Dear M21,
Sometimes, our time at Minerva feels like a fever dream — a whirlwind of visa applications, pdf articles, 10:01s, coffee shops, and a blur of countries with barely time to process it all. But here we are. In the period of our lives we had talked about, dreamt about — experiencing moments of stability while entirely still figuring things out. But can I just say, there is nothing that makes me happier than to see Minervans thriving. Like that one time… You called me, while we were thousands of miles apart, and told me you had gotten into the grad school of your dreams. I was over the moon for you — I didn’t know I could feel so much second-hand happiness. There were so many late nights we talked about our goals, our fears, and how we were going to make it through the next 3 assignments. And look at you now. I was on the Subway late on Tuesday night, scrolling LinkedIn after exhausting my other social platforms, when I saw an update that you had just started law school. Though we hadn’t talked since graduation, I almost cried a few happy tears. I knew how hard you had worked for this — navigating the uncharted path, studying for the LSAT, and sacrificing so much to make your aspirations a reality. I took the elevator to the 22nd floor — you showed me around your new apartment building, in a brand-new high-rise. How your favorite part is the kitchen appliances you could never invest in while moving every 4 months. I remember you used to cook the most delicious food in the most dire of kitchen circumstances. I’m so glad your cooking finally gets the environment it deserves. You told me you got promoted at your corporate job and I couldn’t hid my enthusiasm, non-stop texting you in ALL CAPS. (Yes, we sold our souls to corporate America, but you better believe we’re going to make the most of it.) Our first year, we weren’t even sure if it was possible for us to get into big tech since we had no precedent to follow. Now we are that precedent. You told me you were going to be in New York for a week, that we should catch up. We met on a rainy evening in Soho, the conversation feeling like we were picking up right where we left off a year ago. You told me about the big-time finance job you turned down and the new startup you’re building these days. For a moment, I was back in the dim hallways of 1412 and the bus rides in India, when we used to daydream about our big girl jobs. I took a train from Penn station to come visit your city. You waited near the bus stop to greet me — so warmly and so sincerely. You paid for my dinner saying I was the guest, even though I insisted I should be paying. We walked around the city and you showed me your routine and the places you’ve grown to love. I loved seeing you like this. Sometimes I think back to where all of this started — A few outwardly-insignificant buildings in San Francisco. A sunset at Ocean Beach, a blind feast. Back when we were so young, naïve, and bright-eyed. We took the world in stride — problems, possibilities and all — our paths would be what we made of them. And sometimes, maybe way more often than I’d like to admit, I scroll back through the rolodex of photos — of when we’d go to Bob’s Donuts in SF or that time we went to karaoke in Seoul, danced under the sparking lights in rural town in India, biked around gloomy Berlin, and took that trip to the ocean in Buenos Aires — a few weeks before the pandemic changed everything. I’m glad you’re still in my life. Maybe not as frequently, but there nonetheless. I can’t wait to continue seeing our journeys unfold — I’m looking forward to the day you call me to tell me about your new start-up, to invite me to your art exhibition, or upcoming concert. To our next yearly catch-up where things will feel just as we left them — maybe with a little more maturity, perspective, and healthy skepticism. To the moment we finally get to reunite after life threw a few too many curveballs our way. To watching you on the news talk about the scientific discovery you made or the new eclectic community you pioneered (because that is totally something you would do.) To meeting your significant other and flying half-way around the world to make a wedding toast. To taking a trip back to one of the cities we loved, eating at our favorite restaurant, and reminiscing about our silly shenanigans. But until then, promise me you’ll take care of yourself. I’ll see you when I see you.
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"3... 2... 1... On behalf of the cabin crew, I'd like to wish everyone a happy New Year!" The plane erupted into sleepy applause, awaking some people who had dozed off — me included. It was the start of 2020, and I was spending the turn of the decade on a red-eye flight from London to Buenos Aires. I had just wrapped up my semester in Germany and, after a brief layover in the UK, was jetting off to city number 5/7 of the rotation.
