Category — Site Authors

http://imgs.xkcd.com/comics/academia_vs_business.png

I remember a story my AP World History teacher told me back in high school. He was an alumnus of Yale and in his spare time he interviewed seniors in high school that had applied to Yale. Sometimes he would end up interviewing a student who had, as a high school student, already read scholarly works extensively. These students most often always attended private high schools, and either had parents in academia or parents who were rich. Other times he would interview students who were middle class or poor, with little academic stimulation other than what they got at school. These students had massive potential to succeed, but did not have the same instilled knowledge. He asked us this question: which student should get the better recommendation if they have the same GPA and SAT?

My uncle brought up a similar predicament. He was distressed about the fact most college students will have to learn how to write a research paper at some point. He says that most people who get a regular job will never have to know how to write a research paper, unless they themselves enter academia. He says that colleges should only be focusing on preparing students for their careers, instead of relying on old methods of teaching, which were only important a century ago, when most people who graduated college would enter academia in some form. This brings up the clash of the academic culture with a newer culture which tells people to achieve academically only for the sake of getting a job sometime in the future.

http://english.people.com.cn/200702/18/eng20070218_351074.html

It was only recently that I discovered a big cultural gap between my parents and I. My parents grew up in a traditional era in China where kids must respect their elders with one hundred percent devotion. This may mean acting in an entire different way in the presence of elders and relatives. In American culture a simple hello or wave would suffice, as an introduction to one another, but in Chinese culture to do so would be rude. My mom would always tell me to address my relatives by their proper title. I would have to state their relation to me such as aunt, uncle, or grandmother and bow. To say their name would be an indecent action. I have made many mistakes in saying hello to my relatives and it eventually came to a point where I just stopped altogether. My parents always complained about how American culture changed me for the worse. They do not appreciate the American form of greeting believing that it does not fully address a person. My parents still abide by their form and greeting and often they would talk to their friends about how American children are so different. They talk about how in China filial piety rules dominant but in America this simply does not exist. My parents expect children to listen to parents no matter the situation even if we think our parents are wrong. There have been many instances where I have engaged in argument with my parents over the proper way of greeting. My reasoning is that a wave or hello is enough to acknowledge a person’s presence but they simply do not agree. Eventually we would come to a compromise and realize that no one was going to win an argument over culture.

Some time last week, I was taking the bus home alone after a grueling workout at Baruch’s gym. I was exhausted and wished for the bus to arrive on time so I can go back to my dorm room and collapse on my bed.

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The bus just so happened to be late, and I cursed silently at the dysfunctional New York City transportation system. I boarded the crowded bus, paid my fare, and headed towards the back. At that moment, I realized that my iPod was out of batteries. This was possibly the worst thing to happen, since the chatter of the people on board and the noise they produced made my headache worse. As I looked around for an empty, comfortable seat in which to sit in, I realized that would be impossible since it was rush hour. Instead, I look towards the very back section of the bus and see six people who were conversing loudly. Two of the individuals spoke French, another two spoke Russian, and the last two spoke German.  This experience surprised me because I’ve never experienced three different languages being spoken at the same time within the same group. Additionally, these same individuals were communicating with the others in their own language, even though the other person spoke a completely different one. This amused me to a high extent, and for the rest of the bus ride I would eavesdrop on their conversations. Even though I had no idea what they were saying, it was just an amusing event that entertained me.

Looking back, I was lucky that I got to experience something that was truly rare, and I’m glad that I had the opportunity to witness a cultural encounter like this one. Since then, the only mode of transportation I take to and from Baruch is the bus.

There are certain things that I always say when I have to introduce myself to other people. One of them is the fact that I came from South Korea about five years ago. Because of that, I had to overcome some hardships to fit myself into this society. The most noticeable challenges were language and communication. I wasn’t able to understand English that well when I first got here. I felt like everybody was making fun of my accent. Thankfully, that was the time when I started taking art classes. Some Korean girl, who was always in the corner of the English classroom due to her lack of English speaking skills, was now placed in the spotlight of attention during the art class. I was able to build a lot of self-confidence, and this eventually became the motivation for my studies.

