Proceed With Caution: The Double-Edged Nature of Nunchi
Written by Ryan B.
As I walked into the classroom on my first day at an international school, I was petrified: I didn’t know the language or the people, and I was soon to discover that I didn’t know the customs. I opened the door, keeping in mind three things that my mom taught me: “hello,” “thank you,” and to always respect the teacher. There, by the entrance of the classroom, stood my teacher, greeting each student as they walked in. The line in front of me was getting shorter, and the only two English words that my mom had taught me had already evacuated my brain. All that remained was the last lesson: respect. The final student in front of me scurried into the classroom after exclaiming some incoherent English word, and I was now left staring up at my teacher who was facing me with a warm smile. I politely put my two hands on top of my stomach and gave a full 90-degree bow, my torso parallel to the ground. From the corner of my eye, I caught the quizzical glances from my new classmates, whose curious stares bore into my bright red face. Feeling like a fish out of water, I stumbled over to my assigned table, my every step drawn heavier by the weight of their gazes.
While I eventually became accustomed to greeting my teacher with a smile and a wave instead of a bow and a pale, frightened face, I never lost the value of respect, and my duty to acknowledge authority. That responsibility comes from the importance of 눈치 (“nunchi”) in Korea. 눈 (“nun”) means eye, and 치 (“chi”) means power, and the combination of these two words creates the word nunchi, which translates directly from Korean into “eye-power.”
It’s quite an apt portmanteau because nunchi actually does have a lot to do with the power of our eyes. To have nunchi is to be able to read the room — to evaluate the feelings and thoughts of others, which would be easily overlooked by someone with a lack of nunchi. My anecdote of awkwardly bowing to my teacher and recognizing her as an authority to be respected was a display of nunchi in its simplest form. A powerful weapon to have in your arsenal, nunchi is a skill that can be sharpened, and it is highly regarded as a measure of social intelligence in Korea. But nunchi is a double-edged sword, and while one edge gleams with the potential of fostering empathy and developing social affinity, the other side is sinister, serrated, and laced with the poison of burden. In the workplace, while nunchi can be harnessed to climb the social ladder, it can bind individuals to prioritize corporate expectations over personal well-being and freedom. Nunchi’s dual-edged nature can empower individuals to understand implicit sentiments but also ensnare them in a web of perceived obligations, which can jeopardize one’s autonomy and independence.
My mom always praised me for my quick nunchi, and I wore that compliment with great pride. After all, in Korean culture, nunchi is like a social barometer, measuring the atmospheric pressures of a room and helping one navigate through the shifting winds of social interactions. To have a more advanced social barometer is to better forecast the feelings of others, ultimately leading to a more accurate weather report. But why is nunchi perceived as the social barometer of Korean people? The deeply rooted significance of nunchi is not just a personal sentiment but is consistently echoed throughout Korean sayings, contemporary literature, and entertainment. There’s an old adage in Korea that translates to: “A person with nunchi can eat shrimp in a monastery.” Given that a traditional Korean monastery enforces a vegetarian diet, this saying emphasizes the capability of someone with nunchi to navigate through even the most stringent situations. In contemporary literature, books like The Power of Nunchi: The Korean Secret to Happiness and Success introduce nunchi to a global audience, touting it as a skill that is so useful that it should be adopted into other cultures. Even in entertainment, many Korean dramas–particularly those centered around workplace narratives–highlight the pivotal role of nunchi in ascending corporate ladders and fostering relationships with colleagues and superiors. For example, the Korean drama Misaeng: Incomplete Life follows Jang Geu-rae, a 26-year-old who just got his first internship at a corporate job. His complete lack of qualifications and education makes him the center of ridicule by his colleagues, but through his reliance on nunchi to adhere to his superior’s expectations and hierarchical dynamics, the audience can witness his character development. Korean dramas like these are all synonymous in underscoring the idea that nunchi is an indispensable tool for survival in the cutthroat corporate workplace of Korea. All of these instances exemplify the deeply rooted reverence for this word in Korean culture.
It’s clear that nunchi is celebrated in Korea as a necessary skill for social intelligence; however, it is essential to assess the negative implications of nunchi, and reconsider whether this level of adulation is truly justified. As much as one blade of nunchi gleams with the promise of success, the other blade is equally sharp with potential malice. When you have nunchi, you are at the mercy of whoever is manipulating it, and this phenomenon is particularly ubiquitous in the workplace. For example, Korean work culture places a great emphasis on social gatherings with coworkers and superiors, where alcohol is often present as a tool for ice-breaking. Alcohol is everywhere in Korean workplace gatherings, and its absence during dinner gatherings would be like serving food without eating utensils. So when a boss or superior requests for you to join for a dinner gathering, the consumption of alcohol will be inevitable that night. And if you have work the next day (work that your superior — ironically the same person that is currently asking you to join for drinks — has assigned to you), it seems like a night of sobriety and a good night’s sleep is the right choice. But when you have nunchi, the right choice is not decided by your intuition; it’s dictated by your boss. When a superior proposes a night out, it’s more of an order than a request. Those with quick nunchi would recognize this and would feel obligated to accept the invitation, even if it comes at the cost of racing against time to catch up on sleep and work. It’s tyrannical and goes against all moral and ethical logic, but you’re obligated to say yes because turning your boss down in Korea could compromise that promotion you’ve been looking for and perhaps even your employment entirely. This exploitation of nunchi in the workplace contorts what should be a voluntary social interaction into an obligatory expectation that interferes with an individual’s personal intuition and choices. When we praise nunchi, we’re praising its ability to climb the corporate ladder, but we’re also praising its capacity to dictate our personal choices.
Ultimately, while the utilization of nunchi can serve as a tool for social mobility and empathetic understanding in social environments, there exists a delicate threshold in harnessing nunchi. I don’t want to eradicate nunchi from the Korean dictionary. After all, my mom told me I have good nunchi, and I’ll always be proud of this skill. However, I also fear its double-edged nature. I fear the serrated and sinister side of the nunchi blade. When it comes at the cost of suppressing one’s independence or selflessly sacrificing to fulfill unreasonable obligations, nunchi’s potential for harm becomes just as evident as its utility. Nunchi shouldn’t be harmful. It should be about taking care of those around us without compromising our autonomy. It should be about ensuring that your pursuit of social mobility doesn’t come at the expense of individuality and freedom. So, as much as nunchi can be an effective tool for enhancing one’s social interactions, Koreans must be cautious not to praise nunchi to the point that they are blind to its pitfalls. Nunchi is an ambivalent weapon: it can be a vital tool and a poisonous burden. It must be wielded with caution.