As the plane descended, I squinted out of the blinding window towards my first glimpse of Argentina. Endless acres of lush, green pastures came into view. It was a welcomed change to the ever-grey Berlin scenery (sorry Berlin, I didn't love you and you really deserved better.) I glanced back the notes app I had open on my phone with a new page titled "2020." The blinking cursor stared back. New Year's resolution time, or something, right? I quickly typed out "2020 Goals" and then instinctively backspaced and restarted: "2020 Smart Goals:"— academia's doing. I finished typing out some more specific smart goals about academics, health, and finances for the semester before I could feel the familiar drop-in-altitude-jolt in my stomach as we prepared for our final descent. I had luckily flown on the same flight as multiple other Minerva students, so I shared a taxi cab with 3 others from the Airport to our residence hall— tiredly, but excitedly, discussing our bucket lists for the semester, making plans with each other that we all knew had a 50/50 chance of follow-through, and giving unsolicited advice on navigating the city from our trusted sources of "I actually heard that..." When we arrived in the city, things were eerily quiet. It was New Years day, so many stores were closed, surprisingly even the supermarkets. Someone said they knew of a Chinese grocery store a couple blocks away that was open, so I set to find something other than the Alfajores we received at check-in to eat. Grocery shopping for the first time in a new country is always an adventure; I picked up a package of wannabe oatmeal (which would end up slouching in the corner of my cupboard), a couple single-serve yogurts that looked friendly enough, and milk in a strange plastic carton— it would have to do for now. I would come to learn that grocery stores in the city were... dull, to put it generally. Or maybe the psychedelic-esque packaging of Trader Joe's (which I greatly missed) had just ruined my eye-buds. That unassuming first day would bleed into a stream of many memories over the next couple months— some tearful, some magnificent, but mostly warm and pleasant. It was one of the first countries where I was determined to learn the language (or should I say, revive the ghost of my 5th grade Spanish skills), so I started taking Spanish lessons that first week. It was slow progress, and I always defaulted to similar-sounding french words— thanks to my 7-years of French training, which still has not proven a worthy use-case— but I enjoyed the non-collegiate mental strain. My roommate, Tara, and I put up a poster of common Spanish phrases on our wall and would quiz each other on the days of the week from time to time. In those first couple weeks, I went to my first asado, visited a neighboring town— Tigre, and got hooked on "tre-de-de"— the potentially sacrilegious drink of mate leaves steeped in orange juice instead of water. Classes started picking up, and I found myself in the familiar grind of staying up late doing readings and writing essays. I joined a project with Unilever on improving their employer brand, laid the foundations for my senior capstone project, and worked virtually with an SF-based startup to grow their newsletter subscribers. The first month flew by, as it normally does, and I felt a decent sense of routine in my life. February break rolled around and I joined a spontaneous trip to the ocean with 4 of my friends. We rented a car, drove to Mar Del Plata— 5 hours south of the city— and stayed in a cottagecore-aestetic AirBnb with a horse-shoe shaped pool out back. One night, we went star-gazing near the ocean armed only with a handful of blankets and our iPhone flashlights to navigate. We laid in the sand on a small hill near the ocean, listening to the waves, to each other, and to someone's Spotify playlist in the background. It had been a while since I'd seen clear stars in the sky (a rarity in the cities of course.) About an hour in, we noticed a light faintly glowing on the side of a far-away cliff. We thought it might be a ship slowly coming over the horizon, but it seemed too bright for that. For a few brief moments, we were scared. Was it a rogue car? A lighthouse? A UFO? The light kept growing— a warm, amber glow until its massive spherical figure emerged quite suddenly atop the hill. It was the moonrise. The most brilliant, magnificent one I'd ever seen— unbridled by any buildings or light pollution that usually gets in the way so we don't notice her until she's in the sky, already risen and small. I will never forget the radiance of that moment and the silent awe as we watched. Those blissful few days in Mar Del Plata abruptly ended with Monday morning classes and more assignments that piled on. Soon, it was March. (Yes, March 2020.) And I had no idea how my life, the world, would change in a couple weeks. My immediate concerns involved the 3 assignments due the next week, applying for summer internships, and deciding which flavor of gelato I would get