum living or p’anjajip) brewing moral chaos in neighbourhoods and posing a serious danger to the nation. Mun Yŏngjae, a female architect, declared that sharing of a room between children and parents is one of the “seeds of Korean tragedy.”112 Architectural reforms, it seemed, could reverse such tragedy, and postcolonial sovereignty, as the logic went, could be lived and experienced in the comfort of one’s home through separate bedrooms. Calling for the independence of children’s rooms necessarily entailed the independence of a parents’ room as well. While one writer matter-of-factly stated that school-age children can do many things “independently” (charip chŏk ŭro), the author revealed the underlying anxieties surrounding the adults’ own need for independence from the children when he stated that “adult- exclusive spaces” needed to be “liberated” (haebang) from children.113 The wife-mother and husband-father had to be “liberated” from their children in order for a husband-wife unification to occur. Spatial distance and strategic placement of furniture were integral to ensuring the independence of rooms. Children’s rooms were often placed on the opposite ends of the house from the parents’ room, and separated by a living room, kitchen, or bathroom as if by furthering the distance between two “individual spheres,” the rooms could ensure and augment the independence and privacy of their occupants. If the children’s room and parents’ room were adjacently placed, then, a cabinet or furniture of some sort was often drawn along one of the room’s walls; beds were placed away from the adjacent wall as if to ensure additional privacy. As one writer put it, the husband and wife’s bedroom is not simply for the activity of sleeping but for a “healthy married [夫婦] life” of the parents.114 In the case of Canadian homes, the married couple’s “claiming” of a bedroom for itself was simultaneously “a retreat from the clamours of family life and a sanctuary for sexual intimacy.”115

112 Mun Yŏngjae, “Notes of a Female Architect [Yŏja sŏlgyesa ŭi not'ŭ],” Yŏwŏn, August 1959, 286. 113 An Haesŏng, “Children’s Room” [Adongsil], Chut'aek (Yŏwŏnsa, 1960), 11–112. 114 Chŏng In’guk, “Ch'imsil,” Chut'aek (Yŏwŏnsa, 1960), 89. 115 Peter Ward, A History of Domestic Space: Privacy and the Canadian Home (Vancouver and Toronto: UBC Press, 1999), 82.

The desire for sexual intimacy (read “privacy”) and the fear that children will disturb such privacy were embedded in these discourses. In some cases, the word kyŏngni (隔離), which means isolation or seclusion, was used to describe the spatial separation of the children’s room from the parents’ room.116 Interestingly, kyŏngni could also be used in medical situations where people with contagious diseases are isolated (that is, quarantined) from the larger population that is assumed to be healthy. Children, then, as much as they may be the object of their parents’ love, also needed to be “safeguarded” from their parents’ sexuality as much as the parents were assumed to have the right to privacy in the form of quietness and sexual intimacy. The “tragedy” purportedly stemming from inadequate housing, however, was deeply gendered. In its February 1960 issue, Yŏwŏn contained a section on anxieties and fears surrounding “sexual neurosis” (seksŭ noiroje) and its relationship to domestic space. Therein, the anonymous writer wrote that one of the reasons for frigidity could originate from the “insecurity of the sleeping room where the couple resides.”117 Posing as gender neutral and anonymous, the writer’s content, especially his anecdotes from acquaintances, betrayed such claims to anonymity; the author was a man who wanted to remain anonymous as a male writer for a popular women’s magazine. As Betty Friedan noted, men writing under women’s names in women’s magazines was a common practice in the postwar United States.118 Similarly, women’s magazines in Korea were dominated by male intellectuals who edited, wrote, and published for women as part of their “public” audience.119 In this case, the patriarchal, sexist tone throughout the text, along with many anecdotes from other men, easily revealed his gender without a particular feminine or masculine name to praise or critique. The anonymous writer sought to “liberate” (haebang) the reader, probably directed at married women, from such seemingly gender-specific neurosis. Under various subheadings such as “Frigidity and Fear of Sex” and “Birth Control and Sexual Pleasure,” the writer assumed that

116 An example of this is in discussion of a floor plan designed by Kang Myŏngku for a nuclear family with two children and a housekeeper, a total of five members. “Examples of Various Plans [Yŏrŏgaji sŏlgye ŭi sil ye],” Chut'aek (Yŏwŏnsa, 1960), 414. 117 Anonymous, “Frigidity and the Fear of Sex,” Yŏwŏn, February 1960, 245. 118 Betty Friedman, Feminine Mystique (W. W. Norton, 1963). 119 Kang Soyŏn, “1950 nyŏndae yŏsŏng chapchi e p'yosang toen miguk munhwa wa yŏsŏng tamnon,” Sanghŏ hakpo 18 (October 2006): 107–136. Carol Chin makes a similar point about male editors and male writers of women’s magazines in China at the turn of the twentieth century. See Carol Chin, Modernity and National Identity in the United States and East Asia, 1895–1919 (Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, 2010), 109.

59 everyone could and should cultivate the knowledge and enjoyment of sex, assuming it occured between a heterosexual married couple. However, the relationship between the spatial structure of one’s home and good, “normal” married life was captured in the subheading “Structure of House and Sex Life.”120 In the opening anecdote, a newly married woman slowly falls into sexual neurosis due to the paper-like thin wall between the couple’s space and the elderly female homeowner’s room, even after turning on the radio for some privacy at night; her doctor simply attributes the cause of her neurosis to “environmental insecurity” and advises her to find their “own world” outside their usual dwelling and to completely “open up” (kaebang) her heart to her husband.121 The result was: she became a bright (myŏngnang) housewife. Closely connected to this anecdote, the next piece turned to the question of the “serious housing problem,” which made it “common,” according to the author, to see the mother-in-law and children in one room with the married couple.122 He stated, “the way to rescue a married couple who is spending deprived and gloomy days into a bright, radiant world of love is to arrange a warm residence just for the couple by fundamentally improving the housing situation.”123 Rather than blaming the same-room occupants, including adult children and parents-in-law, the writer advised wives to be persistent, brave, and creative regarding when and where to have sex. Occasional outings, finding out-of-the-way areas, turning on the radio, and telling a young child that father is giving mother a massage were presented as temporary solutions to the “psychological disease” of sexual neurosis, precisely because the housing situation was yet to be improved. The desire to have a housing structure that was conducive to “normal married life” was well-captured in the article. But not only did the author render the female gender as the only gender capable of having sexual neurosis, heterosexual sex was also made compulsive and naturalized in scientific and sociocultural terms, thereby further naturalizing the need for separate rooms between the parents and children. If sexual neurosis was largely due to the women’s own responses, but hardly that of the husband, this persective also occluded the husband’s own economic inability to provide a clear spatial separation between his nuclear family and that of others, and between his children and his/his wife’s space. Instead of drawing attention to possible reasons why there might be a lack of soundproof, visual separation

120 Anonymous, “Structure of House and Sex Life,” Yŏwŏn, February 1960, 252. 121 Ibid, 253. 122 Ibid. 123 Ibid, 254.

60 between the couple’s sleeping area and neighbours, the intense fixation on the woman’s psycho- emotional state and pathologizing of women’s sexuality also hid the fact that most writers in women’s journals were, in fact, men. Housing interior designs and architectural texts suggested repeatedly that there was an explicit link between sex life (presumed to be between a married, heterosexual couple) and house structure. The main concern focused increasingly on the separation not from one’s landlord or non-family members but from the married couple’s own children and elderly parents. The description of a nine p'yŏng house designed for a newlywed couple was particularly revealing; the bathroom was described as a “buffer zone,” that worked to “completely secure the two bedrooms’ independence.”124 During the daytime, the two generations were to be connected in the multi-purpose room (which served as a living room, kitchen, and dining area in one large space) for its bright, happy atmosphere. At night, the bathroom was simultaneously a “buffer zone” and a pathway across which children could receive “the parents’ quiet supervision” (kamdok).125 Terms, such as perfect separation and perfect independence appeared frequently in descriptions of home designs, often spatially distanced by other more “social” spaces such as the living room, kitchen, dining area, and occasionally the main entrance area. Even in a design where the parents’ and children’s rooms shared a wall, a child would need to go through the kitchen, living area, and utility area before being able to enter into the parents’ room. An and Kim were most explicit about this in their book, New Housing: What is especially noteworthy among recent social phenomenon is the fact that we no longer really think awkwardly about the couple’s efforts to enjoy sex. Unlike the past where sex was thought to be immoral and shameful, when we have come to recognize the pleasure of orgasm as a married couple’s healthy life, a perfectly separate room just for the couple is logically required. Just like a couple needs their own room so that the couple’s conversations will not be heard by the elderly or children, and so that their own affectionate atmosphere will not be intruded from outside, we also need to give humanly privacy to children.126

As they explained in their monograph, this was a morale issue for both the married couple and their children. Sexual intimacy, presented as “privacy,” was to be guaranteed through spatial

124 An Yŏngbae and Kim Sŏnkyun, New Housing [Saeroun chut’aek], 46–47. One p'yŏng is 3.31 m2, and 9 p'yŏng is 29.75 m2. 125 Ibid, 48. This design was by An for a living area of 16.5 p'yŏng. 126 Ibid, 61.

61 isolation from other generations, so that the independence of rooms was presented as a more urgent issue than the purchasing of interior design items such as bright curtains and lighting.127 Thus, childhood and childhood (a)sexuality were spatialized into “children’s rooms” (adongsil) that were independent from the rooms of adulthood and adult sexuality in domestic space. The policing of boundaries between adulthood and childhood through rooms displayed the desire to place adult sexuality as “outside” or not belonging to normative childhood, while women’s sexuality was also policed by laying the blame for “sexual neurosis” exclusively on women. The issue of co-sleeping between children and adults (mothers, in particular) also veiled the class nature of realizing such a particular notion of privacy, as not everyone could afford a multi-room house to divide rooms along gender and generational lines. Nevertheless, the dream of independent children’s rooms went hand in hand with the fantasy of privacy, guaranteeing the married couple’s sexual intimacy away from children, elderly parents, and other clamours of life.

Conclusion

Children’s rooms were rationalized on the basis of the need to nurture children’s independent nature and autonomous thinking for the nations’ future. And yet, behind the call for children’s rooms hid multiple desires and fantasies regarding the married couple’s heterosexual intimacy or privacy. The privacy of parents depended on the separation of children away from parents for new practices of intimacy, while the privacy of children mattered to the extent that their autonomy and creativity could be nurtured through play and study (and not sexuality) in their own independent rooms. Although families were to come together in kitchens, living rooms, and other “zones” of domestic life deemed more social than private, children and parents were to sleep in separate walled areas in order to protect the couple’s privacy and marriage, and to give the children independence. Thus, housing was not just about postwar recovery but also about new creations of spatial arrangements and participation in transnational anti-communism through domestic space. The United States wielded much power in setting detached, single-family homes as the normative ideal for South Korea and many of its allies by outlining housing design competition categories, sponsoring scholarly training in the United States, and organizing visits to places like Puerto

127 Ibid, 73.

Rico. Interior designs presumed a nuclear family who would not be sharing walls with other families, landlords, elderly parents, friends, or neighbours. Through normalizing detached, single-family homes as the ideal, the project of children’s rooms was enmeshed in Cold War politics of population and reproduction that produced the normative family befitting a Cold War Korea. Moreover, the Korean architects’ attention to values of individuality, independence, autonomy, and privacy reflected the Cold War liberalism that was fundamental to transnational anti-communism, while also revealing their own interests and concerns based on their experiences and selective knowledge of “past” Korean housing, war deprivation, and colonialism. The separation of rooms, in particular, was articulated most strongly in terms of independence, a notion that reflected the history of colonialism and deflected the questions of Korea’s own compromised position in Cold War geopolitics. It also worked to establish and maintain heterosexual intimacy by naturalizing the couple’s room as (ideally) reflective of gender equality between the husband and wife. Similar to the call to make children’s spaces to raise children with independent and autonomous thought, adult writers of children’s literature and arts harboured Cold War modernist desires to foster a unique, individual, and child-like aesthetic creativity in their young readers. Linked to notions of childhood as carefree, pure, and truthful, a particular type of autonomy was to be cultivated through children’s magazines, literature, and other artistic productions believed to be suitable for children.

Chapter 2 Children “Grown through Freedom”: Cultivating Creativity in Children’s Arts

In October 1954, Yi Wŏnsu harshly critiqued young readers’ contributions to the children’s magazine, Sonyŏn segye, calling them “Young People’s Adult Poems.”1 He claimed that too many works were “ridiculous beyond measure,” and expressed feeling pity for the “foolish act” of so many young people thinking that using the tone (tu) and vocabulary (ŏhwi) of adults would make for good poetry.2 Finally, he advised that in order for “true works” to be produced by his young readers, “sonyŏn should write poetry like sonyŏn.”3 According to Yi’s theory of literary aesthetics, sonyŏn (少年), a term used to refer to children, youth, or boys in upper-elementary to middle school age groups, should produce writing that was appropriately child-like. However, as the critique itself revealed, what qualified a piece of literary work to be “child-like” was far from clear. Four months later, Yi more subtly critiqued what he called “a small tree planted in a pot but made to look like an old tree” (komok).4 Echoing his description of children’s poems that mimicked adults’ poems, Yi explained that a small, young tree should stay looking young, instead of feigning a longer life. The right kind of a tree, for Yi, had to have the “beauty of a form grown through freedom.”5 The first type of tree he described, with growth heavily intervened in by human hands, represented the elderly, less than original, superficial, old, spoiled, and even crippled. It was, for Yi, simply unattractive and undesirable. On the other hand, the tree in nature symbolized what children should become (that is, child-like) since such a tree beheld what was deemed fresh, original, natural, untouched by human hands, and thus, “free.” Even when he encountered excellent works that deserved special designations and he

1 Yi Wŏnsu, “Young People’s Adult Poems [Nai ŏrin saramdŭl ŭi ŏrŭn si],” Sonyŏn segye, October 1954, 64; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4, (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 64. 2 Ibid. 3 Ibid. 4 Yi Wŏnsu, “Selection and Criticism of Works [Chakp'um sŏnp'yŏng],” Sonyŏn segye, February 1955, 62; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 130. 5 Ibid. 63

64 admired the beauty of the art, he often expressed “anxieties” (puran) regarding the “adult-like” characteristic and high quality, which often posed the possibility of an adult-writer masquerading as a child-writer in a children’s magazine. As another writer of children’s literature, Hong Ŭnsun, put simply, “Just as a young adult trying to mimic an elder is ugly (hyung’hada), it is also ugly to see children mimicking adults.”6 What was ostensibly an aesthetic comment on literature actually reflected a deeper political, psychological claim about the nature of childhood as antithetical to adulthood, instinctive, and uncultivated. Yi’s critiques of adult-like children’s writing, as captured in his metaphor of plant husbandry, was directly linked to the larger cultural, political concerns of transnational Cold War modernism. In this chapter, I examine the ways through which Sonyŏn segye (Boys’/Children’s World) became a site of transnational Cold War modernism by teaching young readers to produce “child-like” (sonyŏn taun) art. Through key terms including “freely,” “child-like,” “natural,” and “honestly,” Sonyŏn segye was enmeshed in a Cold War modernist project of cultivating children’s autonomy, independence, creativity, and originality through literature. By understanding art in North Korea to be restricted to a form of socialist realism strongly tied to state demands and politics, Cold War modernism overlapped with both the adult and children writers’ desire for liberal selfhood (read “democratic”) as compared to the un-free North Korean children and literature. The formation of the creative child in South Korea simultaneously represented the existence of the non-creative child in North Korea. Freedom, then, in the project of cultivating autonomous creativity in children’s literature, operated as another name for anti- communism. Cold War modernism linked freedom and anti-communism, and linked South Korea to the Cold War order. Instead of conceptualizing South Korea’s anti-communism within the boundaries of nationalism and fiercely opposing North Korea, this chapter seeks to conceptualize anti- communism beyond both the national boundaries and the top-down propaganda against North Korea and communism. It seeks to engage Cold War modernism as a form of transnational anti- communism in which South Korea took a part. In his examination of such Cold War modernism in the United States, Greg Barnhisel argues that “‘Freedom’ became the heart of Cold War modernism,” and most importantly, for this chapter, modernism was “an expression of Cold War

6 “A Word I Want to Share [Naega hago sip'ŭn hanmadi mal],” Sonyŏn segye, April 1955, 3; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 421.

65 liberalism itself.”7 As Barnhisel demonstrates, Cold War modernism “needed to endorse Western liberal values” but without doing it “so out loud” (emphasis in original).8 In fact, what may seem like “Western” liberal values were central to understanding and articulating modernity that was not restricted to the United States and the amorphous West but was widely shared in places like Cold War Korea. The modernism I investigate in this chapter was part of the Cold War ideology that presented art as such without necessarily making direct political connections to explicit anti- communism but relied on various modern liberal values. In other words, Yi Wŏnsu and other contributors’ works (including those written by children) in Sonyŏn segye shared the logic of Cold War liberalism beyond literary genre, and this Cold War modernism enabled them and their work to be interlinked to transnational anti-communism. Cold War modernist ideas of children’s arts depended on what Victoria Grieve called, “aesthetic primitivism — the idea that the untutored could most directly and immediately represent life and raw experience.”9 Conceptions of childhood as natural, primitive, and uncultivated fostered the Cold War modernist idea that children’s art should be similarly naturally expressive, raw, and different from adult-produced art. As Yi and other adults’ teaching and advice reflected, the inherent contradictions of children’s art as a site of Cold War modernism revealed that children (and by extension, their art) could not be left entirely to children’s own hands. The sheer possibility and actual copying of adults’ work by children jeopardized the fantasy of children’s ability to produce original and “pure” art. Ironically, as this chapter shows, adults were more invested in producing child-like art than the children themselves, who sought to emulate the aesthetic sentiments and arts determined to be “good” art by adults. The modernist understanding of children’s art also rested on the fundamental assumption that individuals, not collectives, created true art. Art was meant to reflect the individual’s own thoughts, senses, and experiences, and unique expressions that were assumed to belong only to

7 Greg Barnhisel, Cold War Modernists: Art, Literature, and American Cultural Diplomacy (New York: Columbia University Press, 2015), 28. It is important to note that for Greg Barnhisel, Cold War modernism does not mean a genre of art that artists produced during the Cold War, but rather, it was about “the deployment of modernist art and a weapon of Cold War propaganda by both governmental and unofficial actors as well as to the implicit and explicit understanding of modernism underpinning that deployment,” 28. 8 Ibid, 38. 9 Victoria M. Grieve, Little Cold Warriors: American Childhood in the 1950s (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018), 60.

66 that individual’s consciousness. The intense focus on children’s “heart” as the source of their literary writing and autonomous creativity reflected the desire to cultivate children’s creativity through literature, arts, and of course, continuous studying (that is, through children’s literature). Such theories of creativity firmly rested on notions of individual authenticity and autonomy. Jazz, housing and furniture designs, abstract expressionism, and other artistic forms shared similar assumptions about the relationship between art and the individual,10 and although these terms and modes of understanding the self were not new by the mid-century, they were remobilized for Cold War purposes. If socialist realism was represented as the art specific to communist/socialist countries around the world, different forms of modernism arose as its antithesis, represented as the arts of free, democratic individuals in the context of the Cold War.11 By claiming the term modernism in such a way, the politics of transnational anti-communism denied the possibility of socialist realism as another form of modernism, and claimed modernism solely for itself. In other words, art became another means to deny the modern to non-capitalist societies. If Cold War modernism was about the freedom of individual aesthetic expression, the figure of the child as a freely playing and not-yet-tainted subject could not have been a truer subject of modernism. Over the course of the twentieth century, colonization and the Korean War complicated the desire to conceptualize the child as a free, liberal subject in Korea, since colonialism and war could hardly be remembered to have brought freedom to the nation’s subjects. The modernist assumption of individual’s freedom to express aesthetic creativity, however, was widely shared throughout these decades despite this. Such theories of aesthetics firmly rested on the commerciality of children’s literature and the presumed economic freedom and choice to choose certain texts over others, but Cold War ideology sublimated the class nature of cultivating creativity in order to universalize the potential for all children to be creative (though not necessarily universally in practice).

10 Penny M. von Eschen, Satchmo Blows Up the World: Jazz Ambassadors Play the Cold War (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2006); Greg Castillo, Cold War on the Home Front: The Soft Power of Midcentury Design (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010); Frances Stonor Saunders, The Cultural Cold War: The CIA and the World of Arts and Letters (New York: New Press, 2000). For discussion of children’s art, in particular, in the United States, see Victoria M. Grieve, Little Cold Warriors: American Childhood in the 1950s (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018), ch. 2. 11 Greg Castillo, Cold War on the Home Front, 46; Greg Barnhisel, Cold War Modernists: Art, Literature, and American Cultural Diplomacy (New York: Columbia University Press, 2015).

However, the creativity and autonomy of children in literature also produced the limits of the Cold War modernist ideology as autonomy could not be imagined if Korea was subjugated or peripheral in this Cold War order rather than an active participant. The deep irony of this project of “freedom” in the present was worked out against the colonial past at the very time when there was an authoritarian state in the South. The “autonomy” of Cold War modernism already harboured the contradictions and fissures embedded in the hierarchical structure of the Cold War order, where South Korea’s own political and economic autonomy was compromised. Thus, in part two, I examine the various modes through which the old and new empires (re)surface in Sonyŏn segye. The Cold War modernist logic of children’s literary autonomy enabled South Korea to become a subject that shared and participated in the logic of the Cold War, but it also could not but be imagined through stories of conquest, maritime discovery, and military clashes. Despite various critiques of the Cold War order and the South Korean nation-state in the space of this magazine, these stories buttressed the Cold War modernist desire for aesthetic autonomy and freedom, idealized in the figure of the child writer. Stories in which Korean children could be imagined to be bright, free, adventurous subjects, no longer the colonized, were essential in the idea of cultivating children’s aesthetic freedom, creativity, and autonomy.

Creating an Aesthetic World for All Children in Cold War Korea

In January 1953, the editors of Sonyŏn segye sympathetically included a section titled, “Who Reads Sonyŏn segye?” It was a question that vexed readers of this children’s magazine, which began publishing in 1952, even before the Korean War ended. Readers anxiously asked about the appropriate reader of the magazine, especially whether it was acceptable for secondary school students or even adults to read the magazine. The main answer from the editors was that everyone and anyone, all school levels, student or not, father or mother, adult or child, could read the magazine because it was a quality magazine, unlike some others in the market at the time.12 The magazine generally targeted upper-elementary and middle-school students, but Yi and other editors encouraged people to read the magazine regardless of gender, age, or class, especially in times of war or reading material shortages in general. In short, Sonyŏn segye

12 “Who Reads Sonyŏn segye? [Sonyŏn segye nŭn nuga ingna?]” Sonyŏn segye, January 1953, 49; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 359.

68 claimed to surpass any categorization. In the February 1953 issue, a reader asked whether it was a literary (munye) magazine or a student (haksaeng) magazine, and the response was that it was a boys-girls general interest (chonghap) magazine, which was further defined as including literature, scholarship, science, and hobbies, among other topics.13 It was presented as a universal magazine, not limited to a particular genre, commercial category, gender, class, or age. However, despite the magazine’s claims to universality in both purpose and readership, the project of creating an aesthetic world for all was rife with particularities. The title itself, Sonyŏn segye occluded many such particularities. While Sonyŏn segye claimed to address both boys and girls, Sonyŏ segye was never claimed to be a gender-neutral term. Sonyŏ (少女) never means both girls and boys, as the Chinese character also clearly revealed; it always specifie the female gender. The sharpest critique of the untenable “universality” of the word sonyŏn came from a reader, assumed to be female by the name, Mun Chŏngja, who asked, “Why even in the magazine name, the word boy appears, but there is no word, girl?”14 Some female readers, one could argue, felt excluded in this world of children. Certain stories in the magazine were labelled, “girls’ stories” (sonyŏ sosŏl) as well as boys’ stories (sonyŏn sosŏl). There was also the magazine’s section, “Boys’ and Girls’ Works.” But of course, the magazine was neither called “Girls’ World” or “Boys’ and Girls’ World.” To Mun’s question, a reporter (kija) answered that “sonyŏn” referred to everyone before reaching the category of youth (ch'ŏngnyŏn), so that sonyŏn, ch'ŏngnyŏn, nonyŏn (elderly), all referred to both genders in a general sense.15 However, the photo albumincluded at the very end of each issue, was consistently dominated first by male editors and writers of the magazine and eventually by male students. The number of photographs that appeared per issue grew from eleven to eighteen by the seventh issue in January 1953, but the inclusion of female students ranged from zero to three. Featured adult writers and readers’ photographs evidenced a predominantly male authorship and readership.

13 Kim Yuwŏn, identified by the address Taegu-si Taebong-tong 162, asked in Sonyŏn segye, February 1953, 49; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 411. 14 Mun Chŏngja, identified as “Sŏul chungbu yŏja hunyukso 2,” in “Sonyŏn Segye Ŭngjŏpsil,” Sonyŏn segye, October 1952, 49; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 203. 15 Reporter, “Sonyŏn segye Ŭngjŏpsil,” Sonyŏn segye, October 1952, 49; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 203.

Sonyŏn segye (Boys’/Children’s World) was published from July 1952 in Taegu, during the Korean War, until October 1956 for a total of forty issues. Even during the days of refugee life during the Korean War, Sonyŏn segye was a notable, impressive magazine that “easily surpassed forty thousand in print.”16 By the third issue, the magazine claimed to be receiving one hundred mail-in correspondences from readers on a daily basis, wanting to be included in the highly popular column, the “Sonyŏn segye Reception.” The publication was part of a boom in magazine publications in the 1950s, when one thousand different titles were being published.17 But Sonyŏn segye was published even before the appearance of popular adult magazines, Sasanggye (1953–1970) and Yŏwŏn (1955–1970), which reflected the importance and the urgency of educating children even during the war. Sonyŏn (少年), as a term, was widely used in children’s magazine titles since the colonial period, and widely taken up in magazines of the 1950s as well.18 Sonyŏn segye, in that sense, was nothing novel. Compared to many magazines that sprung up during and after the Korean War, however, the magazine enjoyed wide popularity, especially for the first three years of publication when Yi Wŏnsu was the main editor.19 The editor-publisher, O Ch'anggŭn, boasted that Sonyŏn segye had “hundreds of thousands” of readers by the time Sonyŏn segye “turned two” in 1953.20 The magazine grew in popularity in the midst of destitution resulting from the Korean War. In the inaugural 1952 issue, the “Sonyŏn segye News (nyu-sŭ)” section reported on the statistics of children in arduous situations, including orphan-hood, the inability to attend school,

16 Pang Kihwan, “The Problem of Today’s Children’s Magazines: To Producers and Parents [Onŭl ŭi adong chapchi ŭi kwaje chejakcha wa puhyŏng ege],” Tonga ilbo (March 14, 1959). 17 For example, see Im Yugyŏng, “Chisigin kwa chapchi munhwa,” in Han'guk hyŏndae saenghwal munhwasa 1960 nyŏndae: Kŭndae hwa wa kundae hwa, eds. Kim Sŏngbo, Kim Chongyŏp, Yi Hyeryŏng, Hŏ Ŭn, Hong Sŏngnyul (P’aju: Changpi, 2016), 85. 18 Sonyŏn (少年, 1908 - 1911) was founded by Ch’oe Namsŏn (1890-1957) in the first decade of colonial rule, one of few exceptions under military rule. Other examples include Sin sonyŏn (1920s), Sonyŏn (少年) (April 1937 – December 1940), and Sonyŏn saenghwal (1950s). For discussion on the rise of children’s literature in the first half of the twentieth century, see Dafna Zur, Figuring Korean Futures: Children’s Literature in Modern Korea (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2017). 19 Yi Wŏnsu’s editing of the magazine continued until the November 1955 issue. From this issue, more explicit anti-communism became apparent in the magazine, which was radically different from the editing agenda under Yi. 20 O Ch'anggŭn, “In the New Year [Saehae e],” Sonyŏn segye, January 1953, 4; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong- ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 314.

70 and engagement in petty work such as selling newspapers and shining shoes.21 According to the magazine, there were 31,173 orphans in 291 shelters; 10,440 shoe-shiners and 5,585 newspaper sellers in 22 main cities.22 Not all children could attend school during the war, and the children in refugee schools did not seem that much better off. As refugees in southern Taegu, hundreds of children studied in make-shift structures that some “adults called hakkobang,” also known as p'anjajip.23 In the Seoul Refugees’ South Taegu Elementary School, 850 students studied without desks, “sitting on floors like in old village schools (sŏdang).”24 But the difficult learning environment seemed to be outweighed by hopeful future prospects: “Young buddies (tongmu)! Learn well despite the hardship. It’s always been the case that great people were born in the midst of poverty and grew much in the midst of hardship. Aren’t you the owners of the next days that will straighten the chaotic world and firmly erect peace!”25 Thus, the editors of the magazine that visited the school first experienced sadness and tears but were quickly overlapped with happiness.26 They saw much hope in children studying hard despite the visible difficulties. The magazine emphasized that all children should study and, in fact, want to study, making the “working child” a sub-normative and temporary reality due to war-stricken poverty and broken families. The Korean War served as the equalizer in children’s experience of poverty, loss of family members, housing, education, and others. Even where experiences of the war varied among children, adult writers in the magazine espoused their faith in children’s ability and desire to overcome difficulties and look towards a brighter future. Kim P'albong, a novel and literary

21 Editors, “Sonyŏn segye nyu-sŭ,” Sonyŏn segye, July 1952, 42; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 42. 22 Ibid. 23 Editors, “After Visiting a Refugee School [P'inan hakkyo rŭl ch'aja pogo],” Sonyŏn segye, July 1952 42–43; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 42-43. Hakkobang was a combination of the Japanese word, hako (箱), meaning box, and the Korean word, pang, which means a room. P'anjajip was a temporary, make-shift structure made with wood planks, paper boards, and other materials. 24 Ibid, 43. 25 Ibid. The word tongmu, meaning friend, companion, or comrade, appeared frequently in this magazine in the 1950s, but with its growing North Korean and communist inflection, the word was eventually replaced by ch’inku (friend). 26 Ibid.

71 critic, urged young readers to “win over such difficult environment,” the inability to pay for school fees, books and school supplies, hunger, and lack of clothing in order to become a more beautiful, successful, and “higher” person.27 What mattered most to Kim was learning, memorizing, knowing, and thinking in the face of difficult circumstances. As part of his new year’s message, Ma Haesong, the famous children’s literature writer who came from North Korea and was a long-time contributor to the magazine, wrote about students coming to school to study every night despite the lack of heating and windows in rain or snow, and teachers traveling from Taejŏn via train to teach at the night school in Taegu.28 Despite their very different tones, the two messages shared the moral that extreme weather conditions, poverty, health issues, and lack of time due to precarious work situations should not matter in the face of children’s burning desire to learn and adults’ passion for teaching such children. In reality, the magazine itself revealed the uneasy tensions between the studying child as normative and the working child as sub-normative. Self-identified as “a child that does shoe- shining,” one writer professed that he worked during the day and read the magazine at night.29 Another reader requested that the magazine price be maintained because he bought the magazine with the money that he earned from selling newspapers.30 Wage work was presented as a form of temporary, pitiful, but inevitable state of childhood brought by the war, but it was also what enabled poor children to transiently identify with the normative definition of children as learning and studying subjects. To make the magazine sustainable, Sonyŏn segye relied on children of both genders and adults such as parents, older siblings, and teachers as consumers in the capitalist system. From the inaugural issue, Yi Wŏnsu, as the main editor, was very aware of the barriers to children buying books due to the Korean War, as well as the realities of a “world whose eyes would flip

27 Kim P'albong, “Spinning Rock [Mulle pawi],” Sonyŏn segye, January 1953, 6–7; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 316–317. He was also a former member of the Korean Artists’ Proletariat Federation (KAPF). 28 Ma Haesong, “Promise [Yaksok,],” Sonyŏn segye January 1953, 7; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 317. 29 Yang Taesŏp identified as “Susansi mun hyŏldongje idonghoe 3cho 2pan,” in “Sonyŏn segye ŭngjŏpsil,” Sonyŏn segye, February 1953, 49; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 411. 30 Kim Yuwŏn identified by the address, “Taegu-si Taebong-tong 162,” in “Sonyŏn segye ŭngjŏpsil,” Sonyŏn segye March 1953, 48; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 462.

