Life in KMLA is that of a mayfly’s, trying to fly high from bright to night.
Every day,
We hatch our beds and match our clothes,
Snatch our breakfasts and catch our classes,
Botch our quizzes and watch our presentations,
Crouch down to sleep whenever we can,
Touch-down back to our dorms,
Bleach ourselves with homework to become the top-
Notch students, or batch of zombies.
Exhausted, we stretch ourselves and fetch our pajamas,
Relieved that we survived yet another mayfly’s day.
Lying down in bed, we recollect,
Jokes we exchanged with friends,
Chicken legs we ate in rooms,
Business plans we turned in at the last minute,
Which become the smiles in our faces,
and the hopes for prospects of another mayfly’s day.
2012년 3월 28일 수요일
“Don’t cry.” I order myself. “I shouldn’t cry.” I assure again. But whenever I watch the terminally ill patient in “My Love beside Me” say his final goodbyes to his lover, or Alan Shore deliver his heartfelt speech in “Boston Legal,” or the fringe national representative team claim its championship through painful endeavors in “National Representative,” I am unable to hold back my tears, again. Every time after I shed my tears, I become abashed at my namby-pambyism, but I can’t help it; I’m just moved too easily by heart-moving stories.
Like many other countries, Korea had a taboo against boys crying. There is an old Korean saying, “A boy is allowed to cry just three times in life. When he is born, when his mother passes away, and when his country perishes.” As ridiculous as it sounds, the three-time crying idea represented the deep-rooted and popular bias against boys, and “crying” in times other than the three was considered unmanly, or even deserving mockery.
Yet, despite being born with Korean blood, I cried a lot more than my allowed three chances. And yes, sometimes I cried because I had broken a bone or two, but most of times there was something more than physical pain behind my tears. It was this inexplicable sense of overwhelming that always made me cry. Sometimes it was sympathy, and sometimes it was extreme happiness; however, no matter in which shape or form it came, such overwhelming always brought a certain sort of awe and admiration along with it. The unconditional love between the soon-to-be-dead and his lover in “My Love beside Me,” or the profundity or genuineness of Alan’s speech in “Boston Legal,” or the perseverance of the team members in the Torino Olympics all stirred up a sense of marvel inside me. I was impressed by such people, fictional or nonfictional, because they displayed great qualities that could move the human heart-by sacrifice, by honesty, and by strenuous efforts.
Like many other countries, Korea had a taboo against boys crying. There is an old Korean saying, “A boy is allowed to cry just three times in life. When he is born, when his mother passes away, and when his country perishes.” As ridiculous as it sounds, the three-time crying idea represented the deep-rooted and popular bias against boys, and “crying” in times other than the three was considered unmanly, or even deserving mockery.
Yet, despite being born with Korean blood, I cried a lot more than my allowed three chances. And yes, sometimes I cried because I had broken a bone or two, but most of times there was something more than physical pain behind my tears. It was this inexplicable sense of overwhelming that always made me cry. Sometimes it was sympathy, and sometimes it was extreme happiness; however, no matter in which shape or form it came, such overwhelming always brought a certain sort of awe and admiration along with it. The unconditional love between the soon-to-be-dead and his lover in “My Love beside Me,” or the profundity or genuineness of Alan’s speech in “Boston Legal,” or the perseverance of the team members in the Torino Olympics all stirred up a sense of marvel inside me. I was impressed by such people, fictional or nonfictional, because they displayed great qualities that could move the human heart-by sacrifice, by honesty, and by strenuous efforts.
2012년 3월 14일 수요일
Fear of Solitude
In the dark, lonely cell, the figures of two men were barely visible. One of them was lying down, and the other was by his side, holding the failing hand of his friend.
“Hey, feel any better? Just hang in there, you’ll be alright.”
“What…time…is it now?”
“Hell, it must be far past midnight, looking at you sleeping for hours!”
But he wasn’t quite sure, either. Nobody knew what time it was. Actually, both of them didn’t know where they were, how long they had been locked up, and why they were detained. However, such things didn’t matter much anymore. Not only was there no way to find such stuff out, there was a far more pressing concern to the man keeping vigil by the patient. His friend was seriously ill, and the man was about to be left all alone.
