Essays

Growing up in Miami felt like playing life on hard mode—being different wasn’t a choice; it was necessary to navigate racism, cultural distance, and not fully belonging. Over time, though, that difference became a strength, and embracing uniqueness taught me how to thrive wherever I found myself in life.

I spent my summers as a kid in South Korea, spending up to two months at a time there and even attending school some years. This number slowly dwindled down to two weeks as my sister and I got busier and found it harder to make time to travel. At home, though, I would get my dose of Korean culture by watching Korean TV shows at the dinner table and listening to K-pop (mostly BIGBANG). I met few Asian students in school and even fewer Koreans, and our family would have to drive up to an hour to eat at the closest Korean restaurant. Language was the biggest barrier for me, though, as I found it difficult to communicate as well as I wanted to with my parents and even my piano teacher, which made me feel disconnected at times.

There was definitely more of an Asian community at Yale, and I took three Korean language classes, which dramatically improved my speaking skills and helped me connect with my parents on a deeper level. I moved back to Miami post-grad, where I had definitely had my fair share of racist remarks thrown my way growing up—and still do to this day—but felt much more secure this time around. I’m grateful to have grown up in such a diverse environment and now understand that home is where you feel most comfortable. My parents moved to New Jersey, where they’ve made new friends and there’s a Koreatown nearby, and I think we’ve both learned to make our home our home.

Korea, to me, represents the epitome of late-stage capitalism, largely due to America’s investment and military presence in the country post-war, which helped turn it into the cultural and economic powerhouse it is today. From the little time I’ve spent in the country, some notes and observations I have are: 1) there’s massive wealth inequality, 2) political polarization is one of the country’s most pressing issues, and 3) people are hyper-materialistic and obsessed with status chasing—where did X go to school, what job does X work, what car does X drive. What stands out most, though, is the cultural homogeneity—if you walk into a classroom, all of the boys will be rocking whatever hairstyle is trending at the time; everyone is very well dressed, too, but they all have the same fashion sense, etc.

I say this to note that Miami isn’t so different regarding points 1–3; however, Miami is incredibly diverse and anything but homogeneous. I grew up hanging out with a lot of Jewish and Hispanic friends and was lucky to have had people accept me for who I am.

Being unique is always a strength. And for me, I don’t mean being Korean made me unique—what I mean is that growing up as a Korean in Miami made me so. I think anyone who knows me will say that I’m different in some regard, hopefully in a good way. But that was shaped by my lived experiences, largely in Miami.

I think too many people want to fit in, especially if they find themselves out of their comfort zone. But I’ve learned that home isn’t a place; rather, it’s something you create by owning who you are. Being unique makes you interesting and endearing to others. Yes, we should be true to ourselves, but we should also play to our strengths and strive to stand out. In a crowd full of boring, identical people, be yourself. And be different.

Statement: Meaning isn’t discovered; rather, it’s created.

I have found myself, like many others, struggling with the notion of meaning, fulfillment, happiness—whatever you’d like to call it. And I could never get good, centralized feedback on how to bridge this gap in my life. In the following anecdotes, I’ll share my story and some heuristics that have helped me throughout my life.

1. More effort almost always yields better outcomes

Growing up, I never thought I was the smartest kid; I did think, however, that I put a lot of effort into whatever I set my mind to. Somewhere along the way, though, I realized that the opposite was true: intelligence didn’t matter anywhere near as much as the effort I put in—which, at times, was very little.

As a side note, I also think that nonchalance in today’s society is horrible. People should care about their relationships with others and about their passions, interests, and hobbies. Effort is cool, and it always will be—at least to me. I’ll always be the one to put in more if need be.

2. Manifestation / visualization

Whether it’s NBA superstars or practicing physicians, I consistently hear successful people use manifestation and/or visualization to help them realize their goals.

For me, it looks like this: if you are able to conceptualize the beginning of whatever story you are tackling, along with the end, you’ve already completed over half the battle. Filling out the in-between portion is just a matter of putting your head down and making things happen until enough time has passed and you’re done.

3. Personal identity

The two most important questions in life, to me, are: 1) Who am I? (What systems and heuristics work best for me? What do I derive pleasure from? What do I enjoy doing?) and 2) Where am I going? (What do I want?) Similar to the previous point, I think that not enough people spend enough time thinking deeply about what they want—whether it be in the short or long term. Once this is nailed down, again, making it happen is easy.

Additionally, something that has helped me, which I derived from a hiring assessment, is understanding the difference between how you view yourself versus how you think others view you. This delta says a lot about our personality—not necessarily in a good or bad way, but in a way that can be helpful.

4. Deconstruction

Being a student made it seem to me as though the world was very systematic and driven by a very specific set of rules—which can be true to some extent, but not entirely so. Understanding that there are no “rules” or objective truths can be freeing. An example from my college philosophy class: Hume said that just because something’s always happened before—like a ball falling due to gravity—doesn’t mean it must happen again; our belief that it will is habit, not logic.

Ultimately, perception is reality, and we should adopt systems and heuristics that make it easier to live our day-to-day lives.