72 to do anything to get money.”31 In the hopes of making good but “cheap” magazine, the first issue was sold at three thousand won, and the magazine editors struggled to strike a fine balance between content and its commercial basis. For comparison, the inaugural issue of the Concise English-Korean dictionary was twenty thousand won.32 Sonyŏn segye was distributed to bookstores throughout the country, but also could be ordered by mail and through school. The magazine relied on pre-order for upcoming issues, actual purchases of the magazine, and the commercial advertisements of numerous other publications. Compared to children’s books by well-known children’s literature writers, such as Yun Sŏkchung and Kim Soun, which cost four to five thousand won and were often advertised on magazine back covers, the magazine was relatively cheap and was filled with various genres of content ranging from comics, news, short stories, and poetry.33 But this was also a time when fifteen eggs cost six thousand won, which meant that purchasing one issue of the magazine would mean foregoing seven or eight eggs that could have fed the family.34 Children’s literary and study materials were not cheap consumer products in war-stricken South Korea. Thus, the ability to purchase and read the magazine monthly often depended on family income as well as family members’ willingness to spend part of their income on a children’s literary magazine. Readers themselves mentioned their fathers in particular (and, sometimes, a lack thereof), in relation to their ability to purchase the magazine. One reader in particular, shared his experience of using the money his father had given him to buy his father’s cigarettes to buy the magazine, and that his father was happy in the end with his son’s choice.35 Unfortunately, not every child was lucky to have a father who was generous about his cigarettes being replaced by the magazine. Readers even went so far as writing to the magazine editors to write their fathers, asking their fathers to give them money to purchase the magazine. In response

31 Yi Wŏnsu, “After Editing [P'yŏnjip ŭl mach'igo],” Sonyŏn segye, July 1952, 50; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong- ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 50. 32 Back cover of Sonyŏn segye, July 1952, photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010). 33 For instance, see the back cover of Sonyŏn segye, August 1952; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010). 34 “Prices [Mulga],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, February 2, 1952. 35 The comment was by Ch'oe Chaesu identified as attending, “Kwangju sŏ chung hak,” in “Sonyŏn segye Reception [Sonyŏn segye ŭngjŏpsil],” Sonyŏn segye, January 1953, 49; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 359.

73 to such requests, the magazine’s editors reasoned that the magazine cost less than a pack of cigarettes, less than drinking alcohol, and “only half a bowl of lunch,” and thus that the reason the young readers’ fathers could not purchase “the most important meal for a month” was unfathomable, if not nearly immoral.36 Some readers shared about their fatherless state and how their own work on streets or other forms of wage-work enabled them to purchase and read the magazine.37 Children and their families’ socioeconomic status was an important factor that contributed to how easily/whether children could obtain the magazine on a monthly basis. The magazine’s own financial situation revealed the tension between meeting the lofty goals of providing quality literature to children in a war-torn Korea and keeping itself afloat in an increasingly saturated industry of popular children’s literature. In November 1952, a middle school student asked how many readers Sonyŏn segye had, and the magazine was full of confidence that “by the time this issue comes out, it’ll be a totally different story.”38 The difficulty of maintaining any magazine was well known even among the young readers of the magazine, who often expressed the fear and worry that Sonyŏn segye might stop publishing, like many magazines did at the time, and pleaded with the magazine editors to continue publishing.39 By the end of the first year, just in its sixth issue, the magazine regretfully announced a 33% price increase.40 The main reason was its monthly financial loss, but the magazine also included “Words to Parents.”41 This content addressed not only fathers and older brothers but mothers and sisters (母姉) as well, who were assumed to be a potential source of money to purchase the magazine. Here, they explained the sudden price increase of paper and other expenses, and that the increase was inevitable. The shortage of paper was a serious issue, which UNKRA and aid

36 “Pretty’s Newspaper [Ippŭni sinmun],” Sonyŏn segye, December 1954, 69; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong- ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 359. 37 For an example, see “Sonyŏn segye Reception [Sonyŏn segye ŭngjŏpsil],” Sonyŏn segye, December 1952, 45; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 307. 38 “Sonyŏn segye Reception [Sonyŏn segye ŭngjŏpsil],” Sonyŏn segye, November 1952, 35; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 241. 39 For examples, Ibid. Almost every issue has one reader expressing such a worry. 40 “Change in Magazine Price [Ch'aekkap pyŏn'gyŏng],” Sonyŏn segye, December 1952, 43; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 301. 41 “Words to Parents [puhyŏng kke tŭri nŭn malssŭm],” Sonyŏn segye, December 1952, 43; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 301.

74 organizations sought to alleviate in postwar Korea.42 According to the editors, however, the additional one thousand won from the children’s families’ purses was justified for the satisfaction of children’s “emotional education” (chŏngsŏ kyoyuk) and “thirst for knowledge” (chisik yok).43 They invited the addressee to make the child an “object of desire and investment” through children’s magazines, but rhetorically, the magazine emphasized the children’s own desires and their own educational growth prominently.44 In other words, the investment was presented as being “for the children’s own good,” rather than as saving the magazine from financial loss and eventual closure. To a reader’s request to increase the number of pages even at the expense of increasing the magazine price, the editors responded that increasing the content pages without increasing the price would mean the end of the magazine.45 In fact, the need to increase readership numbers was mentioned frequently by editors, and finding a balance between affordable magazine price, reader satisfaction, and frequent requests to increase content proved to be difficult throughout the magazine’s life.

Cultivating Child-Like Creativity

Yi’s reprimanding advice for children to remain like a tree “grown through freedom” (and not to become an “aged tree” or small-sized tree perfectly pruned to look old) encapsulates the magazine’s desire to cultivate child-like children and child-like literary aesthetics among its readership.46 A young tree was to natural as an old tree was to pruning, trimming, and clipping, thus lacking the naturalness and freedom of a young tree. If Yi deemed certain submitted lines not to be fitting of a child’s poem, he went as far as removing a few lines from a reader’s contribution, and advised the child-writer to make distinct the “fragrance that children’s poetry

42 Gregg Brazinsky, Nation Building in South Korea: Koreans, Americans, and the Making of a Democracy (University of North Carolina Chapel Hill, 2007), 50. 43 Ibid. 44 Jacqueline Rose, The Case of Peter Pan, or the Impossibility of Children’s Fiction (London: MacMillan, 1984), 107. 45 The request was from Chu Tongsik, identified by the address, “Pusan Tongdaesin-tong 1ka 162” in “Sonyŏn segye Reception [Sonyŏn segye ŭngjŏpsil],” Sonyŏn segye, December 1952, 45; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong- ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 307. 46 Yi Wŏnsu, “Selection and Criticism of Works [Chakp'um sŏnp'yŏng],” Sonyŏn segye, February 1955, 62; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 130.

75 has.”47 Through his editing power, Yi sought to make poems contributed by young readers even more child-like than the original submission. In particular, it underlay the inside-outside or content-form dichotomy that a child’s heart should be aesthetically expressed in child-like form. The nature of childhood was assumed to be lacking the types of disciplining practices that were required of adulthood. This section examines various adult writers’ advice and instructions on art for children and demonstrates their repeated emphasis on the child’s mind, heart, or the emotions as the basis of good “child-like” art. Despite the necessary connections to the economic capability of readers’ family members or their own engagement in wage-work at the expense of becoming a normative child, such an emphasis on the “heart” worked well in an anti-communist Cold War context in which the psychology of an individual’s normative happiness and well-being were proclaimed to take precedence over the economic, material, and physical being. Similarly, “good” art was understood to come from “true heart,” eliding and even suppressing the critique of inherent inequalities in art that simultaneously required repeated instructions, purchasing of reading and writing materials, and of course, a surplus of time and money to devote to the cultivation of such aesthetic qualities. In Cold War Korea, the creativity emphasized in the call for children’s rooms was linked to the activity of reading literature as a source of personal pleasure and choice. This rested on the assumption that reading in North Korea was seen as an activity of propaganda that was mandatory and “forced” by the Communist Party for ideological education.48 In South Korea, by contrast, reading was positioned as an activity by which to identify a child as child-like. Yi Wŏnsu went so far as to identify children who did not read at least a few children’s literary pieces by their middle school years to be either “a lower quality child” (yŏldŭng’a) or “abnormal” (pi chŏngsangjŏk in).49 Children, according to Yi, naturally liked literature, so that reading children’s literature defined the ideal, normal child. Not only were children expected to

47 Yi Wŏnsu, “Selection and Criticism of Works [Chakp'um sŏnp'yŏng],” Sonyŏn segye, July 1953, 65; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 31: Sonyŏn segye 2 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 177. 48 PukHan yŏn'gam kanhaeng wiwŏnhoe, PukHan ch'onggam: 1945–’68 (Seoul: Kongsan'gwŏn munje yŏn'guso, 1968). In particular, see the section on “Mass Media, Publications” (610–619). 49 Yi Wŏnsu, “Children’s Literature and Vulgarity: Let’s Allow Children to Read Good Works” [Adong munhak kwa chŏsoksŏng: Ŏrini ege chohŭn chakp'um ŭl ikke hae chuja], Introduction to Children’s Literature [Adong munhak immun] (Seoul: Han'gilssa 2001), 125–128, (originally published in Taehan ilbo, October 5, 1956).

76 read out of their own will and interest, they were to produce their own literature in the space of the magazine and to aspire to become literary writers as adults. Underneath such expectations lay the presumption of the “unfree” child in North Korea, where it was assumed that all publications were singly authored by the Communist Party for propaganda purposes. It assumed that all “mass communication” through newspapers, broadcasts, magazines, children’s literature, and monographs to be monopolized by the state, so that content was “fabricated” (chojak, 造作) rather than “created” (ch'angjo, 創造).50 Cold War modernism in South Korea encompassed both a freely reading and writing child and the denial of an external force (like the Communist Party or the capitalist market and society) mandating them to read and write, and producing differential accessibility to reading and writing materials. This modernist conception of the child, literature, and the relationship between the two denied the historicity of Cold War modernism and belied the existence of adult writers, teachers, parents, government officials, and publishers who managed various realms of children’s literature, including publishing, recommending, requiring, and selectively purchasing certain types of literature as appropriate and “good” (良書) for children in South Korea. Various forms of anti-communism appeared in the magazine. The magazine was distributed as a “Christmas gift,” to boys (sonyŏn) in POW camps,51 and the news of “anti- communist POWS, through the Gate of Freedom” was featured in the magazine.52 Moreover, many anti-communist stories appeared in the magazine, as in other texts for children, written by people who fled the North and settled in the South.53 From the September 1952 issue on, the magazine included “Our Pledge,” which contained explicit anti-communist and anti-North

50 PukHan yŏn'gam kanhaeng wiwŏnhoe, PukHan ch'onggam: 1945–‘68 (Seoul: Kongsan'gwŏn munje yŏn'guso, 1968), 610–619. For a discussion on how this South Korean publication served transnational anti-communist purposes, see Andrew Schmid, “Historicizing North Korea: State Socialism, Population Mobility, and Cold War Historiography,” American Historical Review 123, no. 2 (April 2018): 439–462. 51 According to “Chŏn Hanggil” from the “Ch'ungnam Nonsan B P'oro Suyongso,” he was attending elementary in North Korea, when he was captured as a refugee. He received the magazine as a Christmas gift, and that “nine boys like him spend good time every night, through this book.” “Boys’ World Reception [sonyŏn segye ŭngjŏpsil],” Sonyŏn segye, May 1953, 52; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 31: Sonyŏn segye 2 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 52. 52 “Sonyŏn segye News [Sonyŏn segye nyuusŭ],” Sonyŏn segye, February 1954, 51; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong- ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 32: Sonyŏn segye 3 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 119. 53 Sŏn Anna, “Anticommunism in Children’s Literature in the 1950s – With a Focus on Children’s Magazines” [1950nyŏndae adong munhak kwa pan'gong chuŭi – adong chapchi rŭl chungsim ŭro], Tongak Society of Language and Literature 46 (2), 2006, 325-355.

77 statements. The pledge was written out in a small, outlined box that occupied less than one- twelfth of a page in each issue. It read as follows: 1. As sons and daughters of the Republic of Korea, let us protect the nation with death. 2. Let us unite like steel to defeat the communist invaders. 3. Let us fly the T’aeguk flag on the Sacred Mount Paektu and accomplish South-North unification.54

This rather tiny pledge box appeared in each issue, but the inconsistent location of the pledge suggests that editors tried to fit it in according to editing priorities to meet the state’s mandatory publishing requirements, without necessarily prioritizing the pledge over the rest of the magazine’s content. Importantly, the magazine did not explicitly claim anti-communism as its highest value or purpose while Yi was its main editor. The enforcement of anti-communism evidenced in “Our Pledge” was prevalent in the sociopolitical context in which Sonyŏn segye was published, but stories with explicit anti-communist message were minor in the larger oeuvre of works by both children and adult writers of the magazine. Yet, anti-communism extended well beyond the explicit anti-communism of “Our Pledge” and anti-communist stories. It was deeply embedded in the foundations of the magazine’s theory of aesthetics that centralized the individual child’s autonomous creativity. Children’s literature was and remains an “impossible” genre, because, as Jacqueline Rose argues, “If children's fiction builds an image of the child inside the book, it does so in order to secure the child who is outside the book, the one who does not come so easily within its grasp.”55 Thus, children are “taught” by adults to exude certain types of truthfulness and uniqueness in their literary productions — an inherent irony of Cold War modernism, wherein the “truthful” expression of what was in the child’s heart was subject to modification through the magazine and adult intervention. Sonyŏn segye’s adult writers also maintained an image of the pure, innocent child, despite mass death, devastation, and sorrow during and after the Korean War, and sought to inspire their young readers to produce child-like art that expressed their own emotions, experiences, and thoughts. From its inaugural issue, Sonyŏn segye sought to serve as a tool for teaching creative writing to its young readers. In the first issue, Kim Soun contributed the series, “Boys’ Writing

54 For instance, see the September 1952 issue, 3; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 107. 55 Jacqueline Rose, The Case of Peter Pan, 2.

Reader” (Sonyŏn munjang tokpon), which lasted only two months due to his art tour in Venice, Italy, and Paris, France.56 Using the metaphor of the writer and their writing as “one body” and “one piece,” Kim recommended first preparing one’s own heart to be “tidy and truthful.”57 He negated writing “with hand” and defined it as “writing with the heart and mind.”58 He emphasized love as necessary for a heart to be capable of writing literature: love for family, country, nature, and eventually the whole human kind. Only after establishing the importance of a “pure and clean heart,” represented in these terms of love, did Kim go on to discuss more specific writing techniques and strategies in the second part of the series.59 Contradictions between this idea of writing as a cultivated art and the cultural assumptions about children appeared as soon as Kim moved beyond the heart-writing equivalent. Here, Kim presented some contradictions between what he thought made good literary writing and his assumptions about his audience as “growing sonyŏn.” Even after explaining the diversity and complexity of choosing a clear purpose in writing, he concluded: “What you write should, of course, be simple like sonyŏn (sonyŏn tapke),” which was to make their writing “clearer and stronger.”60 However, in his discussion of the need for concision, he used metaphors of a mere rock becoming valuable gold through repeated purification processes, and a good fruit being produced only after timely and necessary pruning of branches. While Yi equated child-like children to a tree that grew without pruning, Kim’s conception of good art, including children’s own writing, had to undergo much pruning in order for their “fruit” or writing to be valuable at an aesthetic level. His own writing in the magazine was already part of that pruning of children’s writing, but he considered this “technique” to be firmly based in his assumption that writing automatically and naturally reflected the heart.

56 “Sonyŏn segye Reception [sonyŏn segye ŭngjŏpsil],” Sonyŏn segye, January 1953, 49; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 359. In this issue, two readers’ comments regarding the “Boys’ Writing Reader” and Kim Soun were included, revealing their desire to read similar writings again and personal interest in the writer, Kim Soun. 57 Kim Soun, “Boys’ Writing Reader [sonyŏn munjang tokpon],” 24–28, Sonyŏn segye, July 1953, 24–28; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 24–28. 58 Ibid. 59 Kim Soun, “Boys’ Writing Reader: 2 [sonyŏn munjang tokpon],” Sonyŏn segye, August 1953, 36–39; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 88–91. 60 Ibid.

When Kim Soun’s “Boys’ Writing Reader” came to an unplanned, abrupt halt after merely two issues, many readers requested the editors to teach them how to write and critique literature. After six months since “Boys’ Writing Reader” was discontinued, Chang Manyŏng’s “Instructions on Boys’ Poetry” (Sonyŏn si chido) made its first appearance in February 1953. Chang’s two-part series, “Instructions on Boys’ Poetry,” took examples of both good and bad poetry from real reader contributions. For him, there were poems that were “written with the mind,” and those that were “written with the heart.”61 As examples of the former type, he presented two poems about clouds, where one was by a reader of the magazine Sonyŏn segye and another by an Austrian poet. He explicated the poems and complimented their unique and interesting views of two natural phenomena.62 In particular, in “Sudden Shower” (Sonakpi) by Pak Minnam, which appeared in the September issue of Sonyŏn segye, a sudden shower was personified as a mean, old man who intensely hit the clouds until they cried, resulting in a sudden, heavy rain. Chang complimented this work by the magazine’s child reader-writer saying, “Pak Minnam went a step further and did not think of the sudden shower’s scolding [of rain clouds] in scientific ways, but had child-like thoughts about sudden showers of rain.”63 After commenting on the poem, “Clouds,” by an Austrian poet who personified dark clouds right before sunset as a cat trying to catch a bird, Chang offered his true assessment of both examples.64 Despite his compliments, they were presented as negative examples for his readers, labelled as poems that were “written with the mind.” He likened such poetry to a magician showing the reader exactly how the magic was done, thus losing the “magic” to “move the heart” of its readers. Conversely, two other poems, written about mothers, were read as self-evident love for the mother, the poetss gratitude, and their sadness for the mother’s passing. The poems (one, again, by a magazine reader and another by a more famous poet), were praised as being “written with the heart.”65

61 Chang Manyŏng, “Instructions on Boys’ Poetry [Sonyŏn si chido],” Sonyŏn segye, March 1953, 34–37; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 448–451. 62 Ibid. 63 Ibid, 448. 64 This poem is cited by Chang to have been written by a poet named, “Mot'ogensŭt'erun.” See Ibid., 448. 65 Ibid.

In the same issue, Yi echoed a similar relationship between the heart and good quality poetry in his critique of reader contributions.66 On a poem, “Grass,” by a middle-school student from Inch'ŏn, Kwŏn T'aerŭp, Yi commented, “The heart that is welcoming the spring, the heart that looks towards winter — How can such a poem be born out of writing on purpose? Poetry is born when the heart becomes poetry.”67 By “on purpose,” Yi implied that the poet did not write such a poem because he had set his mind to write one, but that the poem genuinely and naturally arose out of the poet’s raw experience. This praise was based on the assumption of a seamless relationship between the heart and good poetry, requiring no intention of crafting or efforts to write a poem. In contrast to the repetition of the word “heart” (maum) three times in a very short, positive response to one poem, “Grass,” Yi’s critiques of many other works in the issue were characterized by words such as record (kirok) and organize (chŏngnihada), evoking the idea of a deliberate recording and organizing of one’s thoughts, likened to a mere writing down of information. This process, as Yi saw it, involved the mind, but not the heart. In Part Two of his series, “Instructions on Boys’ Poetry,” Chang also discussed the “moving of the heart” in poetry. Citing a “poem like a picture” an an example, Chang critiqued that the picture-like description of Fall lacked the verbal expression of “one’s own feelings.”68 It was a rejection of realist expressions of aesthetics that invoked modernist art without the explicit use of the word modernism. A good poem, Chang explained, should make the reader feel what the poet felt in writing the poem; there was a difference between writing down what one saw and writing what one saw and felt. He stated, “just liked in drawing, you cannot write a scene just as a scene written in words.”69 But at another point, he also stated, “As I always say, do not think of poetry in complicated ways, but just write what suddenly occurs in your mind” and, most importantly, write “honestly.”70 What came to one’s mind could not simply become poetry

66 Yi Wŏnsu, “Selection and Criticism [Sŏnp'yŏng],” Sonyŏn segye, March 1953, 47–48; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 461–462. 67 “Grass [Chandi]” was by Kwŏn T'aerŭp, identified as “Inch'ŏn chunghakkyo 2-5” in “Uri chakp'um p'eiji,” Sonyŏn segye, March 1953, 46; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 460. For Yi’s criticism, see Ibid. 68 Chang Manyŏng, “Instructions on Boys’ Poetry [Sonyŏn si chido],” Sonyŏn segye, April 1953, 38–41; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 504–507. This was part 2 of the series. 69 Ibid, 38. 70 Ibid, 39–40.

81 either, however, as a good poet was also sensitive and aware of the different feelings in each word/phrase (mal).71 In other words, poetry was about being honest and true to one’s feelings and heart, but the crafting of poetry was also differentiated according to skill, practice, training, and effort. Cold War modernists demanded that art be conceptualized in terms of spontaneity, truthfulness, and naturalness, as if to deny the craft and revision necessary to write what they ultimately deemed “good” poetry and art. It was a theory of aesthetics that privileged the autonomy of individuals in practicing discernment but, without a doubt, such “discernment” was not freely floating. Clearly, discernment was to be taught, learned, practiced, and judged. Many children’s literature writers had much to say about those aesthetics which were correct, good, and moral, and those that were just the opposite. Without relying on the language of explicit anti- communism, the project of naturalizing the individual worked to reaffirm a similar naturalness and normativity of the political economy of the present. Yi’s preoccupation with the concept of freedom also appeared in his preference for free verse, going beyond the immediate focus on tongsim (child heart) which, at times, he saw as childish and, at other times, as pure. For Yi, a focus on tongsim was simply not enough to generate true poetry. He appreciated poems that captured the child heart well in terms of topic and language (e.g., through the use of onomatopoeias), but did not aways see these poems as more than simply “children’s songs,” and advised their writers “not [to] . . . stay in such a stage.”72 He appreciated the “free form and honest thoughts” in a poem about a flock of birds that “flew freely” from mountains to villages.73 The magazine also introduced the poet Kim Yŏngil, who was known for his free verse (represented in his children’s poem, “The Squirrel”), and identified Kim’s works as “sonyŏn free verse” and “free and short poems” for children.74 Kim himself published his first collection of poetry, The Squirrel, with the subtitle: “A

71 Ibid, 40. 72 Yi Wŏnsu, “Criticism of Works [Sŏnp'yŏng],” Sonyŏn segye, January 1953, 47; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong- ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 357. 73 The poem was by Han Chonghŭi, identified as “Chŏnbuk iri namjungdong tongbu 4pan 160.” Yi Wŏnsu, “Selection and Criticism of Works [Chakp'um sŏnp'yŏng],” Sonyŏn segye, December 1951, 42; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 300. 74 “Works of Art and the Writer [Chakp'um kwa chakcha].” Sonyŏn segye, April 1955, 67; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 485.

Collection of Children’s Free Verse (adong chayu sijip).”75 Thus, if the ideal purpose of children’s poetry “was to formulate the songs in one’s heart,” Yi argued, children’s poetry had to be in the form of free verse, not following a specific pattern.76 In “Theory of Children’s Poetry (tongsi, 童詩),” he associated fixed-form poetry that adhered to a syllable count as the “ancestor” of adult poetry, and free verse, conversely, as a product of modern progress.77 He did not completely deny the need for fixed form in children’s poetry, but by claiming that not all children’s songs had poetic qualities, he clearly privileged free verse as more appropriate and progressive in expressing poetic aesthetics of both children and adults.78 He seemed especially unimpressed by children “copying” the fixed form (read: adult-like) in writing their own poetry for submission to the magazine. As in the literary form of free verse, freedom took many forms and shapes in Cold War Korea. The focus on the heart and its truthfulness received increasing emphasis throughout the magazine’s publication. As part of the series titled, “Boys’ Arts Lecture,” which Yi had begun the previous month, Chang Ukchin told his readers to go beyond copying other people’s work, claiming that copying other illustrations or writings amounted to ignoring one’s own true feelings, thoughts, and heart.79 In a simple announcement, the readers were recommended to send drawings that they did not draw based on things in books, but to draw “real paintings of

75 Kim Ch'an'gon, “Kim Yŏngil ŭi ‘Chayusi ron’ kwa ‘Adong chayu sijip’ taramjwi,” Adong Ch'ŏngsonyŏn Munhak Yŏn'gu 10 (June 2012): 98–108. This article tries to challenge the commonly held understanding of Kim Yŏngil as the representative of children’s free verse in South Korea. 76 Yi Wŏnsu, “Poetry and Education [Si wa kyoyuk],” in January 1961, Adong munhak immun (P'aju: Han'gilssa, 2001), 294. For a canonical example of the modernist literary tradition of critique the existing literary conventions and to attempt to define a “truer” nature of modern literature, see Yi Kwangsu, “Munhak iran hao,” Maeil sinbo, Nov. 10–23, 1916, reprinted in Yi Kwangsu chŏnjip (Nuri midiŏ, 2011), 1: 547–55. For Yi Kwangsu, emotions or feelings, chŏng, was central in his conception of modern Korean literature in early twentieth century. In particular, he contrasted science to literature, describing literature as something that is like “reading one’s heart (心中)” (548). 77 Yi Wŏnsu, “Theory of Poetry [tongsiron],” in January 1961, Adong Ch'ŏngsonyŏn Munhak Yŏn'gu 10 (June 2012): 306. 78 Ibid, 311. 79 Chang Ukchin, “Boys’ Arts Lecture: Drawings Drawn with My Heart [Sonyŏn yesul kangŭi: Nae maŭm ŭrosŏ kŭrinŭn kŭrim],” Sonyŏn segye, March 1955, 50; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 396. In contrast to Chang’s comment, Yi T’aejun attempted to rectify “copying” as a literary virtue in Yi T’aejun, “Copying” [mobang],” Musŏrok (Seoul: Kipʻŭnsaem, 1994), 94–95.

83 nature (sasaenghwa),” regardless of whether they used crayons or water paint.80 Chang, who was one of few artists of the “Western” style to teach art at SNU in 1954, taught that “decorating honestly according to how one saw and felt is the true act.”81 Such a conception of producing superior children’s drawings by being truthful to one’s heart and perception appeared in newspapers as well. Sŏ Kyŏngik, an art teacher at an elementary school in Seoul, stated that “Children draw pretty well if you help children draw as they like. Adults should not [tell children] to draw like this and that and should not intervene too much in children’s own thoughts, but let them draw without reserve and freely (chayuropke).”82 As both Sŏ reasoned, these were the reasons why his students received various awards in art contests. Most notably, among the two thousand or so art pieces submitted to the “International Children’s Art Exhibition” in Japan, a total of ten works received awards, two of them were awarded to works by Korean children, and one of those to a student of Sŏ’s.83 By denying the contradictions of claiming such art as free from adult intervention, Chang and Sŏ helped produce the ideology of Cold War modernism based on the assumed relationship between individual creativity as autonomous and the ability to deliver it through the originality of arts. However, the theory of children’s ability to produce artistically original art so “freely” was compromised by the frequency and wide practice of alleged plagiarism among works submitted for possible publication in Sonyŏn segye. By April 1955, the editorial team expressed its decision to “expose the names” of reader-writers who submitted other people’s work as their own, showing frustration and anger regarding plagiarized works but also their determination to push for true, original works of art.84 The magazine also received many letters from readers, who were keen to flag unoriginal works that even the magazine editors failed to recognize.85 These

80 Ippuni, “When Sending Drawings [Kŭrim ŭl ponael ttaenŭn],” Sonyŏn segye, November 1952, 35; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 241. 81 Chang Ukchin, “Boys’ Arts Lecture,” Sonyŏn segye, March 1955, 50. 82 “Susong Elementary School’s Arts Club That Is Well Known Even in Overseas [Oeguk edo nŏlli allyŏjin susong kungmin hakkyo misul pu],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, April 21, 1958. 83 Ibid. 84 “When Sending In [Your] Work [Chakp'um ŭl ponaesil ttae],” Sonyŏn segye, April 1955, 64; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 484. 85 For an example, see “Pretty’s Newspaper [Ippŭni sinmun],” Sonyŏn segye, February 1955, 69; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 343.

84 repudiations of plagiarism were not articulated in terms of legality or the morality of respecting others’ work. Rather, it was about presenting a work that was true to and originated from the individual self, that is the child-self. In other words, the editorial team assumed the ideal work to be reflective of the writer’s true and unique self. This belief elided the contradiction that if true art was indeed original, then, children’s arts should not be taught by anyone, especially adults, who were often deemed as less than original, honest, and authentic. However, this idea of “true” art that originated from an individual’s true heart had to be qualified. For Chang Ukchin, such “truth” came from one’s ability to visualize and experience beautiful things.86 It was not simply a practice of seeing an object or nature objectively and transferring this vision into a piece of art, but rather using one’s observational power to see, or more precisely find, the beauties surrounding the perceiving individual. It was the intentional perceiving of beauty that was connected to the idea of the pure heart. Chang likened the “beautiful and good things to look at” to the sun or the air, which always surround us and never never leave us.87 In other words, there was always beauty to be found by actively seeing. Chang did not say that everything around us is beautiful, but that, for Chang, the ability and power to draw art came from one’s ability to “discover” the things which were beautiful in everyday life.88 As he said, “the more we discover the beautiful things…our perspective towards drawing becomes higher.”89 It was a particularly trained way of seeing that was understood to be the source of artistic productions. Although adult producers of children’s art seemed to assume that all children naturally possess pure thoughts, heart, and observational ability, their own efforts to see and to make the beautiful things in their own works see-able for children demonstrated their shared vision that art was to be connected to issues of individual will or the desire to see and write about beautiful things in order to instill similarly beautiful desires and pure hearts in others. Given the immediate and ongoing effects of the Korean War, discovering beautiful things might have seemed aspirational or a lofty ideal, not only among the adults but also the young. At one point, the magazine asked its readers-writers why so many of them chose to write with the

86 Chang Ukchin, “Boys’ Arts Lecture,” Sonyŏn segye, March 1955, 50. 87 Ibid. 88 Ibid. 89 Ibid.

85 title “Longing” (Kŭrium).90 While the editorial team seemed to show sympathy for possible reasons for this common titling practice, the team’s logic for disliking the title was not necessarily because of genuine concern for children’s well-being, whether physical or psychological. It was not about mental health or even the issue of plagiarism. Rather, the editorial team’s discouragement of titling poems this way was based on the rationale that art should be an expression of individual uniqueness, differences, and originality. Everyone writing about longing, as they saw it, disqualified such works from becoming quality art. Indeed, longing was a continually reoccurring theme in both children and adults’ writings in the magazine. A lost or dead parent, sibling, friend, and even animals were common objects of longing in many of reader-writers’ works that were chosen to be published in the magazine. It spoke to the Korean War as an event of mass death, mass longing, and mass poverty, one that could not simply remain individual experiences that were all unique and different, but widely shared by many. Even in the issue in which “longing” as a title was discouraged, readers wrote of clouds returning after fleeing during the Korean War,91 and the poem’s speaker blowing and puffing up winter cherry flowers whenever they miss an older sibling or friends.92 While Yi hoped for literary works written by children to be “natural” and “free,” the magazine did not appreciate the widespread works on longing. In a newspaper article, he contrasted children’s literature that sought to raise “democratic and free development of the child” against those that emphasized “obeying adults’ words, filial piety, and well-mannered people (paeksŏng)” in children’s literature.93 Through the voice of “Pretty” (Ippŭni), the imaginary female receptionist at the magazine’s headquarters, the magazine acknowledged that readers-contributors probably had many things that they missed and longed for, and that “same things are not necessarily bad,

90 “Pretty’s Newspaper [Ippŭni sinmun],” Sonyŏn segye, November 1954, 65; photoreproduction, Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 133. 91 For example, “Cumulus Clouds [Mungge kurŭm]” by an elementary-school reader-writer, Kim Segyŏng, in Sonyŏn segye, November 1954, 58; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 126. 92 “Ground Cherry [Kkwari]” by a female middle-school student, Chang Kwangja, in Sonyŏn segye, November 1954, 59; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 127. 93 Yi Wŏnsu, “Urgent Problems in Children’s Literature [Adong munhak ŭi tangmyŏn kwaje],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun January 30, 1961.

