The Nomination I Never Wanted

I had become the mayoral candidate for People's Choice, the leading opposition party of South Korea.

I wasn't the least bit happy about it.

After all, this was the outcome of my failed attempt to squirm my way out of it.

Reading the line about a "fair and rigorous review" drew nothing from me but a long sigh.

Maesan City, Gyeonggi Province.

A city wedged into the central transport axis connecting Suwon, Hwaseong, and Pyeongtaek.

I wouldn't go so far as to call it my beloved hometown, but honestly, it was a decent place. An easy commute into Seoul, and for all that the city wasn't especially large, there were plenty of spots to take a walk.

"Still, running for mayor is a different animal entirely."

If they'd offered me a city council seat instead of the mayor's race, I would have accepted without a second thought.

With the medium-sized constituency system, winning was practically a given.

Even though People's Choice had been on a losing streak lately, the party still had a certain baseline weight to it.

But the mayor's office was a different dimension altogether.

Not some seat for supervising and second-guessing — an administrative post for managing and executing. That was probably why the age demographic skewed so old.

You could occasionally spot National Assembly members in their 30s, even their 20s.

But among mayors and county executives, you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone even in their 40s.

The reality was that people over 60 made up sixty percent of all winners…

And in that landscape, forcibly slotting in a 30-something like me was tantamount to telling me to go out there and die.

"Cheer up, Seojun. What can you do, now that it's come to this?"

"Congressman."

"Last local election, that lawyer Ko bowed out citing his health — well, not just an excuse, actual health problems. And it's not as if we had a deep bench to draw from."

The secretary-general of the Nomination Management Committee — a sitting National Assembly member, no less — gave my shoulder a few consoling pats.

In other words: nobody else was willing to take the fall, so they pushed me out front.

It wasn't an entirely baseless pick, to be fair.

I was a Maesan native through and through — elementary, middle, and high school, all the way through university, done right there in the city.

Thanks to working in the integrated situation room during last year's presidential election, my face was also well known to the party brass.

I was exactly the kind of person a party desperately scrambling for a candidate couldn't help but notice.

That still didn't mean I had to smile and take it.

"So in the end, I'm the designated bullet-catcher."

"Oh come now. Let's not put it that way."

"Then let me rephrase: sacrificial loss. That's more accurate. You shoved me into a seat that even the local council members refused to touch because they didn't want to lose."

"Ahem! I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

It wasn't as if I could trade this kind of banter with a sitting assemblyman just because we were on friendly terms.

The truth was closer to this: a man desperate to hand out the nomination and a man desperate to dodge it had duked it out through every conceivable form of nonsense, and in the process, we'd each seen the other's true face.

That's how badly I'd wanted to avoid this race.

But with the nomination confirmed, there was no walking it back.

Nine years had passed since I joined People's Choice through open recruitment.

I was a lifer now — I had no choice but to keep putting food on the table in the political world.

"For now, I'll do my best."

"Good thinking."

Of course, "doing my best" wasn't going to win me any election.

Because I had a flaw even more fatal than my age.

My party affiliation: People's Choice.

Unfortunately, Maesan City was a fortress of the ruling Together Democratic Party.

Compared to places like Bucheon or Siheung, it was at least somewhere the Gukseondang could put up a fight…

But at the end of the day, it was still a seat Daminju won unless something went catastrophically wrong. The one consolation was that I wouldn't have to worry about having my campaign expenses covered — losing badly did have its perks.

"Hang in there, candidate Min Seojun!"

The unspoken expectation was that I'd put in a token effort, plant some seeds, and build goodwill for the distant future.

That was not the kind of race I intended to run.

Crawl onto an electoral battlefield and phone it in, and you'd only create problems for yourself. coast lazily through a campaign and your entire career could end on the spot.

Just do the minimum. The bare minimum.

Staring down at the certificate of nomination, I mentally drew up a short list of goals.

A cost-effective campaign. A 45 percent vote share. And staying off everyone's shit list.

If I could pull off just those three, I figured I'd have no regrets.

I had enough seniority under my belt that setting up a campaign on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the cheap wasn't difficult.

The campaign office went on the third floor of an aging commercial building.

For the office furniture, instead of hiring a supplier, I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pulled some strings and scavenged whatever was gathering dust in the Gyeonggi Provincial Party warehouse.

For campaign vehicles, a modest pair of one-ton trucks.

We kept printed literature to an absolute minimum and decided to hang banners only where they were actually needed.

"At this rate, I can keep us within fifty percent of the spending cap."

"Yes. Entirely feasible, sir."

So far, so smooth.

We'd spent little while still putting on a respectable face.

Whatever manpower we lacked, we could make up for in legwork.

But there was one hole that no amount of legwork could fill.

"Um… Candidate Min Seojun. What about your family?"

"……"

"You've worked in the planning division, so you know better than I do — a family's contribution to a campaign is absolute. There's simply no way to run one without them."

That was the advice of the colleague I'd recruited as campaign manager. And he was right — family mattered.

They were in a different league from election workers hired for a few thousand won a day.

