In my fight for those who have been gagged, unable to speak, I will give them my voice, my words.

I love words. I think about them a lot: how they acquire their meanings, how those meanings shift, how they allow us to communicate across vast distances, to be more than just discrete individuals. The sounds and syllables that come from our mouths—the words we use, the jargon we choose, the meanings we assign to each of them—create our identities. Our relationships are defined by the ways in which we do (or don’t) communicate. Our cultures are formed by language and word of mouth. Nations and empires have been built on words—the Magna Carta, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution. Our greatest freedom fighters have provided us with a revolution of words—King’s “Bad Check”, Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s Declaration of Sentiments, Madison’s individual rights, the first ten of the Constitution. These words built our modern culture, a result of decisions and revisions, a mixture of the words we have embraced and the ones that have since been discarded. I love to venture into the gray spaces where languages and cultures collide: Gloria Anzaldua’s “borderlands”. Having studied English, Korean, Spanish, and French, I’m especially interested in words that seem “untranslatable”. What is Korean jeong as compared to English affection? Why do Hispanic people have sobremesa—time “over the table”—while English speakers sit down “at the table”? I look forward to each new language as an adventure, discovering novel (derived from French novelle, derived from Latin novellus…) ideas, people, words, and cultures. I yearn to know the connections of language to culture; how the phrase Être à l’Ouest—to daydream—has been influenced by the dream of exploring the undiscovered west. I dream of examining law and legal structures, as I’ve done these last three years in Mock Trial. Law is where the exploration of language and culture collide, where persuasion’s power is most consequential. Here, too, I love to explore the clash with language: how “innocent and wrongly convicted” might convince the presiding judge of acquittal where “not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt” will not. As dry as it is perceived to be, the legal lingo of the courtroom is one of my favorite aspects of law—the “genetic makeup” of the legal structure. Law is the third dimension between linguistics and culture. Who can interpret law better, who can correctly use the interpretation, who can use words as tools (or weapons) of persuasion—to that one goes the prize. When I want to know more about these distinct yet parallel lines of language, culture, and law, the internet is my best friend. I also have my Mock Trial case packets, true crime documentaries, and a copy of Sandel’s Justice: What’s the Right Thing to Do? It’s not much, but it’s a start. As I venture into college, I look forward to having more resources at my hands to dig into the flesh of culture—the seams of language and law. I can combine my linguistic skills with my passion for law as an attorney in some area where translation and law collide. My vision is to use my expertise in language and law together, to give voice to the voiceless and secure justice for immigrants and refugees, women, the poor, and people of color—voices that are often overlooked, silenced, or shouted down. I can wage my own war of words to enforce the freedoms that the word revolutionaries of the past have started, their advocacy for the freedoms we enjoy today—racial equality, women’s suffrage, the freedom of speech that allows us to produce, well, more words. In my fight for those who have been gagged, unable to speak, I will give them my voice, my words.

Because the emphasis on academic success is so potent, character is often glossed over. Though mentioned briefly in back-to-school presentations, the prevention of cheating is rarely enforced. However, because I am not looking for a grade, I am less motivated to cheat or cut corners in my academic endeavors. Because I am eager to share my knowledge database with others, I keenly spend time investing myself in other people's learning: I frequently tutor classmates and peers, many times in situations where I could easily "screw them over" by refusing to help. The National Honor Society describes character not as something that can be taught, but rather something that must be modeled through example. My examples entail aiding others; I have the courage to be successful through my own capabilities and my own capabilities only. Service, though not particularly something my school community emphasizes, is something I have personally strived to adapt in my daily life. My acts of service extend above and beyond the club level, and even the school level. Through various community organizations like NHS, Key Club, SDKPA Book Club, and Awana, I devote over ten hours a week on volunteering and giving back to the community. Service has no bounds, nor does it have an end—the passion for service continues through weekends, and holidays. In this, I have tried to devote myself to the communities that have provided me with so much. Having grown up as a book club member under SDKPA and a member of Awana, I returned as a high schooler to give back, devoting multiple hours a week for the same organizations that gave me my love for reading. My memories of the fun times I had at Camp Invention led me to apply as a camp leader the summer before my senior year. As a leader, the opportunities to create events of my own are endless as well. Because I am a part of the community and know what my community values, I can facilitate events that pique the interest of my fellow high schoolers. As a leader of Key Club, I know how to create Kiwanis meetings that adults and students alike will enjoy. As president of the Korean Student Association, I can put out events that not only embrace my culture but also spread it out into the wider community. I have learned that whatever I give to the community eventually comes back to me, often tenfold. I cherish each thank-you letter, donation email, and T-shirt order as a sign of gratitude; it makes me want to give back all the more—to Helen Woodward, to Ronald McDonald, to St. Jude.

