Korean kids

A fourth-grader in Suwon, south of Seoul, wanted to run for class president. His classmates talked him out of it. Their argument wasn't about popularity or grades. It was about logistics. He lived in a Humansia apartment, a public housing brand. And if a Humansia kid held the title, children from the other classes would have a word for the whole room. So he took his name off the ballot. At another school, a different boy just answered a question. A classmate asked where he lived. He said Humansia. And the other kids stopped letting him into their games. His mother repeated the word they gave him: 휴거. Hyu-geo. It's a contraction of Humansia and geoji, the Korean word for beggar. A child in the wrong building is a Humansia beggar. And the vocabulary kept growing. 엘사: a person who lives in LH, the state land and housing corporation. 엘거: LH plus beggar. 빌거: a child who lives in a villa, the low-rise housing that sits a rung under an apartment tower. When the government opened a program for young families called Newlywed Hope Town, the playground produced 신거, newlywed-hope-town beggar, before most of the buildings were even finished. These children read buildings the way adults read paychecks. A mother of a third-grader described her son coming back from a birthday party and naming the brand of the apartment it was held in. He had started asking her how many pyeong their home was, and what it was worth. She said she felt sorry for him in advance. Because every term these children use was waiting for them when they arrived. The classification was assembled by adults, for adult reasons, and handed down whole. What the children add is the missing filter. An adult who holds the same belief has learned which version of it can be said in front of the neighbors. A fourth-grader hasn't learned that yet. So he says 휴거 out loud. And keeps the other boy out of the game.