5. Internal locus of control

I like thinking about the world in terms of fate, luck, or destiny to some degree. However, it is much more helpful to have an internal locus of control—adhering to the notion that our actions determine outcomes in our lives rather than determinism. It is essentially to say that we should hold the notion of free will dear to our hearts, and perhaps that is because…

What we ultimately want is agency—the feeling that I meaningfully exist, that I have influence over my life.

I want to feel as though I am acting on the world rather than the world acting on me.

In this way, our seemingly insignificant little actions, words, and decisions become meaningful.

At least, they have for me in my own lived experience.

The looming gateway to Grove Street Cemetery faces High Street. Inscribed on the lintel reads, “THE DEAD SHALL BE RAISED,” (1 Corinthians 15:52) to which Yale President Arthur Twining Hadley supposedly responded, “They certainly will be, if Yale needs the property.”

Architects Henry Austin and Hezekiah Augur designed this brownstone ancient Egyptian pylon during a wave of Egyptian Revival architecture that flourished from 1820-1850. In ancient Egypt, the two monumental towers on either side of the columns represented the hills between which the sun rose and set. While it's uncertain whether Austin and Augur knew of this, they nevertheless chose a symbol of eternal renewal and resurrection to mark the entrance.

Prior to the establishment of Grove Street Cemetery, New Haven residents buried their dead on the Green, the central block of the town's nine-square settlement plan. This changed when severe yellow fever epidemics devastated the city in 1794 and 1795: with almost five thousand buried over the past one hundred fifty years, the Green was much too crowded for any more skeletal occupants. New Haven residents and U.S. Senator James Hillhouse planned out a new graveyard on farmland to the north and two years later, Connecticut officially incorporated The New Burying Ground.

Over two hundred years later, the commotion of a bustling city and large university contrast the aura of peace coming from within the cemetery. An eight-foot brownstone wall surrounds three sides of the graveyard and obstructs everything from view, save a few trees and the most massive of headstones. Should you venture down Grove Street, a wrought iron fence provides a view into the graveyard. Immediately beyond the entrance lies a brick Victorian office topped with steep roofs that once served as a chapel so that service could be held in inclement weather; its sole decoration is a gilded butterfly symbolizing the soul's release from the body.

The cemetery greets me through its vast scale, with a seemingly infinite number of gray headstones populating the whopping eighteen acres. The grass is neatly trimmed and ancient oak trees shade the paths, which are wide enough for cars or horse-drawn carriages to pass through. Each road is named after a tree: Maple, Magnolia, and Cedar Avenue are each lined with their titular species – Hillhouse prized trees and initiated the extensive plantings that would give New Haven the nickname of “Elm City.”

As I look beyond the wall, buildings like the Center for Innovation and Design, Benjamin Franklin College, and Yale Health provide a refreshing contrast of color and style to the graveyard's beautiful, albeit monotonous green and gray. American flags honor veterans' headstones and wilting flowers adorn the walkways. A low hum can be heard in the distance as two men work diligently on maintaining the property amidst freezing temperatures; another man can be seen sitting alone in front of a grave marker, slowly taking drags of his cigarette.

One tourist carries a DSLR camera and takes photos of the headstones. “I'm actually from Ireland – my wife left to go shopping but I thought this place looked more interesting. It's very beautiful, I was just looking at the different ethnicities in the names.” His name is Killian, and he snaps a photo of me before we part ways. Another older visitor dressed in a suit strolls around with his daughter. I ask him why he's here, to which he responds, “It's very peaceful. Graveyards are a place for introspection and reflection – we're all going to end up in one, or something like it, one day.” As I listen to birds chirping freely, I agree with his sentiment.

The very notion of a cemetery, not just the first chartered burial ground in the United States, is revolutionary in itself. Some tens of thousands of years ago, humans stumbled upon the dual emergence of symbols and sentience due to the increasing complexity and growth of the brain, coupled with vocal cords. With these tools came the development of language and eventually, the creation of a symbolic reality. Mortuary rituals fit into this newfound ability to reminisce about the past and envision the future, to collaborate and think abstractly. Although there is no way for anthropologists to research language in this regard, graveyards leave behind a literal fossil to study.

Burials reflect a deeply spiritual and meaningful aspect of humans mourning past deaths and imagining their own in the future. And for a long time, deliberate interment was thought to be a practice unique to Homo sapiens, one of many factors seeming to distinguish us from other animals. However, fossils discovered in 2013 evidenced that Homo naledi also carried out burials, even though their brains were half as small as ours. Pinpointing what exactly separates us from the rest of nature is surprisingly difficult.

As the first private nonprofit cemetery in the world, Grove Street Cemetery redefined graveyards from the ground down. Whereas bodies used to be thrown into the ground wherever space was available, sections of the cemetery were allocated for certain families. Beyond this, land was specifically designated for church parishioners, out of town strangers, the indigent, persons of color, and Yale College.

These divisions become immediately apparent when touring the area. Plots like Number 2 Cedar Avenue are enclosed by an iron fence and host the family of Benjamin Silliman, a prominent American chemist and Yalie. Luminaries such as Roger Sherman, Noah Webster, and Eli Whitney exhibit well-crafted, elegant headstones; lofty obelisks seem to reach for the heavens, continuing the Egyptian motif found in the pylon.