“Hey, how are you feeling? We’ll get out of here soon. Just hang in there.”
“…I’m…ready…to go…”
“What the hell are you talking about? You’re not leaving me here, all by myself!”
“I’m sorry…”
“Then don’t be, goddam it! You’ll be alright, ok? Just hang in there.”
“I really am…I’m sorry…”
“Oh for heaven’s sake! You’re not going anywhere, so you don’t have to be sorry. Just keep talking!”
The patient’s hand, which had been holding onto the grip of his friend’s with its last strength, fell to the ground. Suddenly, an unfathomable fear overwhelmed the man left on earth.
“Hey…don’t kid with me! Just hang in there, ok?”
No response.
“C’mon, talk to me. Now you won’t even talk to your closest friend?
No response.
“Hey, don’t leave me here… You can’t leave me alone!”
No response.
“ANSWER ME, GODDAM IT!”
But there was still no response from the silent body, and the man’s desperate cries echoed throughout the hollow cell, reverberating as it bounced off the lifeless walls. There were still two delineable figures in the cell, but now there was only one life breathing its misery. The man, shivering and afraid, crouched up in the corner and buried his head inside the darkness of his arms. Then he continued his effort to talk with his friend, or what was remaining of him-the dead corpse.
“Hey buddy, talk to me… I’m scared and I don’t know what to do. Please talk to me...”
“…”
“You have to talk to me. I can’t stand it here by myself. It’s cold and it’s dark and I’m hungry and I’m afraid…Please talk to me…”
Despite his painstaking efforts, he failed to make conversation with his last source of human contact; his last source of communication, connection, and hope for survival. Now, there was nobody to answer him back. Now, there was nobody to protect him from the emerging horridness of solitude.
“Ha…haha…he’s not talking back to me. He…he’s not responding. He’s the only one I’ve got left and he’s gone.”
Then, his words began to turn into a mush of odd laughter and indecipherable sounds. He continued his strange soliloquy, only to hear back from the echoes of the hollow wall.
“Hahaha… I’m left alone. I can’t believe it. Hehehe…”
Darkness thickened upon the lonely man as the dim moonlight coming from the window gradually faded away. The man couldn’t wait until he was only left with darkness alone. When he had somebody to talk, joke, walk, stretch, sleep, and breathe with, it had been bearable; now, without the existence of the other person, talking, joking, walking, stretching, sleeping, and breathing had suddenly lost their meanings. He took his hands to his throat, and grasped-firmly. He let out an eerie grunt, wearing a twisted smile, and then he was upon himself.
“Hey, feel any better? Just hang in there, you’ll be alright.”
“What…time…is it now?”
“Hell, it must be far past midnight, looking at you sleeping for hours!”
But he wasn’t quite sure, either. Nobody knew what time it was. Actually, both of them didn’t know where they were, how long they had been locked up, and why they were detained. However, such things didn’t matter much anymore. Not only was there no way to find such stuff out, there was a far more pressing concern to the man keeping vigil by the patient. His friend was seriously ill, and the man was about to be left all alone.
“Hey, how are you feeling? We’ll get out of here soon. Just hang in there.”
“…I’m…ready…to go…”
“What the hell are you talking about? You’re not leaving me here, all by myself!”
“I’m sorry…”
“Then don’t be, goddam it! You’ll be alright, ok? Just hang in there.”
“I really am…I’m sorry…”
“Oh for heaven’s sake! You’re not going anywhere, so you don’t have to be sorry. Just keep talking!”
The patient’s hand, which had been holding onto the grip of his friend’s with its last strength, fell to the ground. Suddenly, an unfathomable fear overwhelmed the man left on earth.
“Hey…don’t kid with me! Just hang in there, ok?”
No response.
“C’mon, talk to me. Now you won’t even talk to your closest friend?
No response.
“Hey, don’t leave me here… You can’t leave me alone!”
No response.
“ANSWER ME, GODDAM IT!”
But there was still no response from the silent body, and the man’s desperate cries echoed throughout the hollow cell, reverberating as it bounced off the lifeless walls. There were still two delineable figures in the cell, but now there was only one life breathing its misery. The man, shivering and afraid, crouched up in the corner and buried his head inside the darkness of his arms. Then he continued his effort to talk with his friend, or what was remaining of him-the dead corpse.