Art class was like a window that opened my mind to the American culture. Through this window, I was able to look and step forward in the American culture and perceive it with heart. I didn’t judge other cultures through my own cultural perspective. Meanwhile, I tried to reach out my Korean culture to my American friends. I made several attempts to make my projects to be related to the Korean culture. Once, the Korean traditional costume called Hanbok inspired my sculpting project. I built a basic shape of a vase and decorated its exterior with ruffle-like clays, which looked exactly the same as the dress. After a few days of research, I was able to accentuate the dress with other traditional Korean jewelry in my own design. I chose all the colors that might blend into a beautiful ensemble of traditional and modern aspects of beauty.

The art class was a great relief for me. It also made me think about what I really want to do and where I am heading in my life. The canvas always reflected my question attentively and somehow gave me the answer. That is the reason why I am  still facing the white canvas: to find answers to my questions.

The image shown above is a picture I took while walking to the train through Madison Square Park. Class had just ended as I was approaching the 23rd street train station, I saw this man who was by himself in the middle of the park and he seemed to be doing an interpretive dance. But as he was doing these exuberant moves, he also was moving around some sort of glow stick, giving the illusion that it was floating around him. To be honest, I had no idea what he was doing. Was he dancing? Was he trying to do magic? Did he want money? Maybe all of the above? But the more I looked, it seemed as if he was just doing it because he wanted to. He had headphones in so he was listening to the music by himself. He could care less if anyone was watching him or not. This whole scene interested me. I was really curious to what he was doing so I decided to take a picture of him while he was doing his….. “thing.”

It turns out, what this man was doing is referred to as “glowstringing.” Glowstringing is a form of “glowsticking” in which it’s a combination of dance moves with a glow stick tied to a string. This activity is generally done at raves but that is not necessarily where it came from. It is said that glowstringing comes from poi (performance art) whose origins come from New Zealand. Poi is a performance art in which a ball suspended from a cord, is held in the hand and swung in circular patterns. From that art, glowstringing came about.

I’m glad I happened to have stumbled upon this scene in the park because it showed me how there is a lot of variety in the world. When I think of dancing, I would never think of someone by themselves making gestures and twirling a glow stick in mid-air. But that is DANCE… Whether me or anyone else is aware of it. There is variety in dance just like there is variety in everything else. Sometimes you just have to open up your eyes to see it.

Charles Li’s The Bitter Sea is a moving memoir that shows his rocky journey from youth into young adulthood. While the book focuses on his adolescence, it also explores aspects of life that are often difficult to confront. By addressing the hardships of parent to child relationships and political chaos in China, Li creates a memoir that embraces life as it is; filled with waves of both distress and happiness.

Regardless of cultural background, one is likely to identify with Li’s experiences. Friendship, loss, frustration, and discovery are all themes that play a role on his reflective story. Though the mood created by his various memories is often depressing, it allows one to truly step into Li’s shoes. As he provides vivid descriptions of events in his youth, one can almost feel the disappointment, joy, anger and eventually, the hopefulness that filled his life.

Though at certain points, it appears that Li was simply miserable, he creates a truthful yet fair portrayal of his earlier days. He shows that his father was a stern and detached figure, but at the same time, depicts him from two sets of eyes. By doing so, he creates a picture of his father and of his situation, as a whole, that is not completely biased.

While each chapter is organized in chronological order, one might notice that there is not always a smooth transition from one story to the next. This jolty feel to his memoir, however, is not necessarily a sign of unpolished writing. Rather, it mirrors how the actual events in his life took place; they were often abrupt and led to unexpected changes. Whether intentional or not, the relationship between his craggily told story and his rough life seem to make his memoir a powerful, real-life adventure.

“The True, The Good, and The Beautiful!” affirmed my high school Latin teacher.  I was a startled sophomore and an average student when I first heard Mr. O’Neill’s declaration. I’ve heard similar words before, misarticulated by actors, or murmured under the breaths of disgruntled moralists, but I was young and pierced with a “career dilemma.“ He continued to pull half of the students out of their daze as they drew a startled consciousness, reporting for class with a rigid affirmative nods. ”Pursue and do everything you undertake with all curiosity, inquisitiveness, desire, commitment, and zeal for the highest excellence,” he continued. I think at that moment I was the only one of thirty-four who unhinged his jaw, still kept his mouth closed, but failed to yawn.  “Remember, what you are and come to be is infinitely more important than what you merely possess or merely can do, i.e., you are a person with intellect, free will, and memory, not a number quantity or measure.” There I was first greeted by metaphysics. O’Neill was a scholar of the classics and a dogmatic Roman Catholic, accoutered in a thrifty tuxedo, flowered tie, socks to match, and dress shoes. As a man of conviction, he was a stark and an unusual persona for a public high school.