I love words. I think about them a lot: how they acquire their meanings, how those meanings shift, how they allow us to communicate across vast distances, to be more than just discrete individuals. The sounds and syllables that come from our mouths—the words we use, the jargon we choose, the meanings we assign to each of them—create our identities. Our relationships are defined by the ways in which we do (or don’t) communicate. Our cultures are formed by language and word of mouth. Nations and empires have been built on words—the Magna Carta, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution. Our greatest freedom fighters have provided us with a revolution of words—King’s “Bad Check”, Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s Declaration of Sentiments, Madison’s individual rights, the first ten of the Constitution. These words built our modern culture, a result of decisions and revisions, a mixture of the words we have embraced and the ones that have since been discarded. I love to venture into the gray spaces where languages and cultures collide: Gloria Anzaldua’s “borderlands”. Having studied English, Korean, Spanish, and French, I’m especially interested in words that seem “untranslatable”. What is Korean jeong as compared to English affection? Why do Hispanic people have sobremesa—time “over the table”—while English speakers sit down “at the table”? I look forward to each new language as an adventure, discovering novel (derived from French novelle, derived from Latin novellus…) ideas, people, words, and cultures. I yearn to know the connections of language to culture; how the phrase Être à l’Ouest—to daydream—has been influenced by the dream of exploring the undiscovered west. I dream of examining law and legal structures, as I’ve done these last three years in Mock Trial. Law is where the exploration of language and culture collide, where persuasion’s power is most consequential. Here, too, I love to explore the clash with language: how “innocent and wrongly convicted” might convince the presiding judge of acquittal where “not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt” will not. As dry as it is perceived to be, the legal lingo of the courtroom is one of my favorite aspects of law—the “genetic makeup” of the legal structure. Law is the third dimension between linguistics and culture. Who can interpret law better, who can correctly use the interpretation, who can use words as tools (or weapons) of persuasion—to that one goes the prize. When I want to know more about these distinct yet parallel lines of language, culture, and law, the internet is my best friend. I also have my Mock Trial case packets, true crime documentaries, and a copy of Sandel’s Justice: What’s the Right Thing to Do? It’s not much, but it’s a start. As I venture into college, I look forward to having more resources at my hands to dig into the flesh of culture—the seams of language and law. I can combine my linguistic skills with my passion for law as an attorney in some area where translation and law collide. My vision is to use my expertise in language and law together, to give voice to the voiceless and secure justice for immigrants and refugees, women, the poor, and people of color—voices that are often overlooked, silenced, or shouted down. I can wage my own war of words to enforce the freedoms that the word revolutionaries of the past have started, their advocacy for the freedoms we enjoy today—racial equality, women’s suffrage, the freedom of speech that allows us to produce, well, more words. In my fight for those who have been gagged, unable to speak, I will give them my voice, my words.

