Queer allies are vitalizing South Korea’s ballroom scene
A look at some of the folks who are uplifting South Korea’s LGBTQ+ community through dance
Deana Love Oricci, Korean overseer of the House of Oricci, and a member of the House of Love, is one of the allies keeping South Korea's ballroom scene alive.
Courtesy of Deana Love Oricci
Words by Natalia Kabenge
South Korea’s dance scene is ever evolving. Dancers such as AIKI, Lia Kim, and Bada Lee have helped to popularize styles such as tutting, hip-hop, and street funk across the country. And circa 2018, a new style made its way across the globe and found a home in Seoul: ballroom. Though the moniker is an umbrella term for the European waltzes, cha-chas, and foxtrots of the 16th Century, it’s also a staple of the international queer dance scene. Ballroom dancers are meticulous with their craft, which allows them to flawlessly execute styles such as voguing. These dance styles demand perfection—characterized by intense precision and straight lines, although their origins are anything but (straight, that is).
Harlem in the 1980s—which contained spaces where Black and Latino queer people could gather to celebrate their identities—birthed the ballroom scene, a pinnacle of modern queer culture. Created by and for queer people of color—specifically transgender Black women—the ballroom scene provides those once considered “sexually deviant” a safe space where they could celebrate their true selves. With this came the many elements of ballroom: hand performance, duck-walk, and spins and dips, all components South Korea’s dance scene became acquainted with when Love Ran founded the country’s first Kiki House in 2018, the House of Love.
In the present day, it’s not uncommon to observe many of these elements in K-pop choreography—songs such as “La Di Da” by EVERGLOW, “I'm Ready” by Chung Ha, and “Colors” by MAMAMOO’s Solar feature a multitude of ballroom elements in the artists’ dancing, making them standouts for many fans. Though at face value the inclusion of these elements can seem like a genuine attempt at representation, for the queer community, it’s important for people to understand the social context in which it exists.
LGBTQ+ rights are still a subject of contention in South Korea. “There’s this mindset that queerness is a disease or virus that comes from foreigners coming to Korea,” says drag queen and ballroom veteran Rina MorningStar Oricci Ivy. While they affirm the country’s strict laws protect queer individuals from physical harm, it is still difficult to live as an openly queer person. A person’s sexuality is considered a private matter, and there lies a general attitude of “don’t ask, don’t tell.” Safe spaces for South Korea’s queer community are few and far between, but since the inception of its first Kiki House in 2018, ballroom has grown to become one of the largest spaces where people can be themselves.
“What do you have to bring to the table? That’s kind of ballroom—it doesn’t matter what kind of person you are,” Oricci Ivy shares. After being introduced to the ballroom scene by a friend, they recalled feeling at home at their first South Korean ball, admiring the non-judgmental atmosphere and welcoming community. The concept of found family is common in ballroom, and houses are led by house mothers and fathers, who take on responsibilities similar to that of biological parents, for the house children. South Korea’s ballroom scene largely consists of local Kiki Houses as opposed to internationally recognized mainstream houses, emphasizing a focus on community building and friendly competition.
Oricci Ivy, a member of Korea’s Kiki House of Ivy and the internationally recognized House of Oricci, says that South Korea’s scene sets itself apart from the rest because of the emphasis placed on dance and technique. “Ballroom was started by people who are not really dancers,” they say, explaining that the goal of ballroom around the world is to create a space accessible to queer individuals seeking community. But in South Korea, styles such as voguing are often viewed solely as dance styles, rather than staples of queer culture.
In fact, many would be surprised to learn that South Korea’s ballroom scene largely consists of cisgender heterosexual women who are dedicated to the dance style. Oricci Ivy notes that sometimes, there are dancers who are unfamiliar with the culture of the scene and choose to participate. They advise that these individuals educate themselves on the history and context before engaging with it. In a country where queer safe spaces are scarce, the roles of education, representation, and allyship are of even more significance within the ballroom scene.
