By the Collar

It was common enough for parents and children to be on opposite ends of the political spectrum.

Me? I was a salaried staffer for People's Choice.

My parents, on the other hand—my father especially—had voted a straight Democratic ticket faithfully since the eighties.

He even had a few of his old student-activist seniors and juniors from his university days in that party.

Then again, since he was a civil servant, he'd never been one of the rabid True Believers.

"Father? Let go of my collar first. Then we'll talk."

"Think about what you've done first."

Right now, for no reason other than the fact that I'd declared my candidacy, he had me by the collar.

My mother made a token effort to hold him back, then promptly gave up.

Shaking him off would have been easy.

But if I got into a physical scuffle with my father and things escalated, I'd be the one who took the blame. If an incident broke out here, my election would be over before it started.

Fine. Let's just say I'm an idiot for having come here in the first place.

In the middle of all this, one thing genuinely had me curious.

What on earth had rubbed him the wrong way badly enough to get him this worked up?

Was it simply that he hated seeing me run on the People's Choice ticket?

He certainly wouldn't be thrilled, that much was true.

The political leanings were one thing, but he was a section chief at Maesan City Hall, and his own son was running to become Maesan's mayor. It couldn't have been a comfortable position to be in—he'd have to be mindful of his junior colleagues, too.

Still, his attitude was far too violent for that alone to explain it.

"If you still consider me your father, and us your family, then this is not something you can do."

Ah. So my father was convinced that I had somehow caused him personal harm.

What could possibly be the basis for that? There had to be some reason.

My father, still fuming, soon supplied it himself.

"I didn't want to bring this up because it's petty, but—"

"Well, you've already got me by the collar, Father. Go ahead. Make yourself comfortable."

"You got my Maesan Today column contract terminated."

"………"

"Do you understand what that means? The rumor's already spread."

The reason was so pathetic that I was briefly at a loss for words.

His column contract terminated.

I vaguely knew that my father was one of the columnists for some no-name local paper.

Naturally, it was the kind of gig you needed the mayor's permission to hold.

Since it was a regular engagement, the moonlighting approval probably hadn't been easy to get.

It obviously wasn't about the money—more like a way of racking up accomplishments, I figured. He was the sort of person who liked that kind of thing.

"So you believe you lost it because of me."

"What else would it be?"

If that was true, then yes, I had caused him harm.

Though I doubt my father ever made more than ten thousand won a month in fees for that oh-so-prestigious column of his.

Still, to the man himself, it was probably a precious side gig.

At least he wasn't ranting without any context—that much I could be grateful for. It meant he could be reasoned with.

"If my candidacy cost you something, then I apologize."

"Hoo..."

"Yes, of course you're angry. I understand now."

My father, considerably calmer now, finally released my collar.

Praying that the man's ears were actually open this time, I spoke again.

"But, Father? Even people with perfectly ordinary jobs sometimes get handed the thankless task nobody wants. You'd know that better than anyone, being a civil servant."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Just hear me out."

"………"

"You get shuffled onto the team handling a deficit-ridden division, or a product recall blows up and you're assigned to the task force. The people put on those teams know perfectly well that if things go sideways, they take the hit. They also know that no matter how hard they work, the best they can hope for is breaking even."

Those casualties of dirty-work duty endured it and said yes in the end for one simple reason: their livelihoods.

Because if you refused and said hell no, it was all too easy to guess what would come down on your head.

I was no different.

"At the end of the day, I'm a company man too."

"………"

"I didn't join People's Choice because I dreamed of being a politician. I applied for the party's open-recruitment staff exam because I wanted a salary—and I passed. It pays about as well as any mid-sized company. I just worked hard, and this is where all that hard work landed me."

The candidate who was all but guaranteed the nomination ran away, and I got shoved into it against my will. I'm not doing this because I want to. And even if you can't help me, you have no business persecuting me over it.

Having said my piece, I closed my mouth.

What remained was my father's answer.

Did that count as a proper explanation?

For all that his behavior right now was thick-headed, my father was reasonably educated.

He'd gone to a respectable university... and for thirty years he'd bored everyone senseless with the claim that he'd have become an academic if my mother hadn't gotten pregnant.

"Min Seojun."

My father, his composure recovered, called my name in a low voice.

It seemed like we might actually part on peaceful terms.

That was all I wanted. Or so I thought.

"The way I see it, you don't work for a salary. You sell civic virtue."

"Excuse me?"

"Why do you think I stayed up all night wrestling with Habermas when I was young? It's a bit of a lofty way to put it, but it was to cultivate people who weren't swept along by the logic of capital—autonomous human beings capable of independent thought. If I'd chosen a different path, I'd be at a university right now... Never mind."

Why in the world was Habermas suddenly entering the conversation?

"You went into politics for your livelihood? Because you had no choice?"

"...?"

"I did not raise you that way."

Then how exactly did you raise me? I almost shot back, but I let it go.

Because I had finally realized the conversation wasn't worth having.

I shouldn't have come here at all.