I love words. I think about them a lot: how they acquire their meanings, how those meanings shift, how they allow us to communicate across vast distances, to be more than just discrete individuals. The sounds and syllables that come from our mouths—the words we use, the jargon we choose, the meanings we assign to each of them—create our identities. Our relationships are defined by the ways in which we do (or don’t) communicate. Our cultures are formed by language and word of mouth. Nations and empires have been built on words—the Magna Carta, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution. Our greatest freedom fighters have provided us with a revolution of words—King’s “Bad Check”, Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s Declaration of Sentiments, Madison’s individual rights, the first ten of the Constitution. These words built our modern culture, a result of decisions and revisions, a mixture of the words we have embraced and the ones that have since been discarded. I love to venture into the gray spaces where languages and cultures collide: Gloria Anzaldua’s “borderlands”. Having studied English, Korean, Spanish, and French, I’m especially interested in words that seem “untranslatable”. What is Korean jeong as compared to English affection? Why do Hispanic people have sobremesa—time “over the table”—while English speakers sit down “at the table”? I look forward to each new language as an adventure, discovering novel (derived from French novelle, derived from Latin novellus…) ideas, people, words, and cultures. I yearn to know the connections of language to culture; how the phrase Être à l’Ouest—to daydream—has been influenced by the dream of exploring the undiscovered west. I dream of examining law and legal structures, as I’ve done these last three years in Mock Trial. Law is where the exploration of language and culture collide, where persuasion’s power is most consequential. Here, too, I love to explore the clash with language: how “innocent and wrongly convicted” might convince the presiding judge of acquittal where “not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt” will not. As dry as it is perceived to be, the legal lingo of the courtroom is one of my favorite aspects of law—the “genetic makeup” of the legal structure. Law is the third dimension between linguistics and culture. Who can interpret law better, who can correctly use the interpretation, who can use words as tools (or weapons) of persuasion—to that one goes the prize. When I want to know more about these distinct yet parallel lines of language, culture, and law, the internet is my best friend. I also have my Mock Trial case packets, true crime documentaries, and a copy of Sandel’s Justice: What’s the Right Thing to Do? It’s not much, but it’s a start. As I venture into college, I look forward to having more resources at my hands to dig into the flesh of culture—the seams of language and law. I can combine my linguistic skills with my passion for law as an attorney in some area where translation and law collide. My vision is to use my expertise in language and law together, to give voice to the voiceless and secure justice for immigrants and refugees, women, the poor, and people of color—voices that are often overlooked, silenced, or shouted down. I can wage my own war of words to enforce the freedoms that the word revolutionaries of the past have started, their advocacy for the freedoms we enjoy today—racial equality, women’s suffrage, the freedom of speech that allows us to produce, well, more words. In my fight for those who have been gagged, unable to speak, I will give them my voice, my words.

I love words. I think about them a lot: how they acquire their meanings, how those meanings shift, how they allow us to communicate across vast distances, to be more than just discrete individuals. The sounds and syllables that come from our mouths—the words we use, the jargon we choose, the meanings we assign to each of them—create our identities. Our relationships are defined by the ways in which we do (or don’t) communicate. Our cultures are formed by language and word of mouth. Nations and empires have been built on words—the Magna Carta, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution. Our greatest freedom fighters have provided us with a revolution of words—King’s “Bad Check”, Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s Declaration of Sentiments, Madison’s individual rights, the first ten of the Constitution. These words built our modern culture, a result of decisions and revisions, a mixture of the words we have embraced and the ones that have since been discarded. I love to venture into the gray spaces where languages and cultures collide: Gloria Anzaldua’s “borderlands”. Having studied English, Korean, Spanish, and French, I’m especially interested in words that seem “untranslatable”. What is Korean jeong as compared to English affection? Why do Hispanic people have sobremesa—time “over the table”—while English speakers sit down “at the table”? I look forward to each new language as an adventure, discovering novel (derived from French novelle, derived from Latin novellus…) ideas, people, words, and cultures. I yearn to know the connections of language to culture; how the phrase Être à l’Ouest—to daydream—has been influenced by the dream of exploring the undiscovered west. I dream of examining law and legal structures, as I’ve done these last three years in Mock Trial. Law is where the exploration of language and culture collide, where persuasion’s power is most consequential. Here, too, I love to explore the clash with language: how “innocent and wrongly convicted” might convince the presiding judge of acquittal where “not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt” will not. As dry as it is perceived to be, the legal lingo of the courtroom is one of my favorite aspects of law—the “genetic makeup” of the legal structure. Law is the third dimension between linguistics and culture. Who can interpret law better, who can correctly use the interpretation, who can use words as tools (or weapons) of persuasion—to that one goes the prize. When I want to know more about these distinct yet parallel lines of language, culture, and law, the internet is my best friend. I also have my Mock Trial case packets, true crime documentaries, and a copy of Sandel’s Justice: What’s the Right Thing to Do? It’s not much, but it’s a start. As I venture into college, I look forward to having more resources at my hands to dig into the flesh of culture—the seams of language and law. I can combine my linguistic skills with my passion for law as an attorney in some area where translation and law collide. My vision is to use my expertise in language and law together, to give voice to the voiceless and secure justice for immigrants and refugees, women, the poor, and people of color—voices that are often overlooked, silenced, or shouted down. I can wage my own war of words to enforce the freedoms that the word revolutionaries of the past have started, their advocacy for the freedoms we enjoy today—racial equality, women’s suffrage, the freedom of speech that allows us to produce, well, more words. In my fight for those who have been gagged, unable to speak, I will give them my voice, my words.