“Hey buddy, talk to me… I’m scared and I don’t know what to do. Please talk to me...”
“…”
“You have to talk to me. I can’t stand it here by myself. It’s cold and it’s dark and I’m hungry and I’m afraid…Please talk to me…”
Despite his painstaking efforts, he failed to make conversation with his last source of human contact; his last source of communication, connection, and hope for survival. Now, there was nobody to answer him back. Now, there was nobody to protect him from the emerging horridness of solitude.
“Ha…haha…he’s not talking back to me. He…he’s not responding. He’s the only one I’ve got left and he’s gone.”
Then, his words began to turn into a mush of odd laughter and indecipherable sounds. He continued his strange soliloquy, only to hear back from the echoes of the hollow wall.
“Hahaha… I’m left alone. I can’t believe it. Hehehe…”
Darkness thickened upon the lonely man as the dim moonlight coming from the window gradually faded away. The man couldn’t wait until he was only left with darkness alone. When he had somebody to talk, joke, walk, stretch, sleep, and breathe with, it had been bearable; now, without the existence of the other person, talking, joking, walking, stretching, sleeping, and breathing had suddenly lost their meanings. He took his hands to his throat, and grasped-firmly. He let out an eerie grunt, wearing a twisted smile, and then he was upon himself.
Learning to be Smart
“Gulp, gulp, gulp…”
Although five years have passed now, I can still clearly recall the terrible sound of my blood gurgling out of my right hand that was cut wide open. I can still remember the sight of the two lines of gruesome, conspicuous openings in my hand and the horrifying white bones which I could see through the openings. My mind became a ramshackle of fear, terror, and perplexity, since I couldn’t believe the unbelievable scene of so much gore pumping out of my own body part. I was truly afraid; I let my throat bellow out a horrendous scream. Then my three friends, who had also panicked momentarily, put themselves together at my dreadful shriek and helped me to the school infirmary. Trembling in abysmal fear while being carried away, I regretted over and over in my mind for doing the stupidest thing in my life.
The story of this shocking memory starts from a crazy bet I’d made with my friends when I was 14. Most teenagers that age share the common desire of becoming significant and the fear of being left out of their groups; I was exceptional, however, since being recognized by others had been my single important purpose of life. Back then, I thought that was what mattered the most-being cool. Thus, I became a natural show-off, always taking the leading part in outrageous pranks which 7th grade boys wildly rooted for. That was exactly what I did with “Yamakasi” too, a dangerous activity involving climbing obstacles and jumping down from high places, which frantically spread among Korean juveniles.
As the leader of our “Yamakasi” clan, I had to be the first-in-line to try out the most challenging, and therefore risky, tricks among our group. So when my friends had dared me to climb up a pipe that protruded out of our school wall, I faced my dilemma. Climbing up the six-meter-high pipe covered with pointed bolts would be stupid, and needless to mention, dangerous. However, I was more afraid of the peer pressure than I was of the mighty pipe. I feared losing my position as leader, being called a coward, and no longer belonging to the group because I wasn’t “cool” anymore-more than anything else. “I’m the best.” I boasted to myself, and I grabbed the pipe. I wasn’t the best, and I slipped. When I was falling down to the ground, two sharp bolts deeply cut through my hand, and the next thing I felt was the two bottles of antiseptics being poured onto my wound in the infirmary.
As soon as she received the appalling call, my mom stormed to the school and took me to the hospital my dad worked at. At the emergency room, both of my parents nervously stood by as the surgeon sewed up the injury. It hurt so much when the needles penetrated the insides of my body, torturing each of my nerves fifty consecutive times, but when I saw the frightened tears bursting out of my mom’s eyes, I couldn’t shed mine.
“Hey, you’re going to be okay, alright? This surgeon’s a close friend of your father’s, and he knows what he’s doing…”
“I know, mom. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry…”
That night, the fifty sutures in my hand burned with pain, but another flame also blazed inside my heart which hurt just as much as my scars. It was a fire of guilt and shame razed, and I felt that way for doing the stupidest thing in my life; for making such a stupid decision knowing its stupidity. I secretly sobbed in my pillows, for the agony of my hand and my chest.