86 but art is about showing one’s unique things . . . ”94 In other words, too many people dwelling in their sadness and longing for their loss made such affect too common to be qualified as unique enough to make a good topic of poetry. In this logic, the seemingly quotidian nature of longing, despite mass death and displacement, simply did not make good content. The readers’ and adult writers’ contributions both reflected the displacement born through division as well. An avid contributor to the magazine expressed interest in unification: “Teacher, I wish South and North will be united soon. Then, couldn’t boys and girls of North Korea also read Sonyŏn segye like us? And we can also send letters to each other through Sonyŏn segye.”95 Hopes and dreams of re-unification were commonly expressed in various sections within the magazine by adult writers as well. In the poem “Children’s March Song” by Yun Sŏkchung, the narrator asks, “Where is your home?” to which the answers were, “It’s Hamgyŏng-do. It’s Chŏlla-do. It’s P'yŏngan-do. It’s Kyŏngsang-do. / It’s Hwanghae-do, it’s Ch'ungch'ŏng-do, it’s Kangwŏn-do, it’s Yŏnggi-do / and it’s Cheju-do.” These three lines, which named the eight provinces in both North and South Korea and the major island of Cheju, are again repeated in the second stanza, after the question, “Where do you want to go?” and the stanza ends with, “We, who can go anywhere / Forward, forward, with no hesitation, no fear.”96 Even in the 1950s, Yun Sŏkchung, was especially known for his urban-, bourgeois-centered poetry and songs that captured tongsim, often focusing on child-like perspectives even in potentially political, sad scenes.97 This poem, however, published during the Korean War, was significant in the way it “united” Korea through the different provinces that are repeated throughout the sixteen-line poem. Thus, this poem posed a danger to 1950s and 1960s vision of North Korean children as excised from the normative conception of “the child” such that “the child” could be considered

94 “Pretty’s Newspaper [Ippŭni sinmun],” Sonyŏn segye, November 1954, 65; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong- ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 133. 95 Pae Sangch'ŏl from “Sŏul Wŏnhyoro,” “Sonyŏn segye Reception [sonyŏn segye ŭngjŏpsil],” Sonyŏn segye, March 1955, 69; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 415. 96 Yun Sŏkchung, “Children’s March Songs [Ŏrini haengjin'gok],” Sonyŏn segye, September 1952, 11; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 115). 97 Many of famous children’s songs at the time and also in contemporary South Korea were based on poems written by Yun. Yi Wŏnsu often subtly critiqued the types of poems that Yun was known for, to be deceiving of children for their apolitical and asocial representations of tongsim and life in general, and for excluding the mass children who were not represented by the urban bourgeois experience.

87 happy and bereft of any politics. “Children’s March Song,” included not only the children in South Korea but also in North Korea and Cheju; not only did they live under “the same sky,” but they “could go anywhere,” potentially even to cross the line that divided the nation.98 By denying the contemporary historicity of these works by children, Cold War modernists sought to create a conception of art as unchanging and free from politics, just as they expected children themselves to be; their postwar context did not justify the possibility of similar ways of expressing their sorrow and longing. Longing for family members who were kidnapped, killed, missing, and perhaps fled to North Korea was a collective experience produced by the Korean War. However, the logic of Cold War modernism demanded that children’s literary works be one of individual experience and perception, not one of communally, collectively, or even nationally shared experiences of grief and longing. Moreover, the critique that there was “too much” longing in children’s poetry implied that such emotions among children defied the ideology of children as cheerful, carefree, and innocent from the violence of the war. Thus, the adult writers of children’s art sought to shape the emotions of children by defining art from non-art via its ability to reflect certain “child-like” emotions.

Stories of Cheerful and Adventurous Children

Under the title, “Enjoyable New Year’s,” a male photographer told the magazone’s popular female receptionist character, Ippuni (Pretty), “Okay, everyone smile with a cheerful (myŏngnang han) face.”99 Making a bright, cheerful face for the photographer to mark the beginning of another year signaled the magazine’s desire for the new year to be merrier, brighter, and for the young readers, as well as the larger nation, to become merrier and happier in year 1955 (and many years to come for the postcolonial, postwar nation-state). Now that the war was officially almost a year and half behind, the magazine seemed to suggest that the children of the nation could be happy again. In its first message to the readers, the editors invited and challenged

98 Yun Sŏkchung, “Children’s March Song [Ŏrini haengjin'gok],” Sonyŏn segye, September 1952, 11; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 115. 99 Sin Tonghŏn and Yi Pyŏngju, “A Happy New Year [Chŭlgŏun sŏllal],” Sonyŏn segye, January 1955, 2; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 209.

88 the readers to take charge of their own lives and to find their own happiness, instead of passively waiting for blessings to befall them.100 As part of this active effort to promote the finding or creation of a better, happier society, various adult writers also attempted to “brighten” their work written for children. Ch'oe Inuk explained the need to practice kindness in order to create an “all the more cheerful (myŏngnang) and beautiful society.”101 Pak Mogwŏl went so far as significantly rewriting a free verse poem published in a previous issue because, by his own judgment, the original version was “overly dark.”102 The original version, “Dream Stories [Kkum iyagi],” published in the November 1953 issue, was an expression of “a sad song filled in my heart” as he realizes the passage of time and his own aging, making his heart feel “empty.”103 In a commentary on his own work, Pak poetically expressed his sadness: “And like a failing lamplight, I felt that the sky, land, and sunlight were getting darker over and over again.”104 In his re-written version in the January 1954 issue, the speaker was happy to catch a fish, resulting in a “filled (ch'ungman han) heart,” and likened the sun to an “ecstatically beautiful flower parasol.”105 His new version thus attempts to overcome the emotional nostalgia and sadness for his childhood of the original, and to move towards the brighter, child-like/happier emotions the adult speaker recalls feeling as a middle- school student. Beyond the magazine, this bright and cheerful ethos was captured in the circulation of the word, myŏngnang (cheerful, 明朗). Architects and professors of architecture and housing

100 “Happiness, With Our Own Hands [Haengbok ŭn uri son ŭro]” Sonyŏn segye, January 1955, 2; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 209. 101 Ch'oe Inuk, “A Thing Called Kindness [Ch'injŏl iranŭn kŏt],” Sonyŏn segye, February 1955, 4–5; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 278–279. 102 Pak Mogwŏl, “New Brides of the World of Anderson: A Collection of Pak Mogwŏl’s Poetry [Andelssen nara ŭi saekssi tŭl: Pak Mogwŏl tongsijip],” Sonyŏn segye, January 1954, 14–16; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 32: Sonyŏn segye 3 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 14–16. 103 Ibid. 104 Pak Mogwŏl, “Dream Stories [Kkum iyagi]” Sonyŏn segye, November 1953, 3; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong- ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 31: Sonyŏn segye 2 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 379. 105 Pak Mogwŏl, “New Brides of the World of Anderson: A Collection of Pak Mogwŏl’s Poetry [Andelssen nara ŭi saekssi tŭl: Pak Mogwŏl tongsijip],” Sonyŏn segye, January 1954, 14-16; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 32: Sonyŏn segye 3 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 15–16.

89 advocated housing designs that promoted housewives to have a “cheerful mood” (myŏngnang han kibun).106 An Yŏngbae, known for his designs of family homes, naturalized the desire to locate the main entrance to be south-facing as reflective of a common human desire to find spaces that are “bright and cheerful” (pakko myŏngnang han).107 The adjective was often used to describe the idea of a happy family or happy family atmosphere in radio advertisements in a popular women’s magazine, Yŏwŏn. The word myŏngnang thus became commodified into children’s literature, household appliances, and homes. In focusing on the autonomous creativity of children, the myŏngnang ethos captured the intertwining of the past empire with the new Cold War order that was linked through transnational anti-communism. As the critique regarding sad longings reflects, the normative child was not to be defined by unfulfilled longings for the bygone past. Rather, children were to display and express bright and carefree cheerfulness and look towards the future of their lives and nation. Only when children were cheerful, as the logic of Cold War modernism suggests, could they produce cheerful, and thus, child-like and child-appropriate literature in both content and form. Creativity was thus to be managed in certain ways. Han Yonghŭi, now remembered for his role in disseminating children’s songs and contests through his tenure at the Korean Broadcasting System (KBS) beginning in 1954, frequently used the adjectives cheerful (myŏngnang) and delightful (yuk'wae) to describe not only the songs that children should be singing, but also people’s heart and nation-state.108 According to Han, the relationship between songs as works of art and the singer was one of interdependence. Not only did happy songs originate from happy people but happy songs could transform sad and melancholy people into bright, cheerful beings. Due to the loss of independent nationhood under Japanese colonialism, Han reasoned that Korean people could only sing sad, plaintive songs during the colonial era, but he clearly located a historical break in early 1955: the “light (kwangmyŏng, 光明) of the new era” had been found, albeit with the power of these sad,

106 Chut'aek [Housing] (Seoul: Yŏwŏnsa, 1960), 322. 107 An Yŏngbae and Kim Sŏnkyun, New Housing [Saeroun chut’aek] (Seoul: Pojinjae, 1964), 41. 108 Han Yonghŭi, “Boys’ Arts Lecture: Songs [Should Be Sung] Cheerfully and Delightfully [Sonyŏn yesul kangŭi: Norae nŭn myŏngnang hago yuk'wae hage]” Sonyŏn segye, April 1955, 42–43; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong- ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 460–461.

90 pensive songs.109 He called for a transformation of colonial-era moods to the postcolonial-era brightness, happiness, and optimism through the power of similarly bright songs. By Han’s logic, the freedom from Japanese colonialism was enough reason to reclaim one’s (and everyone’s) happiness. Furthermore, he reasoned that the power to create such a happy postcolonial society rested firmly on the shoulders of the children. The so-called adults’ songs, were presented as “not good,” and singing such songs as a sign of the growth of evil (ak, 惡) in the singers’ heart. Thus, only children’s songs were to be sung, eliding the fact that so-called children’s songs were written and composed by adults. Not only that, the readers were told that they could not simply sing the songs they heard but should learn to sing “accurately” under the guidance of teachers (again, adults). Ironically, therefore, it rested on teachers, such as Han, to guide children to sing child-like songs and to make their songs and themselves happy and cheerful. He implored his young readers, “You should exert more effort on studying songs to sing good songs, and to make our country cheerful (myŏngnang), and lead it to a delightful (yuk'waehan) country.”110 Thus, while Han reserved the power to create a bright society for the children who could sing good, cheerful songs (a practice that was assumed to spread out not only to other people but also to future generations of children in the many years to come), adults’ role in the making of child-like children and arts, was indispensable. The logic of cheerfulness embodied a highly hopeful future that saw no foreseeable end. However, the call to become cheerful subjects had a longer history dating back to the the colonial period. Pak Sukcha identifies the word, myŏngnang, as a key word in the “politics of emotions” under the late colonial total-mobilization.111 With the Governor-General Minami Jirō’s call for the “cultivation of a cheerful character” (myŏngnang han in'gyŏk) of young Korean subjects, myŏngnang was to be ideal and normative ethics and morality during the time of total war.112 To be bright and cheerful, as captured by the word, myŏngnang, was not only to use “the word of the empire” (that is, imperial Japan) but also to be incorporated into the Empire itself as

109 Ibid. 110 Ibid, 461. 111 Pak Sukcha, “From ‘T'ongk'wae’ to ‘Myŏngnang’: Colonial Culture and the Politics of Emotions [T'ongk'wae’ esŏ ‘myŏngnang’ kkaji: Singminji munhwa wa kamsŏng ŭi chŏngch'ihak],” Han minjok munhwa yŏn'gu 30, (August 2009): 213–238. 112 Ibid.

91 an imperial subject.113 After the “farewell with ideology,” the break-up of the Korean Artist Proletarian Federation (KAPF) in 1935, and in a time when both “nation” and “class” were denied to the colonized in the midst of the Asia-Pacific War, “‘laughter’ (fun) and ‘literature’” functioned as a central conduit through which children’s literature was able to exist in late colonial Korea.114 That is, laughter and literature had to be rid of politics and ideology in order for children’s magazines to exist. Especially through the form of detective stories that were popular in a late-colonial version of the children’s magazine Sonyŏn (Boys 少年),115 children (more specifically male children) were to become “bright” subjects in late-colonial Korea.116 In an examination of detective stories in the magazine Sonyŏn, Ryu identifies the late-colonial period as “the era of ‘brightness.’”117 Despite the later nationalist identification of the late- colonial period as a “dark period” (amhŭkki), imperial subjects were called not only by the imperial state but also by the Korean literary world to participate in becoming bright, cheerful subjects. The postwar Sonyŏn segye continued this lineage of the cheerful, adventurous, and carefree (male) child in literature despite the different political contexts in which it was published and disseminated. Han Yonghŭi’s call for bright, cheerful songs was an attempt to appropriate the word of the Japanese Empire for the postcolonial South Korean state, but his characterization of the colonial period and the colonized Koreans to be not bright and cheerful ironically reaffirmed the colonizer’s characterization of Koreans. The Korean War and the post- Korean War period were portrayed as a period of hardship, sadness — and indeed it was — but it was also a time when individual adults and the Korean nation called for happy, bright, innocent

113 Ryu Suyŏn, “Boys Who Became Detectives and the Period of Cheerfulness: Research on Children’s Detective Novels in Children’s Magazine Sonyŏn [T'amjŏng i toen sonyŏn kwa ‘myŏngnang’ ŭi sidae: Adong chapchi sonyŏn ŭi sonyŏn t'amjŏng sosŏl yŏn'gu],” Hyŏndae munhak ŭi yŏn'gu 61 (February 2017), 245–274. 114 Song Suyŏn, “The Conditions and Meanings of Children’s Literature Published in the Magazine Sonyŏn in the Late 1930s [Chapchi sonyŏn e sillin 1930 nyŏndae huban adong sosŏl ŭi chonjae yangsang kwa kŭ ŭimi],” Adong ch'ŏngsonyŏn munhak yŏn'gu 7 (December 2010): 7–25. 115 This magazine was published by Chosŏn Ilbosa from April 1937 to December 1940, and is remembered as a representative children’s magazine in late colonial Korea. 116 Ryu Suyŏn, “Boys Who Became Detectives and the Period of Cheerfulness: Research on Children’s Detective Novels in Children’s Magazine Sonyŏn [T'amjŏng i toen sonyŏn kwa ‘myŏngnang’ ŭi sidae: adong chapchi sonyŏn ŭi sonyŏn t'amjŏng sosŏl yŏn'gu],” Hyŏndae munhak ŭi yŏn'gu 61 (February 2017), 247. 117 Ibid.

“child-like” children, not adult-like children full of sorrows due to the war. Such a widespread use of the word myŏngnang in postcolonial Korea rested on the total mobilization of the ethics and morality of “brightness” from late-colonial Korea. As if to suggest that becoming myŏngnang was not possible under colonialism but certainly possible in a “free” nation, the term was reclaimed for the new nation-state. The word myŏngnang did not contain the ethos of brightness alone, however, but also implied purity. Brightness and purity of the child heart went hand in hand. According to the Standard Korean Dictionary (1950), myŏngnang was defined as, “clean and bright” (makko to palgŭm), where the first term could also be translated into clear and pure.118 Not only do the two adjectives, clean and bright, often go together in Korean language usage, malgŭn (clear) as a modifier often preceded various nouns such as the skies, water, air, eyes, mind/spirit (chŏngsin), and even soup broth. The word implied a purity, cleanliness, and clarity, and when combined with the more seemingly physical things such as the eyes, it implied that one could see through his or her eyes, a metaphor that served as a reflection of the less physical heart or spirit. Thus, to invoke the word, myŏngnang, was not simply an outward appearance of optimism and happiness, but implied a pure, happy heart as well, as shown through several writings in the “Lectures on Boys’ Arts.” The word myŏngnang was used without acknowledging its imperial entanglements, but the imperial connections appeared in something as trivial as an introduction and explication of animals. As part of the series, “Magazine Zoo” (Chisang tongmul wŏn), which began in January 1953, kangaroos were introduced in the February issue.119 Basic information about kangaroos — such as the fact that they are marsupials, possess strong tails and hind legs, and keep joeys in their pouch for four to five months — made up two-thirds of the content. However, alongside references to “civilized” (munmyŏngin) and “native” (t'oin) Australians, the introduction of kangaroos was essentially told from the imperial perspective through the historical character, Captain Cook. The text began with Captain Cook’s “discovery” of Australia in 1770, upon which

118 Yi, Yunjae, Standard Korean Dictionary [P’yojun han’gŭl sajŏn] (Seoul: Koryŏ sŏjŏk chusik hoesa, 1950), 267. 119 “Magazine Zoo: Kangaroo Stories [Chisang tongmul wŏn: Kanggaru yaegi],” Sonyŏn segye, February 1953, 24 photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 386. This was also quite a popular series, as readers often commented on how much they enjoyed the series. For instance, see Cho Yonggŏn from “Taegu Sŏ Chunghak” in “Sonyŏn segye Reception [Sonyŏn segye ŭngjŏpsil],” Sonyŏn segye, February 1953, 49; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 411.

93 he had asked the indigenous peoples what the animals (i.e. kangaroos) were, and received the answer “kangaroo,” which actually meant “I also don’t know,” but which Cook took to mean the name of the animal — kangaroo. Not only did Cook get to decide what the animal would be called by the people of his country, but it was also introduced as such in a children’s magazine in Korea. The story painted the indigenous people of Australia as ignorant to the point of not knowing their own local animals, and despite the miscommunication between the “civilized” Europeans and the “aborigines,” and even though an aboriginal word for this specific type of marsupials exists, the story upholds Cook’s decision to rename the animal. The connections between past empires and the new Cold War order could also be seen in adventure stories of (male) children who harboured the desire to be the brave, venturing subjects, and not merely an object of liberation. If the story of Cook and kangaroos took the readers to a far away, exotic Australia, the comic “Sunam’s Adventurous Travels” (Sunam ŭi mohŏm yŏhaeng) invited South Korean readers to identify with the main character, Sunam, and to travel with him on a boat. “Sunam’s Adventurous Travels” by Kim Yonghwan was a popular comic that was serialized from the very first issue of the magazine, as if to establish a strong characterization of the “sonyŏn,” visualized in the popular form of comics. The story centers around a young, Korean boy, Sunam, in grade six of elementary school, making him the same age as the main readership of the magazine. The character of Sunam could be read as the magazine’s embodied vision of the ideal subject of the newly publishing magazine, as well as the South Korean nation within the new Cold War order. Especially notable was that it was a young boy character that the editors deemed befitting the Sonyŏn segye and nation they envisioned. In the first episode, accompanied by his dog, Paduk, Sunam introduces himself: “As a representative of our Korea’s sonyŏn, I came to embark on an adventurous travel of various countries.”120 In the second panel, his boat has already left the dock, and he declares, “In the future, I will win over any difficulties, and show you a Korean sonyŏn’s brave spirit.” This “brave spirit” (ssikssik han ŭigi) is later echoed in Yi Wŏnsu’s “Lecture on Boys’ Arts” as

120 Kim Yonghwan, “Sunam’s Adventurous Travels” (Sunam ŭi mohŏm yŏhaeng),” Sonyŏn segye, July 1952, 26– 27; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 26–27.

94 well.121 Yi stated, “even before the happiness of liberation settled down,” it quickly transformed into sadness when he saw children engaging in wage-work out on the street, instead of attending school.122 At the end of the piece, he suggested that despite the difficulties in “everyday life,” it was still possible for “all kinds of songs to arise” and for a “brave spirit” (ssikssik han chŏngsin) and “the meaning of justice” (chŏngŭi ŭi ttŭt)” to be alive.123 As if to demonstrate his bravery, by the fifth panel in the first episode, Sunam quickly travels “two thousand kilometers southeast from our country,” where he fishes in order to make a deep-fried dish (tenppura).124 Tenppura was an example of the common everydayness of Japanese Empire’s presence even after colonialism in Korea formally ended. Furthermore, Sunam is equipped with all the tools — boat, map, sail, compass, and a set square — as well as several important features of imperial literature: the conspicuous absence of female characters, Sunam’s unending chivalry, and many obstacles and villains. Of course, these elements are not restricted to imperial literature, and yet, such literary tropes suggested the comic writers’, readers’, and Sonyŏn segye’s own familiarity with imperialism and its stories despite its formal end and condemnation. In her analysis of British children’s literature, including that of Rudyard Kipling, M. Daphne Kutzer argued, “The story of empire is often presented as a kind of fairy tale, in which the valiant but unrecognized hero travels to strange realms, overcomes obstacles and villains, all in order to reach the pots of gold (or ivory, or spices, or oil, or rubber, or diamonds) at the end.”125 In particular, the act of “setting sale” is seen as an important part of adventure and fantasy stories that flourished throughout the British Empire. Not only does Sunam “set sail,” he

121 Yi Wŏnsu, “Lectures on Boys’ Arts: Poetry and the Sentiment of Sympathy [Sonyŏn yesul kangŭi: Si wa yŏnmin ŭi chŏng [1],” Sonyŏn segye, January 1955, 38–39; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 240–241. 122 Ibid. 123 Ibid. 124 Kim Yonghwan, “Sunam’s Adventurous Travels” (Sunam ŭi mohŏm yŏhaeng),” Sonyŏn segye, July 1952, 26– 27; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 26–27. 125 M. Daphne Kutzer, Empire’s Children: Empire and Imperialism in Classic British Children’s Books (New York: Routledge, 2000), 1.

95 brings the readers “out of the realm of the ordinary as quickly as possible,” another characteristic of children’s stories of empire.126 However, one important difference between stories of empire made for children of an actual empire (such as the British Empire) and Sunam’s travels is that Sunam does not have a specific land to which he travels and on which to actually set foot. As a subject of a formerly colonized nation, he sets sail, no gold or ivory is found, and the story ends in the middle of the ocean. This was dramatically different from other empire stories that were translations of foreign works, such as In Search of the Castaways by the French writer, Jules Verne.127 The title given to this French story in Sonyŏn segye was “To Find Father” (abŏji rŭl ch'ajŭrŏ),” where the main characters travel all over the world from England, including Australia where characters encounter kangaroos and t’oin, Patagonia, the Andes Mountains, and Chile, among others. In contrast, the only “land” that appeared in “Sunam’s Adventurous Travels” was the small space of the dock from which Sunam initially embarked, so that the entire story takes place out on the ocean. The longing for empire-making is reflected in Sunam’s “setting sail” and his declaration of chivalry, but his adventure falls short of making Korea an empire or Sunam becoming an imperial subject. 128 Yet it remained a story of envisioning a world order in which, by defeating the “enemy,” Korea could become a substantial power. In the second episode, Sunam is captured by someone from a strange submarine, and he is initially imprisoned. When he gets a chance to leave the prison, however, he manages to free himself and sets out to discover the submarine’s “identity” (chŏngch'e).129 He soon finds the captain’s cabin, where he quickly hides in a box, (possible, notably, because Sunam is a boy, not

126 Ibid, 2. 127 In Search of Castaways was the title of the Walt Disney Productions movie in 1962. The French original, Les Enfants du Capitaine Grant, was published in 1868. The version in Sonyŏn segye was titled, “To Find Father” (Abŏji rŭl ch'ajŭrŏ),” translated by Chŏng Min and illustrated by Kim Sŏnghwan. It was serialized from the first issue of July 1952 till February 1954, and was also immensely popular among readers. After the serial concluded, it was published into a book and advertised in the magazine. In fact, Chŏng Min was one of pen names of Yi Wŏnsu. After the end of the series, the republication in book form was first advertised to have been translated by Chŏng Min and then soon after, Yi Wŏnsu. 128 See the chapter, “Setting Sail,” in M. Daphne Kutzer, Empire’s Children, 1–12. The second issue (August 1952) of the magazine cover also featured a young boy rowing while standing, and a girl in a dress sitting behind him, looking towards the boy. 129 Kim Yonghwan, “Sunam’s Adventurous Travels: 2” (Sunam ŭi mohŏm yŏhaeng: 2),” Sonyŏn segye, August 1952, 28–29; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 80–81.

96 an adult), before the submarine’s captain and his assistant enter. It turns out, the people on the “strange submarine” caught Sunam on purpose in order to use him as a “bait” (mikki) to capture other important personnel, likely to be Sunam’s father.130 Sunam’s father enters first in the following episode, where the readers learn that “Doctor Kang” is a scientist working at the Tongil (東一) Research Institute, guarded by a soldier, due to the institute’s critical importance to national security and Dr. Kang’s project — a vehicle called T'aegŭk-ho, capabile of naviging through the seas, land, and air — as a nationally crucial, top-secret project.131 In the same episode, the readers also learn that Sugil, Sunam’s older brother, is returning home from completing his studies in the United States via a ship that contains the necessary materials for making his father’s vessel, which is to become a “universal achievement,”132 a plot point reflective of the importance of scholarly exchanges and networks, as well as military training, in making of the US-centered Cold War order.133 A navy ship named “Mary” with a flag that bears the United Nations (UN) emblem also joins in the fight against the koe (傀) submarine. The word, koe, meaning a scarecrow, figurehead, or puppet, was closely connected to the term, koeroe, which shared the same meaning. However, in Cold War South Korea, koeroe often referred to North Korea, and it was used by the state at least until the 1970s.134 The leader of the koe submarine is drawn wearing the peaked cap with a small crown that Stalin often wore, although it is unclear, whether the enemy is North Korea, the Soviet Union, China, communists more generally, or the Nazis. Indeed, the symbolic power of the image lay in the ambiguity of the enemy. Given the context of the Korean

130 Kim Yonghwan, “Sunam’s Adventurous Travels: 3” (sunam ŭi mohŏm yŏhaeng: 3),” Sonyŏn segye, September 1952, 28-29; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 132–133. 131 Kim Yonghwan, “Sunam’s Adventurous Travels: 4” (sunam ŭi mohŏm yŏhaeng: 4),” Sonyŏn segye, October 1952, 38–40; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 192–194. 132 Ibid. 133 Gregg Brazinsky, Nation Building in South Korea: Koreans, Americans, and the Making of a Democracy (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 2007), ch. 3. 134 Chŏn Hyogwan, “Language of Division, Language of Post-Division: Images of North Korea Reproduced by the Discourse of Unification and the North Korean Studies [Pundan ŭi ŏnŏ, t'al pundan ŭi ŏnŏ: T'ongil tamnon kwa pukhanhak i chaehyŏn hanŭn pukhan ŭi imiji], in Opening the Era of Post-Division: Seeking Cultural Coexistence of South and North [T'al pundan sidae rŭl yŏlmyŏ: Nam kwa Puk, munhwa kongjon ŭl wihan mosaek] eds., Cho Hanhyejŏng and Yi Uyŏng (Seoul: Samin, 2010), 74.

War, however, the comic could be read as a story about a transnational anti-communist fight, in which the South Korean nation undoubtedly triumphs. As is commonly found in stories of empire, “Sunam’s Adventurous Travels” depicted a world exclusively of men, boys (Sunam only), and some animals (i.e., Sunam’s puppy and the fish in the ocean). Where it differs is that the center of this world order is not the United States. Rather, not only does the enemy submarine destroy the UN ship, “Mary,” but it retreats underwater when it spots South Korean jets. The comic concludes with the complete destruction of the enemy air and sea vessels, thanks to Sunam’s explosion of the submarine that initially captured him and the Korean military attacks. The two brothers are subsequently rescued by their father, who set out to sea to save his sons. However, in the comic’s conclusion, the artist attributed Sunam’s safe unification with his father and brother to the “salvation by our Airforce.” In another instance, “Sonyŏn segye News,” reported the then next US President Dwight D. Eisenhower’s upcoming visit to Korea, but it emphasized his reaffirmation and praise of the Korean military as “brave” and “valiant,” turning the focus to the Korean military rather than the goodness of Eisenhower or American power and generosity.135 By positioning South Korea as the “saviour,” rather than the United States or the UN, the author opened the possibility of critiquing the prevalent US-centric view of the Cold War order. Critiques of this order could be seen in other parts of the magazine as well. In the January 1953 issue, the magazine began a series titled “America that Boasts Number One in the World.”136 The main issue at stake, its introduction stated, was that despite the fact that “After World War II, we have come to think of the United States as the closest country,” “we” did not know the true US, adopting things “we” thought was American but were not in reality. The intention was to generate an understanding among readers of the “vivid shape and content” of the US.137 On the surface, the title seemed to fit perfectly within a Cold War order that praised the US and its “civilization and cultures.” However, the article offered the readers a dramatic, sharp critique in addition to stories of US triumph. Often describing the subjects of the story as

135 “Sonyŏn segye News [Sonyŏn segye nyuusŭ],” Sonyŏn segye, January 1953, 39; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong- ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 349. 136 Written by editor, “America that Boasts Number One in the World [Segye 1 ŭl charang hanŭn amerikka],” Sonyŏn segye, January 1953, 24–27; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 334–337. 137 Ibid.

