The Door of Policy, the Door of the Field

A few days later, the day finally arrived for the organizational restructuring bill to come to a vote in the city council's general assembly.

Before walking into the chamber, I paused for a moment in the corridor. Those few seconds between standing outside and opening the door had a strange way of tightening the nerves. It wasn't that my chest felt constricted, but neither was I entirely at ease.

I had already gone through sufficient advance coordination with Chairman Kim Jun-tae and the key council members, and the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠core points of contention had been settled. The odds of the bill being voted down were close to nil.

But I knew better than anyone that politics doesn't run on that kind of logic alone.

The moment I opened the door to the chamber, the air changed. The murmur died, and every gaze swung toward me. A few members rose from their seats to bow; others gave only a slight nod. Still others watched me with expressionless faces.

I returned the greeting with a bow and stepped slowly into the room. It looked like an ordinary scene, but woven through it were dozens of expressions and calculations.

Some members approached with outstretched hands, saying, "Mayor, it's an honor to finally meet you," while others kept their distance, watching me and sparing their words. Either way, everyone was sizing up my first appearance.

In a small city's council, the mayor ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠typically holds the strongest power. Unlike a metropolitan city or the capital region, it's the mayor here who effectively controls the resources, the budget, and the personnel appointments. On the surface, the city council serves as the watchdog and the check, but the reality is different.

By the structure of the elections, a mayor is elected with far more votes than any individual council member. If a council member wins a seat with a few thousand votes, the mayor has to pull in tens of thousands. That difference in numbers translates directly into a difference in political weight.

Reality, however, isn't quite that simple. Like many politicians, I know well that those votes weren't cast purely on my ability or my character.

That a candidate in his twenties won the mayor's office in a small city doesn't signal a "miracle" so much as it signals "backing." Of course, some of it was my own effort, and it was the citizens' choice, but people don't see it in such generous terms. In my case, there's no need to elaborate.

Yeo Byeong-guk, elder statesman of national politics. That three-syllable name alone sets the direction of Yeojin City's politics. I was that man's son, and that is why I became mayor.

I have no intention of denying this fact. I admit it. I am not yet doing politics on "my own strength."

Which is precisely why I had to be all the more careful. If I created unnecessary tension at my first meeting or showed an arrogant attitude, the council members would render their verdict: "Turns out he's nothing special." And a single remark like that would spread across all of Yeojin City in an instant.

I took my designated seat at the front of the chamber. Standing before the microphone, I delivered a brief greeting. It was the usual boilerplate about asking for their cooperation for Yeojin City's future, but I carried my expression and tone with enough courtesy and confidence to make it land.

Once I was seated, Vice Mayor Jin Mu-gyeol stepped forward and began the formal presentation of the administrative restructuring bill. The materials distributed around the chamber already included the revised version — the one adjusted through advance coordination with Chairman Kim Jun-tae, with some department names and organizational compositions reworked.

"The name is too abstract."

"Won't this shake the identity of the existing programs?"

On the proposal to rename the Culture and Arts Division to the Urban Culture Creation Division, several members reacted unfavorably. So a supplementary explanation was added, clarifying that the nature and direction of the related budget would remain firmly intact.

Looking at it from every angle, the restructuring bill stood a strong chance of passing the vote. The mood wasn't bad, either.

And yet... I couldn't quite shake the sliver of doubt. The city council is not a space that moves on logic and agreement alone. It's a place where sentiment and emotion, competing interests, and the subtle calculations of local bases are all tangled together.

A matter you were certain had been fully settled can suddenly turn into a chorus of opposition the moment it hits the chamber floor. Once someone opens with "This is being pushed through unilaterally," the voices piggybacking on that line can multiply out of nowhere.

In particular, the phrase "the young mayor is getting too big for his boots" can mutate in an instant into the justification that "he needs to be checked."

So while I looked calm on the outside, inside I was running countless simulations. Who would speak up right before the vote, and what would they say? Would the chairman mediate and shield me? If an unexpected objection surfaced, how should I respond?

At that moment, Chairman Kim Jun-tae raised the gavel. The sound in the chamber died, and the tension of an imminent vote began to flow through the room.

I rested my hands quietly on my knees and exhaled slowly.

The organizational restructuring bill had passed.

As I slipped out of the chamber, I smiled quietly to myself. If this were a city of several hundred thousand or a million people, it wouldn't have ended this easily. The council would have twice as many members, and there would have been no end to the noise and the drama.

With only eighteen council members, things moved forward without much friction. I'm in a position where I can do what I want. A small population has its advantages.

The first of the campaign pledges I had put forward was the "resident field briefing." Preparing for those briefings, however, was no simple matter.

