The last time I cried

Before you start, I want to tell you that I got pretty emotional while writing this so all the sentences might not connect with each other.
I feel like crying NOW - all my bones and muscles ache from today's cheerleading T.T
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     I cry a lot. I cry when my shoulders hurt really badly and when I have too much homework to do. I cry when I do not feel like doing something that I absolutely know that I should. I cry when I miss somebody that I haven’t contacted for quite a long time or when I suddenly remember an embarrassing incident. Sometimes, I cry for no reason, too. I feel my eyes well up in the middle of a conversation they I was actually enjoying. But all these cries are not the same. Sometimes a single tear would do the job and sometimes I would have to cry until I cannot cry any longer.

     Since I frequently cry, I do not remember that well of the “last” time I cried. But I certainly do remember the last time I cried my heart out. It was last year’s November – all the students were preparing for the Minjok Sarang Concert.

     I became the head chief of our school’s one and only musical club, Stars on Stage (SOS), in September. So eager to start my year, I planned to take extra good care of our members and draw out the best result we could make. I knew that we had a concert in November, so I decided to set things straight. I asked the members to voluntarily participate for the concert for only those who really want to do it. Only few of us remained so we had to ask people outside of our club to join us. The procedure took a long time, therefore not leaving us enough time to practice for the performance.

     Two of our members wrote the fifteen minute script for us to perform. It had all the lines and songs to compactly portray the musical we were playing – “Hairspray.” We had an expert musical actress to coach us with our singings and our dance routines. We did the best we could for about two or three weeks. It did improve, yes it did, but it was not enough to perform on the stage. We knew in our hearts that this could end up being a humiliation. Then we perform for the rehearsal, two weeks before the concert. All the students were watching us. And yes, we did sort of end up as something to make fun of. I wasn’t so heartbroken then, although I did spent the whole nights up straightening out the scripts, making dance routines, and teaching the members about them. I was tired, though. I felt that I was the only person who eagerly wanted to make this performance a success. I wanted to do it, but with whom? Who was with me? Well, I’m still not so sure about that even until now.

     The result of the rehearsal was rather terrifying. Our performance, which was supposed to be the first play in the second scene, was put off to the third. And for the worse, our performance time was shortened to seven minutes. We were supposed to do a musical performance in “seven minutes.” It brought all the members down. Most of us did not even feel like doing this whole nonsense anymore. I, too, felt very much depressed. But still, I did not cry.

     We had to start all over again. We threw away the script we had and we started a whole new performance consisting of four songs and no lines. The dance routine had to be remade due to the new songs. We had to do it in two weeks. I literally did not have time to sleep, for I was in charge and I had the responsibility to make this alright.

     The first week was a disaster. All the members had to memorize four songs and our coach was constantly scolding us for not paying attention, being off-key, and not big voice and yatty yatty yatta. I had to stay up all nights choosing costumes and calling the rental services for the size of the costumes and renting fees. I had to stay up all nights assigning each of the lyrics to each member. The songs themselves had to be edited, which was a hard procedure. There was way too much burden. I felt like crashing down.

     On the next practice I burst into tears, or rather, I exploded into tears. We were severely told off because we kept on complaining about all the things – the time, the songs, the dance routines, and the concert itself. The coach yelled at us for being rude and stupid.

     I spent months preparing for this whole thing. I spent all my time and effort on it, even on times I knew that this wouldn’t work out well. I had hope that someday the members would understand all the hard works that I had to do. I put up with all the complaints – “I don’t like this costume,” “I want longer lines,” “I have a big quiz so I cannot come to the practice.” I smiled and again thought of alternative plans with no one helping me. I tried to look cheerful even though I felt like punching every single one of them in the face. And what do I get? WHAT DO I GET FOR ALL THESE CRAP I HAD TO DO? Well, I would have preferred getting nothing. But I did get something. I got, ta-da, a finger in my face! How wonderfully ironic.

     I cried because I felt sorry for myself. All my work was done for the goodness of our club, for the success of our club. I tried so hard to make it work. Through the tears I told every single member what I thought. I told them to quit it now, if they didn’t want to do it. And a girl managed to point at my face and yell “YOU DON’T HAVE THE RIGHT TO SAY THAT.” Well? You, missy, don’t have the right to stay in my f***ing club.

10,000 hour rule

     Malcome Gladwell has made a point that almost every person known for his or her excellent talent in an area has had a practice time for about 10,000 hours. He gives examples like Mozart and the Beatles. However, I believe that this rule of 10,000 hour has an error.
     People just don't go do something for such a significant amount of time just because they got a chance to and just because they had to. For instance, because Beatles had to work in a bar which required them to play for endless hours, they got super good. However, Gladwell did not really take into account of how much they actually enjoyed playing music. For Mozart, too. He did not start composing songs since an early age just because he was forced to (well, at point some yes). He liked, or rather loved, music.
     Just practicing something for 10,000 hours is not going to make you good. I learned violin for six years but I hated the every single second I was holding it and so, I could not play it until now. I believe the "Rule of liking" comes before the "10,000 hour rule."

Story about fear

     I have to. All I have to do is open the door, step outside, and walk a few meters. But I remain in my seat thinking of excuses for why I don’t necessarily have to. I have loads of works to do and they will keep me busy all through the night. My place is so warm and I know that outside will be cold as hell and I do not have that much of clothes on. I will freeze to death or at least, catch a cold. My legs are sore and I have a headache. Walking will only make them worse. Well, now I have to stay here because going outside will only harm me.