Europeans, rather than Americans, the article covered the history of violence against the “American Indians,” the Atlantic slave trade, and slavery of African Americans. The “series” stopped publishing after its first appearance, however. When a reader asked why the series did not continue, a reporter apologized and replied, “I’m sorry for not concluding [the series] due to writer’s circumstances.”138 Although there could be many reasons behind the halting of the “series,” the possibility of censorship, whether forced or self-enforced, cannot be ruled out. Critiques of both the South Korean state and the Cold War order appeared as well. In response to a reader’s question about how “our country” only produced bad quality pencils, despite the fact that there was much lead produced in South Korea, the editors replied that it was because “in our country,” the manufacturing industry was not developed enough, forcing it to “sell precious resources to foreign countries for a cheap price and purchase products made in foreign countries for expensive prices.”139 It was a critique of the dependency model, where the developing country exported raw materials at low prices to developed countries, and re- purchased them in the form of more expensive consumer goods, doubly depriving the developing country of both natural resources and capital. This, according to the editors, made the developing nation “the most pitiful country,” an obvious critique of Korea’s condition.140 Lastly, they urged the readers to “become true citizens that will kick off the incompetence of our country’s adults and to raise successful manufacturing.”141 By this logic, making something as small as good- quality pencils depended on children not growing up to be incompetent adults, but rather becoming capable of developing the manufacturing industry. The editors envisioned a strong nation whose rich resources would be used to make consumer goods within Korea, and not resort to expensive imports. Despite the subtle and outright social critiques of the Cold War order in “Sunam’s Adventurous Travels,” the crucial materials for Doctor Kang’s invention came from the US, as did the cultivation of the “brain power” of his US-educated eldest child. The US occupied a

138 “Sonyŏn segye Reception [Sonyŏn segye ŭngjŏpsil],” Sonyŏn segye, May 1953, 53; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 31: Sonyŏn segye 2 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 53. 139 “How Are Pencils Made? [Yŏnp'il ŭn ŏttŏk'e mandŭrŏ china],” Sonyŏn segye, February 1953, 38 and 33; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 400 and 395. 140 Ibid. 141 Ibid.

99 central position in the Cold War order, despite the desire for South Korea to be the subject of the transnational anti-communist order. Sunam’s brother, Sugil, returned, but it is uncertain whether Dr. Kang’s invention will be completed and be useful. After all, the enemy was defeated without his invention. Moreover, though Japan was not featured directly in “Sunam’s Adventurous Travels,” for the magazine readers, Japan was not far enough removed from the new order. A reader from Cheju, for example, was angry about the fact that the “baby radio” he made based on instructions found in Sonyŏn segye picked up Japanese programs.142 Young readers were interpellated by the magazine to identify as national subjects of the new Cold War order, rather than ones saved by the US, UN, or any other force. Being the “saviour,” rather than the “saved,” was crucial in imagining the child writer as able to cultivate their literary creativity and produce child-like literature. Sunam’s travels, which he did not have to take but did, seemingly of his own will, illustrate the kind of “freedom” discussed by Yi in regard to children’s literary works. As Yi advised his young contributors to “be more natural,” Sunam’s mistakes, recklessness, and brilliance-by-chance constituted what it meant to be a sonyŏn for a postcolonial state built on transnational anti-communism.143 As opposed to being political or expressing “dark” emotions like sadness and hatred, in writing, children were to be adventurous, happy, and not adult-like.

Conclusion

Cold War modernism as a form of transnational anti-communism was far from monolithic. Theorizing the aesthetics of children’s art to be fundamentally linked to modern notions of childhood as free of politics, naturally primitive, and naïve was enmeshed in Cold War modernism in Korea. A tree grown “freely” and a child that can freely, happily, and bravely travel alone captured the Cold War modernist desires to imagine children’s creativity as grounded on autonomy. Like the young poets who could not help emulating the adult writers’ form and content in their writing and Sunam who traveled all over the seas but never discovered

142 Kang Sunbung identified with the address, “Cheju-to Nam Cheju-kun Taesŏ-myŏn Hamori,” “Sonyŏn segye Reception [sonyŏn segye ŭngjŏpsil],” Sonyŏn segye, November 1952, 43; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 30: Sonyŏn segye 1 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 240. The gender is unclear simply from the name, although the writing style suggests it is a male reader. 143 Yi Wŏnsu, “Selection and Criticism of Works [Chakp'um sŏnp'yŏng],” Sonyŏn segye, February 1955, 62; photoreproduction, Wŏn Chong-ch’an, ed., Han'guk adong munhak ch'ongsŏ 33: Sonyŏn segye 4 (Seoul: Yŏngnak, 2010), 130.

100 and claimed a new land for South Korea, however, Cold War modernism held both possibilities and limitations for Korea. And yet, it was a form of transnational, everyday anti-communism that adult and child writers passionately participated in by producing and purchasing children’s magazines and reading and writing for the cultivation of their literary autonomy and creativity. Both were imagined to be denied to both colonized subjects and those living under communism. Children that read and wrote “freely” by accessing the capitalist market, whether through parents’ or their own participation in wage-earning labour, deflected the questioning of realities that limited and circumscribed their autonomy in the Cold War order. The repeated emphasis on the child’s mind, heart, and emotions in such theories of children’s creativity worked well in the Cold War context, in which the psychology of an individual’s normative happiness and well-being was proclaimed to take precedence over the economic, material, and physical being. An individual’s psychology became the basis of human equality, eliding and even suppressing the inquiry and critique of inherent inequalities within the global capitalist Cold War regime. Thus, the morally superior attitude to be embodied by child subjects was brightness. Being “child-like” did not allow expressions of darkness, sadness, or despondent longings/emotions/interiority, but rather happiness, brightness, and sympathy towards others. Children’s creativity could not be left to go out of hand. Many adults were fully invested in disciplining and managing children’s artistic productions and children’s potential to both create and destroy what the adults desired to see in the idea of childhood.

Chapter 3 Racing Autonomous Baby Boys: Politics of Infant Feeding in Cold War Korea

In 1961, a local Korean newspaper carried a comical illustration/advertisement of the results of the annual “super baby contest” held in Seoul. The tallest and chubbiest boy in his black underwear or diaper with a headband reading “Vilac” (an infant formula brand) touched the finish line first, followed by two seemingly tired and struggling, shorter, less chubby babies, each with a headband reading “breast milk” and “other milk” (See Figure 3.1).1 Children “ran” by themselves in a race, and no mothers or caretakers were depicted. The two gangling adults who held the finish line tape were male, and there were no obvious efforts to depict the contestants as baby girls. Not only were these baby boys depicted to have run the race on their own, the advertisement amplified the young boys’ plumpness to the point of their having breasts as a sign of health, growth, and vitality. The baby labelled “Vilac” was victorious and confident, while the “breast milk” and “other milk” babies lagged behind. In reality, the advertisement noted that among the ninety babies that were entered into the contest by their parents (usually the mother, who brought them to the contest), forty-two were Vilac-fed, forty-one were breast-fed, and seven were fed other milk products. Despite the negligible difference between the number of Vilac-fed and breast-fed contestants, the advertisement depicted the Vilac child to have amply outrun the other two, indicated by the “First Place: Vilac” flag towering well over the second and third place flags. None of the three baby boys who raced (or, more precisely, were made to race against each other) were depicted looking particularly happy. Another baby in the top left corner, laughing and without the headband label or need to participate in the race, was the only one to appear so: a photographic illustration of a white baby, a logo or mascot featured on countless Vilac infant formula cans and advertisements in 1950s and 1960s South Korea. A box in the left- hand corner elucidated the source of the iconic Vilac baby. It read, “Manufactured in the Netherlands, famous for milk production with American technology that is exceptionally [more]

1 Vilac, Advertisement, Kyŏnghyang sinmun, December 21, 1961, 4. 101

102 progressive than Japan.”2 Vilac advertisements relied on the iconic non-Korean baby’s face, the invocation of superior American technology over that of the Japanese, and the exaggerated plumpness of Vilac-fed babies in order to claim its brand superiority.

Figure 3.1. "Special City of Seoul Super Baby Contest.” Vilac, Advertisement, Kyŏnghyang sinmun, December 21, 1961, 4.

This chapter examines the gendered and racialized politics of infant feeding in Cold War South Korea by examining advertisements and childrearing advice produced during the “baby boom” years of the late 1950s and early ‘60s. In particular, this chapter delves into the infant formula issue as one of transition between the Japanese Empire and the new Cold War order, in which new gendered and racial understandings were articulated through the consumer market. Such a reading uncovers a double intervention in advertising, inserting not only gender as central to the politics of the new Cold War but also the racial politics that intersected with it. To breast-feed or to bottle feed? It was not a question that every mother could afford to entertain in the 1950s and ‘60s, as what may seem like a simple personal choice largely depended on the family’s disposable income. As discussed, however, Cold War ideology presented class differences not as such but as personal choices made by individual caretakers and families based on personal abilities, income, and economic know-how. It was based on the ideology that “access to goods is based on income, not on status, special privilege, or hard and fast class lines,” essential to an understanding of capitalist democracy as egalitarian, not

2 Ibid.

103 hierarchical.3 Such unequal access to consumer products was couched in the language of the mother choosing what was best for her child. Feeding anything other than the mother’s own breast milk would have exorbitant costs for most families in South Korea after the Korean War. Nevertheless, infant formula advertisements and writers of childrearing manuals, women’s magazines, and newspapers sought to actively address and influence the “choice,” masking the class inequalities inherent in the ability to acquire infant formula as a consumer product. Literature containing such advertisements and advice were themselves a mediating product in the project of forming a new middle class, a hallmark of Cold War ideology that denied the issue of class inherent in capitalist consumption. Dependent on an idea of motherhood as a universal, classless experience, the intersection of market desires to profit from infant formula and the science of infant feeding gave rise to the construction of the “mother-consumer.” In his examination of the development of the children’s clothing industry in the early-twentieth-century United States, Daniel Thomas Cook argues that the “recasting [of] motherhood as consumer practice” enabled “the integration of the sacred sphere of mothers and children with the profane world of the marketplace.”4 Ideas of mother as consumer and consumer as mother increasingly became indistinguishable from each other.5 The market increasingly defined and redefined not only what constituted a healthy child but also the role of the mother as an active developer of her child and a consumer of the market that promised to accelerate and optimize the child’s development. The mother-consumer was interpellated to actively participate in various forms of capitalist consumption — the purchasing and cultivation of childcare and homemaking literature — and to make necessary decisions and purchases for her family. In other words, she was to play the role of a mediator between the market and the family and to make proper decisions among a range of possible consumer choices. Who should she turn to when considering switching from breast-feeding to bottle feeding? Why should she even consider bottle feeding over breast-feeding? What milk product should she choose to feed a nursing baby? How could she learn about existing and new products? These seemingly personal

3 Victoria de Grazia, Irresistible Empire: America’s Advance through Twentieth-Century Europe (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2005), 12. 4 Daniel Thomas Cook, “The Mother as Consumer: Insights from the Children’s Wear Industry, 1917–1929,” Sociological Quarterly 36, no. 3 (April 2005): 505–522. 5 Ibid; Amy Bentley, Inventing Baby Food: Taste, Health, and the Industrialization of the American Diet (Oakland, CA: University of California Press, 2014), 7.

104 and individual questions harboured the complexities, challenges, as well as the joys of living in a time of perceived historical rupture. The construction of such “choices” among products for infant feeding manifested in a highly contentious, multivalent racial logic that was fundamental to the Cold War, along lines of nations-states, ethnicity, and regions, rather than colour. Advertisements for Japanese brands capitalized on racial affinity between Japan and Korea, while its major American counterpart sought to appeal to the “American prestige” factor, in addition to Korean nationalist sentiment in order to increase its sales. Along these lines, familiar hierarchical, dichotomous relationships of old/new, developed/undeveloped, and advanced/backwards, and more were rearranged and reproduced through the circulation of infant formula products and their advertisements. The result was an uneven aligning of personal desires with the old but familiar Japan and the less familiar but new and powerful United States. Milk as an “imperial commodity,” was certainly not apolitical, and transitioning from the Japanese Empire to a new, US-centric Cold War order was a deeply knotted issue for the mother-consumer.6 Morinaga and Meiji products, which depended on the imperial structure that formerly sustained Korea as part of the Japanese Empire, were nationally categorized, as if they stood for the Japanese nation-state itself. Vilac products, on the other hand, were often made to stand for the “new, advanced” United States and sometimes the West as a whole. Despite efforts to make the transition between the two orders seamless, the issue of infant feeding reveals the continuously shifting and unstable alliances, tensions, and complexities of the socio-economic and ideological realities of infant feeding and the incomplete, overlapping between the Japanese and the United States in Cold War formations. The racialization of nursing babies intersected with the process of gendering them, construing the healthy, male child as the ideal subject of Cold War Korea. In infant formula advertisements, baby boys were a dominant symbol and presumed universal, reflecting a normative masculinity. Instead of depicting baby boys with their mothers, baby bottles and formula cans were juxtaposed with an often fully naked baby boy, which visually and ideologically tied male virility with infant formula consumption. The developmental logic of childrearing and infant feeding in the market claimed to accelerate and uplift the development of children, and the figure of a baby boy without the mother captured the imaginary of what

6 The term, “imperial commodity,” is from Heidi Tinsman, Buying into the Regime: Grapes and Consumption in Cold War Chile and the United States (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2014). Tinsman identifies grapes as an “imperial commodity,” like coffee and sugar, that produced power differentials.

105 consumption could provide as its end product — a healthy, autonomous baby boy. Thus, this chapter argues that these images were not simply a reflection of gender inequality and the preference of boys over girls, but that the male child, raised on commercialized goods mediated by the mother, was envisioned to be the ideal subject of the Cold War. In other words, the notion of an autonomous child was to be realized through the purchasing of commercial products by the mother as the liberal subject mediating the market for her child. Thus, the circulation of images of plump baby boys was a powerful tool by which to sell infant formula and made imagining the baby’s own independence from the nursing mother possible and, often, more desirable than a dependent baby, as imagined in images of the nursing infant as an extension of the mother’s breast. Moreover, by juxtaposing a male child with a female child that was depicted to be hardly artractive or, more often, the absence of baby girls, the conception of normative infant feeding and childhood were rendered inseparable from gendered norms. The fetishizing and commercializing of the male child figure, without the mother, facilitated new ascending roles of businesses and medical doctors, and it expanded the mother-child dynamic into a multilateral relationship at once intimate and public.

Construction of the Mother as a Liberal Subject with Infant Feeding Choices

In 1950, Sae kajŏng published an article on “artificial feeding” in its regular “Mothers’ Science” section. The writer clearly established the supremacy of breast milk over other forms of infant feeding, including cow milk and soy milk, even claiming that it was every baby’s “special right” to drink from his or her mother’s breasts, and every mother’s “obligation” to breast-feed her baby.7 Although breast-feeding was presented as a norm, there was an underlying anxiety and fear that perhaps far too many women had already resorted to artificial feeding or were being “tempted” to abandon their motherly obligation. The article treated the issue of artificial feeding as worthy of six pages of discussion and advice, attempting to teach the “correct” way to mothers potentially considering artificial feeding.

7 Yi Yŏngpok, “How to Do Artificial Feeding?” Christian Home [Sae kajŏng], June 1954, 41–45. The Korean title, Sae kajŏng, literally means “new family,” but underneath the more prominent Korean title was the English title, which was Christian Home.

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In reality, the anxieties regarding switching to artificial nutrition were practically limited to the upper class, who had the disposable income to “choose” equipment and milk products required for “artificial nutrition (in'gong yŏngyang, 人工營養).” Only a small number of families could afford prenatal and postpartum care from medical doctors, childrearing texts, and additional consumer products such as feeding equipment, but such literature made the anxiety appear to be much more widespread, generalizing the issue to all mothers. In reality, the rate of breast-feeding in South Korea remained extremely high at 90%, even in the 1970s.8 Infant formula consumption was limited to upper-middle class women.9 Moreover, women who could actually afford to purchase (and had the leisurely time and education level to read) childrearing books and women’s magazines represented a certain class of women and families who could become a target market for medical advice and formula advertisements. Especially with the rise of the nuclear family as the norm of modernity and an increasing rural-to-urban migration, women’s magazines and didactic texts on childrearing were essential to the making of the mother-consumer who could care best for their children without the help of other women who had prior experience, knowledge, and insights into childbearing and childrearing, but rather by increasingly relying on the consumer market that provided popular literature and access to medical visits. Architects of homes called for “life’s independence of the husband-wife unit” — in other words, the separation of the married couple from their elderly parents.10 The nuclear family was understood as a result of “the collapse of the feudal system,” and to have brought “individual freedom.”11 In the name of “rational,” “correct” knowledge on childrearing, the overwhelmingly male writers of literature on childrearing directed at women sought to establish their own authority and necessity in modern childrearing.12

8 Kim Hyeryŏn, “Breast-feeding Trends and Policy Directions for Increasing Breast-feeding in Korea [Kungnaeoe moyu suyu ch'ui wa moyu suyu chŭngjin ŭl wihan chŏngch'aek pang hyang],” Sociology and Social Welfare Issue & Focus, 86 (May 2011): 49–60. 9 Sook He Kim, Woo Kyoung Kim, Kyoung Ae Lee, Yo Sook Song, and Se Young Oh. “Breastfeeding in Korea.” World Review of Nutrition and Dietetics 78 (1995): 114–127. 10 For example, see Yi Ch'ŏnsŭng, “New Housing and Life” [Saeroun chut'aek kwa saeng hwal] in Chut'aek, (Seoul: Yŏwŏnsa, 1960), 38. 11 Ibid. 12 For an example, see Pak Hyŏksik “Mothers Who Are Becoming Mothers for the First Time” [Ch'ŏŭm ŭro ŏmŏni ka toenŭn pun ege] in Childrearing [Yuga], (Yŏwŏnsa, 1959), 28–32. He is identified as a male doctor, who

107

The lack of transportation, refrigeration, and local production systems made it difficult for milk in the form of consumer products to circulate widely. After the Korean War, most of the powdered milk came in the form of foreign aid, and milk sold through the commercial market was limited. In 1956 alone, 7,444,167,200 pounds (3,376 million kilograms) of relief milk were imported by Korea.13 Non-aid imported powdered milk in the same year faired insignificantly at 250,000 pounds, making powdered milk a form of “free” relief food for the poverty stricken in postwar Korea.14 Moreover, the prevalence of powdered milk did not necessarily lead to higher consumption, for instance, since schools, at times, resorted to selling milk powder back to the market due to the difficulty of boiling milk before distributing it to students at schools for safe consumption.15 Even as late as 1963, Korea’s annual milk consumption per person was noted to be merely 65 grams.16 In such a context, imported products enabled a limited consumption of milk and dairy products in late 1950s and ‘60s South Korea. Without a domestic dairy industry to support a more widespread feeding of cow milk products to infants, infant formula was available only to those with high disposable incomes. In 1960, the average retail price of a pound of dried milk of the “Vilac” brand was 72 won, which increased by about 30% to 93 won in 1961 and to 99 won in 1962.17 In 1963, 560 grams of bean curd averaged 5.7 won, compared to one-pound cans of sweetened Vilac, Meiji, and Morinaga that cost an average of 213 won in the same year.18 Newspapers often reported on fluctuating commodity prices. In January 1963, a local newspaper reported that a k'we of pollack (a set of twenty fish) cost between 170 and 270 won, and a bottle of pepper cost 90 won, while sweetened

graduated from the Seoul National University’s medical school and was the Director of the Seoul Hygiene Hospital’s obstetric department. 13 Dajeong Chung, “Foreign Things No Longer Foreign: How South Koreans Ate U.S. Food” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 2015). The given number given in Figure 3.2, “Relief Milk Imports by Month, 1955–1964” on page 131 was 37,220,836 in 1 d/m unit, which I converted into pounds. 14 Chung, “Foreign Things,” 139. 15 “Relief Measures for Starving Children, Urgent [Kyŏlssik adong ŭi kuhoch'aek sigŭp],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun May 10, 1955. 16 “The Development and Current State of Our Nation’s Dairy Manufacturing Industry (Uri nara yuga kongŏp ŭi paljŏn kwa hyŏnhwang),” Food Science and Industry [Sikp'um kwahak kwa sanŏp] 10, no. 3 (1977): 21. 17 The Research Department of the Bank of Korea, Price Statistics Summary [Mulga ch'ongnam] (Seoul: 1964), 220. A pound is about 453 grams. 18 The Research Department of the Bank of Korea, Price Statistics Summary, 220.

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Vilac was 135 won, and Morinaga was 180 won.19 Thus, if a can of Morinaga at 180 won fed only one nursing baby in the family, a set of twenty pollack at 170 or even at 270 won would have made much more sense for most families trying to feed everyone and not just a nursing baby. Despite such high prices of cow milk products which made the practice of bottle feeding limited to a certain class of families, childcare literature generalized infant feeding as an issue that was applicable to any experience of motherhood. In childcare literature, the discussion of the first few months of childcare was dominated by feeding concerns under the science of nutrition (yŏngyang, 營養), a scientific field with a complex past with Japan’s colonialism in Korea.20 In Pregnancy and Childrearing, Yi Sugil, a male medical doctor and also a professor at the SNU’s Medical School, introduced infant feeding in the chapter titled, “Nutrition.”21 In the “Pregnancy” section, he cautioned pregnant women to take “appropriate” care for concerns of nipple inversion before giving birth.22 Yi devoted a significant number of pages to infant feeding under the section “how to rear” for the first month of a baby’s life. Yi took an unequivocal position that mother’s milk (moyu yŏngyang, 母乳營養) was the “most ideal” among the three methods of infant feeding.23 He explained that children who were fed “human milk” (saram chŏt) had a low death rate when compared to children who were fed other substitutes, had stronger immune systems and development, and also that children digested human milk more easily and faster than animal milk.24 Similarly, in the Infant Care Encyclopedia, Yi Chongchin, who was not only a medical doctor but the Director of the Health and Social Affairs’ Medical Bureau, provided a detailed explanation of why and how feeding human milk was vital for the “rational and

19 “Prices of Condiments Also Leaped [Chomiryo kap to kkŏngch'ung],” Tonga ilbo January 19, 1963. 20 For discussion of biopolitical experts and debates of nutritional science in colonial Korea, see, Sunho Ko, “Food for Empire: Wartime Food Politics on the Korean Homefront, 1937–1945” (Ph.D. diss., University of Toronto, 2018), ch. 3. 21 Yi Sugil, “Nutrition” [Yŏngyang], Pregnancy and Infant Care [Imshin kwa yuga] (Seoul: Sumunsa, 1956). Yi Sugil is also known as the “father” of Korean nurses dispatched to Germany in the 1960s and 1970s. He practiced pediatrics in West Germany from 1959. 22 Yi Sugil, Pregnancy and Infant Care, 39. 23 Ibid, 80. 24 Ibid.

109 scientific nutrition” of children.25 Echoing Yi Sugil’s text, the medico-governmental voice stated that the death rate of children receiving “artificial nutrition” was three to four times as high as that of children who recieved “nutrition through mother’s milk.”26 To heighten the sense of tragedy around artificial nutrition, he added that “even in a country like the United States,” the death rate of artificially fed children was twice as high as breast-fed babies.27 Such a discussion of the superiority of breast-feeding made it appear that the audience needed to be persuaded that breast milk was better and revealed the writers’ own concerns that women were opting out of breast-feeding too quickly. Yi Chongchin mentioned that, indeed, there were mothers who tried to use cow milk after measuring how much breast milk her child had in just one feeding.28 In other words, women in general were portrayed as “giving up” breast-feeding too hastily without enough questioning and perseverance, and importantly, without a clear scientific basis given by a doctor. Thus, their writings also suggested possible insecurities regarding the professional position of doctors vis-à-vis mothers who could have too much freedom and choice in purchasing non-human milk products. In an attempt to mollify real and imagined anxieties among their audience regarding the differences in nutritional value between breast and cow milk, these texts relied on the language of nutritional science that reduced breast milk and its alternatives to chemical composition. Yi Chongchin explained that the type of protein in cow milk was not the same as that in breast milk, although, numerically, cow milk had a higher content of protein, fat, and minerals.29 Moreover, he firmly established the superiority of human milk for infants to other animal milk by mentioning other nutritional elements, such as probiotics that could not be found in animal milk, and that breast milk was completely free of harmful bacteria for babies.30 His criticism and

25 Yi Chongchin, Infant Care Encyclopedia [Yuga chŏnsŏ], (Seoul: Hagwŏnsa, 1956), 159–203. Yi was the Director of the Health and Social Affairs Medical Bureau at the time of writing. 26 Ibid, 160. 27 Ibid. 28 Ibid, 167. 29 Ibid, 159. 30 Ibid.

110 perhaps even derision for mothers choosing cow milk was well-captured in his statement, “mother’s milk is appropriate for human children, and cow milk is appropriate for calves.”31 Yet, the advocacy for nutrition through mother’s milk, made the mother central to the emotional and physical labour not only in nursing for the first few years but also of childrearing as a whole. The issue of infant feeding was important in establishing childrearing as a “natural” and universal job for all women, even with the paralleled growth of the infant formula market and dairy industry, bypassing childrearing responsibilities for men but also sidelining the male gender as “un-natural” caregivers for children. During pregnancy, mothers were to be “cautious” of health and hygiene (pogŏn wisaeng), prepare their breasts before and after birthing for optimal breast-feeding, sleep at least eight hours a day, maintain a good mood, consume good food containing the “ingredients for milk production,”32 take walks, use the bathroom at regular times to prevent constipation, and drink ample amounts of liquid. Considering all these aspects of optimal breast milk “production” (saengsan, 生産) and more, there seemed to be more ways to fail than not when it came to providing “the mother’s milk” to her infant. More than offering simple advice, the range of advice regarding pre- and postnatal care of the woman’s body was a powerful disciplinary device by which to reconstitute familiar gender norms. In the context of this increasing intervention of the market in childrearing, the male- dominated medical community and, later, infant formula marketers had much to gain from their knowledge production on “artificial nutrition,” which provided a means to expand and intensify the medical intervention in childrearing. Thus, they laid out various milk products, specific measurements, and individually “formulas” of non-human milk alternatives; steps to sterilizing feeding instruments, such as bottles and rubber nipples; and specific time management of feeding intervals and sessions. Yi Sugil introduced not only animal milk but also soy milk and eggs (卵乳), but took the widespread usage of cow milk and other cow milk products as a matter of fact.33 In his subsequent discussion of how, when, and how much artificial nutrition was needed to feed a baby, it was made clear that he meant the feeding of cow milk and not any other forms of artificial nutrition.

31 Ibid. 32 Ibid, 165. 33 Yi Sugil, Pregnancy and Infant Care, 84.

111

“Artificial nutrition” was imbued with the aura of science dating back to the colonial period, which meant that the term, “artificial nutrition” (in'gong yŏngyang), was no longer a neologism in 1950s Korea. In early-twentieth-century Japan, Ajinomoto, a product of laboratory science, was actively promoted under the banner of rational science, nutrition, and hygiene, and the “artificial” nature of Ajinomoto appealed to housewives, chefs, and scientists alike — anyone who believed in modern science.34 Under total mobilization during the Asia-Pacific War, artificiality did not necessarily mean “purely made by human, or un-natural,” but rather the ability to supplement and augment what was deemed natural under the restriction and shortage of resources, including foodstuffs.35 In wartime, the use of a protein in milk called casein for military purposes meant that milk was rationed, and from 1943, the wartime colonial government enforced the Milk Registration System (uyu tŭngnokche), which required a doctor’s medical diagnosis before being able to apply to receive a rationing certification for milk, making milk a “medicine” that was not easily available for individual purchase.36 Given this history, even in 1954, mothers were firmly advised to receive a “prescription” from doctors before providing artificial feeding for children.37 In contrast to mother’s milk, “artificial nutrition” in infant feeding denoted other options beyond human milk, including soy milk, cow milk, or even gruel, but it also made much room for “scientific” intervention. As a medical and scientific issue for ensuring infants’ survival, health, and optimal development, infant feeding became an issue that the male-dominated medical community no longer left to mothers, grandmothers, and their female neighbours. They sought to provide what they deemed was not simply supplementary but necessary knowledge and expertise in childrearing. The “scientification” of infant feeding, in actuality, contributed to growing concerns of “not enough” nutrition being provided through mother’s milk. In comparison to animal milk products that were first poured into feeding bottles or other containers with graded

34 Jordan Sand, “A Short History of MSG: Good Science, Bad Science, and Taste Cultures,” Gastronomica 5, no. 4 (November 2005): 38–49. 35 Han Minchu, “The Era of the War on Science, ‘A Woman in the Real Guard’ and the Imagination of the Artificial [Kwahak chŏn ŭi sidae, ch'onghu yŏsŏng kwa injo ŭi sangsangnyŏk],” Han'guk Munhak Yŏn'gu 42 (June 2012): 179–213. 36 Sŏul Uyu Hyŏptong Chohap, Eighty Years of Seoul Milk: 1937-2017 [Sŏul uyu 80-yŏnsa: 1937–2017] (Seoul: Sŏul Uyu Hyŏptong Chohap, 2017), 51. 37 Yi Yŏngpok, “How to Do Artificial Feeding?” New Family, June 1954, 41–45.

112 measurements, the measuring of breast milk was more difficult and simply impractical. By far the most discussed issue, however, was the potential “insufficiency” of breast milk. Yi Chongchin’s medico-moral advice to exclusively breast-feed until at least three months, with the gentle recommendation to breast-feed until about six months, was qualified with the ever-present possibility of mothers providing “not enough” breast milk.38 Only in special cases where mothers had transmittable diseases and in cases of insufficient quantity, Yi Yŏngpok advised that artificial feeding could be permitted, but only to cover the insufficiency and no more.39 “Insufficiency” was the most commonly held reason (as is remains today in Korea) for introducing infant formula and eventually switching from breast-feeding to artificial feeding. Moreover, the issue of insufficiency made the women’s body a target of various disciplinary measures. In Health, the first volume of Yŏwŏnsa’s Compendium of Modern Women’s Life, a wide range of topics on health and strategies for a mother’s body to make enough milk were featured. One of these was to be alone with the newborn, forming a mother- child dyad, with no distractions from other people and without taking a nap during feeding.40 Another prominent recommendation was a step-by-step explanation of massaging of the breasts, accompanied by a five-step illustration.41 Not only that, the mother had to ensure that her breasts, nipples, hands, and indeed her whole body were always clean and basically free of germs and scabs, to ensure that harmful bacteria would not be transferred to the infant’s mouth when feeding. In such a depiction of the mother as the main source and vessel of germs and bacteria, the mother’s body could potentially become the most dangerous thing for her own baby. The feeding of mother’s milk required “enough research of feeding methods, as well as patience and perseverance, “even if [feeding] hurts a little bit.”42 Advice on childrearing and breast-feeding produced fear among readers of compromising hygiene and jeopardizing the health or even life of one’s own child. According to these texts, infant feeding was not an easy task to be taken on alone by nursing mothers; they needed advice and guidance through literature and regular doctor

38 Yi Chongchin, Infant Care Encyclopedia (Seoul: Hagwŏnsa, 1956). 39 Yi Yŏngpok, “Artificial Feeding,” 41–45. 40 Health [Kŏn'gang], (Seoul: Yŏwŏnsa, 1958), 332. 41 Ibid, 332–333. 42 Ibid, 332.

113 visits. At the same time, magazines recognized the necessity of devoting some of their pages to artificial nutrition since it was perceived to be a growing practice that also needed expert intervention to be done “right.” Not only did such suggestions imply mothers should be actively trying to increase their breast milk supply, it was again the responsibility of mothers to ensure that there was enough hygienic milk for her baby, eliding important possible reasons for insufficiency, including poverty (related to nursing mother’s insufficient food intake), amount of labour, and stress. Infant feeding was discussed as a scientific issue, rather than a socioeconomically, morally, and ideologically charged one. A mother who had to continue to work after the birth was less likely to be able to respond to the baby’s constantly fluctuating and growing demands for her milk, feed herself sufficiently, or, frequently, to meet the emotional and physical demands of breast-feeding. Being unable to breast-feed on-demand could easily become a slippery slope into “insufficiency” and the eventual ceasing of breast milk production. Yet, it was represented as simply a failing of the mother’s body to meet her baby’s needs. It was, then, also up to the mother to reach nutritional “sufficiency” for her child by accessing the market for supplementary pills or, increasingly, infant formula. The assumption that mothers were the ultimate choice- makers between breast-feeding and bottle feeding, childrearing methods, and various consumer products laid the foundations for the rise of infant feeding alternatives as consumer products. The market claimed to be able to provide for the baby’s nutritional health and growth better than the mother’s body, and not simply to feed the baby’s tummy. The literature provided by the increasing intervention of the commercialized infant formula and popular women’s magazines did not always neatly align with the advice on infant feeding provided by doctors in childrearing texts. But infant formula marketers and medical doctors formed alliances that made infant formula not simply a consumer choice but a medically sound choice. The assumption that the mother was a liberal subject with a myriad of “choices” in childrearing methods meant that women were no longer to remain simply as mothers but to become mother-consumers who must mediate the market for her nursing child as a prerequisite to being “good” mothers.