I love words. I think about them a lot: how they acquire their meanings, how those meanings shift, how they allow us to communicate across vast distances, to be more than just discrete individuals. The sounds and syllables that come from our mouths—the words we use, the jargon we choose, the meanings we assign to each of them—create our identities. Our relationships are defined by the ways in which we do (or don’t) communicate. Our cultures are formed by language and word of mouth. Nations and empires have been built on words—the Magna Carta, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution. Our greatest freedom fighters have provided us with a revolution of words—King’s “Bad Check”, Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s Declaration of Sentiments, Madison’s individual rights, the first ten of the Constitution. These words built our modern culture, a result of decisions and revisions, a mixture of the words we have embraced and the ones that have since been discarded. I love to venture into the gray spaces where languages and cultures collide: Gloria Anzaldua’s “borderlands”. Having studied English, Korean, Spanish, and French, I’m especially interested in words that seem “untranslatable”. What is Korean jeong as compared to English affection? Why do Hispanic people have sobremesa—time “over the table”—while English speakers sit down “at the table”? I look forward to each new language as an adventure, discovering novel (derived from French novelle, derived from Latin novellus…) ideas, people, words, and cultures. I yearn to know the connections of language to culture; how the phrase Être à l’Ouest—to daydream—has been influenced by the dream of exploring the undiscovered west. I dream of examining law and legal structures, as I’ve done these last three years in Mock Trial. Law is where the exploration of language and culture collide, where persuasion’s power is most consequential. Here, too, I love to explore the clash with language: how “innocent and wrongly convicted” might convince the presiding judge of acquittal where “not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt” will not. As dry as it is perceived to be, the legal lingo of the courtroom is one of my favorite aspects of law—the “genetic makeup” of the legal structure. Law is the third dimension between linguistics and culture. Who can interpret law better, who can correctly use the interpretation, who can use words as tools (or weapons) of persuasion—to that one goes the prize. When I want to know more about these distinct yet parallel lines of language, culture, and law, the internet is my best friend. I also have my Mock Trial case packets, true crime documentaries, and a copy of Sandel’s Justice: What’s the Right Thing to Do? It’s not much, but it’s a start. As I venture into college, I look forward to having more resources at my hands to dig into the flesh of culture—the seams of language and law. I can combine my linguistic skills with my passion for law as an attorney in some area where translation and law collide. My vision is to use my expertise in language and law together, to give voice to the voiceless and secure justice for immigrants and refugees, women, the poor, and people of color—voices that are often overlooked, silenced, or shouted down. I can wage my own war of words to enforce the freedoms that the word revolutionaries of the past have started, their advocacy for the freedoms we enjoy today—racial equality, women’s suffrage, the freedom of speech that allows us to produce, well, more words. In my fight for those who have been gagged, unable to speak, I will give them my voice, my words.

