Who Is Ibanjiha?

On the frigid December evening in 2019 when Ibanjiha stepped onto the stage wearing a pink phallus-shaped headpiece, sunglasses, and a curly wig hitched to their pelvis, the performance artist who had been active in the Korean queer feminist scene since 2004 was ready to retire. In fact, this live show was titled their “First and Last Human Rights Concert”; this was Ibanjiha’s very first solo show despite simultaneously bewildering and enthralling audiences at various parties and protests for 15 years. Of course, their hit songs such as “Little Het in a Lesbian Bar”, a cover of Sting’s “Englishman in New York”, and “Oppa’s on His Period”, a bubbly a cappella track dedicated to all “irregular” men, had made enormous contributions to the advancement of human rights for the Korean LGBTQ+ community. But Ibanjiha’s dedicated fans, restricted as they were by the virtue of being marginalized in a country where there is still no anti-discrimination law to this day, had not done nearly enough to secure the artist a living.

This was why Ibanjiha hosted a crowdfunding campaign to finance their solo show, in which they would grace the queer masses with their presence one last time. As perks, high-tier donors were driven to the live venue in a VIP-only minivan and escorted by butch bodyguards. The signs on the venue’s restrooms were changed to “gender neutral” and “sex addicts”. A total of ten Butches In Black were positioned throughout the venue to aid any fainting femmes. Members of the oldest gay and lesbian choruses in Korea prepared to join the star on stage as backing vocalists. And to the dismay of the living legend that is Ibanjiha, their Human Rights Concert did not in fact conclude their career, but catapulted them into greater fame as an irreplaceable icon in Korean society.

Of course, Ibanjiha had already gained notoriety since they debuted in 2004 with an offbeat moniker that combines the Korean word for “queer”(ban) and “semi-basement apartment”(banjiha). But as the crowdfunding campaign for their concert, as well as videos, images, and lyrics from the show circulated on social media, Ibanjiha gained a plethora of new fans who wanted to see more of this wearied-yet-domineering performer. A painter by training, Ibanjiha has always been a multi-hyphenate, who also directed two animated short films that screened in festivals in the US, UK, Brazil, and Indonesia. But since their 2019 concert, Ibanjiha has become a bestselling author of three nonfiction books, a YouTuber who is the agony “daddy” to thousands of subscribers, and the writer of Korea’s very first queer family sitcom. They were the 2022 resident of Korea’s National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art, and has exhibited their paintings and installations in the US and Canada.

Why is Ibanjiha’s Humor Important?

Queer and/or feminist figures are certainly present in Korean popular culture, whether in the form of vogue dancers and girl power anthems in K-pop, films such as The

Handmaiden and House of Hummingbird, and fiction like Sang Young Park’s LOVE IN THE BIG CITY or Choi Jinyoung’s TO THE WARM HORIZON. But real-life queer feminists are often relegated to the academic, activist sphere, with much of nonfiction written by queer feminist writers taking on a similarly solemn tone. Many respond to the dearth of representation and abundance of misconceptions by attempting to explain to and persuade readers. This is, of course, a necessary task, but art cannot be limited to these purposes. In contrast to pop culture icons who curate a “relatable” image as well as scholar-activists who seek to educate, Ibanjiha speaks as a seasoned patriarch (“Daddy”, as their fans call them) putting on a “boundary dance” with society’s norms. In an essay titled “In Support of Safe Heterosexual Relations”, they write, “I don’t oppose heterosexuality. I’d say I acknowledge it exists,” mirroring homophobic rhetoric so commonplace in Korea that former president Moon Jae-in repeated it in a presidential debate in 2017. When Ibanjiha skips over the impulse to refute and immediately stages a parody, one cannot help letting out a cathartic cackle.

Ibanjiha describes their art as grounded in “survivor’s humor”, which is evident in the way that the writer uses comedy to approach difficult topics and connect to survivors of all stripes. In “Taking Pills”, Ibanjiha writes about attending a roundtable of HIV+ individuals, who discuss the discrimination they face at work and in accessing healthcare. The atmosphere becomes increasingly heavy, and the speakers mention that the medication they must take every day reminds them of their stigmatized status. At this, Ibanjiha blurts out, “Wait, you all are complaining about taking a single pill, when I, as a nutjob, am downing seven to eight a day?!” An awkward pause follows, but soon enough, the participants realize that they are all “pill poppers.” Ibanjiha writes, “Anyone who’s cursed with longevity in this day and age will end up taking pills every day to keep riding this rodeo. So what if you got a head start for a clear reason?” The way an excellent stand-up comedy set can spark laughter and revelation at once, Ibanjiha’s humor offers new perspectives by sharing vulnerabilities. Their humor never rings hollow because Ibanjiha speaks from their own experience of survival, whether of gendered, domestic violence, or of perpetual socio-economic precarity. After all, as Ibanjiha says, we are all queer in some sense.

What’s There to Laugh About?

The essays in Why Am I So Hilarious can be divided into two categories: writing on life as a queer artist in Korea, and reflections on the author’s travels in North America. In the former, Ibanjiha writes about the benefits of working at the neighborhood convenience store, their most consistent workplace in the past few years; the relief of becoming an anonymous woman at the local boxing gym; attending the all-too-frequent funerals of queer friends and acquaintances; watching baseball and the men who populate the world of sports. One of the centerpieces in this section is a reportage-style essay titled “Butch Palace for the Son”. “Palace for the son” is the literal meaning of the Chinese characters that comprise the Korean word for “uterus”, and this piece includes interviews from two butch informants who have gone through hysterectomies. This piece is notable not simply for its unique subject matter, but also for Ibanjiha’s masterful weaving of irreverent quips and sharp insights on the culturally specific definition of butchness in Korea, as well as the messiness inherent to embodying any gender, whether “alternative” or not.

The latter half of the book focuses on Ibanjiha’s travels to Toronto and New York, where they participated in an art exhibition and a speaking event. As the queer patriarch to a very specific subset of (diasporic) Korean society who is read as a small Asian girl in white-majority contexts, Ibanjiha recounts an encounter with an anti-abortion protester on a bus in Toronto. As an artist, they reflect on the universality of phallic sculptures in public spaces, the goofy elegance of Alexander Calder’s mobiles, the ineffable beauty of the trees in Central Park, and the hubris of believing that one can “see” the Niagara Falls. But in these wanderings abroad, what ultimately reminds Ibanjiha of who they are is a scene they witness the day they miss their return flight to Korea because of an argument with an airline employee. Although Ibanjiha had not been able to convince the airline staff that they had the correct COVID vaccine documents, another passenger who has not been vaccinated demands to be “let in” anyway. “Let me in!” this person bellows. Ibanjiha wonders if those words will ever glide out of their mouth. Perhaps not, but that isn’t their way of going about things, anyway. “A small, dense, tacky fluorescent ball that keeps bouncing up as hard as the surface it’s been thrown against. Yeah, if I have to pick, that’s what I am.”