Selling American Technology and Racializing the “Oriental Body” and Korean Baby Boys

In late 1955, in a major daily newspaper, a mother who was identified only as a “mother without milk,” asked a question regarding her seven-month-old child, who was currently suffering from

114 diarrhea, malnutrition, and poor development.43 About three months previously, the Ministry of Health and Social Affairs banned the sale of a Japanese brand of infant formula due to arsenic poisoning cases in Japan, forcing her to suddenly switch from a Morinaga formula to an “American-made” product. For this mother, the “smooth development” of her child that she witnessed when she fed her baby a Morinaga (森永) product made her suspicious that the American infant formula may be the cause of her baby’s current, unfavourable state. Typical of such “question and answer” columns, the mother remained anonymous, but the responder was clearly identified as Doctor Kim Kŭnbae. He responded that for the Asian body, Morinaga, which contained just 18% of fat, was more suitable than the American product, which had 28% fat content.44 The dilemma faced between using the more familiar Morinaga and the so-called American-made brand of infant formula revealed deep, unstated tensions between old memories and tastes of the Japanese Empire and the increasing circulation and dominance of American consumer products. Morinaga was a well-known Japanese company since the colonial period. Koreans were more familiar with condensed and powdered milk than fresh milk, due to their long of shelf-life in a time when appropriate refrigeration and product distribution systems were not yet in place. In contrast, in childcare literatures in the 1950s, boiling fresh milk before consuming/feeding it to children continued to be recommended, or the drinking of fresh milk altogether discouraged. In the early-twentieth century, Japan imported most of its dairy products from the US, England, Canada, France, and others, until Morinaga Milk was established in 1917 under the name of Nippon Rennyu Co., Ltd.45 Two years after the launching of its condensed milk, it began selling Morinaga “dry milk” or infant formula.46 However, even before the production of such milk products, Morinaga caramel (another product that contained milk) helped popularize the brand throughout the Japanese Empire. The increasing demand for its

43 “Reception: The Quality of Samyŏng Powdered Milk [Samyŏng punyu ŭi yangbu],” Tonga Ilbo, December 18, 1955. 44 “Reception,” Tonga Ilbo, December 18, 1955. 45 Yi Kyuchin, “Production and Supply of Milk in Joseon during Japanese Colonial Period (1910–1945)” [Ilje kangjŏmgi (1910~1945) Chosŏn ŭi uyu saengsan kwa pogŭp], Korean Society of Food Culture [Han’guk sik saenghwal munhwa hakhoejii] 31, no. 5 (2016): 400–410. 46 “History,” Morinaga Milk, accessed June 16, 2018, https://www.morinagamilk.co.jp/english/about/history/.

115 caramel was one of the main reasons its production of condensed milk starting in 1917.47 Even after the end of colonialism, with no dairy industry in Korea blossoming until the late 1960s, Japanese products such as Morinaga and Meiji, along with “American products” such as dry whole milk, Smilac milk, and Vilac made up the available brands of infant formula.48 The circulation of Japanese products continued to flow (especially enabled and made crucial since the Korean War) as the imperial economic structure lingered in Korea and was utilized strategically as part of the Cold War order. In contrast, American brands such as Vilac did not enjoy the long history and popularity that Japanese brands had built throughout the former Japanese empire. However, shifting Cold War geopolitics enabled Vilac to be circulated in Korea as a new brand, first through trading companies that sold products in pharmacies, department stores, and other marketplaces, then through the Korea Vilac Co. Ltd., established in 1963. The rise of mothers’ mediating role between the market and her baby could be seen in the increase of colourful advertising in women’s magazines. Advertising in newspapers and women’s magazines created new demands and spoke to existing and manufactured desires of mothers in order to boost the sales of infant formula. Vilac owed its ascendance as a leading infant formula brand in Korea partly to the commercial success of a popular women’s magazine, Yŏwŏn (1955–1970), published by Yŏwŏnsa.49 By the time Yŏwŏnsa published Childrearing (1959) as part of Yŏwŏnsa’s Compendium of Modern Women’s Life, Vilac was a familiar brand for the magazine’s readers. Unlike the first several issues which featured advertisements for mostly literary and educational texts for students and children, and a few films, toothpastes, and supplementary pills, the June 1956 issue featured a full-page ad for Vilac as its back-cover page. Vilac dominated this marketing privilege in Yŏwŏn. In order to further establish itself as a trustworthy alternative to other brands and to increase its sales, Vilac advertisements relied on the familiar language of nutritional science and

47 Yi Kyuchin, “Production and Supply of Milk in Joseon during Japanese Colonial Period (1910–1945) [Ilje kangjŏmgi (1910~1945) Chosŏn ŭi uyu saengsan kwa pogŭp],” Han'guk Siksaenghwal Munhwa Hakhoeji 31, no. 5 (2016): 400–410. 48 Yi Chongchin, Infant Care Encyclopedia, 176. 49 The Academic Society of Feminism and Korean Literature [Han'guk Yŏsŏng Munhak Hakhoe], Research on Yŏwŏn: Women, Culture, and Media [Yŏwŏn yŏnku: Yŏsŏng, kyoyang, maech’ae], (Seoul: Kukhak Charyowŏn, 2008).

116 the authority of the medical community. Medical advisments surrounding powdered milk products for nursing babies was part and parcel of its advertising. The Vilac Counseling Center was established in Seoul in July 1958, built on the authority of SNU Hospital’s Pediatrics department, whose personnel were said to make visits (ch'uljang) to provide counseling.50 From early advertisements of Vilac products, the names of various pediatricians and doctors were advertised along with the consumer product. As early as 1956, Vilac advertisements often went hand in hand with a “recommendation” from doctors and pediatricians from major university hospitals, such as the Severance Hospital, SNU Hospital, and the Korea Midwives Association.51 One such advertisement stated that, compared to other powdered milk, Vilac proved to be the best in terms of nutrition and children’s development, leading the President of the Korea Midwives Association and three directors of university hospital pediatrics departments to recommend the product to both newborn as well as others who are currently using powdered milk.52 Along with including such an announcement from the (female) President of the Midwives Association and the head of the Seoul Women’s University’s pediatric department, Vilac advertisements employed both male and female medical authorities in order to establish its own authority over other formula brands and even from breast milk. Vilac also took advantage of the history and rhetoric of eugenics. In announcing its establishment, the Vilac Counseling Center claimed to have been created in order to “make all young children into super babies (uryanga, 優良兒).”53 It further claimed that Vilac was proved to be the “best nutritional powdered milk,” because thousands of their “super babies” and “beautiful babies” were chosen in this year’s “super baby contest.”54 The first precedent of such super baby contests was the “Baby Show” (Adong kŏn'ganghoe) held in 1925 by T'aehwagwan, an American South Methodist’s clinic.55 This two-day event, in which babies’ weight, height, feces, and nutrition were graded for a total of five hundred points, developed into a four-day

50 Vilac, Advertisement, Tonga ilbo, July 6, 1958, 5. 51 Vilac, Advertisement, Kyŏnghyang sinmun, November 13, 1956, 3. 52 Ibid. 53 Vilac, Advertisement, Tonga ilbo, July 6, 1958, 5. 54 Ibid. 55 Kim Hyegyŏng, The Construction of the Modern Family and Gender under Colonialism [Singminji ha kŭndae kajok ŭi hyŏngsŏng kwa chendŏ], (P'aju: Ch'angbi, 2006), 139.

117 celebration of “Baby Week” from 1928 into the 1930s.56 Although babies who were fed breast milk and other brands of infant formula were also entered into super baby contests in the 1950s and 1960s, Vilac emphasized its position as producing the most superior “super babies” as well as the highest number of winners. Simultaneously, Vilac advertisements increasingly capitalized on the idea of America, with its new, modern, advanced technology and science, as a particularly attractive selling point. By no means was Vilac alone in employing this strategy. For instance, a “Lucky Toothpaste” advertisement claimed, “Because it is a product made of American ingredients, American prescription, and German machines, product quality is exactly the same as America[n]-made (mije, 美製).”57 Within this context, “America” provided a prestige factor that could easily consume and encompass other nations in Europe as well.58 One Vilac advertisement by the Yŏngsŏng Trading Company (Yŏngsŏng muyŏk chusik hoesa, 榮星貿易株式會社) posed a provocative question: “Those with expert knowledge choose the America[n]-made Vilac powdered milk over Japanese-made. Why?”59 To answer the question, the ad listed six reasons for why these “expert” consumers chose Vilac and why potential customers should do the same. Three of the reasons explicitly mentioned Morinaga in Chinese characters, 森永, designating it as a particular “Japanese-made” product and, by extension, deeming all Japanese products to be of less quality, composed of half the vitamins contained in Vilac, and nutritionally incomplete in comparison to the Vilac powdered milk.60 Other reasons visually highlighted Vilac’s superiority over Morinaga through the notion of being “American-made,” denoted with Chinese characters, “America” (美國) and “American-made” (美製). In Vilac advertisements, the invocation of “America” stood to attest to the power of the United States and its industrial and technological development. Vilac was one American product

56 Kim Hyegyŏng, The Construction of the Modern Family, 139–141. 57 For instance, see Lucky Toothpaste, Advertisement, Tonga ilbo, July 8, 1955, 2. 58 For discussion on such power of the “America” label in consumer products, see Kim Tŏkho, “Han'guk esŏ ŭi ilssang saeng hwal kwa sobi ŭi migukhwa munje,” in Kim Tŏk-ho and Wŏn Yong-jin (Eds.), Amerikʻanaijeisyŏn: Haebang ihu Hanʼguk esŏ ŭi Migukhwa (Seoul: Pʻurŭn Yŏksa, 2008), 121–158. 59 For example, see Vilac, Advertisement, Kyŏnghyang sinmun, March 27, 1956, 3. Advertisements with the same or similar lead questions appeared repeatedly in Vilac advertisements. 60 Vilac, Advertisement, Kyŏnghyang sinmun, March 27, 1956, 3.

118 that found a successful niche market in South Korea as a marketable consumer product to mothers of young children. Other brands, including Dumex (Denmark), Nestlé’s Eagle Brand (US), and Meiji (Japan), were advertised as well, but Vilac’s aggressive advertising stood out among its competitors. Childrearing manuals and advertisements made sure to notify the readers that Vilac was an American product. Every ad that appeared until about 1960 in both Yŏwŏn and newspapers carried the identification, the Golden State Brand logo. In particular, on Yŏwŏn’s full-page colour ads, big letters of two different font sizes and colours were used to catch the reader’s attention, and the image on every can of the Vilac formula also identified it as a Golden State Brand product, another denotation of being American-made.61 One newspaper ad described the US as a country where “the dairy industry (butter, cheese, milk industries) is most developed in the world.”62 The perception of the US and the West in general to be more advanced developmentally than Korea and East Asia more broadly was often articulated in highly gendered terms, with American-made products represented as masculine. The back cover of Yŏwŏn’s September 1957 issue carried a rare illustration of a fully clothed female child (not a newborn) in a seated position, with her left hand placed on the nipple of a feeding bottle. Compared to the many illustrations and photographs of plump, happy-looking baby boys featured in Vilac advertisements, the illustration of a young girl was unusual. The message bubble right next to it, pointing to the bottle in the female child’s hand, read: “Don’t lament that [the child became] weak because [the child] was fed a backwards country’s powdered milk… Let’s make the healthiest baby (ch'oe uryanga, 最優良兒) by feeding [the child] an advanced country’s [product,] Vilac!” In contrast to the usual featuring of a baby’s face and (sometimes) body as a visual testament to the nutritional superiority of the Vilac products, the image of a young girl was used as a negative example — the opposite of what advertisers assumed the consumer

61 The “Golden State” in Vilac advertisements probably referred to the US state of California, which officially adopted the “Golden State” as its state nickname in 1968, but references to the gold colour has been around at least since the late 1900s. The name is related to historical memories of the California Gold Rush of 1848; the yellow poppy, which has been its state flower since 1903, and gold as one of its state colours since 1951. The Golden State Company was an American company originally based in Orlando, California, and the company played a significant role in making the region a “dairy center of the valley,” especially noted for its production of powdered milk from 1935, and was based in San Francisco by the late 1940s and 1950s. See Images of America: The Land of Orland, eds. Gene H. Russell for the Orlando Historical and Cultural Society (Charleston, SC: Arcadia Publishing, 2008). 62 Vilac, Advertisement, Kyŏnghyang sinmun, April 7, 1957, 2.

119 wanted — seeking to provoke them to purchase Vilac over other brands, lest their own child become weak and feminized. By aligning oneself with an “advanced” country like the US rather than a “backwards” country through consumption, as the logic went, nursing babies were doubly racialized. They were in a developmental competition with other children within Korea, endeavoring to become developmentally advanced like America, which was assumed to be racially “white” and masculine. Newspaper ads claimed that Vilac was not only American-made but that it could produce babies just like “American babies that develop well.”63 It promised Korean children that were fed Vilac formula would become developmentally superior — just like American babies. Even when the appeal was based mainly on the number of vitamins, nutritional value, and price of the product, visually, a white baby was featured as the ideal image of a healthy baby (See figure 3.2).64 Vilac’s brand image of the iconic white baby was so effective that in 1961, in a dispute between Vilac (American) and Bebelac (Dutch), the Patent Bureau of Commerce and Industry judged that Bebelac’s similar brand name (pronounced pibirak in Korean), and the image of a smiling white baby did amount to an infringement of Vilac’s (prounounced pirak in Korean) trademark rights.65 Not only was Vilac emphasized as a US product, it claimed to make the consumers and their children healthy, modern, and happy, supposedly just like the people where the Vilac products came from.

63 Vilac, Advertisement, Kyŏnghyang sinmun, August 19, 1957, 1. 64 Vilac Advertisement, Tonga ilbo, September 23, 1959, 4. 65 “A Magnifying Glass [Totpogi],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, January 5, 1961, 3.

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Figure 3.2. "A fall season when one fattens up!"(Vilac, Advertisement, Tonga ilbo, September 23, 1959, 4.)

From early 1961, many Vilac advertisements in newspapers no longer carried the “Golden State” mark (although full-colour photograph ads in Yŏwŏn did), but instead introduced itself as a product manufactured in the Netherlands “under American technical guidance.”66 It is likely that the Vilac branch office of Golden State Brands and trading companies withdrew from the business as the “new” Vilac (that was made in the Netherlands and aggressively advertised by a Korean company) began to dominate the market towards the end of the 1950s. The continuation of the name, Vilac, however, as well as the continued usage of the white Vilac baby, made Vilac a powerful force in childrearing through the decade. Advertisements from 1961 on continued to feature the same Vilac baby’s face and emphasize the idea of the US’s advanced technology and skills to produce better infant formula than Japan. The already popular and widely recognized brand name, Vilac, through the history of marking the product as “American-made,” enticed mothers powerfully through advertisements, baby contest sponsorships, and monthly monetary rewards for winning Vilac babies. In contrast to Vilac’s active utilization of the “American-made” distinction in advertisements, Morinaga employed a different marketing strategy: racial affinity between Japan and Korea. In an advertisement for a Morinaga product, a cute calf (somewhat feminized with flower embellishments in between its two horns, a cow halter, and a bell underneath its closed mouth) appeared (See Figure 3.3).67 It was not a rough, wild bull, but a well-domesticated calf. Morinaga, a Japanese company, addressed “mothers and babies,” offering to “newly send” to

66 For example, see the back cover of June 1962 issue of Yŏwŏn. 67 Morinaga, Advertisement, Tonga ilbo, June 20, 1960, 3.

121 them its new “dry milk” (tŭrai milk'ŭ). The mascot of the “cow head brand” (udup'yo) was featured in illustrations of the milk cans in two different smaller sizes, but neither plump babies nor running baby boys were to be found. Instead, it promised that its product could “raise your cute babies as healthy as calves” because its product was “the ideal and highest quality powdered milk made, most appropriate for the Oriental body.” Phrases like “Powdered milk that is produced in East Asia and absolutely apt for Oriental babies!” beckoned mother-consumers to choose Morinaga over Vilac.68 A similar sales pitch used the phrase, “just right for the Oriental [tongyangin, 東洋人] body [ch'ejil, 體質].”69 Appealing to achieving bright, happy families through healthy, happy babies, another ad claimed that its product was “the most ideal, best quality powdered milk that was specially made just right for the body of Oriental (tongyang, 東洋) nursing babies,” with an illustration of a baby boy with completely black hair sitting on top of a toy.70 Even when Morinaga came up with a new product, “the Angel Powdered Milk,” featuring an angel with wings, holding onto an M, it advertised its product as, “powdered milk that was produced in the Orient that is absolutely fitting for Oriental babies!!” (two exclamation points in original).71

Figure 3.3. “To mothers and babies.” (Morinaga, Advertisement, Tonga ilbo, June 20, 1960, 3)

68 For instance, see Morinaga, Advertisement, Tonga Ilbo, June 28, 1960, 3; Kyŏnghyang sinmun, May 19, 1960, 3. 69 Many newspaper advertisements with this phrase appeared in 1958. 70 Morinaga, Advertisement, Tonga ilbo, July 17, 1960, 4. 71 Morinaga, Advertisement, Kyŏnghyang sinmun, May 19, 1960, 3.

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By invoking the body of the “Oriental” and the “Orient,” Morinaga depended on the long-held assumption that Japanese and Koreans belonged to the same race. It was an ideology of sameness, rather than of difference (despite the potential to enforce hierarchical differences within these similarities). The term, “Oriental body” (tongyangin ŭi ch'ejil), rather than other possible terms such as tonga or tongasia (East Asia), relied on the colonial politics of forming the East as an oppositional term to the West, effectively excluding the US and challenging the superiority of the West over the East (with Japan at its center).72 It harked back to the wartime logic of inclusionary racism: that Japanese and Koreans shared the Oriental body as well as the ideo-political body of the Japanese Empire, which “Westerners” were presumed to threaten.73 Like Morinaga, ads by Meiji, another prominent Japanese company, also occasionally invoked the “Oriental body.”74 For instance, in order to answer its usual marketing pitch — the question of why 80% of Japanese babies were fed only Meiji formula — one ad claimed, “In terms of nutritional value, it is constructed of 480 calories that is most suitable for Oriental [tongyang] babies,” employing a similar language of nutrition used by the doctor who mentioned the fat content difference between Morinaga and Vilac.75 More commonly, however, Meiji advertisements capitalized on the label of Japan, rather than the Orient, to highlights its own superiority and popularity over other alternatives. It regularly called itself the “prince of Japan[ese]-made powdered milk,” and provocatively asked “Do you know why 80% of Japanese babies and even the imperial family drink Meiji powdered milk made like mother’s milk?”76 As if to present a realistic human “prince,” different from its illustrated logo of a standing, androgynous child well past the nursing age, some ads featured a fully naked Asian baby boy that was held up high by a woman whose arms supported him while her face and hair were barely visible. The baby’s features could not be mistaken as non-Asian but his exact national

72 Andre Schmid, Korea between Empires, 1895–1919 (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), intro. and ch. 2. Also see Stefan Tanaka, Japan’s Orient: Rendering Pasts into History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 47–49, and Carol Chin, Modernity and National Identity in the United States and East Asia, 1895–1919 (Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, 2010), 66. 73 Michael Cullen Green, Black Yanks in the Pacific: Race in the Making of American Military Empire after World War II (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2010); Takahashi Fujitani, Race for Empire: Koreans as Japanese and Japanese as Americans during World War II (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011). 74 Meiji, Advertisement, Tonga ilbo, August 15, 1960, 4. 75 Meiji, Advertisement, Kyŏnghyang sinmun, January 20, 1960, 3. 76 Meiji, Advertisement, Kyŏnghyang sinmun, September 20, 1960, 4.

123 origin was ambiguous. By invoking Japan, the Meiji brand’s ads effectively portrayed Japan as a country that Korean babies and families could and should emulate through the consumption of Meiji products, and the ambiguity of the baby boy’s national origin visually sought to racially incorporate Korean babies into the image. References to colour (i.e., the “yellow race” or the “white race”) were not employed in these advertisements, but infant formula advertisements were not colour blind. The racial logic embedded in Japan’s imperial sphere of the “Orient” was employed in the Cold War order, often by the erasure of the difference between Korea and Japan, and at other times by highlighting Japan as a separate but a similar nation-state to Korea. In a historical moment in which South Korea was reevaluating its relationship to Japan and restructuring its relations with the US, the “inclusionary racism” logic that Japan and Korea shared the same “Oriental body” (and that the US was a separate racial entity) enabled different, imbricated racial relations. As Morinaga identified its products under the “cow head brand,” a differently rendered anthropomorphized calf would not have been an option for Vilac as an incoming brand, even if Morinaga’s visual advertising techniques were deemed effective. Instead, Vilac cans and advertisements made images of a baby boy central to its marketing, a strategy that Morinaga and Meiji advertisements soon employed too. It was a strategy that stood the test of time in the US (i.e., the famous Gerber baby on Gerber baby food).77 Of course, cow-milk-based infant formula depended on cow milk produced through a cow birthing a calf, which then had to be weaned quickly from its mother. Thus, a calf logo inadvertently highlighted the animal origin of the product, and perceptions of a healthy calf versus that of a healthy baby was unlikely to produce the same kinds of demand. In effect, an ad featuring a calf emphasized its product to not come from mothers; as Yi Chongchin said, “mother’s milk is appropriate for human children, and cow milk is appropriate for calves.”78 Vilac’s advertisements, therefore, reconceptualized cow-milk- based powdered milk as appropriate for human babies, even without the mother as the source. Vilac advertisements depended on the East-West binary as forming a hierarchical relationship through science and technology, but Morinaga had an upper hand in racializing consumer products to increase sales by equalizing Koreans and Japanese as one race that was not

77 Amy Bentley, “Inventing Baby Food: Gerber and the Discourse of Infancy in the United States,” in Food Nations: Selling Taste in Consumer Societies, eds. Warren Belasco and Philip Scranton (New York: Routledge, 2002), 92–112. 78 Yi Chongchin, Infant Care Encyclopedia, 159.

124 inferior to the West. Perhaps it is not surprising, then, that Vilac advertisements also began to claim that its products were “manufactured just fittingly for Koreans (han'gugin)” to the point that it surpassed the nutritional value of breast milk.79 Vilac sought to overcome the assumption in Morinaga advertisements that only “Orientals” could manufacture food appropriate for other “Oriental” bodies by claiming that American technology, often standing for Western superiority, was advanced to the point that it knew how to produce not just for the general “Oriental” body, but specifically for Koreans. By early 1956, Vilac confidently claimed to have become a “revolution in the children’s world,”80 and by 1958, it referred to itself as the “prince” (not “princess”) in the infant formula world.81 Vilac advertisements claimed its Korean-ness by claiming that “more than 80% of Korean babies” were fed on Vilac, implying that 80% of all Korean customers found Vilac superior to its Japanese competitor.82 This selling point echoed Meiji’s earlier claim that it “finally, overwhelmingly monopolized great public favor even in Korea” and frequent references to the “80% of Japanese babies” who were fed Meiji products.83 The so-called Korean body was to be disentangled from the larger Oriental body with Japan at its center, in order to be repositioned along national lines in the Cold War order.84 Instead of appealing to the racial homogeneity based on a selective geographical region, it appealed to a local nationalist sensibility, on which the previous colonial power could hardly lay claim. Within the US-centered Cold War order, different racial logics were employed in the Cold War: one built on the aura and sway of Imperial Japan and the other on American technological advancement that spoke to Korean nationalist desires.

79 Vilac, Advertisement, Kyŏnghyang sinmun, July 5, 1959, 3. 80 Vilac, Advertisement, Kyŏnghyang sinmun, February 8, 1956. In the same newspaper on November 8, 1960, a Meiji advertisement read, “A sensational product [munje ŭi chep'um] that brought a revolution to the world of infant formula!” as if to echo Vilac’s earlier marketing statement. 81 For example, see Vilac, Advertisement, Kyŏnghyang sinmun August 13, 1957, 1. 82 For example, see an ad in Vilac, Advertisement, Kyŏnghyang sinmun, January 5, 1961. 83 Vilac, Advertisement, Kyŏnghyang sinmun, November 16, 1960, 1. 84 Similarly, the cultural and racial “uniqueness” of Japan was part of American policy in postwar, Cold War milieu. See Lori Watt, When Empire Comes Home: Repatriation and Reintegration in Postwar Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2009), 7.

125

Weaning to Cultivate Baby Boys’ Autonomy

A naked baby boy, the recipient of 100,000 hwan and winner of the sixth Super Baby Contest in Taegu, was featured on page one of Chosŏn Ilbo in early 1962.85 The back cover of Yŏwŏn’s August 1962 issue also featured a photo of a naked baby boy, the words “Vilac Counseling Centre,” and its phone number superimposed slightly above his exposed penis.86 On the right side was the usual vertical arrangement: “Korean children’s usual [tangol] milk.”87 A hand, presumably a woman’s, held a Vilac can in the top right corner of the page, but the visual focus of the page was clearly the baby boy who supposedly grew healthy and chubby thanks to Vilac powdered milk. Sometimes, a smiling baby boy was accompanied by a feeding bottle with nearly full-white content, right next to a can of a Vilac baby formula, which also featured the iconic Vilac baby’s face. 88 The circulation of images of plump Korean baby boys, often fully nude and without their mothers, was not only a powerful image of children’s health, but also enabled the child’s individual autonomy to be imagined as a result of infant formula feeding. Earlier Vilac advertisements that featured hand-drawn babies’ faces were eventually replaced by photographic representations of a male child’s whole, naked, or partially covered body (See Figure 3.4). Therefore, this promised autonomy was highly gendered, as baby boys dominated infant formula advertisements, while the mother-consumer’s role was to “realize” this masculine autonomy for her baby boy through the purchasing of infant formula.

85 Vilac, Advertisement, Chosŏn ilbo, February 23, 1962, 1. 86 Vilac, Advertisement, Yŏwŏn, August 1962, back cover. 87 Ibid. 88 Vilac, Advertisement, Yŏwŏn, June 1956, back cover.

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Figure 3.4. "What milk did the baby drink to become this chubby?" (Vilac, Advertisement, Tonga ilbo, October 15, 1959, 4.)

Illustrations and photographic images of plump baby boys served as visual proof and a reminder of the superiority and success of rearing children on infant formula over breast milk. But a baby boy without his mother was also important in conceptualizing a child’s individual autonomy to be masculine. In an analysis of the relationship between food advertising and children in the twentieth-century United States, Katherine J. Parkin argues that not only did plump child-faces serve as a clear visual of children’s health but that images of boys, sons, fathers, and brothers dominated as symbols of vitality, health, intelligence, and success.89 Similarly, infant formula advertisements in 1950s and ‘60s Korea were also represented by plump baby boys; naked baby girls never appeared, and clothed baby girls remained a rarity. Conceptions of children’s health were closely tied to ideals of masculinity. Additionally, women, especially mothers of baby boys, were represented as responsible for maintaining such masculine health among boys and the men they were to become. A healthy, autonomous child therefore depended on the mother’s everyday labour, practicing judgment, and cultivating sensibility in accessing the market. Despite such dependence on the mother-consumer, however, the

89 Katherine J. Parkin, Food Is Love: Food Advertising and Gender Roles in Modern America (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006).

127 production of baby boys’ masculine autonomy simultaneously depended on the erasure of the mother in advertisement spaces. This was radically different from other product ads that were aimed specifically at pre- conception, pregnancy, breast-feeding, and mother-child health. A common consumer product advertised frequently in Yŏwŏn were oral supplementary pills directed at women trying to conceive and mothers trying to improve the quantity and quality of breast milk. They often featured an illustration of a mother with partial or full exposure of one or both breasts, and a nursing child latched onto her bosom (See Figure 3.5). While the mother’s face could be seen, the baby’s face was usually towards her breasts, which, in effect, highlighted the mother’s face and made it difficult to visualize the baby’s features and gender. The infant served as an extension of her body, thus rendering a conceptualization of childrearing as impossible without the mother and her breasts.

Figure 3.5. The top right corner by the image of the mother breast-feeding a child read, “For safe delivery and for those with insufficient breast milk.” Advertisement for “Vita Calcium [pit'a k'alssyum]” in Yŏwŏn, August 1956, 29.

If the practice of breast-feeding made the mother the focus of infant feeding issues including prenatal preparation and insufficiency of breast milk, bottle feeding enabled imagining the nursing baby away from the source of the milk (cows) and away from the actual feeder and

128 caretaker (the mother). Just like the baby boys that “ran” the Super Baby Contest race, it was as if the baby could stand alone without the need for the larger system that supported its birth, health, and growth. Indeed, what to feed a nursing child was an important issue, but when and how to end infant feeding was just as crucial. In discussions of bottle feeding, the use of cow milk enabled the imagining of the child’s independence much more than the image of a child tethered to the mother’s breasts. The circulation of the image of an infant child without his or her mother seemed possible only when the child was being fed infant formula, whereas a child being breast-fed had to be accompanied by the source of his or her feeding, the mother. Then, the concern of babies’ autonomy was reflected in discussions of weaning (the process of introducing solid food to nursing babies with the ultimate goal of ceasing breast- feeding or formula feeding), which received much attention from doctors concerned with nursing babies’ development. After all, nursing children were expected to move from the mother’s bosom to feeding themselves, and from a crib in the parents’ room to their own room, commensurate with growth and development. Weaning could be expressed using the Korean terminology, chŏt ttegi. The Sino-Korean term iyu (離乳), however, encompassed not only weaning from breast-feeding but also from bottle feeding to solid food feeding. While terms ttegi and i (離) both referred to the separation or ceasing of something, chŏt was strongly associated not only with different types of milk but also with the breast. In contrast, yu (乳), also meaning milk, was not necessarily linked to the image of the breast as it was used often in word combinations that referred to cow milk products, as in powdered milk (punyu, 粉乳) and condensed milk (yŏnyu, 煉乳). Thus, weaning was not simply about the child no longer needing or wanting to be breast- fed or bottle fed, but rather how and when the mother should separate the child from her breasts and, by extension, herself. Again, it was expected to be the mother’s choice, albeit with ample consideration and advice from medical experts and their writings in childrearing manuals. Not only was long-term breast-feeding presented to be unhealthy for children, breast-feeding beyond the ideal weaning period was thought to hinder the child’s development and contribute to failing health.90 It was also claimed to be detrimental for the baby’s habit formation, even from one month of age. In instructing infant feeding of newborns up to one month old, a childrearing book

90 For example, see Yi Sugil, Pregnancy and Infant Care, 139.

129 warned against night breast-feeding: “Giving the breast whenever [the baby] is crying is a bad habit, so [we] need to eliminate that bad habit. And as for milk (chŏt), it is better to feed during the day than night. A reason for that is because when breast-feeding at night, the mother cannot sleep well, and thus her health conditions are worsened, leading to a decrease of the milk (chŏt) [supply].”91 The main reason given for the mother to not give in to the newborn’s “whims” was for the benefit of her own health, but the advice also harboured other anxieties regarding the possibility of the child never being severed from the mother, threatening their autonomy as an adult. In contrast to the perception of formula feeding as a scientific practice, breast-feeding could be seen as a mother’s potential overindulgence in her baby through impulsive and unruly feeding based on the child’s whims and cries. Formula feeding enabled both doctors and mothers to sanitize feeding equipment, measure content, and conduct feedings on a pre-planned schedule, facilitating interventions at various levels via childrearing manuals, pediatricians, and consumer products as mediators in mother-child relations from the very beginning of the child’s life. In contrast, breast-feeding was often seen as less controllable or measurable in terms of feeding schedules and produced quantities and was associated with prolonged nursing of babies. The underlying fear was that the mother would rear a child that was too dependent. Discussions of bottle feeding often featured the term, honjasŏ, which can be translated into “alone,” “on one’s own,” or “by oneself,” depending on the context. By twelve months of age, Yi Sugil advised breast-feeding only once a day, and to give milk in addition to solid foods.92 He also stated that by the age of twelve months, babies can “drink milk well by oneself,” and advised to inculcate the ability to “hold and drink the bottle by oneself” in twelve-month- olds.93 Infant feeding through breast-feeding could not be imagined as the child doing anything by oneself (honjasŏ). More importantly, he cautioned his readers that the timing and method of weaning was directly related to determining “good” or “bad” development, and advised mothers to start preparing for weaning from the age of six months.94 Such advice operated under the assumption that animal milk that was already severed from the source of the milk would enable the child to do things by oneself.