How was I supposed to hold a conversation with a man who grabbed his own son by the collar over a column contract nobody even read, then abruptly put on airs and started lecturing me about civic virtue?

"Min Seojun, I hope this experience gives you a chance to reflect on your conduct."

Thankfully, he wasn't telling me to withdraw from the race.

I didn't answer. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I simply turned away.

Because I wanted out of this miserable household even a second sooner.

"You—your own father is speaking to you and you don't even have the decency to—!"

I let whatever else my father was grumbling wash right over me.

It was my mother who hurried after me all the way to the elevator.

To be honest, I'd expected her to follow.

I had a fair idea of what she'd say to me, too.

"Seojun, honey. Try to understand your father. Think how hurt he must be."

"………"

"And anyway, how could you ask a civil servant to help with your campaign? You know about the political neutrality obligation for public officials."

"Immediate family members are... No. Never mind."

My father makes a scene, my mother slaps a rough patch over it—that was our family's pattern.

My mother probably believed she was the one preserving domestic peace.

When I was young, I'd survived by leaning on her, that much was true.

But looking back now, I'd been burned by my mother more often than by my father.

"But, Seojun. Why did you even run in an election you're bound to lose?"

"I told you. Just now."

"Did you? I don't remember."

"Ha... haha."

"Don't laugh. Your mother's worried. I hate to say this, but honestly—who among the citizens of Maesan is going to vote for you as mayor? Maesan goes to Together Democratic, no question. And if you wanted to win on personal merit, your résumé is... well. Isn't it?"

What thunderous support from my parents, whom I'd seen for the first time in ages.

Coming to this house had been a mistake, no matter how I looked at it.

And yet, it hadn't been entirely pointless.

"I won't ask you two for anything again. I promise."

Thanks to my parents' spectacular display of who they really were, I'd been able to discard even the bare minimum of expectation I'd been clinging to.

In a way, that might have been a blessing.

Say the two of them had suddenly come to their senses and devoted themselves to helping my campaign.

I'd have spent the rest of my life in their debt, forever.

Sooner or later they'd have summoned me under the banner of "repayment" and made some unreasonable demand.

Because they'd drawn such a firm line this time, I'd be spared that whole wretched song and dance.

Thank you kindly.

I would fight the coming local election without my family.

Naturally, the mood in the campaign office was rock bottom.

"Everyone. It doesn't look ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠like I'll be getting any help from my family."

"Oh, Candidate..."

"I know what you're worried about, but this is decided. Let's not speak of it again."

A family member could have done the work of ten ordinary campaign volunteers—maybe more—and that resource was now gone. Of course morale had tanked.

And it wasn't just the mood that had soured.

People had started jumping ship.

"Ah... Candidate, I sincerely wish you the best of luck. Perhaps it would be wise to staff the camp with fresh faces?"

"The truth is, I have kidney stones and... Oh dear, would you look at the time. I must go!"

"My wife has suddenly fallen ill, you see."

The faces of those who remained had gone sour as well.

I swept my gaze across them all, and then, on a sudden impulse, smiled and spoke.

"There's one more thing you should all know. I'm exempt from military service."

At that, someone finally let out a groan of despair.

Green as could be, abandoned by his own family, and to top it all off, an exemption case.

They were probably wondering how some defect-riddled bastard like me had ever landed a party nomination in the first place.

Undeterred, I kept talking.

"At twenty, I had surgery to remove part of my liver."

"...?"

"It was for an organ transplant. The recipient of my liver was a family member. Because the surgery required an extended recovery period, my re-examination came back with a Grade 5 classification."

Doubt was written all over the faces turned toward me.

Fortunately, that was exactly the reaction I'd expected.

Giving part of your liver to family was something you could dress up as a noble, almost sacred act.

But giving your liver and then getting frozen out ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠by that same family? That was just bizarre.

Liver donation was comparatively safer than most organ transplants, sure—but it was still a sacrifice you could only make with your life on the line.

"You're probably wondering why someone who donated an organ to his own family would be cast aside by his parents in the middle of such an important race. I wonder about it too. Any person with common sense—anyone with a functioning human heart—would find it strange. That's normal."

It was a long time ago now, but even by my own reckoning, I'd been a sucker.

All these years, I'd never once gone around broadcasting my exemption.

I hadn't wanted anyone to know what a pushover I'd once been.

But handled well, it could actually work in my favor in an election.

That was how my military status read on the pamphlets we'd be distributing to voters.

We'd decided not to reveal the specific reason for the exemption yet.

Not many politicians in South Korea would let a bait like Grade 5 ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Wartime Labor Service—the old Second National Service classification—slide past without taking a bite.

Someone, inevitably, would pick a fight over it in some fashion.

"Depending on how it's used, this could become an opportunity."

That was the moment the direction of my campaign was set: I would fish with chum.

How much fun it would net me was impossible to predict just yet.

Still, I intended to see it through as far as it would go.

Winning would be great, of course.

But even if I lose, I can cut my ties to my family for good.

This would be an election that left something behind, whatever the result. That alone made it worth fighting.