each night. (I still dream about those gelato places these days and wish I had known the time it would be my last. Rappanui— I'll be back for you.) My fateful, penultimate day in the city— March 14th— started out rather normally. Rumblings of the coronavirus had softly been making its way into the daily conversation. But nothing seemed out of the ordinary— you know, like global-pandemic-about-to-explode. I woke up that Friday to a news notification that Trump would be holding a press conference on the Coronavirus Pandemic, but I was mostly focused on the fact that I was running late to a tour & meeting with the Ministry of Education— an event that Minerva had organized for a group of about 15 of us passionate about education reform. We took a bus over to the Ministry's office building, purposefully located in a well-known slum, to stand as a physical representation of the social divides they hoped to dissolve through increased education equity. It was humbling to be there. We all packed into a bright conference room, where one of the secretaries jokingly offered us hand sanitizer to, "stop the spread." A couple of us laughed and accepted it just for kicks. If only we knew. As we left the building at around three in the afternoon, the coronavirus rumblings got louder. "Are you thinking of going home?" someone asked me. "You mean back to the residence hall? or like, home home?" "Yeah, like back to the US... Because the virus?" I remember shaking my head— "Argentina doesn't even have a single case yet. If anything, I'd be down to ride it out and stay here over the summer." When I got back to my dorm room, my parents called. They were worried I might get stuck in Argentina. I opened the news app to see the headline "BREAKING: TRUMP BANS FLIGHTS FROM EUROPE." Shoot. Things were getting serious. The next 24 hours were a painful blur; I booked a horribly-overpriced one-way flight to Denver for the the next evening. Then went out to get last-minute gifts, stocked up on alfajores and mate, and packed up all my belongings in under two hours. Everyone was in full panic mode. Some of my classmates' home countries had already closed their borders to citizens and they were stuck in Buenos Aires indefinitely. There were lots of tears and a collective sense of denial— this could not really be happening, right? This is all going to blow over in a couple weeks, right?? When it came time to leave for my flight, a group of my friends who hadn't left yet met me in the lobby to say goodbye. The scene of them waving tearful goodbyes as my taxi pulled away is permanently etched into my brain. I took a deep, wavering breath and settled into my seat, trying not to cry. I didn't look back. I should have. I write this from my quiet Colorado neighborhood with little certainty over my future plans or when I'll see my classmates again. I recently read an Atlantic article that said we'd likely forget what it was like to live during the peaks of the pandemic— when all the days seems to blur together and there aren't any significant milestones to mark the passage of time. So I've been documenting snippets here and there. The days do seem to blur together. Virtual birthday parties are one of the rare events that seems to be time markers for me. I've read a lot of books, made some quarantine-hype recipes, and gone on regular walks with my parents. Sometimes, I open my bag of mate to make a cup of tea and the strong, bitter-sweet smell gives me pause. Because, just for a brief moment, all the memories come flooding back— the smell of fresh-baked medialunas and just-ground coffee. The charming, slightly-peeling buildings marred by colorful trees. The trip to the ocean. The lively chatter of the radio stations from Uber rides where I'd mentally high-five myself if I could understand small snippets. The little things I took for granted. Unlikely lessons from Kalabulgari“When I see problems, I see opportunities.” Our project manager, Sireesh, was explaining his decision to leave a prestigious job as an aerospace engineer at NASA and come back to India to run a startup. “India has a lot of problems. But that means that there are that many more opportunities to make things better.” During my 4 months living in Hyderabad, India, I had the opportunity to work with a social impact startup called SSMAS (pronounced just as it looks) along with 8 others of my classmates. Our project was aimed at fulfilling their goal of helping women entrepreneurs launch businesses and establishing a startup incubator that would house a handful of ventures from around the Karnataka region. The company is located in Kalabulgari—a small, developing city originally known as Gulbarga. During our whirlwind first visit with the team, we were shuttled around to different universities to talk with students, gave 2 press-conferences with the local media about the plans for our project, and got to meet with about 25 women entrepreneurs who were in their training program. The whole experience was a bit surreal; I was still