     But I have to. My forehead starts to bear out sweat and my hands are getting all clammy. I clutch my pencil with a tight fist and try to concentrate on my homework. But all the words are just a big glob of blur. Letting go of what I have in my hands, I search for my MP3 in my bag clumsily. I’ve got it. I cram the earphones in my ears. The music starts to flow but only to unsettle my heartbeat. I throw the MP3 on the bed. I look up. All I can see is the white ceiling with a few streaks of stains. I look down. My feet are tapping uneasily, making small arrhythmic sounds. I again think of the reasons. But now, they are not good enough. I know I have to do it.

     I stand up and walk towards the door. I put my ear on the crack, trying to hear something. But the only sounds I can hear are the ticking of the clock and the thumping of my heart. I push hard on my chest so that the sound would cease. It wouldn’t quiet down. Frustrated, I give a strong punch on it.

     My clammy hand is now holding the door knob. I wish I could go back to the time when all it had to hold was a pencil. It’s all slippery, giving an indecent touch. Biting, or rather chewing my lips, I put strength little by little on my hand. The door creaks open.

     The darkness flows into my room and much of the light I have saved in here leaks out into the infinite shadows of night and loses its way. I peek outside only to see nothing. I frantically search for other reasons why I don’t necessarily have to go. But I have to.

     With a quick swing of the door I push myself out of my safety zone and run for the destination and run for it and run. My swerving hands find another door push it open turn on the light and close it right behind me.

Breathing heavily, I look around. The sink, the tub, the shampoo, and the soap are all in their places, peacefully as ever. They seem to look in the same direction. I move my eyes and there, I find what I was so desperately looking for. I see the white bowl of relief, of comfort, of heaven.

Now I can go.

Personal essay - revised version (1)

In the Right Place, on the Track

12v3 101039 Da Yeon Ryoo

     A speck of dust on my desk will be enough to get me going. Cookie crumbs on the floor will immediately put a broom in my hand. Always after visiting someplace, a long and good shower is needed for me to feel comfortable again.

I am a cleaning-addict.

     There is a rule I have for cleaning: I believe there is a right place for every object to belong. When I clean, I put those objects in their places – it’s as simple and easy as that. Books are organized by height and cosmetics according to use. The closet is tidied color wise, starting from reddish clothes to blackish ones. And when certain things are out of their original spots, I get uneasy feelings until I clean them up.

Why am I so obsessed with getting things neat? Well, I believe it’s because of the time when I was in middle school. Back then, I was uncontrollable. I rejected all the rules that came upon me and rebelled to the authorities trying to settle me down. I had my own way of acting and that way was “no way.” I slept during classes and when I was not, I read comic books or sent text messages to my boyfriend. I befriended the school bullies and took part in their activities such as carving swear words all over the school and harassing those kids who looked nerdy. I did not know where I was heading to in my future. I did not have much thought.

But then I had a huge ugly fight with my parents. They were unhappy about me having a boyfriend and hiding it away from them. They did not want me to continue dating him because he was too old for me and also because I had to serve my duties as a student. I plugged my ears while standing in front of them and yelled at them that I did not care. I yelled that I am going to do want I want to do and that only. Then the most heartbreaking incident even until now happened. They cried.

I could not sleep that night. I had to think about what went wrong with me, from when and how. I thought of the reckless actions I did for the past years. I thought about my parents’ tears. It was the first time they cried in front of me. Then I realized that I had nothing inside me to judge myself upon. I was lacking the order and rules. And I needed them. I decided that night that I am going to make rules for myself.

     The first priority that I put was studying. My grades were abysmal and they had to be saved badly. I started to regard classes seriously and I never slept in class again. I previewed and reviewed the text until I understood it completely. I set a goal, too. I wanted, for the first time in my life, to be one of the top ten students in the school. Although it seemed impossible, the thought of being in that place kept me going. My grades sky-rocketed and the people around me started to see me differently.

     My next big step was to make a lot of friends. While keeping in good relationship with my formal bad-buddies, I tried hard to talk to other students that I previously never even looked at. I asked them questions about the class and I offered them to eat lunch with me. It did not work out that well, actually, regarding all the horrible things I did to them before. However, I at least succeeded in showing them that I was a different person.

     Around this time I started cleaning because I learned how much tidying and keeping things in order can improve me. I found out the right place for me and it was time to find the right places for the things surrounding me so that I would never let myself down and messy again. I was on my track and until now I am running on it as vibrantly as ever.

Thoughts after reading "Outliers" (1)

     The first chapter of the "Outliers" stresses the importance of receiving the right chance and luck to be developed ahead of your mates. The examples Malcome Gladwell uses are athlete groups, where players born in earlier months of the year have better chances of becoming champions. While I was reading this part, I immediately thought of the education system of Korea and how it pushes the students to study ahead of the right course.
     Thinking about the past, I was always encouraged and somewhat forced by the parents and my school to study ahead of the year's course. Even when I was in elementary school, I learned the fifth grader's texts when I was still in the third grade. However, I was not the rare case. All the students studied in private institutions or by themselves about the courses that they were going to study in the next two or three years. It was the trend back then and it is still going on until this day. When a teacher teaches something at school, majority of the students already know about it because they have studied it beforehand.
     I figured that this might be the reason why Korean (generally Asian) students are regarded as smart. Because of the high educational standards, Korean students start to learn mathematics or english earlier than other students in other parts of the world. Because we get a head-fast start, we are able to keep the lead through all of our school lives.
     I think I would be interesting to analyze the birthdays of KMLA students and see which month we were born the most. If it really is January or February, it will really prove Malcome Gladwell's point.