From then on, I didn’t join another illicit, dangerous prank my friends devised to consolidate their unity. I never smoked, I never shoplifted, and I never did something that I was confident it was the wrong thing to do. This wasn’t because I was particularly moral among my peers, but because my scars hurt from time to time, and I was reminded of the excruciating shame of the night I cried in my pillows. I knew there were things that mattered more than becoming significant and worse than being left out: my mother’s tears, two lines of inerasable scars, and doing the wrong, or perhaps the stupid, thing being aware of the consequences.
There are moments in life when people carry out stupid actions against their gut feeling that tells them to stop. And they do so because of diverse reasons: guys lie to girls to impress them, students cheat on tests to decorate their transcripts, and lunatics climb up pipes to show off-just like I did four years ago.
However, now when I reverberate at the returning pain of my laceration, I gain the willpower to resist. If my friends ever urge me again to climb up the horrible pipe, I would pluck up the courage to admit I’m scared and say “no.” I would tell them that it’s the stupidest thing for a person to do, and it’s not worth my guilt and my mom’s sorrow. Just like that, my scars ironically served as my sources of courage to be who I am, guiding me to do the right things; the smart things. And although mine doesn’t teach me the emerging of a Dark Lord like Harry Potter’s, it does teach me a valuable lesson: to be smart.
And now, I think before I act.
Although five years have passed now, I can still clearly recall the terrible sound of my blood gurgling out of my right hand that was cut wide open. I can still remember the sight of the two lines of gruesome, conspicuous openings in my hand and the horrifying white bones which I could see through the openings. My mind became a ramshackle of fear, terror, and perplexity, since I couldn’t believe the unbelievable scene of so much gore pumping out of my own body part. I was truly afraid; I let my throat bellow out a horrendous scream. Then my three friends, who had also panicked momentarily, put themselves together at my dreadful shriek and helped me to the school infirmary. Trembling in abysmal fear while being carried away, I regretted over and over in my mind for doing the stupidest thing in my life.
The story of this shocking memory starts from a crazy bet I’d made with my friends when I was 14. Most teenagers that age share the common desire of becoming significant and the fear of being left out of their groups; I was exceptional, however, since being recognized by others had been my single important purpose of life. Back then, I thought that was what mattered the most-being cool. Thus, I became a natural show-off, always taking the leading part in outrageous pranks which 7th grade boys wildly rooted for. That was exactly what I did with “Yamakasi” too, a dangerous activity involving climbing obstacles and jumping down from high places, which frantically spread among Korean juveniles.
As the leader of our “Yamakasi” clan, I had to be the first-in-line to try out the most challenging, and therefore risky, tricks among our group. So when my friends had dared me to climb up a pipe that protruded out of our school wall, I faced my dilemma. Climbing up the six-meter-high pipe covered with pointed bolts would be stupid, and needless to mention, dangerous. However, I was more afraid of the peer pressure than I was of the mighty pipe. I feared losing my position as leader, being called a coward, and no longer belonging to the group because I wasn’t “cool” anymore-more than anything else. “I’m the best.” I boasted to myself, and I grabbed the pipe. I wasn’t the best, and I slipped. When I was falling down to the ground, two sharp bolts deeply cut through my hand, and the next thing I felt was the two bottles of antiseptics being poured onto my wound in the infirmary.
As soon as she received the appalling call, my mom stormed to the school and took me to the hospital my dad worked at. At the emergency room, both of my parents nervously stood by as the surgeon sewed up the injury. It hurt so much when the needles penetrated the insides of my body, torturing each of my nerves fifty consecutive times, but when I saw the frightened tears bursting out of my mom’s eyes, I couldn’t shed mine.
“Hey, you’re going to be okay, alright? This surgeon’s a close friend of your father’s, and he knows what he’s doing…”
“I know, mom. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry…”
That night, the fifty sutures in my hand burned with pain, but another flame also blazed inside my heart which hurt just as much as my scars. It was a fire of guilt and shame razed, and I felt that way for doing the stupidest thing in my life; for making such a stupid decision knowing its stupidity. I secretly sobbed in my pillows, for the agony of my hand and my chest.