getting used to the fact that I actually lived in India, though I felt very much like an outsider—gaping at herds of cows that would nonchalantly interrupt the traffic and feeling more at home eating with my stainless-steel utensils than my seemingly-uncoordinated hands. During that day in Kalabulgari, I was continually nudged by the idea that the core of “entrepreneurship” is really about solving problems that actually need solving, as Sireesh had eluded to in our first meeting. Not really about creating a showy website that moves in real time as you scroll and showcases the newest blockchain-based, VR, AR startup that creates a platform for businesses to meet their strategic goals—with the help of AI, of course. In many ways, I had been blinded by the flashiness of Silicon Valley, as that was the first place I’d been exposed to the startup world. In my mind, “startups” were largely run by the 20-something White male, donning a pair of Warby-Parker Glasses and AirPods. My mind was loaded with buzzwords like “funding rounds,” “unicorns,” and “lean management.” But here I was, in a small town in Western India, walking into a humble single-story building, surrounded by beautiful female entrepreneurs wearing an array of colorful, iridescent Sarees; I could not be further away from Silicon Valley. After those action-packed 2 days, we took the midnight bus back towards Hyderabad—exhausted, but motivated. Since Kalabugari is about 4 – 5 hours by bus or train, we would spend the next month or so working remotely and checking in through Skype calls. Our first meeting took place about a week after we had returned home. The 9 of us had communicated our plans through FB messenger, set up a google drive, created a new Slack workspace, and started a list of action-items. We felt as though we were very much on top of it. But we quickly realized that we were acting on assumptions, before taking the time to understand the context—assumptions that Slack was a necessity, that meetings wouldn’t happen without gcal invites, and that silicon valley’s way… was the way forward. We were too caught up in the tools to make things happen, rather than understanding how to actually make things happen. And it took many frustrating phone calls, confusing slack threads, and honest reflection before I came to realize that different does not mean inefficient. Nor does it mean lacking or undeveloped. Different is just different. I do think that India’s business culture needs to evolve in aspects that will make the country more competitive and equip to collaborate on a global stage. But in order for this to happen, we need to open silos that are so easy to create between work styles that may seem incompatible, to seek first for understanding, before coming in with a formula for success. "Different is just different." Working, living, and studying in India was unlike what I imagined. I will admit that I came in with a narrow-minded, Westernized version of India—the kind that you see in National Geographic and in documentaries— of poverty-stricken villages, people bathing in the Ganges river, and continual political turmoil. But those are so far from the full story. I marveled at India’s growing education and tech scene, was inspired by startups tackling everything from climate change to women empowerment and was touched by the stories and perspective of many people I was fortunate enough to meet during my 4 short months.
If anything, living here has humbled me and shown me a glimmer of immense possibility. As an echo of Sireesh’s words, the focus should be on the opportunities within rather than the problems throughout. Reflections from the subway windowThere is a stretch of subway in Seoul, between Gangbyon and Jamsilnaru station, where the tracks cross the Han river. I still remember the excitement I used to get as a child when traversing that span of the line. As the dark expanse of the tunnels suddenly blossomed into slats of rapidly-filtered light, I would lean on the side of the subway doors watching the river pan out effervescently and then fade away—always too soon to marvel fully at its beauty.
I crossed that stretch many times during the last semester; On my way to networking events in Gangnam, to find cafes in Garosu-gil, and coming back from Jamsil after visiting my newborn nephews –sometimes with friends, often in a rush, but always with that 5th grade child in me silently gaping at the vast expanse unfolding outside the subway windows. During my global rotation in Seoul, I found it difficult to articulate what the experience felt like. I’d been there too many times to count; months over summer vacations, a year in 5th grade, and a couple of very cold winters. In many ways, Seoul carried confusing and sometimes uncomfortable memories, stemming from a childhood naïveté not fully allowing me to process the heavy and hectic transitions— containing life shifts that altered faster than the city’s store turnover rate. My memories are filled with those of studying for tests and sitting