91 Ibid, 118. 92 Ibid, 157. 93 Ibid. 94 Ibid, 141–142.

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The desire to cultivate children’s autonomy from a nursing age through weaning was connected to ideas of national, or even racial, progress. In June 1960, a newspaper article titled, “How to wean in early summer,” juxtaposed three familiar geographical regions: South Korea, Japan, and the “countries of Europe and America.”95 According to this piece, “The fact that weaning becomes a problem in countries like Korea and Japan speaks to the particularities of our country’s childrearing methods, and in countries of Europe and America, there is no such problem of weaning.”96 Im Ŭisŏn, the Director of Pediatrics at a prominent university hospital shared that “in America and Europe,” children were not exclusively fed breast milk or infant formula, but were fed additional food at “as early as two weeks,” redesignating “milk or breast milk as simply one of many various foods.”97 Im Ŭisŏn particularized the two Asian countries as having “distinct characteristics” (t'ŭksusŏng) of childrearing, so that mothers in these countries were seen to have problems when it came to weaning their babies.98 Without any substantial evidence that mothers in Euro-America did not have any issues or debates regarding weaning babies, Korea and Japan were grouped together, again, in order to emphasize the backwardness of both country’s childrearing methods. Like the Vilac advertisements that grouped the Netherlands and the United States under one product, the pediatrician held up the United States and other European countries as the standard towards which Korea (and Japan) should aim, revealing Im’s anxieties about children’s individual autonomy as a reflection of racial and national progress. Plump baby boys were a powerful image that helped sell infant formula and made imagining formula-fed babies’ autonomy from the mother possible. The dominant excision of mothers from infant formula advertisements made the image of “autonomous” baby boys more desirable than a neutrally gendered baby as an extension of the mother’s breast. Such visual representations of infant feeding naturalized the possibility of infant feeding and childrearing without human milk, whether of the mother or wet nurses, but did not radically redefine the role of mothers as the primary caretaker of children. The focus was on the fed child, without the person doing the act of feeding, as if a plump child alone could tell the story of the superiority of

95 Im Ŭisŏn, “How to Wean [A Child] in Early Summer [Ch'o yŏrŭm ŭi chŏt ttenŭn pŏp],” Tonga ilbo, June 22, 1960. 96 Ibid. 97 Ibid. 98 Ibid.

131 infant formula over the mother’s milk. Infant feeding seemed to be no longer an exclusive physical and emotional relationship between the feeding mother/woman and the fed child, but rather, the child could easily be separated from the mother and her milk by the mother-consumer accessing commercialized infant formula.

Conclusion

Infant feeding in Cold War Korea was an issue simultaneously rendered private and public, especially through the increasing role of the market and medical communities who were more than eager to intervene in everyday childrearing practices. Mothers were expected to become consumers of childrearing manuals, infant formula, and medical visits in order to fulfill various expectations of motherhood. Such a blurring of the mother with the consumer was built on the belief that the mother was a liberal subject who could and should make a myriad of decisions about breast-feeding vs. bottle feeding, feeding schedules, when and how to wean her child from milk, and more. Infant formula advertisements, in particular, employed various racial logics along national, ethnic, and regional lines in order to market their products, while promising to hasten and optimize children’s development. In this way, nursing babies were doubly raced. Not only were babies and, by extension, their mothers conceptualized to be participants in a race towards the finish line of superior development but also racialized as Korean, non-Western, Oriental, “like Japan,” and at times, potentially as becoming “like American” children. Such complex, contentious racial logic was part and parcel of Cold War Korea. Even when the practice of bottle feeding enabled the baby to be imagined “autonomous” from the mother, childrearing was not reconceptualized as a labour that could be equally shared between fathers and mothers. Instead, it further compounded the mother’s “natural” role in infant feeding and childrearing with the requirement of knowing the various options in the market and being able to access it for the betterment of the child’s health, development, and happiness. Didactic childrearing texts, women’s magazines, and newspapers (often written by male writers) were directed at women as mothers and potential mothers. They were interpellated as consumers to choose not only between breast-feeding and infant formula but also to practice discernment in choosing certain brands over others in order to rear their children into healthy, superior babies

132 that would not fall behind in the developmental race of childhood. Mother-consumers were invited to partake in such a race and “win” through the market. The next chapter examines this propulsion towards “winning” in competition through school entrance exams and intelligence tests, which naturalized competition as a form of freedom that was deemed fundamental to any capitalist, liberal democracy. By psychologizing childhood, educators and psychologists in Cold War Korea contributed to deflecting the questioning of social, cultural, and economic inequalities inherent in liberal capitalism by naturalizing competition and pathologizing any social issues as reflections of the individual’s “success” or “failure” in adapting to society.

Chapter 4 Raising Emotionally Healthy and Competitive Children: Reproducing the Ideology of Capitalism through Psychology

In late 1955, a local Korean newspaper shared the Central Education Research Institute’s (CERI) research into the making of intelligence maturity testing for elementary school students.1 As a research institute established during the Korean War, “at the suggestion of UNESCO, UNKRA, and the American Educational Mission,” the CERI (Chungang kyoyuk yŏn'guso, March 1953– 1973) was at the forefront of devising several standardized tests for children, including math tests for children in upper-elementary school and those with behaviour problems.2 In the article provided by the institute itself, they claimed that: the main motivation for conducting this investigative research and making of the [intelligence maturity] test is because after liberation, under the new banner of lifestyle- centered or child-centered education, there were efforts of educational reform by first-line educators, their mental dedication as well as great time and financial loss, in order to pursue a change from totalitarian education to democratic education, but there were many points of outcomes that were not seen to be that effective.3

Not only did they judge South Korea’s efforts in education to be inadequate, but they stated that what was at stake was to make the effective move from “totalitarian education to democratic education,” necessary for any nation-state claiming democracy and freedom to be its foundation. Put differently, education was to make totalitarian subjects into democratic subjects, and intelligence maturity [chinŭng sŏngsuk] testing for elementary school students was the means by which the CERI sought to remedy the lack of effectiveness in implementing this shift. As the first research institute that enabled psychologists to work outside the university setting in South

1 The Standard of Elementary School Children’s Intellectual Maturity [Kungmin'gyo adong chinŭng sŏngsuk ŭi p'yojun],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, October 1, 1955, page 4. The article is identified to have been “provided” (chegong) by the Central Education Research Institute (Chungang kyoyuk yŏn'guso, 1953–1973). 2 “Central Educational Research Institute Celebrates 18th Founding Anniversary” [Ch'angsŏl 18tol mannŭn chungang kyoyuk yŏn'guso], Kyŏnghyang sinmun, March 9, 1977, 5. 3 “The Standard of Elementary School Children’s Intellectual Maturity [Kungmin'gyo adong chinŭng sŏngsuk ŭi p'yojun],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, October 1, 1955, page 4. The article is identified to have been “provided” (chegong) by the Central Education Research Institute (Chungang kyoyuk yŏn'guso, 1953–1973). Emphasis added. 133

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Korea, the CERI allowed collaboration between psychologists and educators.4 Not only did the institute assume that all children were on a linear developmental path towards intellectual maturity that could be numerically measured, it also claimed that the standardized testing of children’s intelligence, academic performance, and behaviour was indispensable to forming a democratic educational system and, by extension, a democratic Korea. “Totalitarian” was a socially and politically useful term, often used to assign negative connotations to something (and/or anything) including fascism, Nazism, and Communism. In an assessment of the CERI’s eighteenth founding anniversary, the institute’s early years were described as “a period in which [CERI] led the efforts to settle [ch'ŏngsan] Japanese education and to introduce and implement American educational system.”5 In the context of the institute’s own foundational goals, “totalitarian” referred to the educational system that was particular to colonialism under the Japanese Empire. Thus, the intelligence maturity test was part of the larger effort to critique and decolonize Korea’s educational system and to move towards a “democratic” one. However, the threat of totalitarian power in Cold War Korea increasingly took on the face of anti-communism over anti-colonialism. If “totalitarianism” was a term that allowed countries in Europe and North America to “[channel] the anti-Nazi energy of the wartime period into the postwar struggle with the Soviet Union,” then, in Korea, the term helped conflate and sublimate anti-colonial sentiments against Japan into anti-communism.6 The Soviet Union’s “secret police” was alleged to have been given “totalitarian rights” by the state.7 In a speech commemorating the Korean War in 1952, John J. Muccio, the first US Ambassador to South Korea, stated, “We’re fighting to establish a peaceful world where we can live well without fear, under the order of law, and without the totalitarian exercise of power.”8

4 The 50-Year History of the Korean Psychological Association [Han'guk simni hakhoe 50nyŏnsa], (Seoul: Kyoyuk Kwahaksa, 1996), 19. 5 “Central Educational Research Institute Celebrates 18th Founding Anniversary” [Ch'angsŏl 18tol mannŭn chungang kyoyuk yŏn'guso], Kyŏnghyang sinmun, March 9, 1977, 5. 6 Abbott Gleason, Totalitarianism: The Inner History of the Cold War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995). 7 “Let’s At Least First Read the Declaration of Human Rights [In'gwŏn sŏnŏn ŭl usŏn ilgŏrado poja],” Tonga ilbo, December 11, 1957, 1. 8 “Secure Victory, Then Repay to the Free World [Sŭngni rŭl hwakpo hago chayu segye e podap hara],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, June 27, 1952.

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Likewise, the term “democratic” was far from clear, often contrasted with its supposed opposite, “totalitarian.” As if to complete each other’s existence, they worked like the two sides of the same coin in the popular press, ranging on topics from politics to family issues. A “totalitarian group life” had only two choices: command and obedience; while a “democratic group life” was much more complex, requiring “a high exhibition” of various things, such as the “election system, rule of majority, tolerance of closely listening to the minority, embrace of opposite opinions, [and] the freedom of announcement.”9 The male head of the household under the extended family system could also be labelled totalitarian, which positioned the modern nuclear family, in contrast, a democratic one.10 Similarly, totalitarian parents only required their children’s “obedience to commands,” forcing them into formal behaviour, while “democratic parents permitted freedom to their children and tried to cultivate their children’s development.”11 It was clear that “democratic” was the modifier the CERI and society in general aimed for, condemning totalitarian characteristics, people, and systems. Exactly what parents, educators, and the government should do to cultivate democratic children, however, was far from clear. For educators like Chŏng Pŏmmo, who became a leader in devising psychological testing in education, freedom in the modern era also caused losses in people’s sense of security, leading children, in particular, to become anxious and to “grow as they please in their own world.”12 In other words, democratic children were a good thing, but freedom that was not qualified could also produce children who were “anti-social with criminal personalities.”13 “A totalitarian social atmosphere” was cited as one of the major reasons for social crimes.14 Thus, according to Chŏng, raising democratic children would allow them to become well-adjusted in society. How, then, should children be raised, educated, and disciplined to become democratic children? What attributes and emotions amounted to the development of “good personalities”

9 Anonymous, “The Disgrace of Cultured People [Munhwain ŭi such'i],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, June 11, 1955, 1. 10 Ibid. 11 Yi Kyusu, “School and Family: From a Teacher to Parents [Hakkyo wa kajŏng: Sŏnsaengnim ŭro put'ŏ puhyŏng ege],” Tonga ilbo July 11, 1955, 4. 12 Chŏng Pŏmmo, “Psychological Dissection of Social Crimes [Sahoe pŏmjoe ŭi simnijŏk haebu, ha],” Tonga ilbo, May 21, 1957, 4. 13 Ibid. 14 Ibid.

136 that would help them adapt to society? In addition to conceptualizing democracy in terms of liberal ideology, this chapter examines the role that psychology and education played in the production of the ideology of capitalism, a crucial facet of liberal democracy, through psychological testing and assessment of children’s intelligence and personality. It examines how the fields of psychology and education were complicit in co-producing the ideology of capitalism by deflecting the questioning of the materiality of liberal democracy through their focus on the seemingly non-material human mind and heart. Key moves of liberal democracy were to define itself in terms of political rights that excluded any questions about economic ideals and class inequalities, often couched in terms of liberal values of respecting individual rights and human desires. However, as this chapter shows, democracy was defined not only through liberal ideals of individuality and freedom but also through the ideology of capitalism which proffered competitiveness and desire for social upward mobility and achievement as a natural aspect of human nature and desire. Intelligence testing for children became an important Cold War project, preparing children to become part of the competitive system of education, as well as to accept the hierarchical ordering of skills, intelligence, and bodies through education as normative, apolitical, and progressive. In other words, children not only had to become freedom-loving, independent, and autonomous subjects but also be prepared to accept and support the capitalist system on which liberal democracy stood. Without fully acknowledging their work as deeply political, psychologists and educators relied on the rhetoric of science to examine, diagnose, and evaluate a range of issues related to children including mental health, academic performance, and social adaptability. Intelligence testing, as an important form of psychological testing, assumed the individual differentials of test subjects, which could, in turn, be hierarchically ordered according to scores that could be distributed among schools of differing prestige, costs, and sociocultural connections. These methods of psychological measurement were not simply a means to understand children’s intelligence levels, form educational curriculum and teaching materials, and to address individual students’ needs. In the context of educational reforms after the war, democratization of education was understood to be the fair distribution of educational opportunities according to individual

137 abilities, rather than class, gender, or family membership.15 It was not about all children attending school at all levels. In this endeavor, an objective means of measuring one’s ability was to be realized through intelligence testing, which was understood to be a project of transforming totalitarian education under the Japanese colonialism into a democratic sysem under the American guidance. Thus, the Ministry of Education commissioned the CERI and many psychologists and educators at the SNU to devise various tests that were later used in elementary and middle schools.16 The devising and usage of testing in educational realms (especially by educators who received higher education in the US) was a major means of increasing the prestige of and demand for psychological knowledge in 1950s South Korea. In particular, the educational system, which fully relied on entrance exams as a form of intelligence testing, brewed the types of competition and desires for achievement that were deemed a natural and necessary facet of capitalism. By naturalizing freedom as a human desire, the “freedom” to compete for entrance into prestigious schools and the desire to achieve upward social mobility was understood to be a crucial facet of realizing freedom. Freedom to compete through entrance exams was also important to the notion of equality, as every child was to be deemed “equal” through standardized tests and “equal” to participate in competition, without considering the immense inequalities behind test preparation, quality of schools, urban-rural hierarchies, and the class background of the creators of standardized tests. Relying on the assumption that intelligence testing was an impartial means of measuring individuals’ capabilities, critique against the inequalities produced in the education system could be curtailed by placing the blame on individual children and families for receiving low or inadequate scores, not on the systematic structures of liberal capitalism, which relied on relational hierarchies based on class, gender, sexuality, nationality, and race, among equally important categories of organizing power. Intelligence tests, in effect, served to preserve and reproduce the social capital based on class differences by denying and distancing its entanglements with family wealth. Moreover, the conceptualization of psychology as scientific contributed to naturalizing the ideological and political projects of intelligence testing and the intense focus on individual emotions.

15 Yi Kwangho, “Han'guk kyoyuk ch'eje chaep'yŏn ŭi kujojŏk t'ŭksŏng - 1945~55nyŏn ŭl chungsim ŭro,” Han'guk ch'ŏngsonyŏn yŏn'gu (March 1992): 138. 16 Yi Kwangho, “Han’guk kyoyuk ch’eje,” 138.

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In addition to intelligence testing, psychologists’ attention to children’s personalities and emotions, especially the “sense of inferiority complex,” contributed to individualizing the problem of inequalities into capitalist competition. Psychologists and educators were complicit in willfully overlooking their role in directly causing many of the phenomena they diagnosed to be problematic, such as a “sense of inferiority” or inferiority complex, parents’ anxieties regarding their children’s level of intelligence, test takers paying for information about test contents ahead of time, and children’s inability to do well in school, among many others. Educators and psychologists were absorbed in devising intelligence tests and were equally interested in diagnosing (and thus pathologizing) certain emotions and personality traits. As in Cold War America, emotional development was central in psychology’s conceptualization of a healthy childhood.17 The psychological problematizing of certain emotions allowed little to no room for critiquing the political, socioeconomic, cultural, or ideological workings of children’s beings and actions. Instead, it further focused the problem onto individual children and their parents and teachers, such that recovering “healthy” emotions and personality fell back onto their shoulders. Thus, healthy personalities and emotions, as psychology defined them, became a means to deal with such inequalities and resulting anxieties, normalizing them as a natural part of social life and not the shortcomings of capitalist competition. By placing any and all “normal” subjects within the purview of mental health (rather than illness), psychologists, educators, and other social commentators helped produce the ideology that it was individuals’ responsibility to socially adapt and stabilize one’s emotions, rather than to problematize the social, economic, and cultural structures of power. Thus, anger, aggressiveness, social withdrawal, and the like were stigmatized as individuals’ (and, by extension, their families’) failure. Characterizing the Cold War as primarily ideological made the role of psychologists increasingly important in conducting warfare. During the Korean War, psychological warfare, in forms ranging from air distribution of propaganda leaflets to interrogation of prisoners of war, was seen as central to rising victorious against the communist enemy.18 For social scientists

17 Marga Vicedo, “Cold War Emotions: Mother Love and the War over Human Nature,” in Solovey M., Cravens H., eds., Cold War Social Science (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 233–249; Marga Vicedo, The Nature and Nurture of Love: From Imprinting to Attachment in Cold War America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2013). 18 Yi Im-ha, Chŏk ŭl ppira ro mudŏr: Han'guk Chŏnjaenggi Miguk ŭi simnijŏn (Seoul: Ch'ŏlsu wa Yŏnghŭi, 2012); Monica Kim, Interrogation Rooms of the Korean War: The Untold History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2019).

139 working with the US Air Force, the Korean War served as the “first laboratory” to directly study the psychological and ideological nature of the Cold War.19 The continuation of the Cold War after the Korean War meant that the “war inside” was just as important, and psychology played a crucial role in expanding that interest.20 If the Cold War focus on winning hearts and minds was heightened through the experience of the Korean War, the human psyche rose as “the real enemy within” in the Cold War milieu, and Cold War anxieties and interests in the human mind extended beyond the Korean War into Cold War Korea.21 The psychologizing of children reflected South Korea’s complex transnational entanglements with American knowledge production in the new Cold War order. The cultural Cold War in the United States was marked by heightened intimacy between the military and the government in fields as varied as mathematics, engineering, regional studies, economics, and management of the national security apparatus.22 American political and military might also made possible the rise and prominence of an American-type psychology.23 In Cold War Korea, American psychologists and their scholarship were frequently and generously cited, utilized, and adapted by psychologists and educators in Korea. Many psychologists and educators received master’s and doctoral degrees in the US, increasing the prestige of American psychology as the psychology in Cold War Korea. Built on and enabled by their training within the Japanese

19 Kim Irhwan and Chŏng Chunyŏng, “Cold War Social Science and The Korean War as a Laboratory: American Social Scientists in American Airforce’s Project of Psychological Warfare [Naengjŏn ŭi sahoe kwahak kwa sirhŏmjang ŭrosŏ han'guk chŏnjaeng migonggun simnijŏn p'ŭrojekt'ŭ ŭi migugin sahoe kwahakcha tŭl],” Yŏksa pip'yŏng, (February 2017): 280–317. See also Chung Yong Wook, “Leaflets, and the Nature of the Korean War as Psychological Warfare,” The Review of Korean Studies 7, no. 3, (September 2004): 91–116. For a contemporary work produced after the US Airforce’s work in Korea, see John W. Riley, Jr. and Wilbur Schramm, The Reds Take a City: The Communist Occupation of Seoul, with Eyewitness Accounts (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1951). 20 Michael Shapira, The War Inside: Psychoanalysis, Total War, and the Making of the Democratic Self in Postwar Britain (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2013). 21 The phrase, “the real enemy within,” is from Susan L. Carruthers, Cold War Captives: Imprisonment, Escape, and Brainwashing (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009). 22 See in particular, the articles in Radical History Review 63 (Fall, 1995), which includes but not limited to the following: Michael A. Bernstein and Allen Hunter, “The Cold War and Expert Knowledge: New Essays on the History of the National Security State: Editors’ Introduction,” (1–6) and Stephen P. Waring, “Cold Calculus: The Cold War and Operations Research” (29–51). 23 Ellen Herman, “The Career of Cold War Psychology,” Radical History Review 63 (Fall 1995): 52–85; Ellen Herman, The Romance of American Psychology: Political Culture in the Age of Experts (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995).

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Empire, Korean and educational psychologists’ new relationship with American psychology was manifested in their widening interests in and utilization of psychological testing. In the context of transnational anti-communism, the perceived threat was not only the possibility of another hot war; it also demanded the keeping of hearts and minds from Communism, which made the prevention (rather than the cure) of people from turning towards Communism crucial. Re-establishing the heteronormative family and sexuality was widely understood to be crucial in the prevention of people falling prey to Communism.24 Likewise, even when communism was not explicitly invoked, anti-communism operated powerfully through other seemingly apolitical realms, such as bedrooms, children’s creativity, milk products, and educational testing of children. Within the context of the Cold War, psychology extended beyond the space of the individual human mind but also included social ills, academic interdisciplinarity,25 historical development, and the family in psychological terms. Especially after World War II (and certainly the Korean War, in the context of Korea), psychology was not restricted to the testing of military personnel or the severely ill as in previous decades. Rather, anyone and everyone could fall under the psychologist’s analytical eye through social and familial relations.26 Thus, the meaning of “inside” shifted to include not only the child as the object of study, but, increasingly, the parents, siblings, grandparents, relationships with friends and teachers, as well as the housing structure, financial stability, school grades, and reading materials. The “inside” seemed to exponentially expand into and simultaneously “outside” children’s minds. This chapter considers how psychology continued to be important, not only in war but as part of peace-making, the stability of life, and the advancement of society and nation. The relationship between psychology and war (hot and cold) continued during the Cold War by

24 Elaine Tyler May, Homeward Bound: American Families in the Cold War Era (New York: Basic Books, 1988); Robert Byron Genter, “An Unsual and Peculiar Relationship’: Lesbianism and the American Cold War National Security State,” Journal of the History of Sexuality 28(2): 235–262. For the Canadian case, see Mona Gleason, Normalizing the Ideal: Psychology, Schooling, and the Family in Postwar Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2019) and Mary Louise Adams, The Trouble with Normal: Postwar Youth and the Making of Heterosexuality (Toronto: University of Toronto, 1997). 25 For discussion on the centrality of the “open-mind” as an ideal in academia, manifested in the forms of “interdisciplinarity,” see Jamie Cohen-Cole, The Open Mind: Cold War Politics and the Sciences of Human Nature (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2014), ch.3. 26 Eva Illouz, Cold Intimacies: The Making of Emotional Capitalism (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2007), 25; Ellen Herman, The Romance of American Psychology: Political Culture in the Age of Experts (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995).

141 incorporating “normal people” into its professional realm.27 As Ellen Herman points out, the Cold War created a context in which psychological experts could “[pursue] questions about how to derail the development of militaristic aggressiveness, and more ambitiously, how to construct an alternative psychology, oriented toward peaceful economic development and political stability.”28 Raising emotionally healthy and competitive children was a vital project of orienting society towards economic development and political stability. In this sense, anti-communism was not about producing rhetoric about the enemy within or outside us, but it was about what “we” were to become and do to build a liberal democratic, capitalist society. This was an inward- looking project of anti-communism, which reaffirmed the political economy of the time as normative, unquestionable, and apolitical.

Measuring Individuality Through Intelligence Tests

For educators commenting on the direction of children’s growth and education in Korea after the Korean War, the development of individuality was often cited as an important goal. For Pak Ch'anghae, a university professor, the development of children’s “individual nature” (kaesŏng, 個性) was the basis of the development of family life, which was, in turn, the basis of the development of a society.29 With the embedded Chinese character 性, it was assumed that every child was endowed with such “individual nature” or individuality as a natural part of human- hood, so that the main project that remained was to cultivate, emphasize, and develop the potential for such “nature” to blossom throughout childhood and into adulthood. Likewise, Han Cheyŏng, the Dean of the College of Education at the SNU, identified each child’s individuality as the foremost factor in rethinking the nation’s educational system.30 Citing that “the society that we aim for is an ideal democratic society,” the equal rights of each individual, regardless of whether one is a child or an adult, was seen as fundamental in maximizing each individual’s

27 Ellen Herman, The Romance of American Psychology, ch. 9. 28 Ellen Herman, The Romance of American Psychology, 136. 29 Pak Ch'anghae, “Education that Oversees Children’s Individuality” [Ŏrini ŭi kaesŏng ŭl salp'yŏ chunŭn kyoyuk], Yŏwŏn, September 1956, 231–234. 30 Han Cheyŏng, “The Directions of Modern Children’s Education [Hyŏndae adong kyoyuk ŭi panghyang]” Yŏwŏn, September 1956, 229.

142 potential to participate in a democratic society as “good workers.”31 Thus, as Han reasoned, the equal rights of every individual were predicated on the idea that each individual is different and unique, calling for an education that would support and help develop this difference among individuals. The future of a good, democratic society, according to many, depended on such an endeavor to cultivate each and every child’s individual nature. One of the ways that psychology sought to measure individuality was through psychological testing, particularly of a child’s intelligence as an individual psychological trait. In Educational Child Psychology, Kwŏn Kiju, the Director of Seoul South Mountain Children’s Education, Protection, and Counseling Centre (Sŏul namsan sonyŏn kyoho sangdam so) equated “intellectual individuality” (chijŏk kaesŏng) to “intelligence” (chinŭng) in his chapter on “The Psychology of Individuality.”32 Defining intelligence in such a way, he concluded that intelligence could indeed be an object of research. In psychology’s claimed ability to measure such intelligence, he presented a table that differentiated children according to their IQ scores, where a score of 120 or more identified the test subject as a super child (uryanga), between 90 and 110 as an average child (pot'onga), and below 90 as an inferior child (yŏldŭnga), mentally handicapped (chŏngsin pagyaga), mentally challenged (chŏnŭnga), or below mentally challenged (chŏnŭnga iha). Intelligence testing sought to identify individual children as being different from each other. As an example of intelligence testing, he presented the example of the “national (kungmin) intelligence test” that was “famous” in the United States, as if to suggest that Korea should develop a similar test to gauge the level of its national intelligence).33 The focus on psychological testing reflected a major shift from the types of psychology that were conceptualized and practiced in colonial Korea to those of the US, applied after the Korean War. Psychology in Korea was a transnational project from its inception. The psychology that was practiced and taught at Keijō Imperial University in colonial Korea was closer to the German model of biological psychiatry and experimental psychology.34 Biological psychiatry “held that all mental illness was physical in origin and that mental defects and

31 Ibid. 32 Kwŏn Kiju, Educational Child Psychology [Kyoyukchŏk adong simnihak], 9th ed. (Seoul: Namsan Sonyŏn Kyoho Sangdamso, 1955), 147–166. 33 Ibid, 157. 34 Theodore Jun Yoo, It’s Madness: The Politics of Mental Health in Colonial Korea (California: University of California Press, 2016).

143 weaknesses had a strong hereditary component.”35 In other words, mental illness was also a problem of one’s organic body, more specifically nerves, genes, and the brain. Experimental psychology adhered to the scientific method of experiments with animals, such as albino rats, which were considered less complex than humans in the evolutionary biology, thus considered more controllable in terms of conducting scientific experiments. However, during the Korean War, many psychologists trained under the Japanese Empire were provided with opportunities to work with the US military. Remembered as two of ten “founders” of psychology in Korea, Ko Sundŏk and Yi Chinsuk (1908–1962) were two imperial- trained psychologists who gained their scholarly and professional distinction through South Korea’s deep entanglements with the US during the Cold War. During the Korean War, psychologists like Yi Chinsuk, who was educated at Keijō University, and Ko Sundŏk, who was educated in Japan, were commissioned by the US military to devise intelligence tests for selecting soldiers.36 In his psychology textbook, Simnihak kaeron (Introduction to Psychology), Yi Chinsuk revealed the growing influence of and “social demand” for the “knowledge of psychology” in various areas of the Korean War.37 It was during the Korean War that Yi began performing various intelligence tests on soldiers and prisoners of war, devising the Korean version of the Wechsler-Bellevue Intelligence Scale in 1953 with Ko Sundŏk, and Ko, who had two separate periods of study in the US from the late 1940s to 1950s, devised an intelligence test in 1956 that was used in the Korean military.38 Chŏng Pŏmmo, a well-known educator who also received education in the US, also participated in creating intelligence tests during the Korean

35 Ibid; Ruud Abma, “Madness and Mental Health,” in Jeroen Jansz and Peter van Drunen, eds., A Social History of Psychology, (MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2004), 111. 36 The 50-Year History of the Korean Psychological Association, 16. Yi Chinsuk also participated as one of 25 Korean researchers supporting the US Air University Human Resource Research Institute, which conducted research on the effect of Communism and psychological warfare in Korea from December 1950 to January 1951. See Kim Irhwan, Chŏng Chunyŏng, “Cold War Social Science.” 37 Yi Chinsuk, “Preface,” Simnihak kaeron (Seoul: Ŭryu munhwasa, 1955). 38 The 50-Year History of the Korean Psychological Association, 18–19. For discussion of Ko’s study in the United States, see Ch'a Chaeho, “The Process of Development and the Current State of Korean Psychology [Han'guk simnihak ŭi paljŏn kwajŏng kwa hyŏnjae],” Han'guk Sahoe Kwahak 27, no. 1–2 (2005): 173–174. Ko was the first Korean to receive a Ph.D. in psychology at Harvard University in 1954. See Haeyoung Jeong, Archaeology of Psychotherapy in Korea: A Study of Korean Therapeutic Work and Professional Growth (New York: Routledge, 2015), 72. See page 75 for reference to the Wechsler-Bellevue Intelligence Scale by Yi and Ko.