From then on, I didn’t join another illicit, dangerous prank my friends devised to consolidate their unity. I never smoked, I never shoplifted, and I never did something that I was confident it was the wrong thing to do. This wasn’t because I was particularly moral among my peers, but because my scars hurt from time to time, and I was reminded of the excruciating shame of the night I cried in my pillows. I knew there were things that mattered more than becoming significant and worse than being left out: my mother’s tears, two lines of inerasable scars, and doing the wrong, or perhaps the stupid, thing being aware of the consequences.
There are moments in life when people carry out stupid actions against their gut feeling that tells them to stop. And they do so because of diverse reasons: guys lie to girls to impress them, students cheat on tests to decorate their transcripts, and lunatics climb up pipes to show off-just like I did four years ago.
However, now when I reverberate at the returning pain of my laceration, I gain the willpower to resist. If my friends ever urge me again to climb up the horrible pipe, I would pluck up the courage to admit I’m scared and say “no.” I would tell them that it’s the stupidest thing for a person to do, and it’s not worth my guilt and my mom’s sorrow. Just like that, my scars ironically served as my sources of courage to be who I am, guiding me to do the right things; the smart things. And although mine doesn’t teach me the emerging of a Dark Lord like Harry Potter’s, it does teach me a valuable lesson: to be smart.
And now, I think before I act.
2012년 3월 13일 화요일
Kony 2012
Brief Outline of the Video:
http://www.radaronline.com/exclusives/2012/03/kony-2012-explanation-7-things-you-should-know-joseph-kony-uganda
Opposing Viewpoints:
http://edition.cnn.com/2012/03/12/world/africa/kony-2012-tms-ruge-opinion/index.html
(You should watch the opposing videos on this link, too)
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-deibert/joseph-kony-2012-children_b_1327417.html
http://edition.cnn.com/2012/03/09/world/africa/uganda-kony-profile/index.html?iref=storysearch
RESPONSE of the INVISIBLE CHILDREN:
http://www.invisiblechildren.com.s3-website-us-east-1.amazonaws.com/critiques.html
Korean Article:
http://joongang.joinsmsn.com/article/aid/2012/03/09/7205910.html?cloc=olink|article|default
2012년 3월 7일 수요일
Few Steps of Courage
This was my big moment. I would take a few steps forward, romantically descend down the stairs, and finally arrive in front of the girl I’d secretly been fond of for the past six months. Then, I would, gently, ask her out, which then I was pretty sure that she would answer “yes,” since her friends had already given me the cues. So, everything was set-and-awaiting for my moves. I took a deep breath, and tried to accomplish step one: taking the few steps. However, I realized that I couldn’t. My feet was stuck to the ground and refused to budge. My heart was pounding like a big bass drum, producing heartbeats so fast that my chest hurt and I felt as if I was going to suffocate. My different body parts disobeyed the orders of the brain, as if they were trying to dissent in one voice: “We can’t do this! We’re too scared!” I struggled to fight off their insubordination, repeating over and over again in my mind, “I’m not running away again! Move, you stupid feet! Move…!”
My story of this big moment all began when my friends suggested that I ask June-Jung, the girl in my class who I’d had a crush on, out on the night of the party we were planning to throw on the coming Friday. I rejected the idea at the spot, because I had been an average boy who was too timid to carry out such an extraordinary proposal. Some of you may wonder “what’s the big deal” about asking a girl out, but back then I was only 13, and in abstinent Korea asking somebody out was a big deal according to our social norms.
Nevertheless, my friends persistently persuaded me. They explained to me how that night was my perfect timing, needless to mention that it was my one and only chance, and so it was “now or never.” They also reminded me of the good chance I had of succeeding, since she was more intimate with me than anybody else in school. Nonetheless, I didn’t budge, and one of my annoyed friends complained, “C’mon, Hyung Seok! Are you going to chicken out again?”
His last words struck me really hard. Until that point, I knew I had run away from difficult, nervous moments in my life. When put up to challenging situations, I was afraid of nervousness I’d have to bear and the embarrassment of failure I’d have to face, so I chose to “chicken out” of events in which I had to deliver public speeches or ride the Gyro Drop in the Lotte Amusement Park. And yet, I had been considering myself as a person who knew the lesson of the saying, “Better to fail than to give up without trying.” I was abashed at both having been a coward all along and never realizing it. I decided to be a man.