Deana Love Oricci, Korean overseer of the House of Oricci, and a member of the House of Love, holds the same belief as Oricci Ivy. “I try to educate myself about the history of ballroom and queer culture,” Love Oricci shares. Because cisgender women are the majority within the Korean Ballroom scene, she acknowledges that her experience within the ballroom scene is different from that of her queer counterparts, and is constantly seeking to highlight and uplift them. Whether it’s seeking out opportunities for her queer counterparts—magazine shoots, for example—or taking on a leadership role to ensure the safety and well-being of everyone involved, Love Oricci’s allyship manifests in many ways.
To have such a critical part of queer culture so visible in a country like South Korea is something both ballroom participants and the LGBTQ+ community don’t take for granted.
Allies participating in South Korea’s ballroom scene are oftentimes the face of queer representation within the country, which is a heavy responsibility. The music video for “Colors” by MAMAMOO’s Solar notably features South Korea’s House of Love, the country’s largest Kiki house. The queer members of the house are a minority—despite this, the House of Love is admired by queer and non-queer dancers alike. Mother Love Ran can be credited with building South Korea’s ballroom scene from the ground up, and each of her house children have been instrumental in its growth over the years. “Every single one of the members of the House of Love have put in years and years of work building the community,” says Oricci Ivy. To have such a critical part of queer culture so visible in a country like South Korea is something both ballroom participants and the LGBTQ+ community don’t take for granted.
As someone who works in South Korea, Oricci Ivy understands how difficult it can be to openly show support for the country’s queer community. People prioritize career stability, and being openly supportive of the queer community could potentially jeopardize this.
Because of this, Oricci Ivy says the queer community in South Korea feels grateful toward the K-pop idols who include ballroom in their work, and even more so toward those who actively participate in the scene. She expresses a special appreciation for soloists Chung Ha and AleXa. Chung Ha has participated as a judge in the House of Love’s Love Ball, taking time out of her busy schedule to show her support for the community, and AleXa has not only attended, but actively participated in Korean ballroom events.
“Representation means speaking up,” Oricci Ivy says, “Educate the people around you, use your platform to educate—whenever you have the chance to support, you do it.” And it’s clear to her that both artists have done exactly that.
The LGBTQ+ community in South Korea continues to fight for a world in which they can be unapologetically themselves. Ballroom has been instrumental in these efforts, providing not only a safe space, but an opportunity to educate others on the importance of acceptance.
Queer dating shows, choreography featuring ballroom, and BL dramas (Boys’ Love Dramas) are helping to slowly incorporate queer representation to South Korea’s everyday life—providing hope to the country’s queer population as they finally see themselves reflected in mainstream media. Little by little, the LGBTQ+ community in South Korea continues to fight for a world in which they can be unapologetically themselves. Ballroom has been instrumental in these efforts, providing not only a safe space, but an opportunity to educate others on the importance of acceptance.
“In Korea, queer culture is not the main culture,” says Love Oricci, noting that finding community as a queer Korean person can be rather isolating. In fact, many queer people in South Korea are unaware of the ballroom scene and what it has to offer. Internally, members of the Korean ballroom community hope to make the space even more queer, inviting people from all walks of life to find a home in the scene. Love Oricci remains hopeful, and believes that with time, more queer people will seek out the scene as a means of finding community. “I want to show them that ballroom is really a safe space for them.”
Oricci Ivy’s hopes for the future of South Korea’s Ballroom scene are also high—ultimately, she wants it to be a vessel through which South Korea can overcome homophobia. Eventually, she hopes they can become internationally recognized, encouraging people from all over the world to travel and participate in their events. “I think we are trying to make [ballroom] bigger and bigger, to say that Korean ballroom exists, and queer people in Korea have a space,” Oricci Ivy says with conviction, certain that the future of Korea’s ballroom scene is bright. “This space is something that nobody can take away from us.”
Published on September 10, 2024
Words by Natalia Kabenge
Natalia Kabenge is a music and culture writer and concert photographer based in New York City. As a first-generation Ugandan-American, her musical interests extend to every corner of the world—some of her favorite genres are RnB, Afrobeats, Metal, and K-Pop. She is currently pursuing a major in Journalism and a minor in Japanese studies at The New School, and has had the opportunity to cover talent such as ATEEZ, Pink Sweat$, P1Harmony, and Travis Japan. Instagram: @nataliakabenge, Twitter/X: @talia__michelle