On the other hand, comparatively tiny stone grave markers moved from the Green can be found lined up against the back wall in alphabetical order. No bigger than 2' x 1', they are the oldest relics that can be found here, dating back to the seventeenth century. Wear and tear has rendered some illegible, and one looks more like a rock than an ornament. Another simply reads, “IH AGE 79 1683,” in what could pass for a child's handwriting, with the word AGE sloping diagonally to avoid running out of space. Inscriptions recall the deaths of everyone from 5-week-old William to 93-year-old Decon.

Stone obviously isn't permanent, but on the scale of a human life, it is – our lives are too short for us to perceive the constant movement of plate tectonics and mountains eroding. Consequently, we build monuments like the Great Pyramids and carve statues out of stone because they will outlast us, effectively achieving immortality. Modern constructions of metal and glass are nothing more than stone refined through human ingenuity – collectively, they anchor a sense of continuity and permanence, the kind that we wish for ourselves. One headstone reads, “We all yearn for transcendence, for immortal life, to be part of the future.”

Looking at the grave markers, I realize their decay aligns with the enduring truth that like humans, stone is transitory. According to estimates by demographic researchers at the Population Reference Bureau, roughly 100 billion people have died before us. Yet, death stalks us in a trivial, ignorable way: an expiration date far in the future engenders a false sense of permanence and lulls us into complacency. There is always tomorrow, so why start today?

The opposite idea, that our days are numbered, is emboldening. Although failures and humiliations will be forgotten, great achievements may not. As I leave, I find a bench marked with the words of Pericles: “What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others.” From the fallen soldiers to the fourteen Yale presidents who lie here, the people interred at Grove Street Cemetery are immortal in this sense.

I have never seen leaves change color first-hand. I have seen red and orange leaves while traveling, but green leaves are a constant in my mind, like stone. Yet, for the first time, I am seeing the leaves change color in the cemetery.

For eight glacially slow minutes, we performed our skit, featuring everything from pneumatic wings to a fully functional go-kart built from scratch. It was our fifth time at World Finals and in that stadium, all I could think about was how bizarre it was to watch your work blow up in front of you, literally.

I embarked on my venture with Odyssey of the Mind (OM) when I was in first grade. Alongside six teammates, I harbored a certain naiveté that made the whole experience seem more like glorified playtime than a creative problem-solving competition. We worked as diligently as our sub-four-foot-tall bodies would enable us and struggled to work with anything that weighed more than five pounds. Power tools were undoubtedly off limits per our parents' safety concerns, not that our juvenile hands could handle them anyway.

Over the years, we fashioned elaborate solutions to quirky challenges, producing a diverse selection of vehicles that could catalyze chemical reactions or disassemble and reassemble: a bootleg Transformers of sorts. I felt fiery nuts of steel drop into my lap and burn holes through my dearest pair of navy blue Nike basketball shorts. Neodymium magnets worked in tandem with rat traps to crush my hands: all part of the learning process. Whereas I had once been shy and trembled at the snap of dinky mousetraps, I now found myself featuring as a rapping grandma in our music videos and adrenalized to sit on exploding boxes.

My sophomore year marked the team's tenth anniversary: only three of the seven original team members remained, myself included, and whether or not to continue was a legitimate question. After collectively agreeing to another year, Home Depot became my third home again, right behind the coach's. Weekends meant OM work marathons wherein I could spend four hours testing the viability of a solution to meet problem limitations, just to spectacularly fail in a matter of seconds.

The engineering component of OM had largely been handled by my best friend and me every year, and this time was no different. Without a doubt, the single large car was the most difficult element of the problem we chose. I applied what little physics knowledge I possessed to get the job done; pressurized air tanks blew up in our faces and batteries shorted, but we eventually achieved our final product. The car worked in sync with an imaginative storyline to win us first place at the regional and state tournament, the latter of which would take us to Iowa for World Finals.

Even in the minutes leading up to the finale, our vehicle displayed undying loyalty to Murphy's law: the batteries exploded and set off the fire alarm, leaving bystanders stuck in the elevator and us with nothing but the ultimate stress test. After hurriedly repairing the flaming car, we came, we saw, but failed to conquer, placing eleventh overall. It was utter disillusionment to see that hundreds of hours of work was nothing but charcoal, crumbling into a pile of ashes rather than the diamond we had hoped to produce. I could all but hear the world laughing in my face, saying, "Your best wasn't good enough!"

Although blunt and severe, the realization that I couldn't have done better was liberating: in the face of the universe's stubborn silence, words like "deserve" and "fair" become indistinct – all we can do is constantly strive for something better. And there is real meaning and value to be created by pursuing projects in spite of, rather than because of incentives. Over the past decade, working with everything from amphibious cars to a makeshift eighty-gallon water trough shaped us into calculating risk-takers, ready to adapt to whatever challenge the future had to offer.

We returned to World Finals the following year to place second overall, and I still wear those navy blue shorts today.