in cram schools, wandering the streets of Nowon-gu littered with the aroma of street food and cigarettes; bullet-train rides to visit relatives and to attend Grandparents’ funerals—blurred with the scent of incense, sounds of crowded bus terminals, and buzz of glitzy shopping malls. One particular summer, I remember riding the cramped cable car up to the Namsan Tower but only after making my mom and grandma wait for 30 extra minutes as I checked each cable car to find the one signed by the main characters of the Korean Drama Boys Over Flowers. (I did end up finding it. And still have the blurry pictures of their signatures on my now-archaic pink flip phone.) Little did I know that I would be living directly under that tower, in the Haebangchon neighborhood—translated to “Liberation Town” as it traces its roots from the Korean War. Once a shooting range for the Japanese military, it became a home for North Korean defectors who had fled to the South. Now, 60 some years later, it has become one of Korea’s most diverse neighborhoods known for expats, hipster coffee shops, and lively bars lighting up the hilly, winding roads each night. In 4 months, I learned to love its quirky alleys and small-town charm; its coziness and its beautiful rooftops that looked out upon the city. And slowly, my relationship with the city began to change. I saw things with new eyes and a new humbleness that grew from simply being there— not because I was on a mission to visit family, learn the language, or go to SAT camp. But because I was there like every other one of my classmates—to observe, explore, and let the city teach me. Growing up, I’d been inundated to not forget my roots. I had been told that this county, this city, was a part of my identity. But it was difficult to internalize. The two cultures often seemed like oil and water— portraying an illusion of being one only when I could shake myself up enough for them to mix, temporarily, until they slowly regained their respective places. Maybe it was because I was always branded as “American” when I visited. Even though I spoke with no accent and strutted my signature Korean bangs, I was still always the “foreigner” to family, to family friends, and to outside acquaintances. It was assumed that I didn’t know how to get around the city, didn’t know the latest slang, and didn’t know the latest dramas—when maybe, I did. And it was assumed that I could explain “what America was like” with a robust political, social, cultural, and economic analysis thrown in there—when maybe I couldn’t. There was the “American me,” with the apparent Californian accent I’ve been told I have. And the "Korean me"—who mostly just laughs in conversation, because I don’t have the same wit to respond to things as I do in English. But they began to merge somewhere along the line last semester. Perhaps it was when I met more students or young professionals like me who also never felt quite at home wherever they were—who had grown up abroad but shared the same Korean heritage with their inherent challenges, experiences, and unique perspectives. Or maybe when I gave my first-ever presentation in Korean to a group of employees at LG—with a couple of stumbles and a lot of nerves, but realized that I was still the same person regardless of the language I expressed myself in. All-in-all, some things were still the same; The CU stores with the bell ringing on each swing of the door, the chaotic buzz of rush hours on the subways and shouting of street vendors near closing time; The hierarchical matrix structures giving way to glass ceilings that have lurked around even amidst the frenzy of “flattened” everything. But some things were different; Stores had been torn down, rebuilt, and remodeled, new K-pop bands sprouted up every week, and I saw the inkling potential of the rising generation—entrepreneurs, activists, and students who were speaking out against corruption, gender equality, and the education system—taking the difficult plight against systematic change. I wasn’t sure which of us had changed more. In my final month there, I remember taking the subway back across the river towards Haebangchon, probably for the last time for a while. It was a dark, cold, December evening. I watched the sparkling city lights whiz through the fluttering gaps of the windows, thinking about the past 4 months. The train entered the tunnel again, leaving me staring at my own reflection. 5 Bristol House, ColindaleSun
Rise. Bright Light. Seeping through the thick, translucent window. Heavy Blankets. Hard Surfaces. Digging into my vulnerable, untouched hip bone. Unwarranted Sound. Soft Clanging. Unset alarms and scattered memories Float above the ice burg. 180 minutes and the future of educationOn the afternoon of March 6th, I found myself at a fancy convention center in downtown Austin with 16 others of my classmates. For the past five months, we had worked on planning a 3-hour interactive session within SXSW’s education conference, and it was finally, almost happening.