I love words. I think about them a lot: how they acquire their meanings, how those meanings shift, how they allow us to communicate across vast distances, to be more than just discrete individuals. The sounds and syllables that come from our mouths—the words we use, the jargon we choose, the meanings we assign to each of them—create our identities. Our relationships are defined by the ways in which we do (or don’t) communicate. Our cultures are formed by language and word of mouth. Nations and empires have been built on words—the Magna Carta, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution. Our greatest freedom fighters have provided us with a revolution of words—King’s “Bad Check”, Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s Declaration of Sentiments, Madison’s individual rights, the first ten of the Constitution. These words built our modern culture, a result of decisions and revisions, a mixture of the words we have embraced and the ones that have since been discarded. I love to venture into the gray spaces where languages and cultures collide: Gloria Anzaldua’s “borderlands”. Having studied English, Korean, Spanish, and French, I’m especially interested in words that seem “untranslatable”. What is Korean jeong as compared to English affection? Why do Hispanic people have sobremesa—time “over the table”—while English speakers sit down “at the table”? I look forward to each new language as an adventure, discovering novel (derived from French novelle, derived from Latin novellus…) ideas, people, words, and cultures. I yearn to know the connections of language to culture; how the phrase Être à l’Ouest—to daydream—has been influenced by the dream of exploring the undiscovered west. I dream of examining law and legal structures, as I’ve done these last three years in Mock Trial. Law is where the exploration of language and culture collide, where persuasion’s power is most consequential. Here, too, I love to explore the clash with language: how “innocent and wrongly convicted” might convince the presiding judge of acquittal where “not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt” will not. As dry as it is perceived to be, the legal lingo of the courtroom is one of my favorite aspects of law—the “genetic makeup” of the legal structure. Law is the third dimension between linguistics and culture. Who can interpret law better, who can correctly use the interpretation, who can use words as tools (or weapons) of persuasion—to that one goes the prize. When I want to know more about these distinct yet parallel lines of language, culture, and law, the internet is my best friend. I also have my Mock Trial case packets, true crime documentaries, and a copy of Sandel’s Justice: What’s the Right Thing to Do? It’s not much, but it’s a start. As I venture into college, I look forward to having more resources at my hands to dig into the flesh of culture—the seams of language and law. I can combine my linguistic skills with my passion for law as an attorney in some area where translation and law collide. My vision is to use my expertise in language and law together, to give voice to the voiceless and secure justice for immigrants and refugees, women, the poor, and people of color—voices that are often overlooked, silenced, or shouted down. I can wage my own war of words to enforce the freedoms that the word revolutionaries of the past have started, their advocacy for the freedoms we enjoy today—racial equality, women’s suffrage, the freedom of speech that allows us to produce, well, more words. In my fight for those who have been gagged, unable to speak, I will give them my voice, my words.

As a second grader, I was like Ella Enchanted, neither will nor body mine. Diagnosed with Tourette’s Syndrome, I cracked my neck, twitched my nose, and winked incessantly. Desperately, I worked to resist these urges in physical therapy, to ignore the tingling at the top of an eyelid or on the tip of my nose. It never took. Tourrette’s began impacting my progress at school. I ticced when I was nervous—during speeches or speed multiplication quizzes—and ticcing made me more nervous, a vicious cycle that robbed me of my confidence. I started to withdraw from people; the thought of twitching as I spoke in front of the class or introduced myself to a new friend kept me from reaching out to anyone new. At twelve, I sat on the sidelines with the parents as every other kid enjoyed the trampolines at my best friend’s birthday party. It was here that I fully realized just how much I was missing. With a pounding heart, I went and asked if I could join in—and to my great surprise, each classmate welcomed me. That day, I figured out that my fears—not Tourette’s—had been holding me back. I needed to learn to embrace my insecurities about Tourette’s. It took me a while, but I sucked it up, ignored stares, and began speaking out. I raised my hand and asked for more time during on-demand essays. I channeled my nervous frustration into other things—Mock Trial cross-examinations, bullet journals, running. I told people what Tourette’s was instead of pretending there was ‘dust in my eye’. As I became more vulnerable, I noticed that most people didn’t discriminate against me because of my tics; those who did judge me, I simply ignored. It was difficult at first to be able to switch my mindset, but as with all things, practice made perfect, and I was eventually able to destigmatize myself of my own disability. This was when I experienced the cartoon-like click in my head, or the lightbulb "ding-dinging" over my head; I knew that Tourette's was not a disability that held me back. Rather, it was just one of the multitude of things that made me unique. I now know that Tourette’s Syndrome is part of me—whereas 10-year-old Minju wanted to be free from her tics, 17-year-old Minju knows that my Tourette’s, just like my moles or beauty marks, makes me uniquely charming. Older, wiser, more confident in my abilities and more forgiving of my faults, I now know that I, like so many others, am more than my “disability”.