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War.39 The deepening of the relationship between the American military-knowledge regime and Korean psychology was reflected in such demand for and interest in the development and utilization of various psychological tests.40 The war provided the impetus for a shift from experimental psychology to applied psychology, and afterwards, schools became an important scene of the development and wide civilian utilization of intelligence testing. Within the contest of burgeoning interest in psychological testing, Ko Sundŏk translated Foundations of Psychology (1948) into the work Simnihak kaeron (1955) as part of the Ministry of Education’s first translation project. Foundations of Psychology (1948) was a foundational text in the field of psychology in the US, and Ko had studied under one of the editors while at Harvard University.41 Ko’s textbook was extensive in its scope and published in two separate volumes, and as someone who was studying under a Harvard University professor’s guidance at the time, Ko saw the text to be foundational and useful for Koreans and the field of psychology in Korea. Ko presented intelligence as one of many individual differences in which psychology took interest.42 The eighteenth chapter, “Individual Differences” (Kaeinjŏk ch'ai), along with the chapters on heredity, environment, and efficiency made up the last three chapters of Simnihak kaeron’s first volume. In reality, “Measuring Individual Differences” or “Psychological Testing of Individual Differences” would have been a more appropriate title. As the text stated, “In this chapter we shall see that many other methods have been devised to measure psychological capacities, abilities and aptitudes. They differ widely among themselves, but in principle they are all alike. They are called psychological tests” (emphasis in original).43 Not only did the text

39 The 50-Year History of the Korean Psychological Association, 19. 40 Ibid, 20. 41 Edwin Garrigues Boring, Herbert Sidney Langfeld, and Harry Porter Weld, Foundations of Psychology (Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Songs, Inc., 1948). Ko Sundŏk studied with and acknowledges his intellectual indebtedness to Edwin Garrigues Boring (1886–1968), a prominent psychologist at Harvard, in the translator’s preface to the Korean translation. 42 Edwin Garrigues Boring, Herbert Sidney Langfeld, and Harry Porter Weld, eds., Foundations of Psychology [Simnihak kaeron], (Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Songs, Inc., 1948), trans. Ko Sundŏk (Seoul: Mungyobu, 1955). While the English original was one large book, Ko split the translation into two separate volumes. 43 This text was taken directly from the original English text, Boring and et al. Foundations of Psychology, 393. In the original work by Boring and et al., this chapter is noted to have been prepared by Anne Anastasi of Fordham University, a detail that is missing in Ko’s translated text. The original work consisted of 25 chapters composed by 19 authors, and included the work of other prominent psychologists, such as Donald W. Mackinnon of the Institute of Personality Assessment and Research at the University of California, and Laurance Frederic Shaffer, who

145 assume that individuals were different, it also assumed that such differences among individuals could be measured through psychological tests. As Ko stated, psychological tests provided a means by which to know what differences existed but also for directing training and education: “the more individual differences we know . . . it became clear recently that we can train and instruct [people] more effectively.”44As the text argued: It is not sufficient to only know how different one person is from other people. We also need to know how different, in specific shapes, people are from each other. Only then, we can judge one person’s abilities relative to other people’s abilities. One trustworthy way to gain this knowledge was through measurement (ch'ŭkchŏng).45

Psychology did not stop at claiming that individual nature was important; it also claimed to be able to accurately and scientifically measure and implement results in training and education. Thus, psychological tests arose as an important aspect of measuring and knowing individual differences, especially as it pertained to children and their education. As Ko’s text stated, intelligence testing of young children (as young as newborns) “was proven to be extremely effective in discovering the individual differences of behaviour.”46 Not only that, “Children whose intelligence is superior are more convenient for direct psychological research than an adult genius,” making children an important object of efficient psychological study.47 In the process of transferring psychology’s focus from the study of sensations and perception to human individuals and their differences, children became all the more important, especially in the measurement of their “intellectual individuality” or intelligence as one manifestation of their individual differences. Spanning from children’s ability to make friends, interact with adults, and a myriad of other children’s behaviours, intelligence testing assumed psychology and psychologists’ ability to measure children’s abilities. In this endeavor, education actively took up the technologies of psychological testing to incorporate them into the ordering of children into different groups of abilities to perform in school. The Ministry of Education

authored The Psychology of Adjustment: An Objective Approach to Mental Hygiene (New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1936). 44 Ibid. 45 Edwin Garrigues Boring, Herbert Sidney Langfeld, and Harry Porter Weld, eds., Foundations of Psychology [Simnihak kaeron], (Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Songs, Inc., 1948), trans. Ko Sundŏk (Seoul: 1955), vol. 1, 410. 46 Simnihak kaeron, trans. Ko Sundŏk, vol. 1, 434. 47 Ibid, 470.

146 supported the creation of various tests and encouraged schools to use them as a means to provide democratic educational opportunities to all children. Going beyond simple school grades, educational assessment became an important form of psychological testing for educators. Yi Chinsuk, another psychologist known to have received training in psychological lab at Keijō University and to have been commissioned by the US military to devise intelligence testing for the selection of soldiers during the Korean War, also wrote a textbook including information on the devising and administering of psychological testing.48 In his psychology textbook, Introduction to Psychology (Simnihak kaeron), Yi included a chapter on “Intelligence Measurement” (Chinŭng ch'ŭkchŏng), part of which focused on intelligence testing (chinŭng kŏmsa).49 While he identified military testing (citing the famous example, ALPHA, used in World War I) as a group test, he gave intelligence testing of children as an example of individual testing (kaein kŏmsa, 個人檢査). A sample question included asking a seven-year old child to mentally count the number of fingers on both left and right hands, without allowing him or her to physically count their fingers.50 It could be read as a simple math question or as one easily answered if the child already knew that each hand had five fingers. For an eight-year-old, a sample question asked, “What do you do when life expenses are less than the money one makes?”51 It was a question that was laden with moral values and that normalized the capitalist system of spending money to be related to one’s income. As the difference between these two questions revealed, the questions assumed that by each year, a child’s intelligence should and did develop, and that such questions and problem tasks could measure children’s intelligence as individual differences. A child’s development of intelligence was to be pinned to their age, making age as the standard by which psychological testing was devised, and by which every

48 The 50-Year History of the Korean Psychological Association, 16. Yi Chinsuk also participated as one of 25 Korean researchers supporting the US Air University Human Resource Research Institute, which conducted research on the effect of Communism and psychological warfare in Korea from December 1950 to January 1951. See Kim Irhwan and Chŏng Chunyŏng, “Cold War Social Science and The Korean War as a Laboratory: American Social Scientists in American Airforce’s Project of Psychological Warfare [Naengjŏn ŭi sahoe kwahak kwa sirhŏmjang ŭrosŏ han'guk chŏnjaeng migonggun simnijŏn p'ŭrojekt'ŭ ŭi migugin sahoe kwahakcha tŭl],” Yŏksa pip'yŏng, February 2017: 280–317. 49 Yi Chinsuk, “Chapter 15: Intelligence Measurement” [Chinŭng ch'ŭkchŏng], Simnihak kaeron (Seoul: Ŭryu munhwasa, 1955), 215–240. 50 Ibid, 217. 51 Ibid, 218.

147 child was to be identified as below average, average, or above average in terms of their intelligence.

Freedom to Compete Through Intelligence Testing

Psychological testing was built on the faith that sets of questions could be carefully composed, answered by a large number of people, be tweaked if necessary, and then be “standardized” as an objective tool for scientific assessment of human psychology. Importantly, it assumed human psychology (intelligence, personality, aptitude, etc.) could be numerically measured. Chŏng Pŏmmo, a professor in SNU’s College of Education, claimed that “valid and accurate intelligence judgment” that was “researched scientifically and psychologically” was a product of the twentieth century.52 He added that such “valid, accurate” methods of “judging or measuring individual intelligence” were already being widely used in “advanced countries,” implying Korea was yet to follow in their footsteps.53 If Korea were to also become one of such “advanced countries,” according to Chŏng, then intelligence tests suitable for Koreans should also be devised. In this endeavor, Chŏng was certainly a leader; his own work, “Simple Intelligence Test” (kanp'yŏn chinŭng kŏmsa), devised in 1955, was the first of its kind in Korea.54 Upon his return to Korea in 1952, after receiving a master’s degree in psychology at Louisiana State University and a doctoral degree in education at University of Chicago, he played a key role in making the Department of Educational Psychology (closed in 1961) at SNU’s College of Education, which became a center of the development of psychological testing.55 In 1955, he published Educational Evaluation (Kyoyuk p'yŏngga), a seminal text and timely for the rapid expansion of public education in South Korea.56 In Educational Evaluation,

52 Chŏng Pŏmmo, “What Intelligence Test Is: Inaccuracy of Judgment is a Social Tragedy [Chinŭng kŏmsa ranŭn kŏt p'andan ŭi pu chŏng hwak ŭn sahoejŏk purhaeng (sang)]” Tonga ilbo, November 16, 1956, 4. 53 Ibid. 54 For reference to his “Simple Intelligence Test,” see Im Hyojin, Sŏn Hyeyŏn, and Hwang Maehyang, Educational Psychology [Kyoyuk simnihak] (Seoul: Hagi Sisŭp, 2016). 55 The 50-Year History of the Korean Psychological Association [Han'guk simni hakhoe 50nyŏnsa] (Seoul: Kyoyuk Kwahaksa, 1996), 22. 56 Chŏng Pŏmmo, Educational Evaluation [Kyoyuk p'yŏngga] (Seoul: Chungang Kyoyuk Ch'ulp'ansa, 1955). In this book, he thanked R. W. Tyler and B. S. Bloom at University of Chicago, where he received his M.A. and Ph.D. in education, and Bernard M. Bass at Louisiana State University, where he studied psychology. He also cited R. W. Tyler’s co-authored book, Appraising and Recording Student Progress (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1942) in references. For more discussion of Chŏng’s work, see Yu Sŏngsang, Yu Ŭnji, and Pak Inyŏng, “Comparison of the

148 he defined educational evaluation as “measuring the purpose of education,” which amounted to “measuring behaviour.”57 That is, educational evaluation was to be done by observing certain behaviour, such as one’s solving a math problem, to know whether one has the ability to solve math problems. An educator’s ability to analyze such student behaviour in order to evaluate the students’ learning required much “psychological analytical skill.”58 In fact, he stated, “psychological measurement (ch'ŭkchŏng) could be called the foundation (pon'gŏji, 本據地) of educational measurement (ch'ŭkchŏng).”59 In other words, psychology could hardly be separated from education, especially when it came to educational evaluation. The focus on psychological measurement reflected his strong background in psychology as well as the growing influence of psychology on education. However, for Chŏng, educational evaluation as a form of psychological measurement was not simply about enumerating students’ learning; it was “a method of understanding the human history” and “a tool of thorough human planning and social planning.”60 With extensive training in American universities, Chŏng demonstrated a deep, critical understanding of the necessity of evaluation but also the many pitfalls of educational evaluation that stopped only at parents asking their children for grades and teachers giving scores in school. For Chŏng, psychological testing was to be the basis of educational testing in order to carry out the task of “human planning and social planning” vital to Korea’s national reconstruction. Especially at a time when education was expanding extremely quickly after 1945,61 Chŏng envisioned intelligence testing as a means to resolve the “headache of the problem of school admission” and other educational issues.62 The relationship between educational assessment (specifically in the form of intelligence testing) and “human and social planning” was well explained in a newspaper editorial. In this

Educational Discourses in National Development between O Ch'ŏnsŏk and Chŏng Pŏmmo: A Review of Korean Education Development Theories,” [Kukka paljŏn e kwanhan O Ch'ŏnsŏk kwa Chŏng Pŏmmo ŭi kyoyuk paljŏn nonŭi pigyo: Han'guk ŭi kyoyuk paljŏn ron pip'yŏng], Asia kyoyuk yŏn'gu 17, no. 2 (2016): 1–32. 57 Chŏng Pŏmmo, Educational Evaluation, 12. 58 Ibid, 17. 59 Ibid, 18. 60 Ibid, 365. 61 Charles Kim, Youth for Nation: Culture and Protest in Cold War South Korea (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2017). 62 Chŏng Pŏmmo, “Chinŭng kŏmsa ranŭn kŏt: P'andan ŭi pu chŏnghwak ŭn sahoe chŏk purhaeng (ha),” Tonga Ilbo, November 7, 1956, 4.

149 editorial, Chŏng expressed his belief that “the correct analysis and judgment of what is called intelligence is something to be attended to in not only educational planning, but also in various social enterprises and activities.”63 Educational testing was not to be confined to the realm of education but, according to Chŏng, it was to fulfill wider social goals. He identified the misjudgment of children’s intelligence as “individual and social misfortune and loss,” and that misjudgment could results in, “rotting away a genius [child/person] by treating [him or her] as ordinary” or “binding a fool to college studies [of which he or she] is utterly incapable.”64 In other words, it was not simply enough to recognize a child as smart or not so smart, but for them to be “accurately known,” making proper intelligence testing useful “in terms of actual benefits and morality” in educational, industrial, business, and military organizations that involve “selection” (sŏnbal sŏnjŏng), “proper placement” (chŏkso paech'i), and education for specific purposes and goals.65 As reflected in the editorial’s subtitle, the inability to accomplish this was simply a “social misfortune.” Chŏng’s assessment revealed that the psychological testing developed for educational purposes in the 1950s gradually extended into industrial, military, and medical occuptations, beginning in the 1960s.66 Thus, intelligence testing as an important form of psychological testing was not only vital in education, but also laid the foundation for its becoming a tool of early discovery of human resources to be utilized, developed, and advanced for “human and social planning.” As Chŏng expanded in the editorial’s second part published the next day, the social significance of child intelligence testing was in the “discovery, development, and utilization” of intelligence as one of important “human resources” for “individual happiness and social welfare.”67 Especially since children were seen to have much potential for growth and change, intelligence testing of children, rather than adults, was deemed much more important in terms of personal, social, and national development. As Chŏng stated, “Actually, one main purpose of intelligence testing is to discover the type and range of possibilities permitted by individual’s

63 Chŏng Pŏmmo, “Chinŭng kŏmsa ranŭn kŏt: P'andan ŭi pu chŏnghwak ŭn sahoe chŏk purhaeng (sang)” Tonga Ilbo, November 6, 1956, 4. 64 Ibid, 4. 65 Ibid, 4. 66 The 50-Year History of the Korean Psychological Association, 20. 67 Chŏng Pŏmmo, “Chinŭng kŏmsa ranŭn kŏt (ha),” 4.

150 potential.”68 As a particular type of psychological measurement, Chŏng claimed that intelligence testing attempted to “scientifically, strictly measure all sorts of human abilities, grades, aptitude, interests, personality, and others.”69An important aspect of intelligence testing was the concept of standardization. The “Regular Intelligence Test” (ilban chinŭng kŏmsa) in circulation was said to be standardized to “children of about eighty thousand” in elementary schools, where the average score of ten-year-old children was twenty-eight points, sixty-two points for twelve- years-olds. Then, he introduced the concept of “mental age” (chŏngsin yŏllyŏng), so that a child of ten years should get twenty-eight or higher in order to be determined as mentally belonging to their appropriate mental age group, whereas a score of lower than twenty-eight could be grounds for questioning the appropriateness of the child’s intelligence to their age.70 Standardization enabled psychological testing to appear scientific and objective, eliding its ideological nature and naturalizing inequalities of wealth and social capital. It also made it a social tool since, through the process of standardization, one could assume intelligence testing to measure individual intelligence against others of a similarly defined group. As Chŏng mentioned, much work to standardize intelligence testing for children at the national level was deployed in the 1950s. In late 1955, the CERI published sample questions of intelligence testing for children in a newspaper. One question that claimed to test the child’s mathematical reasoning asked how many chestnuts were left if a squirrel first ate eight chestnuts and then seven chestnuts later. It accompanied an illustration of a squirrel next to a total of sixteen chestnuts in two rows.71 An example of linguistic intelligence was to choose the correct meaning of the verb “to boil” among a set of pictures: a bowl of hot food, a boiling kettle, and a smoking pipe.72 Other questions tested children’s memory, spatial reasoning, sequencing, and more, mentioning the American Louis L. Thurstone’s theory of intelligence as “most

68 Ibid, 4. 69 Ibid, 4. 70 Ibid, 4. 71 “Standard of Elementary Child’s Intelligence Maturity, Final [Kungmin'gyo adong chinŭng sŏngsuk ŭi p'yojun: wan],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun October 2, 1955, 4. 72 “The Standard of Elementary School Children’s Intellectual Maturity [Kungmin'gyo adong chinŭng sŏngsuk ŭi p'yojun],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, October 1, 1955, 4. This was the first part of this editorial. The second part was published the next day.

151 representative” of intelligence testing.73 For this particular standardizing process in intelligence tests, 4,020 students in grades two to four took the preliminary test in various provinces and cities for forty-five minutes. At another time, 4,470 first-grade students were mobilized to take the test as part of the standardizing process of intelligence testing. As the article declared, the “evaluation standard” was to be determined so that the test could be used from mid-October by “educational circles.”74 By the late 1950s, intelligence tests were widely used by primary and secondary schools in order to select students for admission. In March 1957, 17,465 students at thirty-three schools were counted to have signed up to take the middle school entrance exams when there were only 13,560 spots to be filled at sixty-two schools in Seoul.75 In other words, each middle school was recruiting an average of 218 students, while an average of 529 students per school had signed up for admission, leaving more than 300 students per school without the possibility of entering middle school. Indeed, the educational testing of children as an extensively used tool in 1950s Korea could be gleaned from many heated reports on entrance exams. As a newspaper article noted, the competition rate was 3:1, inevitably leaving a third of students as “failures” of the entrance exam, and of advancing into middle school. What was noted as “a distinct characteristic of this year’s exam” was that it was “generally focused on intelligence tests.”76 Two years later, out of nine subject areas to be tested as part of middle school entrance exams administered by the Seoul Board of Education, the test taken at the very end of the exam for twenty-five minutes was called “chonghap” (comprehensive), the purpose of which was assumed to be to conduct an intelligence test of potential middle school candidates.77 The highly competitive nature of entrance exams produced sensational newspaper headlines. Kyŏnghyang sinmun ran a series, “The Secret Room of Entrance Exams,” starting in

73 Louis L. Thurstone (1887-1955) outlined seven abilities: verbal comprehension, reasoning, perceptual speed, numerical ability, word fluency, associative memory, and spatial visualization. More than Thurstone’s actual theory of intelligence, what I find significant is the presence and referencing of many American scholars in both academic and popular writing on psychology and education. 74 “The Standard of Elementary,” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, October 1, 1955, 4. 75 “Entrance Exam for Middle School: All Commenced Yesterday [Chunghakkyo ŭi ipsi: Ŏje iljehi kaesi,” Tonga ilbo, March 7, 1957, 3. 76 Ibid. 77 “Within 2 Hours and 45 Minutes [Tu sigan 45pun inae ro],” Tonga ilbo, March 3, 1959, 1.

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February 1956, that interviewed teachers and principals who would be responsible for creating admission criteria to their respective middle schools.78 The main question posed by the article was, “Where will the main emphasis be?” and “In what methods will [the test] measure children’s intelligence?”79 In a survey published just ten days before test day, a particular school in Seoul mentioned “superior intelligence” as one of the criteria for passing the middle school entrance exam.80 Inferior intelligence even extended beyond failing the middle school entrance exam to being raised by overly cautious grandparents and parents, who did not allow their grandchildren or children to take risks and play freely during their childhood.81 During the entrance exam preparation period, school principals were often featured in newspapers. The principal of the SNU Middle School implored students who were graduating from elementary and looking to enter middle school to choose a “middle school befitting your ability!”82 He wished his young readers to take advantage of “this opportunity of survival of the fittest (usŭng yŏlp'ae, 優勝劣敗)” by “displaying one’s ability at the highest degree” to “acquire the laurel of victory.”83 Of course, despite such an uplifting, encouraging message, the reality that he and his readers knew was that not every graduating student from elementary school would win in this “survival” competition and rise victorious — not everyone would enter middle school, especially one that was as prestigious as the SNU Middle School. He especially advised his readers to choose a school that was appropriate for their own abilities. If they failed to do this, he reasoned, they will “have to have servile life, always in the midst of a sense of inferiority.” Not only that but aiming too high would be equivalent to “sowing the seeds of evil

78 Anonymous, “The Secret Room of Entrance Exams: Visits to City’s All-Boys and All-Girls’ Middle Schools [Ipsi ch'ulje pimilssil: Sinae nam yŏ chung hakkyo t'ambang (1)],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun. February 9, 1956, 3. 79 Ibid. 80 “Our Middle School Entrance Exams Are Like This [Uri chunghak ŭi ipsi nŭn irŏk'e],” Tonga ilbo, February 22, 1959, page 1. For another mention of “superior intelligence” as a requirement to enter middle school, see “Kwigyo ŭi ipsi pangch'im ŭn? Sinae chunghak kyojang tŭl ŭn marhanda,” Tonga ilbo, February 7, 1960. 81 Children with Dull Motor Nerves [Undong sin'gyŏng i tunhan ŏrini],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, May 17, 1961, 4. 82 Son Chŏngsun, “A Middle School Appropriate to Your Skills! To the Children of the Elementary School Graduating Class [Sillyŏk e mannŭn chunghak ŭl! Kungmin'gyo chorŏp pan ŏrini ege],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, February 1, 1959, 1. 83 Ibid.

153 that will eat away a wholesome society.”84 Yet, he concluded with another inspirational message: “Your ability is the key to success; effort is the driving force for this. In this crucial period that will determine [your] success and failure…I pray that you will realize your wishes.”85 Although this principal wanted to offer uplifting yet realistic advice to his readers and family, it was clear that he envisioned entrance exams as a tough but necessary part of education. He identified entrance exams as a gateway and opportunity for graduating elementary students. As he himself described, however, the entrance exams were also an opportunity for schools and teachers to determine who were the “winners” and “losers” in this competitive gatekeeping system of education that he called “survival of the fittest.” By advising families and students not to aim “too high,” he assumed they should know their own place in society, and that failing to do so would be their own fault for incorrect assessment of their child’s academic capability, socioeconomic status, and potential social success. He naturalized the competitive gate-keeping system and took no issue with the fact that not every elementary student could enter middle school. Democratic equality was not, therefore, about enabling all children to attend schools at all levels, but rather the ideology of equal opportunities to be taken by children in order to be judged “equally” on their abilities as evidenced by intelligence test scores. He presented this as an opportunity for them and not an obstruction to further education, a source of unhappy children and families, or the road to ruining one’s health due to exam preparation. As such, education was not simply a humanist endeavor but a fundamental way to integrate children into the capitalist ideology of competition, hard work, and hierarchies rendered as opportunities. The differences measured through educational testing also epitomized democratic ideals of the “freedom” to desire better things for one’s children. In a multiple-person interview by a local newspaper, “Will School Differences Disappear?” Paek Hyŏn'gi, the head of the CERI, doubted the possibility of completely eliminating the differences in school quality “in a democratic society (minju sahoe) with free competition.”86 Kim Pongin, an elementary school principal, stated that “the desire to go and send [children] to a good school is human nature,” naturalizing the desire for social upward mobility without considering the social and economic

84 Ibid. 85 Ibid. 86 “Will School Differences Disappear? [Kwayŏn hakkyo ch'a ŏpsŏjilkka?],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, November 26, 1961, 2.

154 contexts in which such demands and desires were created.87 As Ko’s translation stated, “Children demand not only safety but also freedom,” suggesting active competition through entrance exams as reflective children’s own desire for freedom as well.88 In other words, freedom was defined as the freedom to desire competition and achievement through entering into prestigious schools from a young age. Thus, although most prestigious schools were regionally focused in Seoul, competition was presented as a form of universal human desire for freedom, a rhetoric which worked to relieve itself of any political burden. The interviewees were fully aware of the widespread practice of taking private lessons (kwaoe) to meet the demands of such educational testing, which required families to mobilize financial, social, and familial resources for their children to successfully take and pass the entrance exams — and yet, the idea of competition through entrance exams was understood to embody the spirit of freedom and social mobility deemed important to democracy and equality, and not the creation of class inequalities and conflicts. What was vital in this debate was that the cultivation of the “freedom” to desire competition and high achievement was to begin from a very young age, so that capitalist competition and achievement would become the social force of national development. By naturalizing the desire for social success and upward mobility, such rationales for intelligence testing of children contributed to creating and heightening hierarchical relationships and making competition in schools seem a natural part of democracy, freedom, and individuality. Intelligence testing was also open to and encouraged for parents, particularly mothers, to conduct on their own children. A journal article, for instance, provided a simple “intelligence test” questionnaire for mothers to conduct on their own children who were about to enter primary school.89 The author immediately capitalized on the parents’ desire for extraordinary children by beginning the article, “What the intelligence test aims for is less to discover superior children than in the purpose to detect children of so-called low intelligence, who cannot be dealt only with ordinary education.”90 The professed purpose was to provide better education to children of

87 Ibid. 88 Edwin Garrigues Boring, Herbert Sidney Langfeld, and Harry Porter Weld, eds., Foundations of Psychology [Simnihak kaeron], (Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Songs, Inc., 1948), trans. Ko Sundŏk (Seoul: 1955), vol. 2, 437. 89 Yi Sugyŏng, “A Pre-school Intelligence Test that Mothers Could Do” [Ŏmma ka hal su innŭn iphak chŏn ŭi chinŭng t'esŭt'ŭ], New Family [Sae kajŏng], March 1957, 30–32. 90 Ibid, 30.

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“low intelligence,” but it was also an exclusionary system that stigmatized children from a very young age by dividing children into categories of “high” and “low” intelligence. The logic of development as following linear stages of growth was well captured by the author’s metaphor of a mother literally dragging her child in a mother-son joint race at “school Olympics,” even though the child clearly could not follow the rate of other mother-son competitors in the race. Such a race could also result in the social illness of an inferiority complex, the “development of abnormal (pyŏngjŏk, 病的) personality” to which one author tried to offer some preventative remedies.91 In 1950s Korea, intelligence tests, a type of psychological test, quickly became the basis of school entrance exams, used by schools and encouraged to be used as a self-diagnosing tool for families. Since intelligence was understood to be at the core of individual differences among children, entrance exams assumed intelligence tests to be vital in detecting and developing children’s individual capabilities, potential, and interests to be channeled into social assets. From the mid-1960s, the Ministry of National Defense’s Military Personnel Selection Committee, the National Railroad Administration, and other government and industrial organizations created departments and programs devoted to the selection and evaluation of potential and existing soldiers and employees through the development and utilization of intelligence, aptitude, and personality tests.92 Even when psychologists, school principals, and other social commentaries on intelligence tests realized some of the potential danger of intelligence tests, blame was not placed on the education system or the tests. Rather, the problem was individualized onto parents and children who had set unrealistic goals, resulting in unhealthy personalities, and, especially, a sense of inferiority.

Healthy Personalities and Emotions, and the Production of the “Sense of Inferiority”

According to a newspaper report based on the lecture, “What is mental hygiene?” by a medical doctor and professor at SNU, mental hygiene was thus defined: “when an individual fails to

91 Yu Chinsŏk, “The Prevention and Cure of the Inferiority Complex [Yŏldŭnggam ŭi yebang kwa ch'ŏri],” New Family [Sae kajŏng], March 1955, 23–27. 92 Hanʼguk Simni Hakhoe 50-yŏnsa Pʻyŏnchʻan Wiwŏnhoe, Hanʼguk Simni Hakhoe 50-yŏnsa (Kyoyuk Kwahaksa, 1996), 137–139.

156 adapt (chŏgŭng) to the social environment, this should be seen as coming from a mental deficiency, and those people can all be seen as a type of psychopath.”93 According to the article, there were estimated to be ninety thousand “delinquent boys and girls” (pullyang sonyŏn sonyŏ), and classifications ranged from “explosive personality,” “sexual perverts,” and “alcohol addicts.”94 The inability to adapt or assimilate to the existing social environment was seen as the basic source and definition of a lack of mental hygiene, thus opening the possibility of being labeled a psychopath or a “mental disease patient” (chŏngsin pyŏng hwanja). According to this, a lack of conformity or perceived inability to adapt to the existing structures of society, culture, economy, and politics was what defined the lack of mental hygiene. Thus, one of the most crucial roles of parenthood (especially motherhood) and educational policy was to transform supposedly uncivilized, primitive, wild, anti-social (pan sahoe chŏgin) children into social beings, meaning beings that fit into preexisting norms and structures set by adults. As the article warned, raising children as “jade leaves on gold branches” (金枝玉葉的), meaning persons of royal birth, was a dangerous “educational method” that could result in children with a sense of inferiority because they were not able to adapt and instead “lost oneself” once they left the safety net of the family.95 In contrast, “excessively stern education” could also result in a child who would “lose oneself,” ending also with a sense of inferiority. Lastly, educating based on feelings would produce a child with “a twisted and easily angered personality.” In order to prevent these pitfalls of incorrect educational methods by families, the article suggested “parents should receive the trust of the child, the parents should be amicable, family should be healthy, and should care for child’s mental health within a harmonious environment of the family.”96 In various social, medical, and educational commentaries on children, the “sense of inferiority” (yŏldŭnggam) was widely used. It was a psychological term that extended beyond the field of psychology, as psychology increasingly came to include mental health, rather than

93 “What is Mental Hygiene? [Chŏngsin wisaeng iran muŏsin'ga],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, November 21, 1960, 4. Myŏng Chuwan was the name of the doctor cited in the article, although the article was not directly written by Myŏng. 94 Ibid. 95 “What is Mental Hygiene?” [chŏngsin wisaeng iran muŏsin'ga], Kyŏnghyang sinmun, November 21, 1960. 96 Ibid.

157 mental illness, under its study.97 In March 1955, Ko Sundŏk’s writing on “the sense of inferiority” (yŏldŭnggam, 劣等感) appeared as part of a series of special feature articles in a Christian family magazine, New Family (Sin'gajŏng). In order to explain the feeling of inferiority, he began with an anecdote of a girl (少女) attending her first-ever gathering for both men and women and ending up with a feeling of inferiority (劣等感).98 The turning point in the emergence of such a feeling was her sudden, unexpected realization that one of her socks had a large hole, at which point “her heart leaned” towards that one sock hole in her heel, completely ruining her social experience. All her attention was on that sock hole, and she began finding other flaws in her appearance, conduct, and words.99 He defined the “feeling of inferiority” as “an ‘emotional state’ (chŏngsŏjŏk in maŭm ŭi sangt'ae) of the heart where one ‘knows’ that oneself is not reaching or has failed in achieving the desires that one has, or the level of aspiration, and consider it to be embarrassing, fearful, and anxious.”100 As Ko explained, the problem was that the subject could not simply accept one’s flaws. As he further explained, not everyone responded with embarrassment, fear, and anxiety regarding their flaws, thus, the issue was with how the young woman responded to her discovery of a sock hole. If severe, a simple, isolated feeling of inferiority could develop into an “inferiority complex” (yŏldŭng k'omp'ŭrekssŭ). As Ko explained, “psychologists problematize the feeling of inferiority actually because it is the inferiority complex that infects all of a person’s actions to become emotional and affective.”101 The seriousness of such an emotional state lay in its potential to flare into extended temporal and spatial experiences and to become a long-lasting complex (k'omp'ŭrekssŭ). If this particular girl was able to overcome her shame, surprise, and failed expectations, then such a feeling of inferiority could be contained to that one instance. However, if as a result of the first instance, she could no longer socialize with men, attend gatherings, and

97 Ellen Herman, The Romance of American Psychology: Political Culture in the Age of Experts (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995). Inferiority complex is not specifically discussed in this book, but she examines the shift from mental illness to mental health in the aftermath of World War II. 98 Ko Sundŏk, “What is the Feeling of Inferiority?” [yŏldŭng kam iran muŏsin'ga], New Family [Sae kajŏng], March 1955, 6–8 and 4. 99 Ibid, 4. 100 Ibid, 6. 101 Ibid, 7.