It was 20 minutes until show time, and the team was bustling around the room, setting out materials, and doing final mic checks. As conference attendees started trickling in, I felt the energy in the room begin to heighten—turning our nervous jitters into excitement. After welcoming the attendees, we outlined the goals for our session that day:
Our first activity was the marshmallow tower building challenge—partly for fun and partly to create a comfortable team atmosphere for later discussions. For 21 frantic minutes, professionals in suits and business skirts hurriedly taped spaghetti noodles together—reaching across tables, yelling orders, and probably getting more exercise than they had the entire day. After we announced the winners and the room settled down, we started the small-group discussions. Each group began working through the Education by Design templates with discussions facilitated by a Minerva student. The conversations started, albeit superficially at first, but blossomed naturally within minutes. We moved from breaking down the components of active learning and applying new teaching techniques, to thinking about how physical space affects students and designing more effective learning spaces. Halfway through, I glanced up from my breakout discussion and looked around the room. The tables were filled with about 70+ attendees ranging from educators and administrators to industry leaders and start-up founders. What struck me was the level of engagement. You could almost feel the passion and drive these attendees had for learning how they could better play their part in improving education; They were hungry for change. As I listened back to the discussions in my group, I heard many voice their vision for how things could be better. Empathy was built around common narratives of feeling “stuck” within monetary, social, or administrative constraints. We talked, ranted, and brainstormed. We drew pictures of possible classroom layouts, discussed how to intervene at different levels of analysis, and learned magic tricks to practice examples of active learning. I saw eyes light up as educators imagined the possibilities they could open up for students. I saw ideas emerging from nodding agreement, rapidly-written takeaway responses, and after-session connections. It was more than I could’ve asked for. This process showed me that education is not unidimensional nor is it a “one-size fits all.” There is not one solution because there isn't just one problem. Education is a system, and although change is difficult, it is possible. But we need to see it as a constant work in progress—a co-designed initiative that brings together various stakeholders from the learning space to intentionally rethink what education needs to look like. Because that’s the sort of constant effort it’s going to take. Through almost six months of planning, our team put in long hours to design this summit, made sacrifices to attend meetings amidst academic workloads and stressed over some trivial logistical details. But those three hours in Austin Convention Center Room 9C made everything worth it because we realized—for the first time—that we were a part of something greater than ourselves. I saw that with a room full of passionate, driven, forward-thinking individuals, lofty goals seemed tangible. When you look in grand scheme of things, we were just 17 students working to design a session (out of hundreds) at SXSW. But this experienced showed me a glimpse into the work that lay ahead and gave me hope that those visions of making thing better, the bullet point “how might we questions,” and hastily sketched classroom drawings won’t just stay in room 9C. An attempt—although maybe a very futile one—to organize my thoughts, feelings, experiences, and fleeting memories over the past semester.Of all the things I’ve struggled with conceptually this semester, (Like logical statements or the difference between epistemological and ontological emergence), the thing that don’t really understand how it's already December. Yup. It’s almost 2018, and I don’t understand how time works anymore.
Let’s rewind. On my way to the airport on August 25th, I was reading up on the “Prepare for San Francisco” documents that told me what foundation week would be like, where to buy groceries, and how to adjust to my home away from home, when I stumbled across this paragraph: “The day you leave home to travel to San Francisco is likely to be a day you will remember all your life. It will serve as a marker in your mind — you will talk about life before Minerva, and life during and after Minerva in distinctly different ways. As you prepare to make that trip across time and space, take a moment to pause and think about the people who have helped you get where you are today and the kind of person you want to be in four years, when you make the return trip as a Minerva graduate.” “Well, that’s beautifully written but also kind of cheesy” I thought to myself. But as I glanced up out the car window and watched Colorado’s greyish-green, rocky scenery whizzing by, I couldn’t help but think that this moment was a bit special. It was finally happening. It officially marked the end of a saga: my obscenely long, no-one-should-ever-read-this-or-go-through-this college saga. But it was also a beginning—A small moment that stood as a personal token to swimming against the current and seeking out what I truly wanted despite opposition. And now here I am—in my “life during Minerva” stage—barely able to articulate the things that have happened this semester, but here’s a somewhat chronological word montage. I remember moving to the heart of San Francisco and meeting students from over 60 different countries (many of whom would become my closest friends.) Having a meal in pitch darkness and recreating an iconic picture at a bookstore with complete strangers. Going to art galleries, volunteering with the city, and multiple post-assignment donut runs. Tech conferences, hackathons, and way too many cafes to count. Taking a 7-hour bus ride to LA and reuniting with my UCLA fam. Meeting so many interesting and inspiring people—from entrepreneurs and bitcoin investors to artists and event organizers. Learning about different cultural customs and political views from my peers. Realizing my world view has been incredibly US-centric. Wandering the city that is both broken and beautiful, talking about the latest good books, impromptu jam sessions, waking up at 8 AM for an overhyped croissant, and ending the semester with human-sized teddy bears, a silver hashtag balloon, and of course—the people who were with me through it all. Looking back, I guess I feel grateful. Grateful for the opportunity to be here. Grateful for the people who make this experience possible. Grateful for the challenges and failures, the late-night conversations about life, for the ever-active group messages and memes that help me make it through the day, the little act of kindness that seem outwardly trivial, and for 7 more semesters of this. It's Over Already?I remember writing my “Goodbye 2016” post as if it were a couple months ago. But at the same time, it feels like a lifetime ago. I mean, when I wrote that post, Vines were still alive and the world hadn’t been corrupted by fidget spinners yet. Times really have changed.