Siblings, honestly, didn't count for much (celebrities aside), but the presence of a spouse and immediate family carried a special weight.

"Sir, as I understand it, your family…?"

"Yes. My parents live in Maesan City."

"I see. Communication between you is… good, I take it?"

"……"

"Sir?"

It was a perfectly reasonable question.

An unmarried candidate in his 30s announces his candidacy, and he can't get so much as a helping hand from the parents living right there in the district?

That alone could have sparked a scandal.

It was a practical problem too — like your own artillery declaring open fire and then going silent on you.

"I'm well aware. An unmarried candidate runs for office and the parents just sit on their hands — you think the opposing campaign would let that slide?"

"Then why won't they help?"

There was no special reason. My family and I simply didn't get along.

If anything, I'd been the one-sided loser in whatever rupture had happened between us… but from a certain point on, I'd been so fed up that I'd kept my distance and lived my own life, so I wasn't in a position to complain.

Years had already passed since I'd been reduced to exchanging perfunctory holiday greetings with them.

Still, should I ask for their help this once?

I wasn't expecting anything grand from my parents.

I just wanted enough support that no ugly rumors would follow — enough that the neighborhood grandmas wouldn't call me an ungrateful son.

"All right. I'll talk to my family today."

The moment I made up my mind, I moved without delay.

Carving time out of my schedule, I visited home for the first time in ages. Unam Jugong Complex 1.

My mother was alone in the living room.

That expression of hers, head tilting sideways as if to say, what on earth are you doing here…

Out of politeness, I gave a sheepish smile.

"Mother. Did you happen to see the news?"

"You show up out of nowhere and start rambling?"

"I'm running for mayor."

"Oh. That?"

She nodded without ever looking up from her smartphone.

Your son announces he's running for mayor, and that was the whole reaction — too flat, even accounting for her temperament.

It wasn't that she dismissed it as nothing. I could tell she was displeased.

Either because I'd run despite the family's unspoken opposition,

or because I was running under the People's Choice banner at all.

Knowing her, probably both.

Either way, the one who needed something right now was me.

"I'm asking you. Just help me out a little."

"You know we don't have money. Your father's a civil servant, and I'm just a woman who keeps house. Where would money come from?"

"I'm not here asking for money, so don't worry."

"Then what?"

"Just show your face once or twice with Father. That's all I need."

There were exactly two things I wanted from my parents.

Drop by the campaign launch for a round of applause and a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠photo.

And come with me to the polling station on the first day of early voting.

That was truly it. I wanted nothing more.

"All together, it's less than two hours."

"Hmm… I really couldn't say."

"……?"

"It's not as if I know anything about politics."

I hadn't expected her to play the political innocent, of all things.

Considering my mother's history, there was no way she didn't know.

In university, she'd been in the same activist circle as my father.

She'd only married after graduating and lived as a homemaker ever since.

But this was the woman who'd put in stints with outfits like the Save the Maesan River Task Force. There was no way she didn't understand local politics.

She's just saying she doesn't feel like doing it.

This was not the reaction I'd hoped for.

We'd grown distant, sure, but family was still family.

When your son announces he's running for office, shouldn't the normal response be at least a flicker of worry?

But my mother seemed to be thinking otherwise.

"Mother, this really is nothing."

"Showing your face and helping with a campaign is nothing?"

"I'm not asking you to hand out business cards or do the rounds with me on door-to-door greetings. Just one photo at the launch, so nobody points fingers at me…"

"That's electioneering as far as I'm concerned. Besides, your father's a civil servant, isn't he?"

It was true that my father was a civil servant.

Immediate family were allowed, as an exception, to assist in a relative's campaign.

But if the man himself refused to acknowledge me as family, the exception clause was worthless.

"Anything else you need?"

Everything I wanted to say to my mother had risen to the back of my throat.

It wasn't just about this election — the accumulated years were suddenly surfacing, one after another.

But picking that fight would only cost me. All it would earn me was a red-faced shouting match I couldn't win.

"No. I'll take that as your answer."

"Are you upset?"

"No, ma'am."

"Then again, thinking about it — you really are something. You knew full well it would upset me and your father, and you ran on the Gukseondang ticket anyway. There's no chance of winning… Although, I suppose you'd have to have ever listened to a word we said for that to matter."

I silently endured about five ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠minutes of her nagging.

She was an elder speaking, and I had no intention of cutting her off and storming out. Still, it wasn't easy.

Just as a lull set in and I moved to make my exit —

"You little punk! What makes you think you can show your face here?"

"Oh — Dain's father."

My father, home from work, grabbed me by the collar the moment he walked through the door.

Eyes screwed up in disgust as if he'd laid eyes on something vile, voice rumbling low.

My father was, unmistakably, furious.

"Do you even understand what you've done?"

"I announced my candidacy."

"What!"

I could feel his grip tightening around my collar.

"You pull a stunt like that, and then you waltz into my house!?"

Why was this happening? It genuinely made no sense to me.

I'd come asking for a photo, asking them not to let me get cursed at — that was all.

Forget help. I truly hadn't imagined I'd end up with a hand around my collar.