Here is a tribute to Anne of Green Gables, my role model in both the rough and the serene. Dear Anne (of Green Gables), (I hope I can call you that - I’ve read your books so many times I think we can be on first-name terms). You are such a big role model to me - I grew up wanting to be you, and that dream hasn’t yet come true, so we’re still dreaming big! I love the way you love the world around you. Even on the worst of days, you always make the best of it. When you fed Diana currant wine and sent her home drunk, when you flared up at Mrs. Lynde and Gilbert for commenting on your red hair, when you sold Mr. Harrison’s jersey cow instead of your own - all seem like catastrophes in the moment they are made but later on, like now, you and I are able to laugh at them. From being a problem child to growing up into a graceful young lady, your starry gray eyes and love of the world have stayed with you always. You are the definition of summer and spring, with your sweet love for blossoms and June lilies. You are like winter with its breathtaking scenes, and like the nostalgia of fall that comes with the end of an era. You are sunshine - golden, calming, radiance on a lazy afternoon. You are the deep blue autumn sky, and I want you to know that on days when you’re feeling ‘the slightest bit azure’, as you and Phil put it. I love your never-ending kindness without a hint of jealousy, and your temper, which makes us laugh, even at the worst of times. I’ve probably said this a million times already, but you’re my biggest role model. You’ve taught me to value my friendships (I have a Diana-esque best friend, too), to be learned and eloquent in speech, to not be ashamed of being different or outspoken, and, most of all, to laugh at your mistakes and learn from them. I try to live by these - I value my best friend, I try to use sophisticated language (of course, it feels so adult-like, and just like you, I sometimes use words I don’t know the meaning of). I’m not afraid to share my opinions or talk in front of other people, and lastly, I laugh and learn from my mistakes and shortcomings. You’ve taught me a lot of valuable life lessons. I’ve set off on new endeavors over the years, but I keep coming back to your world. Call me old fashioned, but sometimes I wish I lived on Prince Edward Island with you, sewing a dress or getting ready for a meeting of the AVIS, or going to Carmody for a day off. I wish I could wander the meadows, or spend an evening at Patty’s Place with Rusty and Joseph and Sarah-cat, or have tea at Echo Lodge. You say Cordelia Fitzgerald is what you wanted to be named - my ideal name is Anne Shirley. Your love for asters, your ruddy hair, and the seven freckles on your nose (you’ve got a fine nose and you know it) make you a simply delicious person. Thank you for loving the world with all its ups and downs. Love, Minju

I’m not Korean enough. I don't like kimchi, which my family constantly comments on, pointing out my “western” tastes. I’m expected to be Korean in other aspects, too. I’d rather debate things out the “American” way; they’d rather avoid the topic, not wanting to associate with clashing ideas. Being nonconformist makes me an outlier in Korean society—I question the Neoconfucian piety so prevalent in my culture. I used to berate my parents for being too uptight, sticking to stupid standards instead of being “fun” like my white friends’ parents. “Relax!” I’d whine. “It’s not a big deal.” They, in turn, would yell at me for being disrespectful. “What will that family think of you now? They’ll think we haven’t raised you right!” As I’ve grown older, we’ve learned to share our differing ideas more. In a household where cut fruit substitutes a verbal apology and a gruff “Don’t be out long” replaces a “Have fun!”, I consider it a monumental success that we’re able to exchange ideas rather than glares and cross words. But, of course, standing at the intersection of two different heritages, I’ve had to invent my own unique culture. I’m even more argumentative, though perhaps in a more mature, mediating way. I’m diplomatic, not embodying traditional Korean respect, yet I protect my self-esteem while probing at weak spots in my hereditary culture. In a lot of discussions, especially about controversial topics in modern context, I pester my parents, wheedling out “It’s just the way it is,” or “Don’t be rude.” Dissatisfied, I push further, this time getting more thoughtful answers: “I don't know—I've never really thought to question it.” I do this in Mock Trial, too. The thrill of looking the judge in the eye at the podium is mingled with the guilt of daring to make direct eye contact with an elder—the boldness! The insolence! The prohibition just makes it more appealing. I feel even more inclined to question every motive, every contingency. It’s either ironic or fitting that I want to argue professionally, interrogating traditional systems and clashing with my elders as a lawyer. Korean cultural taboos have left me bolder and more stubborn, unsatisfied with the avoidant, traditional non-answers. As an American, I see the value in acknowledging multiple perspectives. Maybe my parents are right—maybe America has changed me, made me more opinionated. But maybe I like the path being opinionated leads me to discover.