In the first quarter of this year, I was soaking up the last of my time in sunny LA and saying a bunch of goodbyes. And after cramming for my last sit-down finals (maybe ever?!), I flew half way across the world to help other students cram as an intern at a literal cram school. In May, I flew out to Nauvoo, Illinois for the best summer I could’ve asked for with the most amazing, talented, and spiritually uplifting people I know. Next stop was San Francisco—though it was more of a start… a really beautiful, exciting, and challenging start. And now here I am: In the brief intermission between San Francisco Act 1 and 2—reflecting on the whirlwind of a year—and pondering what lay ahead while adjusting back to my quiet Colorado neighborhood lit up by twinkling Christmas lights that will still be up in February. Endings, Beginnings, and in-betweensIn high school, I was the straight-A student, the marching-band nerd, the girl running 5 different clubs, and a girl who felt very trapped by trivial things she thought defined her life.
I wish I could go back and tell her that high school was just a small, homogenous bubble; that these things were just a drop in the bucket; that there would be better times and worse times in the years to come; but, mostly, that the whole world is out there waiting for her. _______________ Dear Megan, Louis L’Amour once said “There will come a time when you believe that everything is finished. That will be the beginning.” Today marks the day you are officially done with 12 years of school. It’s a day you’ve anticipated for a while, with varying levels of excitement—a day that stands as a bookend to many chapters but also a bookmark for memory-finding. At the moment, you’re probably preparing to sit through a 2-hour ceremony in a green gown and severely uncomfortable cap. Stop trying to make it look good with bobby pins and hairspray. It’s not going to work—just take my word on this. Now, let’s back up a bit. During your time in high school, a lot of things happened. The words "twerk" and "selfie" were added to the dictionary and you asked philosophical questions like “Is the dress blue and black or white and gold?” You made some really good friends— Friends that you will keep for years to come. You spent some weekends with a bunch of music nerds making incredible memories (and music). WebAssign parties and chemistry notes will forever make you want to laugh and cry. You had some amazing teachers you will never forget and a laundry list of extracurriculars. Things didn’t always work out, but you learned that sometimes, that’s just how life is. You also probably spent way too much on Starbucks and didn’t eat breakfast nearly enough…we’re still working on that. But if you remember anything, remember that the most important aspects of your character are often intangible. There are no medals or certificates for the most valuable things you did in the past four years. Think back to how you’ve handled tricky situations, how you’ve treated others, the passion you put into doing the things you loved. Those things should be the most important to you today and in the days to come. Those are the things that you should take with you. The less noticeable things that built your character daily. Five years from now—heck even 5 months from now—so many things you fretted over: your grades, your social status, that time you forgot how Euler’s method in front of your calculus class (yeah, that one did suck) will be trivial. So if you get one thing out of today, think about the things that really impacted you and the things you actually made an impact in. As for your regrets? Quoting form one of the best teacher’s you had: “Learn from them and move on. They’re not worth your time.” After the ceremony that was both too long and too short, you’ll walk out of the arena and be swept into a frenzy of hugging teachers and shouting goodbyes. You’ll smile for pictures and laugh about things you don’t remember. And then everything will be over. You’ll be left with a sense of peculiar longing and half-confused joy as you walk to your car —honor chords dangling and medals clinking as you ignore the painful grip of your 4-inch wedges. You’ll run into some friends and stop for one more picture—one that will later end up on your dorm room wall—and then you’ll climb into your car, carefully tear away the sash, chords, and medals from where they burrowed into your neck, and lay them in a colorfully twisted pile in the passenger seat. As you drive away, you realize that this is it. You might be unsure how to feel and that’s okay. Let me tell you—It’s only the beginning. (Layovers, weather woes, and cram schools)I’m back in Korea! Only for a month this time. (I guess “only” is an extremely relative term in this context.) Getting here was a 28-hour adventure; From waiting at LAX for 6 hours, a 12-hour flight to Beijing, a 4-hour layover, a 2-hour flight to Incheon, and then a 4-hour bus ride to Daegu, it was A LOT of traveling, but mostly uneventful, thankfully. I think I’ve really nailed this jet-lag thing because I didn’t suffer from it this time around. Pro tip: Try to plan your arrival during the day (like late morning). Sleep every chance you get on the way over and then don’t sleep until at least 10:00 P.M local time. Tried-and-true.
