On Education

          

 How lucky I am to live here.

Here the double-edged sword of education is at its finest—or perhaps should I say the hierarchy is at its highest. Here, from the top of the figurative and literal mountain, I can observe what may just be the most characteristic and utterly fascinating facet of Korean society.

           Obama lauded it. Foreigners condemned it. I have lived it, in all its glory and horror. Now, after watching Sir Ken Robinson’s lecture, I begin to wonder about standards. There is a certain point in Sir Robinson’s speech, but according to that, the situation I find myself in seems quite a dilemma—is this the ‘right’ kind of education? Are we receiving enough breathing space, or is it just worse? Why are we here anyway?

           If KMLA really is a school with so-called “higher-quality” education than other “normal” schools, does that mean we are receiving Robinsonian education—namely, the pursuit of creativity in all its forms—or just harder work? Are we here because they deemed us smart enough for (and therefore worthy of) more educational options? Or simply because someone 20 years ago had the idea to make a smarthouse that would soon turn into college-machines? Sir Robinson mentioned that schools and factories run very much on the same basis. According to his point of view, KMLA is a very efficient factory indeed, one that would certainly squash all forms of creativity if there happened to be any. After all, students here are exposed to more classes, more subject matters, more time after classes to catch up on their work or even to learn new things. In short, they are open to more school hours. And somehow, this has made them extremely welcome to foreign colleges, many of which run on similar values as Sir Ken Robinson.

           Wait a minute. Do I smell a paradox here?

           It’s not just that KMLA is an aggregation of the country’s brightest and best, nor that they simply have better teachers than other schools (although that’s true). And it’s certainly not because the kids here know inherently how to utilize their education for creative purposes. Because it’s not just them. Education, after all, began with the pressing need to know things in order to survive, which in turn evolved into the insatiable thirst for knowledge only humans are said to possess. And this thirst applies not just to the “smart” crowd but also the “normal” crowd. Everyone wants to learn. Everyone has the potential to channel this energy into something greater. It’s all a matter of whether or not you apply yourself.

           I believe that it all boils down to how much we are willing to step beyond the material. The schools, following their need to educate the masses, impose standards; but if the students decide to go the extra mile and engage in creative activity—not just dance, music or art but also an application of their knowledge—why, then I believe the scope for creativity has become wider. Education is an eye-opener, not a closer. Sir Robinson said that education moves progressively upwards, then tilts slightly to one side. If the progression of that one side helps one understand more about the world and therefore expands the playing field of the mind, then no, school doesn’t kill creativity. It’s the mental sloth of the individual.

Defining Myself as a Writer

I took up writing as a defensive skill. Blame it on those Facebook and Tumblr ranters (usually pre-pubescent girls) who would write strings of maudlin, sentimental-sounding stuff in hopes of attracting attention. They let the world know they have problems; but when asked to tell us about it so that they can feel better, they replied, with a smile ripped straight from the movie screens, that they “don’t want to talk about it”, because it’s “kind of personal”. Then, I would think to myself, what was the whole point of posting it online where everyone is SUPPOSED to see it? I grew up with too many of those self-proclaimed sentimentalists, and decided that if I were ever going to express my internal struggles I would never do it for anyone but myself. Later, as I began to experience the ups and downs of puberty, I ended up buying a small padlocked notebook which was to become the storybook of me, Joelle Seung Won Jung—a girl hopeless in art, music, singing, any form of expression except writing. And it was no wonder that my motto as a writer would become I would write for myself. Unfortunately, that motto has caused many a poem and story to end up in the trash; I am not a forgiving audience.

Outside spectators have been more merciful. They have described my style as everything ranging from poetic to prosaic, funny to serious, erudite to light-hearted. Some have called me a pretentious writer, too. I have nothing to say to that. It’s true that I love to use big words in abundance, and that I sometimes throw in a few unnecessary ones just because I like the way the sentence sounds in my mouth. I hope it doesn’t look like I’m showing off when I do that, though—because that is far from my intentions. I do so purely for my own amusement, and when I’m aware that a certain piece is going to be shared I try to tailor my words to fit the purpose. My style also depends on my mood: on my better days, the words come rolling onto the paper straight from my brain and pop on the page as I read them. Rhythm is my forte then, and I become much more inclined to write poems. When I feel like a good, old-fashioned rant, my words are like a double-edged sword: refreshingly sharp yet scalding hot. One can almost hear me spitting and raving behind the desk. On my worst days, however, my brain goes thud. A dead lump. It just falls kind of flat, and suddenly I find myself writing things like “I have a dog. It is brown.” Sentences that just beg to put out of their misery. Then I just sit there with my mouth hanging open, staring blankly at the wall. Duhh.

Luckily, such days come less often than expected. Usually, I know what to do with my words. Thanks to countless English lessons and hours of practice I think I’ve finally gotten the hang of weaving my words together, of getting the words where I’d like them to be. At first it took hours of wrangling with the dictionary and tampering in the thesaurus. Even then, the right words evaded me. What helped me improve the most was reading inspirational works by other authors—and by inspirational I don’t mean the stuff on those black framed posters that talk pep. I mean pieces by Stephen King, Lewis Carroll, Charlotte Bronte, the works that drive me to write. Reading those somehow made me more eager for the task, and, strangely enough, made me imitate and learn from the writing style of those I just read. Most importantly, however, I learned to have fun in the process. Too many kids I’ve seen think English writing is a task sent from hell to make them miserable. I know, because I’ve felt the exact same way before. The entire process—the brainstorming, the outlining, the drafting, the writing itself—sounds so drab when taught in classrooms. Even more so when the first task is, “Write about your summer vacation”. But as long as I can make myself enjoy it, I’ll come out smiling in the end. I think that’s the greatest thing I could learn when it comes to writing.

           What didn’t help me at all was the fact that the methods of writing—how to outline, brainstorm, organize—was taught inconsistently to me for the past few years. One told me to write down whatever came into my head, then organize. Another told me that it was better to trim the ideas as I went on, since it could save me time and improve my thinking skills. People told me 5-paragraph essays were the canon, but readers don’t like it anyway. Whether it was sheer incompetence on my part or a result of a confused education, I’ll never know, but I never seemed to be able to organize and structure my essays properly. Every teacher who reviewed my essays would comment on the organization, even when the rubric was clearly given by the teachers themselves. I guess it didn’t help that I couldn’t give a hoot about organization, and since the main reader of my writings had always been me, it was a given that I would struggle on that front. But it’s not just the externally obvious problems. Many a day I have clutched my head in despair because I haven’t been able to convey the right emotions in my writing; the reader would never notice it, but I end up saying many things I never meant to, or things that aren’t sincere. A festering problem for me, since writing is my primary mode of expression. If that fails me, then I am left with no outlet to my thoughts. Sometimes (even now, to be honest), I feel that my writing style is too stuffy and too…”goody two-shoes”, so to say. My words are too conventional, not fresh enough. They feel like stale air in my lungs and they choke me. It is my biggest weakness.

           It’s frustrating on many levels, as I know that weakness is the hindrance between me and my goal: being an extraordinary writer. I don’t mean that in comparison with my peers, though. My yardstick is always myself, and when I know I wrote a good piece, I really know it. Adversely, I know very well when my writing is not up to par. My primary goal is to outdo myself, every time. For the simple reason that I can, and that I have absolutely no reason not to. In order to achieve that goal, I hope that this class can give me practice. Lots of it. I hope we do a lot of writing this semester because outside of school I get next to no chance to do any writing. Techniques, I’ve heard much of them. I think it would be better for me to do field work in class to improve. In any case, I’m really looking forward to it.