But when I was put in the situation where I had to take “the few steps,” I was painfully regretting my bravado. Just around the corner, June-Jung would be waiting at the bottom of the staircase, having been told by my friends that this was some kind of event her secret Prince Charming had prepared for her. As helpers of my romance, my friends and her friends altogether would be surrounding her in a circle, waiting for me to appear at the top of the stairs. Therefore, I had to get down there; or else, I would face the utmost humiliation and misery of letting everybody, including myself, down.
However, the immeasurable pressure I’d put upon myself seemed to hold my feet back even more. About a million thoughts coursed through my head in less than a minute, which felt like about a hundred years. At last, I was exhausted due to the extreme nervousness, and finally gave up thinking. I stopped worrying about the hypothetical consequences of the actions that I didn’t even carry out yet.
Then I summoned all my courage, and commanded, for the last time, my feet to move. Surprisingly, this time, they obeyed. And after I took my first few steps, everything afterwards was so easy. My feet didn’t stop after they made their start, and they took me to my girl, whom I confidently asked out and who shyly answered, “Yes.” The entire process was as smooth as it was romantic.
From my big moment, I earned something more than just the heart of my love; I learned my “big lesson.” At the very instant when I was trembling with anxiety behind the staircase, assuming the worst of every possible scenario didn’t help me at all. Instead, when I emptied my mind and plucked out the courage to simply take the first few steps, I could achieve my goal. I learned that, to overcome difficulties, I only needed the “few steps of courage” to begin my challenge; after that, the remainder of the task could be easily completed.
So thereafter, I don’t avoid tough circumstances anymore; I confront them. When I have to make public speeches in front of a massive audience, or when I have to get on that Gyro Drop to plunge 78 meters, I think of my valuable lesson and tell myself, “Come on, just empty your mind and take the first few steps!” When I do exactly so, I am no longer scared. Then, believing in myself, I bravely march to the podium or to the horrendous vehicle.
And that has made a great difference.
This is my essay on the topic of "romance" in my 30 things. I intentionally left out any images or videos to preserve the authenticity of the essay.
My story of this big moment all began when my friends suggested that I ask June-Jung, the girl in my class who I’d had a crush on, out on the night of the party we were planning to throw on the coming Friday. I rejected the idea at the spot, because I had been an average boy who was too timid to carry out such an extraordinary proposal. Some of you may wonder “what’s the big deal” about asking a girl out, but back then I was only 13, and in abstinent Korea asking somebody out was a big deal according to our social norms.
Nevertheless, my friends persistently persuaded me. They explained to me how that night was my perfect timing, needless to mention that it was my one and only chance, and so it was “now or never.” They also reminded me of the good chance I had of succeeding, since she was more intimate with me than anybody else in school. Nonetheless, I didn’t budge, and one of my annoyed friends complained, “C’mon, Hyung Seok! Are you going to chicken out again?”
His last words struck me really hard. Until that point, I knew I had run away from difficult, nervous moments in my life. When put up to challenging situations, I was afraid of nervousness I’d have to bear and the embarrassment of failure I’d have to face, so I chose to “chicken out” of events in which I had to deliver public speeches or ride the Gyro Drop in the Lotte Amusement Park. And yet, I had been considering myself as a person who knew the lesson of the saying, “Better to fail than to give up without trying.” I was abashed at both having been a coward all along and never realizing it. I decided to be a man.
But when I was put in the situation where I had to take “the few steps,” I was painfully regretting my bravado. Just around the corner, June-Jung would be waiting at the bottom of the staircase, having been told by my friends that this was some kind of event her secret Prince Charming had prepared for her. As helpers of my romance, my friends and her friends altogether would be surrounding her in a circle, waiting for me to appear at the top of the stairs. Therefore, I had to get down there; or else, I would face the utmost humiliation and misery of letting everybody, including myself, down.
However, the immeasurable pressure I’d put upon myself seemed to hold my feet back even more. About a million thoughts coursed through my head in less than a minute, which felt like about a hundred years. At last, I was exhausted due to the extreme nervousness, and finally gave up thinking. I stopped worrying about the hypothetical consequences of the actions that I didn’t even carry out yet.