158 stop worrying excessively about her clothes, then it could transform into an inferiority complex.102 The coupling of the term yŏldŭng kam with the term k'omp'ŭreksŭ (or other hangul variations of the word “complex”) denoted that such an emotional state was not simply temporary, fleeting, and ephemeral, but rather serious, long-lasting, and impactful for her whole personhood. The inferiority complex could not be reduced to a transient emotional state. As such, the frequent and intense invocation of the feeling of inferiority worked to privatize various social, cultural, political, and economic problems into an individual’s mind (and one that was often gendered). In order to address why feelings of inferiority arose, Kim Kihwan, a professor at Ewha Women’s University, described the human heart as “a bundle of demands that requires satisfaction, balance, and stability.”103 For Kim, it was simply human desire to seek security, especially emotional stability. Kim divided situations where a feeling of inferiority arose out of physical attributes (such as a child’s inability to ride a bicycle or differences in physical strength) and psychological attributes ranging from the wealth, race, and personality to one’s school grades. Kim identified it as stemming from one’s realization of hierarchical differences between oneself and one’s social relations, perceived to be superior. Kim did not problematize the unequal relations of power or how the system of entrance exams (i.e., intelligence testing) in particular could foster such a feeling of inferiority in both children and their family members. Instead, he focused on human perception as the central problem. To many psychologists and educators, the problem did not reside in the myriad of factors that created hierarchies, but in the disturbance of an individual’s psychological stability. If it was basic human desire to seek security in life, as Kim argued, the feeling of inferiority was seen as an emotional state in which “emotional stability” (chŏngsŏjŏk anjŏng) was disturbed. Kim Sŏngt'ae, a graduate of SNU’s psychology department, sought to explain the various behaviours one could expect with a feeling of inferiority.104 According to Kim, the “emotional chaos” could generate temporary or possibly long-term disability, such as stuttering. More precisely, it was assumed that an individual allowed external factors to stir one’s emotional stability. In other

102 Ibid, 7. 103 Kim Kihwan, “Why Does the Feeling of Inferiority Arise? [Yŏldŭnggam ŭn wae saenggina],” New Family [Sae kajŏng], March 1955, 9–11 and 45. 104 Kim Sŏngt'ae, “What Kinds of Behaviour Does the Feeling of Inferiority Make One Have? [Yŏldŭnggam ŭn ŏttŏhan haengdong ŭl hage hana], New Family [Sae kajŏng], March 1955, 12–15.

159 words, the problem did not lie in the class inequalities or physical disabilities, but rather how an individual chose to respond and deal with them. In introducing and defining the term “inferiority complex” to the wider public, a local newspaper explained, “Like in the case of individuals, it is a common tendency that one can see among citizens (chumin) of a defeated or colonized nations, and it is a consciousness of dependence on others due to a loss of autonomy (chajusŏng).”105 According to this statement, then, all Koreans were prone to inferiority complexes due to their shared history of colonialism. Alternative causes, however, included something as innocuous as being a left-handed. Citing a study of five hundred children by two Americans for authority, a newspaper explicated that if a child does not become right-handed as they grow up, usually in a year and half after birth, then that was a sign of “lack of parents’ attention.”106 Both boys and girls could develop a feeling of inferiority from being left-handed. However, as the article presented, the problem was worse for girls to the point that “because they’re embarrassed, they will avoid going to gatherings, and at times feel psychological discomfort when serving guests.”107 Furthermore, the article argued that the issue needed to be corrected before the use of left hand became a habit, to avoid the development of more serious problems such as stammering and abnormal personality. Not only was the dominant use of the left hand stigmatized, it was also presented as a problem specific to the female gender that needed to be addressed from young years. The sense of inferiority was a common way of understanding children and young people’s emotional development and socialization as they increasingly spent more time outside the home. The production of the child’s personality and behaviour as conditioned and shaped by everyday family interactions was an important political project of the Cold War. As Tara Zahra demonstrates, the psychoanalytical understanding of the “environment” in the post-World War II context was “not the environment of the city, the workplace, the street, or the market,” but rather, it was “the individual’s relationships with his or her parents in childhood.”108 This narrow

105 “Inferiority Complex” [Inp'eriorit'i k'ŏmp'ŭreksŭ], Kyŏnghyang sinmun May 5, 1955, 4. 106 Anonymous, “Children’s Habits: Causes of and Remedies for Left-Handedness [Ŏrini ŭi sŭpkwan: Oenson chabi ŭi wŏnin kwa kyojŏng pŏp],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, June 3, 1955, 4. 107 Ibid, 4. 108 Tara Zahra, The Lost Children: Reconstructing Europe’s Families after World War II (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2011), 71.

160 definition of environment as family, especially the child’s past relationships with family members, effaced the possibility of radical changes to the political, social, cultural, and economic contexts, demanding the child properly adjust, adapt, and ultimately conform.109 By rendering the child’s (mis)behaviour as a result of the aberrant behaviour of family members and their familial past, anxieties regarding children’s personhood were produced in psychological terms. Such a mode of understanding and explaining one’s behaviour as personality, such as one having an inferiority complex, was produced not necessarily by analyzing one’s dreams and reading of the subconscious but by probing into the family relationships of one’s past as a child. The root cause of children’s pathologies, according to this logic, lay in the family. In other words, more emphasis was placed on the familial and social conditioning, bringing children up as “free” adult subjects, and the child’s own ability (or lack thereof) to overcome the feeling of inferiority and manage their emotions, rather than analysis of potential socioeconomic causes. The responsibility of dealing with an inferiority complex fell on children and the adults around them, assuming an “equality” of individuals to cope with and adjust into various social contexts.110 One of the categories of behaviour that was seen to result the feeling of inferiority was a “justification mechanism.”111 As a form of “self-explanation” and the “protection of one’s pride,” justification of one’s failures and shortcomings was explained to be one common defense mechanism by which to manage or cope with a feeling of inferiority. However, it was not presented to be so benign or positive. Kim asked, “How many complainers who blame the government and the society do we have? Or aren’t there those that turn the blame of one’s own failure to fate?” and “Isn’t it also funny to watch an athlete that hit an ‘out’ in a tennis match, look at and touch his racquet?”112 Without realizing the class-based concern captured vividly in someone playing tennis or, indeed, watching a tennis match, Kim’s rhetorical questions revealed his own socioeconomic position and class-based concerns.

109 Ibid, 71. 110 Eva Illouz, Cold Intimacies: The Making of Emotional Capitalism (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2007), 17–18, argues that “equality” and “cooperation” assumed in psychology were two key concepts in producing new corporate social relations. 111 Kim Sŏngt'ae, “What Kinds of Behaviour,” 14. 112 Ibid.

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Development of “escape mechanisms” and “strong self-consciousness” were related to the justification mechanism in that a subject with a feeling of inferiority not only blamed other people, society, and government but actively avoided society, interpersonal interactions, and relationships. Some of the emotions and behaviour exhibited, according to Kim, were fear, insecurity, shyness, avoiding competition, avoiding people, and constantly checking one’s appearance and clothing.113 Afraid of failure and criticisms, such a person “if [they] had to face competition, [they] would make sure to find a match against whom [they are] confident to win.”114 As such, a feeling of inferiority vis-à-vis others could be a common to everyone but, depending on one’s “responses” to such feelings, it could become problematic, abnormal, or even pathological. By this logic, capitalist competition and winning or losing in that competition were naturalized, and the burden fell on individuals to constantly face and deal with it, rather than to withdraw or socially critique the competitive system. Physical disabilities were seen to contribute to complex psychological problems. As a professor of the College of Education at SNU and a parent of a daughter with polio, Chu Chŏngil identified not only delayed “intellectual development” (chijŏk pulgu) as a form of “mental disability” (chŏngsinjŏk pulgu) but also “emotional (chŏngsŏ chŏk) or social (sahoe chŏk) disability.”115 The latter category, according to Chu, was “considered important by psychologists” and included children who “have developed twisted character (insŏng),” were “extremely passive,” and were “owners of an anti-social personality (sŏnggyŏk)” that made them unable to have “smooth relationships” with others in society.116 Throughout the article, Chu discussed physical disability, such as blindness and deafness, but often conflated physical disability with intellectual, emotional, and social disabilities. For example, children with physical and emotional disabilities could also become “socially slow children,” such as children who frequently fought with other children, were aggressive, unable to make friends, harboured feelings of inferiority, or felt like “social failures.” Chŏng Pŏmmo also described students “who play alone,” steal, and experience other school-related social problems as needing the attention

113 Ibid, 15. 114 Ibid, 14. 115 Chu Chŏngil, “The Education of Disabled Children [pulgu adong ŭi kyoyuk],” New Family [Sae kajŏng], October 1955, 12–15. 116 Ibid, 13.

162 of both teachers and parents in order to “improve” their personalities.117 Any child, therefore, despite a lack of any visible physical disability, could possibly become “socially disabled” if they could not “fit into” society, especially in school and among peers. Despite such a conflation, Chu hoped that even a “permanently disabled child” could possibly grow into an adult “with a personality without a feeling of inferiority.”118 Withdrawing from society (whether due to physical, mental, or other issues) was problematized to be more serious than mere physical disability. Perhaps the more “hopeful” aspect of the “social disability” was that Chu believed it was preventable. This optimism in the human ability to prevent social disability among children, however, was highly gendered. Like Chŏng Pŏmmo, who viewed personalities as fully developed by the age of six, Chu saw infanthood (yŏng’agi) and early childhood (yuagi) (usually the first six years of life) as fundamental in children’s emotional development. For Chu, the heaviest responsibility to ensure positive influence during these first six years of a child’s life fell on the mother: From young years, children who grow by receiving enough parents’ love, especially the mother’s love, and go through satisfactory experience do not have that many chances to develop strange personalities (sŏnggyŏk). Consequently, it is said that an understanding and warm family atmosphere is helpful for children’s mental hygiene.119

As such, mothers were seen as what Herman called, “personality factories” by educators and psychological experts.120 In other words, “family” and “parents” could create both abnormal and normal personalities among their children but, often times, that “family” responsibility fell specifically on women as mothers. Kim Kihwan, a professor at Ewha Women’s University, also focused on mother-child relationships in childrearing, describing mothers as being entrusted with the prevention of conflicts within their children. In a local paper, Kim explicitly called on mothers of school-age

117 Chŏng Pŏmmo, “Is Personality Reform Possible? [Sŏnggyŏk kaejo nŭn kanŭng han'ga (ha)],” Tonga ilbo, June 6, 1956, 4. 118 Chu Chŏngil, “The Education,” 15. 119 Chu Chŏngil, “The Education,” 15. 120 Ellen Herman, The Romance of American Psychology, 137.

163 children to “cultivate a sense of independence [in children] through love and understanding.”121 Echoing Chu’s invocation of the understanding, warm family environment, Kim wrote to mothers (not fathers) of the importance of family “love and understanding,” especially for children just entering school. As Kim described, the problems he foresaw among schoolchildren stemmed from the sudden “change of mind” that was demanded by the new educational environment at school, so different from the “free lifestyle from play-centeredness at home.”122 The result of this shift in environment, according to Kim, was an anxiety and un-freedom of actions, a sense of coercion from peers, and dislike of school. At first glance, the problem may not seem to apply to the mother-child dyad relationship at home but rather to the much bigger, group setting of peers and the authority figure of the teacher. Contrasted with the concept of “totalitarian parents” that could ruin a child’s school life, here, Kim saw the family, especially mothers, as an environment of nurturing, love, and freedom that were soon to be curtailed in primary school. However, the fact that he directly addressed mothers and saw the need to call for their love and understanding indirectly accused many mothers to not provide such motherly love and understanding that were deemed necessary in raising school-aged children into independent, socially capable beings. Striking a fine balance of competition among children also fell on the parents and the children as individuals. Sŏ Myŏngwŏn, a professor of education at Ewha Women’s University, outlined some common causes and resulting problems of poor mental health: If [one does] not receive parents’ love, then one will hate others; if too much competition is forced upon one, then the risk of having a feeling of inferiority will increase; if there is no economic stability, a feeling of insecurity will occur; if one does not know one’s own abilities but have high ideals, then one will become corrupt at the end of disappointment; and if one is too morally naïve, a conflict with instincts will bring about character destruction.123

However, in terms of prevention and resolution, Sŏ did not move on to critique parents who lacked love for their children, the society that demanded a perhaps unbearable amount of competition, the economic structure that did not bring economic stability, the society that made

121 Kim Kihwan, “School Children and Mothers [Ch'wihak adong kwa ŏmŏni],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, February 20, 1955, 4. 122 Kim, “School Children,” 4. 123 Sŏ Myŏngwŏn, “Mental Hygiene [Chŏngsin wisaeng],” Kyŏnghyang sinmun, October 7, 1956, 4.

164 people dream too high. Instead, he advised the individual to become “a person who can adapt well” because of the “need to build a society where these types of people have gathered and are well adapted.”124 In other words, instead of critiquing the political, social, and economic structures that foster unhealthy mental states, Sŏ advised his readers to “proactively love neighbours, become optimistic about this current world, set goals that are fitting to one’s abilities, and to reach those goals.”125 In discussions of prevention and treatment (ch'ŏri) in a family magazine, Yu Chinsŏk also advised similar prevention and “treatment” strategies for parents and teachers. Among these, parents were not to be critical of their children, even “when they were comparing their children’s abilities with others,” to “not set success goals too high,” and to “abandon selfish and passive thinking, behaviour, and habits.”126 Instead of being able to critique the reasons children might develop a feeling of inferiority through school and other social settings (including the family), the responsibility of prevention and treatment fell back on parents primarily. All the problems, it seemed, resided within an individual; all the resolutions were also to be found within the individual. As such, the individualizing of “unhealthy” emotions worked to prevent any social critique of the ideology of capitalism that naturalized competition and inequalities in education and class. Individual critiques of anything outside oneself were, indeed, problematized and stigmatized as unhealthy responses that could quickly develop into a feeling of inferiority.

Conclusion

In Cold War Korea, the health of one’s psychology became equated with learning, adapting, and conforming to socially acceptable behaviour and relationships. The transnational project of psychology and its close ally, education, increasingly made use of psychological testing as its tool of scientific/objective assessment, discovery, and utilization of human resources. Especially as a tool of assessing individual differences, intelligence testing subjected children to the power of psychological evaluation to demarcate socially worthy subjects fit for a capitalist, anti- communist society. It operated as yet another tool to emphasize the importance of children’s

124 Ibid. 125 Ibid. 126 Yu Chinsŏk, “The Prevention and Treatment of the Feeling of Inferiority [Yŏldŭnggam ŭi yebang kwa ch'ŏri],” New Family [Sae kajŏng], March 1955, 27.

165 individuality as a desirable psychological trait to be cultivated in order to move South Korean society towards liberal, capitalist democracy. Moreover, it supported the ideology of liberal capitalism in the form of freedom to participate in capitalist competition, the desire for (though not necessarily realization of) upward social mobility and wealth, and the idea that individuals were responsible for their own failure, shortcomings, and losses and successes in society. In particular, psychology’s contributions to the conceptualizing of the feeling of inferiority as a socially unhealthy and undesirable personality trait overlooked its own role in heightening the sense of individual differences through testing (especially through the conflation of entrance exams and educational evaluation with intelligence testing deemed scientifically feasible, accurate, and dependable, if done properly). Competition among children and families through entrance exams was rendered as a democratic value, willfully overlooking socioeconomic, urban-rural, and other structural differences as always already creating an unequal playing field. Psychological testing further demarcated individual differences as having deeply hierarchical moral and social significance. Similar to the naturalizing of the “universal” desire to give children their own rooms, buy high quality literature, and feed the “best” formula to infants, the highlighting of differences was naturalized in terms of human nature, and was deemed normative to the logic of “free competition” considered critical in the development of a free, democratic society. Despite the many mechanisms which produce and maintain the inequalities of capitalism, the fantasy of universal attainment of wealth and social success was reproduced in Cold War Korea.

Epilogue Babies Born During the “Good Harvest Years”

In Korea in the 1950s and ‘60s, childhood became a site of the production of transnational anti- communism and ideologies of liberal capitalist democracy that were fundamental to the new Cold War order. Children were to become independent, autonomous, and individual subjects of the family, nation, and world by having their own rooms; reading quality literature and attempting to write their own, unique compositions; learning to do things “by oneself” and separating from their mothers; and desiring success and upward social mobility through competition and psychological adaptation under various social pressures and inequalities. The story of the Cold War in this study emphasized the participation of South Korea in the making of a new Cold War order, not simply as a reactionary recipient of American Cold War policies, programs, and aid. South Korea, in other words, was a coterminous site of the global Cold War. Moreover, these stories were made and remade by diverse people in realms as mundane as bedrooms, children’s literature, infant feeding, and entrance exams. Thus, this project turned to women’s magazines, newspapers, advertisements, psychology textbooks, rather than narrating the history of the Cold War in South Korea from the perspective of the state, government officials, military, and economists from Korea and the United States. Ranging from an examination of children that were told they needed their own rooms, who read and wrote, consumed cow milk products, and prepared to take tests andto receive good education, the stories of Cold War Korea told point to a widespread participation and transnational co-production of anti-communism and the Cold War liberal order. The stories of these children as a distinct demographic group and the diverse concepts surrounding childhood developed and contested during this period do not simply end with their reaching of adulthood. Instead, they formed the foundation of continuing debates about the meaning of childhood for years to come. One such issue that arose out of the immediate postwar discussions surrounding childhood was “conception control” (sut'ae chojŏl) or “birth control” (sana chehan), later dominantly called “family planning” (kajok kyehoek). From the 1950s, these issues were already being debated, not necessarily through governmental organizations but through efforts to determine the right number of bedrooms in an ideal house, preference of baby

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167 boys over baby girls in infant formula advertisements, and the featuring of adventurous boys as the ideal subject of childhood in children’s magazines. Birth control and natal policy were part of the Cold War politics of population control and reproduction, presented in terms of national progress, wealth, and welfare.1 As Matthew Connelly argues, population politics is fundamental to our understanding of international affairs, and by nature, it was a transnational phenomenon.2 By the 1950s, the Third World was seen as a “population bomb” that needed to be controlled for economic development, which was thought to be fundamental to the prevention of and fight against Communism.3 In other words, not only was it an important Cold War project to ensure that places like South Korea managed the number of births for its own economic progress but population politics were linked to the transnational anti-communist project. Thus, South Korea became a crucial site of transnational anti- communism, manifesting in global efforts of population management and control. As one of the first undertakings towards such a goal, the Planned Parenthood Federation of Korea (PPFK) was established in 1961, and it became a member and recipient of funding from the International Planned Parenthood Federation (IPPF). This organization was dominated by men who received academic training in public health, medicine, and other related field in the US, where they learned about and adopted the knowledge regime of population politics and views on the relationship between large population and poverty, rather than seeing the issue of birth control and family planning from the perspective of women and men themselves.4 As birth control was increasingly presented as an alarming national issue, the South Korean state also took up an anti-natalist policy in 1962, providing material and ideological support for PPFK and the dissemination of knowledge and products that made women primarily responsible for birth

1 Aya Homei and Yu-Ling Huang, “Population Control in Cold War Asia: An Introduction,” East Asian Science, Technology and Society: An International Journal 10, no. 4 (2016): 343–353. Although an examination of Korea’s case is not central in this issue, the issue’s larger point about the relationship between the developments of the Cold War and issues of reproduction and population control is well founded. 2 Matthew Connelly, Fatal Misconception: The Struggle to Control World Population (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2008), 5 and 13. 3 Pae Ŭn’gyŏng, a Korean sociologist, makes a direct link between the number of births, economic development, and the prevention of Communism in the Third world. Pae Ŭn’gyŏng, Human Reproduction in Modern Korea [Hyŏndae Han'guk ŭi in'gan chaesaengsan: Yŏsŏng, mosŏng, kajok kyehoek saŏp] (Seoul: Sigan Yŏhaeng, 2012), 90. Also see Connelly, Fatal Misconception, ch. 4, “Birth of the Third World” for discussions of the notion of the “population bomb” in the Third World. 4 Pae, Human Reproduction, 64–67.

168 and population management for the nation.5 From the early 1960s on, South Koreans were sent to Japan to receive training and knowledge related to family planning at IPPF seminars, as well as inviting people from Japan, Hong Kong, and Okinawa to South Korea.6 Japan, in particular, became an example of the US policy to reduce the population, and it quickly became a source of funding and knowledge for the region.7 The Population Council (PC, In'gu Yŏnhap), a US non- governmental organization established in 1952 by John D. Rockefeller III, also funded family planning projects in “backward countries” (hujin'guk). 8 South Korea began receiving aid from the PC in 1962, including scholarships for people to study in the United States and the training of doctors to perform vasectomies.9 By the implementation of the sixth Five-Year Economic Plan, the UN designated July 11, 1987 as the inaugural World Population Day, a day when the world population was thought to have reached 5 billion. In this context, South Korea actively participated in the transnational project of birth control, employing the logic of national progress and economic development. In 1956, Yi Sugil, a medical doctor and professor at SNU, published Pregnancy and Infant Care, a book on pregnancy and childcare from birth to twelve months of age. The book was immensely popular to the point that the 1958 reprint stated the original book sold out in less than a year. In the original version, the last chapter was on birth control, briefly explaining what birth control was and presenting a number of “birth regulating methods” (sut'ae chojŏl pangbŏp), including those that could be used on “the first night” of marriage, from choosing the “wedding date that brings happiness” to recording two years’ worth of menstruation cycles, as well as some “natural,” “chemical,” and “physical” methods.10 As the presentation of concrete birth control methods revealed, Yi did not simply argue for the need for every woman to get married and to practice managing their menstrual cycles and sexual practices; he offered concrete methods of varying degrees of effectiveness.

5 Seungsook Moon, Militarized Modernity and Gendered Citizenship in South Korea (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2005). 6 Han'guk kajok kyehoek simnyŏnsa (Seoul: Taehan Kajok Kyehoek Hyŏphoe, 1975), 283. 7 Connelly, Fatal Misconception, 11. 8 Han'guk kajok kyehoek simnyŏnsa, 286–287. 9 Ibid, 287–288. 10 Yi Sugil, Pregnancy and Infant Care, 130–146.

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However, in the reprint just two years later, the entire chapter on birth control was omitted. In the preface, Yi shared, “A matter of regret was the deletion of the birth control section. This is because there was a need to review [the birth control section] based on moral grounds, and due to the writer’s beliefs, the entire text was deleted, so I hope for your understanding.”11 Instead of choosing to publish a reprint after actually “reviewing” the contents of the chapter for moral or other reasons, Yi’s decision to omit the chapter is notable. The total number of pages in the new version had increased by about twenty, but the information on birth control was judged to be morally questionable enough to be entirely deleted from a book on pregnancy and childcare. As sociologist Pae Ŭn’gyŏng argues, many women in the 1950s desired to limit pregnancies and births within the contexts of mass poverty after the Korean War (even if it meant multiple abortions), the caveat being they had already produced multiple sons.12 Moreover, the continuation of wars and instability from the late colonial period to the Korean War also meant that the state took a pronatalist policy by limiting imports of birth control products and knowledge on birth control.13 As Katherine Rossy has pointed out, many war-torn countries in Europe also advocated pro-natal policies in order to “strengthen their population,” reflecting depopulation concerns in the aftermath of mass death and destruction.14 Such a retraction of information on birth control by a medical doctor reveals the tension between empowering women by providing information on limiting pregnancies and the state’s desires to have power over women’s reproductive bodies by denying them access to the knowledge, necessary products, and medical services. By the early 1960s, however, consumer advertisements that explicitly encouraged the consumption of oral contraceptives began to appear in women’s magazines. In 1962, South Korea officially adopted family planning as one of its policies, making it an important part of the First Five-Year Economic Plan (1962–1966). The state’s sanctioning of anti-natalist policy was quickly visible in the consumer market, where advertisements unambiguously urged women

11 Yi Sugil, “In Issuing a Reprint [Chaep'an ŭl chaemyŏnsŏ],” Pregnancy and Infant Care [Imshin kwa yuga] (Seoul: Sumunsa, 1958). 12 Pae, Human Reproduction, 32. 13 Ibid, 38. 14 Katherine Rossy, “Faceless and Stateless: French Occupation Policy toward Women and Children in Postwar Germany (1945–1949),” in ed. Philip E. Muehlenbeck, Gender, Sexuality, and the Cold War (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 2017), 23.

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(presumably those in heterosexual marriages) to purchase birth control pills to practice family planning. One such advertisement for birth control pills urged its consumer-readers to “Have the right number of children and let’s make greatly talented people [hullyung han injae].”15 The pills were euphemistically called, “family planning pills” [kajok kyehoek che], but instead of featuring an illustration of, for instance, a woman, baby, or a happy family, the advertisement featured six different outlines of detached houses, some slightly overlapping each other. This suggests the relationship between the number of children and the issues discussed in Chapter One, particularly that the raising of “quality” children, was linked to the normative middle-class ideals captured in various images of detached houses that were presumed to shelter nuclear families with a regulated or planned number of children. The desire to raise autonomous, healthy baby boys through infant formula was also part of uplifting the “quality” of the racialized, nationalized body, rather than simply increasing the “quantity” of less than ideal children. Similarly, producing children who could compete “freely” in education and society, as well as adapt to social norms (including inequalities produced by liberal capitalism) demonstrated the simultaneous project of excluding those who were judged by educators and psychologists as unable to adapt to society due to “a feeling of inferiority complex” and low levels of intelligence. Another advertisement for an oral contraceptive pill in the same women’s magazine offered a colour-coded chart outlining the days of menstruation, infertility, and possible fertility in any number of menstrual cycles, claiming that “Women’s health begins from solving menstruation abnormality!”16 In small print was an attribution of the chart to “Doctor Hukui,” which revealed the continued circulation of knowledge on family planning between South Korea and Japan under the auspices and funding from the IPPF. Moreover, as this study shows, this points to the complexity of decolonization as an unruly process that reutilized existing social, cultural, and economic structures of the Japanese Empire within the new Cold War order. By making the family and, particularly, the women’s body a site of regulating population, economic growth, and morality, children who were born (as well as not born) and grew up were at the centre of the state’s project of population management. Between 1956 (the publication year of Yi Sugil’s original text) and 1986 (just a year before the implementation of the Sixth Five-Year Economic Plan), thirty years of time meant that not only had the dynamics and politics

15 For instance, see Ep'ŭp'i chŏng, Advertisement, Yŏwŏn, August 1962, 291. 16 Advertisement, Yŏwŏn, July 1962, an insert by page 65.

171 of birth control changed but children who were born around the time of Yi Sugil’s writing had become adults of childbearing age. By the mid-1970s, babies born during the “good baby harvest years” [agi p'ungnyŏn] were beginning to have their own babies.17 The late 1950s and early ‘60s were a period of rapid population growth, evidence of the resettling after long years of displacement, war mobilization, and mass death and destruction since the late 1930s. By the early 1960s, however, there was a sense that “too many” children were being born, that the nation would be quickly overpopulated, and that families and, by extension, the nation would never escape poverty or “backwardness” if the trend were to continue. By implication, the “good harvest years” served as another dangerous sign of an explosive national population and that such “harvest” should be forcefully and effectively curtailed. This group constituted what people like Yi Sibaek and the state perceived and articulated as a potential “population bomb” to be contained.18 Overpopulation concerns at national and international levels were well reflected in state policies. In May 1986, Yi Sibaek, a professor of the SNU’s Graduate School of Public Health, outlined some of the plans that were to become part of the Sixth Five-Year Economic Plan (1987–1991). Problematizing the nation’s “overpopulation,” he stated: In order for the population growth rate to become 1.1% in 1991 the last year of the plan period, the contraception practice rate of 70% in the current year 1985 should be increased to 76.2%, and we need to reduce the total birth rate from 2.1% to 1.86%. And for these [goals], we need to expand the supply of contraceptives by that much, we need to make a total of 9,715,000 people into contraceptive users, including the annual male and female sterilization procedures of 310,000 people.19

In order to achieve this, he argued every family should have only one child, while having more than three children should be “prevented.” If the reproductive capacity of those in childbearing years was not properly managed by strong state intervention, the logic went, then the national efforts to control and manage the population could quickly spiral into complete failure.

17 Hong Chonggwan, “Ch'ukkansa,” Han'guk kajok kyehoek simnyŏnsa (Seoul: Taehan Kajok Kyehoek Hyŏphoe, 1975), 33–36. 18 The “population bomb,” which was often likened to the nuclear bomb, is from Matthew Connelly, Fatal Misconception: The Struggle to Control World Population. 19 Yi Sibaek, “Speaking on the Sixth Five-Year Economic Plan [6 ch'a 5 kaenyŏn kyehoek ŭl marhanda],” Maeil kyŏngje, May 12, 1986, 3.

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Seen as a distinct demographic group in modern Korean history, the children born in the 1950s and ‘60s reached adulthood, earned income, had babies themselves, and became the target of a forceful anti-natal policy from the late 1970s. The rapid economic growth from the 1970s would have meant they could make more purchases for their own children. Even if most did not grow up on infant formula themselves due to war deprivation or poverty, many of them opted to feed infant formula to their own children, supported by the domestic infant formula industry, the common practice of giving infant formula to babies born in hospitals, continuous advertising of infant formula, as well as their own multivalent desires.20 In contemporary South Korea, the “baby boomers” (born in the 1955–1963 period) continue to vex people as a highly developed, quickly aged demographic without the necessary financial, social, and cultural systems to support them in old age. They are sometimes referred to as the “sandwich generation,” needing to support both their adult children and elderly parents, not leaving much for their own retirement and elderly years.21 Just as the children of the 1950s and ‘60s continue to captivate the minds of policymakers, ordinary people, scholars, and certainly “baby boomers” themselves as a social phenomenon worthy of study and debate, this study of childhood in early Cold War Korea reverberates well beyond the ‘50s and ‘60s. The alliances forged between South Korea and other nation-states, particularly Japan and the US during this period, run just as deeply, if not deeper, than the military, diplomatic, and economic relationships that centralize the US as the main actor and creator of the new Cold War order. The polyphonic voices and multivalent forms of transnational anti-communism articulated and lived through children’s rooms, arts, the consumption of infant formula and childrearing materials, and educational and psychological testing for children were crucial in formations of the new Cold War order. The stories of children and childhood featured in this study do not end in the 1960s but rather continue to be a crucial part of our understanding of the past and present of Cold War Korea.

20 S. H. Kim, W. K. Kim, K. A. Lee, Y. S. Song, and S. Y. Oh, “Breastfeeding in Korea,” World Review of Nutrition and Dietetics 78 (1995): 114–127. This article states that bottle feeding became a common practice in the late 1960s and 1970s, which was a period when the state banned imports of infant formula in order to foster the growth of the domestic industry of infant formula. 21 For the reference to the “sandwich generation,” see, for instance, Kim Chigyŏng, “Peibi pum sedae ŭi kyŏngje chŏk puyang pudam,” Nodong Ribyu (June 2010): 21–36. It is a term that is also circulated widely in newspapers and popular media.

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