type: article

info: written in 2020 for thedissolve.kr

description: I write about the crucial role that mothers take on within the heart of South Korea's toxically competitive education system, Gangnam

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The 2019 JTBC K-drama Sky Castle took Korean viewers by storm as it followed the cutthroat society of upper-class mothers and their ruthless quest to get their children admitted to Seoul National University Medical School, the epitome of academic success in Korea. The story hit uncomfortably close to home for its Korean audience—and two years later, it still holds the title of the second-highest-rated series in cable TV history.

And as exaggerated as the Sky Castle storylines may be, the women depicted in the drama bear a striking resemblance to the group of real-world mothers known colloquially as “Gangnam Moms”.

Since Amy Chua’s memoir Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother (2011) introduced the concept of the “Tiger Mom”, the term has been used to describe a parenting style, typically Asian, that is centered around an unrelenting push for academic achievement and produces incredibly well-disciplined and high-performing children.

A Gangnam Mom is a particular species of Tiger Mom. She inhabits the affluent neighborhoods of her namesake district in the metropolitan south of Seoul and is often spotted lounging in the cafes of Daechi, Seoul’s education watering hole.

Gangnam Moms can be further divided into two subspecies depending on which side of Teheran Boulevard they inhabit. The boulevard cuts across the middle of Gangnam, and so the Te-buk (Teheran North) Moms reside in neighborhoods like Cheongdam, Apgujeong, and Banpo. Their husbands typically work in either medicine or law, or run successful businesses. These families hire housekeepers and fly first class. The children attend elite boarding schools abroad, such as Exeter and Eton. Already at the top of the food chain, these parents want to make sure their offspring maintain their status.

The Te-nam (Teheran South) species inhabit areas like Daechi, Jamsil, Dogok, and Gaepo. They are still considered upper-class—these neighborhoods are some of the most expensive real estate in South Korea. Their husbands might be employed at Samsung or Hyundai. But as well-salaried as they may be, they’re still at the mercy of their corporate overlords. These families do not have massive inheritances to pass down... unlike their Te-buk neighbors. Te-nam mothers want to make sure their offspring are given every opportunity to move up the food chain—or just across the boulevard.

A Gangnam Mom possesses three key skills: driving, research and politics.

Daechi is Korea’s unofficial capital of education—an untamed jungle of hagwons (private academies), tutors, study cafes, and all things academic. In 2017, the Seoul city government imposed a 10pm curfew on hagwons in an effort to provide some relief to an exhausted student populace. So come 10pm on any given day, the Daechi streets are flooded with students dismissed from their final classes of the day, and the roads become jammed with their mothers in Hyundais and Porsches there to fetch them. A 15-minute drive can easily take up to an hour after 10pm in Daechi.

Research is the defining skill of a Gangnam Mom. It’s such a unique trait, in fact, that Seoul National University researchers have conducted studies on how information travels and is managed among Gangnam Mom networks. Gangnam cubs all have the grit and ambition to succeed. Differences in intelligence are negligible, which is why information is so vital. The only real edge in this neck-and-neck competition is gained by gathering the right intel on CV-boosting after-school programs, hagwons with tried-and-true curriculums, the best private tutors, or the secrets to writing the perfect college application.

But there’s only so much information that googling can produce, and much of it is unverified. As the Seoul National University study shows, in the Gangnam jungle, the hunt for information is conducted by navigating through the intricate society of moms and participating in its politics.

Moms form packs with other moms from the same school. They meet regularly to exchange tips, tricks, and shade over coffee. They’re usually on the search for that superstar instructor with exceptional credentials, who strikes the right balance between the carrot and the stick, and cares as much about the students’ academic achievements as the mothers would themselves. Instructors like these, if they even exist, are in such high demand that they will typically only teach private groups. And of course, it’s the moms’ responsibility to make the necessary arrangements to get a group together. Much of the politics happens at this stage because:

- Everyone is competing against each other, which generates a sense of secrecy around these tutor groups. If you’re not at the right lunch date at the right time with the right mom, you could miss out on the best meat.

- You don’t want that kid in your group, they’re going to slow the group down.

- A mom might have agreed to be a part of this group but then goes and finds a better one, leaving the rest out to dry because the instructor doesn’t take groups smaller than five. (“Let’s just see how well she does next year.”)

- Each group usually has a principal mom, who is in charge of communicating with the instructor.

She’ll also be in charge of payment—often several million won (thousands of dollars)—which has to be collected and wired from her account each month. Nobody is keen on taking up that responsibility.

Then February comes around—the school year ends, and college admission results wrap up just in time for the Lunar New Year holidays. Some lucky mothers will get to boastfully announce their kid’s college admission news to the extended family. Others will just tut and sigh—they’ll try again next year.

What I’ve described so far is based on my personal observations as a teenager living the Gangnam student lifestyle, partnering with my mom in her efforts to cement a future for me, the best way she knew how.

High school is already a distant memory for me, but this past year my brother was applying to colleges while I was staying with my family during the pandemic. This time around, I got to observe the Gangnam Mom and Cub lifestyle from more of a distance.

College admissions are a whole-family ordeal. My mom would spend her days attending seminars, or analyzing the Youtube interviews of university admissions officers. In the evenings, my parents sat at the dinner table bickering over what should be said in my brother’s personal statement. On weekends, when my brother had back-to-back classes, my mom would drive him to Daechi in the morning, come home to pack lunch, then go and pick him up again so that he could wolf down the food in the car on the way to his next class. On Saturdays she would drive back to Daechi past midnight (the government’s 10pm curfew has limited success, with many classes still operating after hours behind blacked-out windows) to bring him home.

I won’t lie, I was depressed and overwhelmed when I was in his place. I came out of it with jaded views on learning and education that I’m frankly still trying to get over. I don’t condone this lifestyle. But there is something to be said for the sheer amount of grit and determination these women possess, and the undeniably significant role they play in Korea’s education ecosystem. Being a Gangnam Mom is hard work—and not everybody has what it takes to be a good one.

I asked my mom how she kept at it for so long. She said: “What other choice did we have? You do what you need to do to survive.”