Then I summoned all my courage, and commanded, for the last time, my feet to move. Surprisingly, this time, they obeyed. And after I took my first few steps, everything afterwards was so easy. My feet didn’t stop after they made their start, and they took me to my girl, whom I confidently asked out and who shyly answered, “Yes.” The entire process was as smooth as it was romantic.
From my big moment, I earned something more than just the heart of my love; I learned my “big lesson.” At the very instant when I was trembling with anxiety behind the staircase, assuming the worst of every possible scenario didn’t help me at all. Instead, when I emptied my mind and plucked out the courage to simply take the first few steps, I could achieve my goal. I learned that, to overcome difficulties, I only needed the “few steps of courage” to begin my challenge; after that, the remainder of the task could be easily completed.
So thereafter, I don’t avoid tough circumstances anymore; I confront them. When I have to make public speeches in front of a massive audience, or when I have to get on that Gyro Drop to plunge 78 meters, I think of my valuable lesson and tell myself, “Come on, just empty your mind and take the first few steps!” When I do exactly so, I am no longer scared. Then, believing in myself, I bravely march to the podium or to the horrendous vehicle.
And that has made a great difference.
This is my essay on the topic of "romance" in my 30 things. I intentionally left out any images or videos to preserve the authenticity of the essay.
2012년 3월 2일 금요일
Reading Journal on the "Outliers"
I’ve read up to the 10,000 Hour Rule in Malcolm Gladwell’s “Outliers,” and so far I find the book quite interesting. From the three stories I’ve read, the Roseto Mystery, The Matthew Effect, and the 10,000 Hour Rule, I could deduce a common theme Gladwell tried to demonstrate. “Success isn’t achieved; it is made.” In the “Outliers,” Gladwell acknowledged that extremely successful figures were all exceptionally gifted, but he also pointed out that it took them more than just talent for them to do so; they had to be in the perfect environment.
As I read along, I find myself persuaded by many of Gladwell’s explanations. Although many success folk legends narrate about determined, capable individuals who ardently worked to accomplish their goals, I tend to agree with Gladwell’s stance that passion and capacity alone doesn’t result in the upbringing of a great person. As he made it clear in the Roseto Mystery, people had to see beyond the individual if they wished to accurately identify the reason behind the unusually sound cardiac health of the town, or the “success of Roseto”; they had to take in consideration the environment, understand the cultural settings, and maybe even think about the geographical location residents were living in. Only then would the people be able to realize the incredible and extraordinary significance of such factors in life, or in outstanding achievements.
Gladwell then expands on his point in The Matthew Effect and the 10,000 Hour Rule by providing specific examples in real life. Through his discussion of the stories of the hockey players and renowned prodigies, Gladwell tries to demonstrate the enormous contributions opportunities and luck had made. At the first glance, Gladwell’s claims may seem outrageous; the excelling of many revered figures depended on luck! Who would believe that? Or furthermore, who would want to believe that? Sadly, anybody who has finished reading through the first two chapters of “Outliers” would be compelled to believe; junior hockey players born in January, February, and March who had maximum 10~11 more months of practice than their peers were usually the ones who became national superstars; programmers and musicians who had the “proper opportunities” to accumulate about 10,000 hours of practice were the ones who became historical legends. If one reads all the detailed analysis and practical data the author presented in the book, he or she must struggle greatly to dissent.
Obviously, I was, as always, the one of the majority, who couldn’t resist being interested in Gladwell’s ideas. I had always been a firm believer of the unlimited potentials of human willpower, and I considered the biographies I’d read about heroes, leaders, and all sorts of great people to be the evidences of my belief. However, it seems like the passion, talents, and adventures in the biographies weren’t all that was to their stories; timely chances and abundant fortunes were also important elements, in spite of the publics’ incessant efforts to disregard them (Nobody would like the explanation that you have to be lucky to become a true “Outlier”). As more interesting the contents of this book gets, I hope that Gladwell will further assist me to develop a holistic, authentic perspective about “success” in its future pages.
An Interview of Malcolm Gladwell on His Book "Outliers"
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