When I first floated the idea, the reaction inside City Hall was lukewarm. The civil servants didn't so much as flicker an expression as they said, "An excellent initiative," but I could see right through them: Do we really have to do this?

I know exactly what they were thinking. The previous mayor had barely met with residents at all. He ran the administration with a high-handed, authoritarian attitude, and so the very concept of "direct communication with residents" had all but vanished from inside City Hall. The bureaucrats made policy decisions based on reports alone, and listening to residents' opinions was nothing more than a bothersome procedure.

But how foolish is that approach? Yeojin City alone has a hundred thousand residents. That's no small population. The people who understand this city's problems best are the citizens living in its neighborhoods.

No matter how impressive a plan the experts descending from Seoul put forward — the corporate executives, the professors — it's useless if it doesn't match the actual lives of the citizens.

So who had the previous mayor been meeting? Businessmen, professors, politicians, and outside experts. That was the whole of it. And so every policy the city pursued drifted away from reality, and the citizens grew to distrust City Hall more and more. I was going to do things differently.

"I will meet with residents in person every Monday."

When I brought this up, a small commotion rippled through City Hall.

"Mr. Mayor, Mondays are a bit..."

"Holding an event every Monday makes it difficult to prepare administratively."

It wasn't just one or two — multiple civil servants gave the same reaction. Their intent was obvious. If the briefing was on Monday, they'd have to come in over the weekend to prepare. That was what they hated.

I smirked and thought to myself: I can see right through you people.

Civil servants come in on Sundays anyway. I know they show up to prepare the mayor's briefing for Monday morning. And yet they're making excuses about "not enough preparation time" — which really just means they don't want extra work piled on.

I spoke firmly.

"There's nothing to prepare. Book a venue, listen to the residents when they show up, and take notes on whatever needs follow-up. That's all."

The civil servants still hesitated. Then Kang Seol-heon added a word.

"The mayor is offering to go and listen himself. Is there really a need for the staff to prepare anything in advance? We simply hear the opinions as they come."

Even so, they couldn't quite hide their uneasy glances.

Frankly, I could understand why the bureaucrats reacted this way. In the past, there had been events like "A Meeting with the Mayor." The problem was that these had a habit of devolving into sessions where the mayor came back after hearing things he didn't want to hear and took it out on the staff. He'd nod along in front of the residents, pretending to listen attentively, then return and grill the responsible department about "why this was even arranged." It happened constantly. So it was no wonder they didn't welcome my proposal.

I looked calmly at their faces and said again,

"I know that past mayors have said the same thing and then gone back on their word. But I have no intention of doing that. So don't worry. Even if the residents decide to pelt me with eggs, none of you sitting here will be the ones catching them. Don't waste the energy."

Only then did the objections die. Suddenly, Noh Chae-eun asked,

"Could you not hold them during the day? The staff who accompany you in the evening have a hard time of it."

I regarded her quietly for a moment, then spoke slowly.

"Honestly, we could hold them during the day in somewhere like the City Hall auditorium. But who would come? It would end up being only the people free during working hours. Mostly retirees, or a handful of people active in community groups. Anyone with a job to get to couldn't attend, no matter how much they wanted to."

I paused and watched her reaction.

"I have no interest in that kind of 'for-show' meeting."

And then I continued.

"If we want the people who feel the community's problems in their own skin to walk through the door, we have to adjust the time. When during the day can residents participate, after finishing their work? The evening. That's when."

Of course it would be uncomfortable for the civil servants. They'd have to give up their evenings, and it might turn into overtime. But I already knew from experience — the civil servants who actually accompany these events are, for the most part, either people on the verge of promotion or those trying to make their presence known by working alongside the mayor. There was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠no need to drag that uncomfortable truth out and make everyone awkward in this room.

I added in a gentler tone,

"This isn't a burden. It's work for the citizens. Isn't this much consideration the least we owe the people of Yeojin City?"

Only then did Noh Chae-eun, too, slowly nod.

I wasn't trying simply to make the bureaucrats uncomfortable. To govern properly, the first thing you have to do is listen to the citizens. A few words heard directly from people on the ground give you far more accurate information than hundreds of reports read at a desk.

And above all, what matters most is changing the direction of the administration itself. Not deciding policy unilaterally, as in the past, but building a system that reflects the citizens' voices. That is the foundation of governance.

I was certain that this resident briefing would not be ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a mere public-relations event, but the starting point for changing the way the administration itself worked.

"Monday evenings. I'll hear it from them, on the ground."

Should I call it the "Monday Meeting"? If you give something a good name, don't people take more interest in it — don't they like it more?