It was difficult for a fifteen year old to take him seriously, but something in my head clicked. I wondered why I was the only one who took something from those pivotal words; did no one else find these lines substantial?
An alarm triggered my conscience and an ardor for philosophy came to fruition. I was impressed with some sense of academic duty. I began to self-consciously question my decisions, the lot of which now seemed immature. Neither did accelerating grades nor trivial inebriated criticisms from friends seem to matter . It was the first time that I went out of my way to investigate myself. “First myself, then the world.”
Two years later, I chose to pursue philosophy and economics as undergraduate studies in order to understand what makes civilization tick: both materially and mentally. I knew that I didn’t want to pursue something simply academic or a specialization with a linear career, but some cohesive synthesis that could prepare me for some effective goals.

2007 just wasn’t my year. It was my quintessential “I don’t fit in” year. And when 2008 rolled around and things weren’t getting much better, I wasn’t very surprised. My two best friends, on the other hand, were–and decided to do something about it. They had been on mission trips with their youth group, but I wasn’t that big on church (and that this one was filled with strangers). But one phone call led to another, and the end of July ’08 found me scrunched in the backseat of a minivan to Pennsylvania with no way out. When I got there, though, I met a truly inspirational woman–and my life changed.

I first met her on my service assignment in Albemarle Park, a little place in the outskirts of York. Here in this park, there were dozens of children–but no parents. Worried, I asked the nearest youth leader where all of the adults were, and she told me that this place was a “day-care” center for underprivileged children in this dangerous part of the city. Aghast, I looked around, and noticed that not only were there dozens upon dozens of children running rampant, there were also no fences, hardly any toys, a broken swing set–and only two adults trying to fend off chaos. It was then that Miss Cynthia saved the day for the first time.

As she got out of her car, I immediately knew that she was the authority in this place. She was tall, in her mid-70s, with bright gray hair, and an air of confidence about her that intimidated me at first. But what caught my attention the most was that nearly all of the children ran up to her upon her arrival yelling, “Grandma, Grandma! Look what I made! Hi Grandma!” A leader noticed my surprise and told me, “Leanna, she isn’t grandmother to all of them through blood. She is their foster-grandmother.” Still slightly confused, I decided to introduce myself to this wonder-woman. As I walked over to her car, I saw her chastising children for fighting, fixing outfits, and above all, giving lots of hugs all around. It was when I got to the other side of the car, though, that I realized what a true heroine this woman was.

“Grandma” Cynthia Coates had a stroke 15 years ago, and has never regained function in the left side of her body. She walks very slowly but assuredly with a cane, but to move she must essentially carry half of her body. I was completely amazed by her capability to do so, and to do so much with these children–and as we began to talk, my amazement only deepened.

You can find Grandma Cynthia at Albemarle Park, Monday-Friday of every week (“except holidays, of course”) taking care of these young children. When I asked her why she did it, she told me, “Honey, I’ve had a great deal of hardship in my life. But if I lived like I could never do anything that I wanted, or that I wasn’t good enough to do it, then I wouldn’t be the only one who suffered. See these children? They need me. And I need them. The world is full of purpose, of beauty waiting for you–you just need to keep your eyes open, honey.” I remained at her side all week, listening to her stories. And never before had I so powerfully felt that I belonged, that there was a future for me filled with joy that I would soon embrace, no matter what I thought stood in my way.

It’s been a few years now, and I wonder if Grandma Cynthia can still be found on her bench in Albemarle Park on a weekday. Maybe I’ll never know. But I think of her all the time, and how just a few of her words opened my eyes to the beauty all around me.



“Just choose one,” said my mom.  I was four and stared wide-eyed at the selection of flavors for Dunkin’ Donuts donuts.  The most appealing and colorful was the vanilla frosted with sprinkles, and every time we went on a weekly walk to the Dunkin’, that’s what I picked.

