By NH Choi
It has been more than two years since I launched an online English writing program for young Koreans. It is intended to help them start graduate school in an English-speaking country. Though time-consuming, helping them prepare for advanced studies has been much more rewarding than expected.
I have received thank you notes from both incumbent and former participants. Some say they have learned a lot from the program, which they say is one of a kind, and others say it has helped them settle in since they recently went back to school in America.
The encouraging feedback means a lot, especially when I fall into serious doubt about the program. Yet I cannot afford to remain smug because, as is often the case, what is not said is no less important than what is said.
Instead of designing the program as a teacher who has an agenda and goals of his own, I am trying to figure out what I would demand if I were a participant. I need to incorporate the findings into the program, which includes writing essays, making presentations, reading long features on diverse subjects, and well-reviewed or highly recommended books.
The idea of starting a weekly writing program was hatched when Sue visited Korea during the COVID-19 lockdown. She suggested such a program would assist would-be graduate students and doctorate candidates in elevating their English skills to the level required for classwork.
She said she would recruit participants, help with housekeeping, and assist in other ways. She also suggested she could help participants guide how to write curricula vitae and other application forms for school admission — a job she has done as a business school graduate.
When I had many doubts about the idea, she assured me that I would have few problems if I put to good use my long experience as a journalist working for a Seoul-based daily newspaper published in the English language. In the worst case, she said, I could fold up after a two- or three-month trial.
In a passing comment, she also said the proposed program would surely help me fend off dementia. I could not tell whether her remark was meant to be a bait or a joke1.
I was skeptical about the proposal because I believed a qualified native English speaker would make an ideal instructor. One such person who came to mind was a journalist-turned-professor who taught me in the 101 journalism class on news reporting and writing at the Journalism School decades ago.
Unlike the well-trained and highly respected American professor, I am a Korean by birth, nationality, and residency, struggling not to misinterpret what I hear and read in English. I am also trying to make myself correctly understood both in written and spoken English.
The lingering question has been how much each participant would gain from me, who, until recently, could not tell the difference between a wise guy and a wise man. Even more difficult would be to grasp the meaning of a crime movie dialogue in which some character was mentioned as the boss of many wise guys.
This is not to say such a problem is insurmountable. However, the kind of effort demanded of a non-native linguist working on English idiomatic and slang expressions must be made if a Korean is to learn “wise guy” can be substituted for “smart ass” and that it may also mean a member of the Mafia in a particular context. Yet, I ignored such difficulties and came to write in English as a journalist.
This career of mine was not by design. Nor was it by fate. It was just by need.
I desperately needed a job when I was discharged from the military in 1979. I found it extremely challenging for an English major from a provincial university to land a respectable job in Seoul.
However I was fortunate enough to pass an employment test from a newspaper company with flying colors. I grabbed the ensuing job offer with gratitude.
As I was climbing the corporate ladder, my job description expanded to training reporters, including probationary ones. I spent a sizable time as an editor doubling as an instructor, teaching them how to gather newsworthy information and use it in writing articles in English, editing their articles with a red pen2, and sending them back to the reporters for a review and a rewrite.
This experience has proven to be an invaluable asset for the current writing program. One major difference between my current and previous roles is that I try hard to remain a facilitator, helping the participants learn for themselves rather than a strict instructor trying to teach everything he believes he knows.
It requires much brainwork to prepare for the weekly class — selecting articles as study materials from the Guardian, the New Yorker, and other world-renowned English publications and annotating them with explanations on complex terms before sending them to the participants for reading ahead of the forthcoming Zoom class. The topics range from technology, science, and business to domestic politics, foreign policy, and international relations.
Another job I do is selecting books for use in class. I used to read reviews before deciding on books for the class. Now, I choose them from participant recommendations while keeping my reading preferences at bay — a newly adopted approach to being participant-friendly. Previous books include On China by Henry Kissinger and Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari.
If the intensive use of the brain slows the progress of dementia, I could possibly be among the beneficiaries. But I believe there is a slim chance (or is it “a fat chance” here?) that it will work for me in older age. Nonetheless, a big reward is that it helps me keep up in an ever-changing world.
Another significant benefit is access to how young people think and behave. How would I otherwise know that certain people wish to be referred to as “they,” a gender-neutral pronoun, instead of gender-specifying “he” or “she” when they were mentioned as a third person?
A former participant quoted a classmate saying in an introductory class in graduate school that the classmate wanted to be mentioned as “they.” Then, to my chagrin, I was reminded that I had once changed “they” to “she” in editing an article. Mea culpa.
One notable problem with the program is that the class size can be beyond my control. When a four-week term is about to end, there is no knowing how many will remain, how many will leave, and how many will be recruited.
The “first come, first served” principle can be applied when there are more than the optimal number of applications. When the number goes below the minimum set at four, however, there is nothing that I can do about it except accept the number as is and hope to facilitate the class as productive as possible.
Worse still, what if any or all of them should fail to show up in class for one reason or another? Would I feel okay? Probably not. In fact, I seriously considered discontinuing the program when only three enrolled last month.
The crisis was over when I knew my daughter was opposed with good reason. She rightly pointed out that I was dealing with the problem only from my perspective, not from the current remaining participants, who she said had registered partly because they believed I was committed to continuing the program.
The value of my work remains consistent whether I have three students or 30; it is determined by how students absorb and apply the skills they acquire from this program in their academic lives.
Instead of smarting from my supposedly damaged ego, I am advised to focus on and try to meet the needs of those remaining. That is what I will do.
He uses olive green pen these days.
Exciting story. Good to read about your re-energized focus on the remaining students. :-)