The healing properties of Korean TV

Call me shallow, but the only way I’m getting through this COVID crisis (besides staying put) is to binge watch South Korean soap operas on Netflix.

Hours upon hours of the stuff. Rom-coms. Dramas. K-Pop shows about boy bands who use copious hair product. Historical epics with period costumes. I’m gorging on them all.

The closest I’ve ever been to Korea was visiting an authentic Korean spa in Maryland with my best friend. She revealed at the very last second that you had to strip naked to use the pool. When I finally got up the nerve to go commando and slid into the water, every Korean woman there stared in horror at my chubby body and ample breasts. One woman pulled her child from the water.

I don’t know to speak Korean. But thanks to subtitles, which are often adorably wrong

I’m picking up a few words and also learning about the culture. I now know that ailing South Koreans long for childhood comfort foods such as tteokbokki, fried rice cakes, the way we crave chicken soup, and that if you’re smitten with someone, you lovingly put a piece of meat on their rice bowl.

I had never watched television much until a few years ago when my 95-yearold father came to live with me before his death. He hated watching alone and guilted me into sitting through shows with captions. (He could barely hear). While he held my hand for comfort, we watched marathons of Spanish telenovelas with actresses who all looked like Sofia Vergara and actors with chiseled chins.

After Dad died, I was submerged in grief for more than a year. I didn’t watch TV, read or even pray. While still mourning this dear man — who had been the brilliant research chemist who formulated Dove soap — coronavirus arrived. I felt even more alone and afraid. I started making face masks, wiping down my groceries, and staying inside like a cloistered nun. I followed the news relentlessly, flipping channels to catch every update.

Until one day, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I couldn’t bear to see the mounting death counts. I couldn’t write another story about medical heroes on the COVID front lines. When a nurse I interviewed told me her patients were dying before they even got out of the ambulance, I lost it.

That’s when I unplugged the news and took a trip to Korean fantasy land.

The Korean shows I’ve watched have up to 70 episodes. The plots lines are predictable and hokey, which adds to their charm. You know that by the end of the series, the lovers will invariably unite and a wedding will be followed by the birth of a baby — usually a boy.

The storylines tend to revolve around the same themes and characters. There are bumbling gangsters who spoil their grandchildren. The women are all gorgeous; pencil slim and with doe eyes and flawless skin.

Every love story starts with a “meet cute” in which a man and woman take an instant dislike to each other. After much bickering and misunderstandings later, they perform the maneuver I call the “Korean Dip,” in

I couldn’t bear to see the mounting death counts. I couldn’t write another story about medical heroes on the COVID front lines. When a nurse I interviewed told me her patients were dying before they even got out of the ambulance, I lost it.

which the woman slips on ice or breaks her high heel and the man catches her in an embrace just before her head reaches the ground. (Kind of like the death spiral move in ice skating.) The “dip” is an ironclad guarantee of a happy ending.

Many story lines involve brazen mistresses who collect designer handbags and other women’s husbands. Nearly every show involves a trip to the hospital where the rooms look like five-star hotel suites. And many are morality tales about uber-rich corporate chairmen who neglect their children on their rise to the top, only to repent in a near-death experience. Private school rich kids who torment poor scholarship students always get their comeuppance, and a Korean grandmother is always the most respected and beloved character in the show.

I know that television doesn’t necessarily reflect reality. (Do YOU live like a Kardashian?) TV is an entertainment platform, not a snapshot of real life. But it does, to some extent, reflect people’s aspirations, family structure, societal expectations and cultural norms.

I’m now convinced that’s why South Korea has managed the coronavirus crisis more swiftly and efficiently than some other countries. The culture rewards filial piety (being good to your parents), caring for the elderly, and protecting the vulnerable. It values teamwork and chain of command to protect the common good.

When Koreans were urged to stay home and self-distance, they did it. They wore masks without whinging about their rights being trampled. The health of the entire country depended on everyone working together. I doubt that the death rates in Korean nursing homes were anywhere near as high as they have been in the United States.

More than 40 years ago, child psychologist Bruno Bettleheim wrote a book titled “The Uses of Enchantment,” which explored how fairy tales educate children while supporting and liberating their emotions.

I’m no psychologist or social scientist, but I’m convinced that indulging in Korean television has helped me heal a little during this scary time. Fantasy has blunted the terrifying reality of a global pandemic. Maybe that isn’t so shallow.