I love words. I think about them a lot: how they acquire their meanings, how those meanings shift, how they allow us to communicate across vast distances, to be more than just discrete individuals. Our relationships are defined by the ways in which we do (or don’t) communicate. Our cultures are formed by language and word of mouth. Nations and empires have been built on words—the Magna Carta, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution. Our greatest freedom fighters have provided us with a revolution of words—King’s “Bad Check”, Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s Declaration of Sentiments, Madison’s individual rights, the first ten of the Constitution. These words built our modern culture, a result of decisions and revisions, a mixture of the words we have embraced and the ones that have since been discarded. I love to venture into the gray spaces where languages and cultures collide: Gloria Anzaldua’s “borderlands”. Having studied English, Korean, Spanish, and French, I’m especially interested in words that seem “untranslatable”. What is Korean jeong as compared to English affection? Why do Hispanic people have sobremesa—time “over the table”—while English speakers sit down “at the table”? I look forward to each new language as an adventure, discovering novel (derived from French novelle, derived from Latin novellus…) ideas, people, words, and cultures. I yearn to know the connections of language to culture; how the phrase Être à l’Ouest—to daydream—has been influenced by the dream of exploring the undiscovered west. I dream of examining law and legal structures, as I’ve done these last three years in Mock Trial. Law is where the exploration of language and culture collide, where persuasion’s power is most consequential. Here, too, I love to explore the clash with language: how “innocent and wrongly convicted” might convince the presiding judge of acquittal where “not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt” will not. As dry as it is perceived to be, the legal lingo of the courtroom is one of my favorite aspects of law—the “genetic makeup” of the legal structure. Law is the third dimension between linguistics and culture—the z-axis in an xy plane. Speech is all but a word game; knowing a culture is about knowing its rules and taboos. Law is a structured game with profound consequences. Who can interpret law better, who can correctly use the interpretation, who can use words as tools (or weapons) of persuasion—to that one goes the prize. When I want to know more about these distinct yet parallel lines of language, culture, and law, the internet is my best friend. I also have my Mock Trial case packets, true crime documentaries, and a copy of Sandel’s Justice: What’s the Right Thing to Do? It’s not much, but it’s a start. As I venture into college, I look forward to having more resources at my hands to dig into the flesh of culture—the seams of language and law. I know that I can combine my linguistic skills with my passion for law as an attorney, where translation and law collide. My vision is to use my expertise in language and my training in law together, to give voice to the voiceless and secure justice for immigrants and refugees, women, the poor, and people of color—voices that are often overlooked, silenced, or shouted down. I can wage my own war of words to enforce the freedoms that the word revolutionaries of the past have started, their advocacy for racial equality, women’s suffrage, the freedom of speech that allows us to produce, well, more words. In my fight for those who cannot speak for themselves, I will give them my words.