I was five, at the corner store, and confronted with a mosaic of brightly colored candy wrappers.  There were just so many colors to choose from and I chose different ones every time we went inside.

I was six and at the Barnes and Noble, searching for a Roald Dahl book.  When I found that he had written so many, I couldn’t decide which one.  I got The Witches that day and when I finished it, I wanted more an asked to go back.  So I eventually ended up with six.

Then I was sixteen.  I ballroom danced, was a member of a dance company, did ballet, played varsity soccer, managed boy’s basketball, swam, and held leadership positions in school clubs.  As the work load got heavier, I slept less and less, but I still finished all my school work and participated in my extracurriculars.  I love all the activities I did and couldn’t imagine leaving them; I met so many interesting and talented people, was given so many opportunities, and couldn’t cope with the idea of missing out.

That was sophomore year.  My parents told me not to play soccer junior year for fear of injuries and not enough time devoted to studying.  I had stopped managing basketball and I had swimming as a class instead, so I thought it would be fine to continue all the extracurriculars that I did.  I was expressly told not to join soccer but I couldn’t help myself.  I told my parents I had some extra club meetings after school or went running but instead went to practices and games.  I tried as hard as I could to make sure that the clothes and equipment were concealed in my bag, and I went into the laundry room at midnight when my parents were sleeping.  I hate lying to my parents but it was something I really wanted to do; there was just something about the open field, the team, and the fun that I needed.  I’m fairly sure my parents figured it out by the end of the season, but they never said anything to me.

I could never “just choose one.”  There’s too much to do, too many places to see, and to many things too enjoy.  There are the things that just stick, some things you need to have or do.  And what I want right now, is a vanilla frosted donut with sprinkles.

Co-captains of my high school cross country team (Tsu Zhu on the left, me on the right)

In first grade, I took ballet and quickly realized that I wasn’t as graceful as the dancers I had seen on television. In fifth grade, I took tap and discovered that my feet had a difficult time following directions. In sixth grade, I took gymnastics and found out that I was unable to do a simple handstand. In the end, I quit them all.

However, the summer before high school, I was determined to join a team that I would dedicate myself to. I had spent my earlier years trying new activities, but always seemed to be discouraged after just a few months. When I looked at all the clubs and teams my school had to offer, I found that the only organization that appealed to me was the track team. Running required no experience and appeared simple enough. Without hesitation, I signed up for the team and began practicing in late August.

At my first practice, my coach, Mr. Connor called over the freshman and announced, “Today, you are all going to run a mile and a half.” My jaw dropped. I foolishly did not imagine going beyond half a mile on the first day. A few girls giggled at my reaction, but Mr. Connor assured us that we would survive the seemingly impossible task. Finally, he let us go off into our first run with the team. Though my sluggish pace must have only qualified that mile and a half as a jog, it was a huge struggle getting through it. When we all finished, he asked the newcomers how the run was. “Hard” was the general reply. My coach smiled. “Remember this day,” he told us prophetically, “Just remember it.”

As I reminisce on my first days as a runner, I can’t help but wonder who that freshman girl was. Though I am in fact still Tracy, I can’t seem to identify with myself from four years ago. Then, I was terrified of a mile and half, but nowadays, I get excited to go on six mile runs. I never envisioned myself falling in love with running, but I did. Through running, I have learned that success requires patience. It took me two years to decrease my three mile time by two minutes, but the sweet satisfaction of that accomplishment was well worth my time and effort. Even now, I am still working on decreasing my running times. I am constantly striving to improve as a runner, and my time on the team has showed me that it is possible to go beyond your expectations if you work for it.

Ironically, while my “failures” in dancing led me to running, running has brought me back to dancing. After a year of being on the track team, I realized that there was a lot more to the sport than being the fastest or the “best.” It was more about perseverance and setting goals. With this newfound outlook, I felt empowered to give dancing another shot. I finally got the courage to join dance performances in my school and saw that just as in running, practice and hard work were all it took. I am currently part of a small hip hop dance group, and though I never pictured myself being any sort of a dancer, I know I can thank running for showing me that I could be.