As soon as I stepped out of the Incheon Airport, I was hit with the kind of chilly air that seems to instantly makes your clothes shrink around your skin. It was only then that I realized checking the temperatures from my iPhone weather app while basking in the heavenly California sun was a mistake. I think I forgot what 50’s with wind feels like. I literally packed for “cold LA weather” which is not very cold at all. So, I might have to make a few “emergency” shopping trips. The day after I arrived, I started my internship right away. For those who don’t know, I’m interning at a cram school teaching English. In Korean, these “cram schools” are called hakwons. The best way I can describe them is an afterschool tutoring academy for students eager to get ahead of their studies and one day ace the college entrance exam. (So in this case, everyone). These cram schools are everywhere, literally, and there’s one for any subject you could imagine—it’s basically the business product of an education-obsessed nation. The cram school I’m working at has 1,000 students and specializes in English and math. I usually work from 2 P.M. to 10 P.M, which is definitely going to takes some getting used to… but I can sleep in every morning so I’m not complaining. Mostly, I grade papers/vocab tests, teach writing classes, private-tutor some middle schoolers, and do this this called “happy phone talk” in which I call elementary school students and talk to them about their day. The students here have four 45 minute classes—vocabulary, speaking/writing, reading, and listening. So each kid stays here from about 6:45-10:00 P.M… after a full day of school. Plus, I’m betting that for 90% of the students, this isn’t the only cram school they go to. (Not sure if Obama knew how brutal the Korean education system was when he raved about the “amazing” it is.) The world may look to South Korea as an ideal model for education, but they often overlook the downsides—the downsides that aren’t visible in the number rankings, but only in the lifeless eyes of exhausted students. Yes, South Korea consistently ranks in the top percentile for PISA tests and is one of the fastest developing nations out there. But they also lead in suicide rates and lack of creativity. I personally think a huge downfall of the Korean education system is the rote memorization and the unquestionable, unyielding pressure to study. You have to study, you have to get into a good school, and unless you are extremely talented at something else (i.e. art, music), studying is your only path to a successful life. In the states, the downfall lies in the unstandardized curriculum, which leaves education up to the teacher/school district/state’s discretion. This can be a good thing, but it can also become a huge mess leading to a lack of accountability across the board. AP, IB, and other standardized curriculums have mitigated some of these issues, but they give way to another crucial problem: teaching to the test and, thus, a lack of practical knowledge. Having gone to public school in both Korea and the U.S., I’ve always felt a disconnect between class material and real world application. I feel incredibly unmotivated when I’m doing “filler work” such as time-consuming, yet useless worksheets (i.e. POGILS) or memorizing historical dates that I will never have to recite after the test, let alone use in a future job. And yet, that's how the system works, so I shut up and did the work. These kinds of things resulted in negligible practical knowledge, except for learning how to BS things. (Which, I will admit, is a skill that comes in handy from time to time.) However, when I’m learning about things that I am interested in, and, more importantly, things that I can see myself using in the future, I could stay up all night learning the material. This is a huge reason why Minerva—which interweaves classroom learning with real-world, hands-on projects—appealed to me so much and a big factor in why I ultimately decided to transfer. As you can probably tell, I could literally go on and on about this topic, but I’ll cut it here. So ANYWAYS. 2017 has treated me well so far and I feel like I’m (for once) living in the moment, doing real stuff, and pursuing the things that make me happy. There are a lot of dynamic, mildly-stressful life-changes happening, but it’s the type of change that makes me excited about life… so again, I’m not complaining. Signing off from Daegu, SK. 9:50 P.M. |
About MeThanks for visiting my blog! My name is Megan, I work in Marketing and I graduated as part of Minerva's class of 2021. Enjoy a collage of reflections, poetry, and late-night thoughts. Archives
October 2023
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