My native language is rarely taught in schools. As a child, I was driven 30 minutes to the nearest Korean-American church to learn Korean. I didn’t learn about the Korean War—aptly named the “Forgotten War”—until 11th grade, in a short paragraph about rising conflict between autocratic communist states and democratic ones. After this single mention, the textbook hurriedly moved on to Vietnam. After all, that would actually be on the AP test. Korea was important only by proxy—to China, to Japan, to the US. The need to be seen is universal, and all the more potent in unrecognized groups. Korean-Americans are a minority within a minority. We are grouped into “Asian” with bigger demographic groups. But I am not Chinese or Vietnamese, though I’m often mistaken for such. In this, both my Korean identity and the distinctiveness of various Asian cultures are diminished. There are only 30 of us in a school of 2000, yet the 1.5% of us get less representation than we deserve. My classmates know two Koreans: Kim Jong-Un, and Home Say Young from the Squid Game (a TikTok mistransliteration of her real name, Hong Sae-byeok). This is why I founded the Korean Student Association, creating a safe space for Koreans on Del Norte’s campus and in the wider community. To celebrate our unique Korean culture and history, we participated in school club rushes, advertising traditional Korean hanbok clothes, our national mugunghwa flower, games like ttakji and jegi-chagi. When most Korean schools shut down, starved of resources and community support during the pandemic, KSA taught the Korean language. We debated misconceptions about Korean Americans in interscholastic panels. We established a Korean elective class on campus. We taught English to underprivileged Korean elementary kids. We built connections—in our schools, in our communities, and in the world. We showed the people we interacted with what it meant to be Korean, amplifying the voice of an underrepresented group. We know we are different, and we know how to showcase our culture. My proudest accomplishment, however, was the COVID Translate Project, launched in 2020, the very depth of the pandemic. I joined a team of about fifty other Korean speakers from around the world—the COVID Translate Project. The task was urgent, yet with so many translators working simultaneously, the Google Document often crashed. Still, we pushed on. Within two days, we had a crude translation, which we then began the long work of refining. I soon realized this team and work was precious to me—a labor of both love and necessity. Still, the work was often frustrating—especially as my knowledge of English far outpaced my knowledge of Korean. As I pondered over even simple phrases, I found myself in linguistic limbo—in Gloria Anzaldua’s “borderland”, a strange mix of two cultures, neither one complete. Despite my identity crisis, I couldn’t deny the importance of my role as a “go-between.” My hours of contemplation brought me to the most accurate definitions, the least biased translations, and ensured my words would convey the correct cultural implication and nuance without stripping the content of its medical importance. My work played a small but crucial role in helping medicine “bridge the gap,” bringing together the two distant cultures of which I am a part in order to bring much needed health guidelines to a larger audience. Moving forward, I hope to recognize and celebrate other “forgotten” cultures, just as I have helped others appreciate mine.

I love to venture into the gray spaces where languages and cultures collide: Gloria Anzaldua’s “borderlands”. Having studied English, Korean, Spanish, and French, I’m especially interested in words that seem “untranslatable”. What is Korean jeong as compared to English affection? Why do Hispanic people have sobremesa—time “over the table”—while English speakers sit down “at the table”? I look forward to each new language as an adventure, discovering novel (derived from French novelle, derived from Latin novellus…) ideas, people, words, and cultures. I yearn to know the connections of language to culture; how the phrase Être à l’Ouest—to daydream—has been influenced by the dream of exploring the undiscovered west. I dream of examining law and legal structures, as I’ve done these last three years in Mock Trial. Law is where the exploration of language and culture collide, where persuasion’s power is most consequential. Here, too, I love to explore the clash with language: how “innocent and wrongly convicted” might convince the presiding judge of acquittal where “not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt” will not. As dry as it is perceived to be, the legal lingo of the courtroom is one of my favorite aspects of law—the “genetic makeup” of the legal structure. Law is the third dimension between linguistics and culture—the z-axis in an xy plane. Speech is all but a word game; knowing a culture is about knowing its rules and taboos. Law is a structured game with profound consequences. Who can interpret law better, who can correctly use the interpretation, who can use words as tools (or weapons) of persuasion—to that one goes the prize. When I want to know more about these distinct yet parallel lines of language, culture, and law, the internet is my best friend. I also have my Mock Trial case packets, true crime documentaries, and a copy of Sandel’s Justice: What’s the Right Thing to Do? It’s not much, but it’s a start. As I venture into college, I look forward to having more resources at my hands to dig into the flesh of culture—the seams of language and law. I know that I can combine my linguistic skills with my passion for law, likely as an attorney in some area where translation and law collide. My vision is to use my expertise in language and my training in law together, to give voice to the voiceless and secure justice for immigrants and refugees, women, the poor, and people of color—voices that are often overlooked, silenced, or shouted down. I can wage my own war of words to enforce the freedoms that the word revolutionaries of the past have started, their advocacy for the freedoms we enjoy today—racial equality, women’s suffrage, the freedom of speech that allows us to produce, well, more words. In my fight for those who have been gagged, unable to speak, I will give them my voice, my words.