I accidentally swore in front of my class yesterday. I intended to say 종이 똑같다, but I got the consonants shuffled around, and the students went wild. I was doing this thing I do where I keep a score for myself in addition to for their teams (awarding myself outrageous bonuses if, for example, no student gets a correct answer), so I went ahead and recorded a −20 in my column, which placated them.

I did something else new: Often, when a student is struggling with a problem, a smart one will try to “help” them by just translating the whole thing or telling them the answer straightaway. But yesterday, I saw one of my students taking great patience and care in assisting another, guiding him with strategic hints but never revealing the full solution—thinking, in other words, like a teacher. I used our school messaging app to write a memo to his homeroom teacher, letting her know it was cool to see his initiative, and she thanked me for noticing.

While there’s only so much I can do overnight to correct my awkward mannerisms and sheepish demeanor around the office (I am the least experienced!), written communication seems like a good way to maintain a sense of connection with the faculty and compensate for my frequent mistakes.

This level of investment.

Although I still play things rather selfishly about my office hours and study time, and although I often advise overworked friends to cultivate a sense of detachment from their work, I notice myself caring more and more about this job. Every time my patience is worn thin by a tough class and I start to acquiesce to the thought that teaching must just not be for people like me, something beautiful happens, my heart melts a little, and I get excited for the next day again.

  • Concept: What am I hesitating about, if I already know I’m happy?
  • Concept: What if (as Pete Buttigieg likes to say) this is a local minimum?
  • Concept: It’s too early to tell.

Yes, I Get the Irony


My brilliant idea of the day is a paper airplane contest, slated for eighth period today, in which the students learn some vaguely useful vocab about cutting and folding, make a bunch of airplanes, and then compete for distance and flight time.

Why? Because I accidentally printed sixty copies of Henri Lefebvre’s Rhythmanalysis: Space, Time, and Everyday Life.

I intended to read this work of urban geography on the recommendation of one of the Fulbright research scholars who presented at our spring conference a few weeks back. Her suspicion of the traditional critical approach—interrogation, diagnosis, contextualization; the text as adversary—sat nicely with my feelings about how things tend to analogize things,™ and in an email she suggested I check out this Lefebvre guy, so I found a PDF of his book online, hit print, and left the office for an hour to go teach.

What I’m saying is, the print wizard was still set to sixty, the number of handouts I normally make for my students.

I returned to the office to find our vice principal gesturing at the overheating printer. He’d already had to put in one fresh stack of paper. Now 800 pages were piled up in the output tray, and he wanted to know how long this darn document is, we’re running low on toner.


I can’t print again on the other side of the paper, because all 800 pages were double-sided. So, paper airplanes it is.


The most mindless of my class ideas tend to go the best. Flying paper planes in the parking lot, we drew an audience of kids from the high school next door’s PE class, the ones who’d been eliminated early in whatever sports bracket they were doing. The science teacher brought her class outside too, apparently just to have a chat in the sunshine, and it occured to me that this was the first evidence anyone other than my students and coteacher had seen of my teaching activities. Is a paper airplane class admissible?

The winner, in both the distance and flight time contests, succeeded by crumpling his paper into a very dense sphere and throwing as hard as he could.

I Made Something

I believe, as I heard a mother say on This American Life this week, in doing the things you are capable of, so I’ve created a digital essay about how we teach information. Click this thing to see it:

How do we learn what’s true?

Let me now use this space to write a bit about the essay’s motivation.

Liberalism maintains that once we collect enough data, we will arrive at the correct models. But the increasing importance of narratives—and the consequent decrease in the importance in their underlying facts—has thrown this epistemology into doubt. Much contemporary writing seeks to recover a sense of reality from the soup of competing truths that defines postmodernity. Seeking to disclaim bias and reassert the regime of factuality, writers of all ideologies have begun to speak of argument as the act of staking out territory in an information war, proving that postmodernism is here to stay. As a crude example, here I’ve concatenated a paragraph from a right-wing conspiracy site with an opening passage from a mainstream liberal essayist:

The manipulation of facts and the slow relentless war on reality is being waged on this landscape of the mind. When those who seek to control humanity can convince the world that what they say is true, we will rapidly descend into the most oppressive tyranny ever seen.

Most of us can’t afford the luxury of investigating, because we have more pressing things to do: we have to go to work, take care of the kids, or look after elderly parents. Unfortunately, history does not give discounts. If the future of humanity is decided in your absence, because you are too busy feeding and clothing your kids, you and they will not be exempt from the consequences. This is unfair; but who said history was fair?

(Solution: The first paragraph is from InfoWars. The second is from the introduction to Yuval Noah Harari’s 21 Lessons for the 21st Century.)

Media-literate readers can tell the authors’ ideologies apart by the change in shibboleths: the right’s prophecies of battle, chaos, and Armageddon become the left’s boring sympathy for unpaid domestic labor. But both agree on one thing: that only a dark era of epistemological chaos can follow the sunset of objectivity. Whether they tell the leftist story of identity- and class-based oppression or preach brass-tacks Evangelical nationalism, modern ideologies claim veracity by positioning themselves as rocks of intellectual certainty amid a tumult of postmodern confabulation. It’s not the correct ideology that wins the most followers, but the one with highest degree of narrative fluency—the one that knows who to talk to and what tone to take.

I wanted to do something about it.

Things You Can’t Teach Yourself

Remember that moment a couple of years ago when, all of a sudden, everyone was listening to podcasts?

Podcasts weren’t a new technology; there was no PR campaign. Rather, it seems like they benefited from a lucky coincidence of forces: The election of a contentious president made everyone care about the news. The release of the Apple Podcasts app put an easy subscription tool in everyone’s pocket (I don’t miss middle school, when I subscribed to all the tech podcasts via RSS feed and painstakingly downloaded a fresh batch of .mp3s each week). Serial happened. Nowadays, all you have to do is say Quip electric toothbrush in a crowded urban space to hear a concert of groans.

I bet that online courses will be the new podcasts.

My evidence? My mom is now taking online courses, and it was around the time Mom started listening to podcasts that everyone else did.

I, too, am taking online courses. Something I’ve observed is that open-access, labor-of-love sites tend to surpass paid MOOCs. Paul’s Online Math Notes, for example, is more legible and better paced than any of the other online calc courses. I’m in differential equations now, and the only reason I’ve paid to enroll in an online class is to issue myself quizzes; Paul doesn’t have any diff EQ practice problems yet. Likewise, I did a course on data analysis using Python, and its best part was the link to An Introduction to Statistical Learning, a free machine-learning textbook that doesn’t shy away from the algebra that Python packages are designed to help you shy away from. I’ve also been working on HTML and CSS (W3Schools) because I’m the web editor for Fulbright’s Infusion litmag, which is working on its first issue of the grant year. (This blog might also be due for a facelift … )

A second observation: STEMmy things like math and coding are easy to learn online, but the resources are more paltry if you want to work on the humanities or social sciences. Ironically, this might be due to humanists’ high aesthetic standards. People who know Python usually know how to write HTML, too, so they start by tossing their notes online, then beautify them in stages. On the other hand, lettered-arts nerds love the feeling of beautiful typography and layout, but they lack the skills and confidence to code it themselves, so they rely on expensive print journals and paywalled websites to host their research—and then wonder why people call the humanities out of touch.

There’s this thing called the digital humanities, which in theory is about getting academics to design websites and compile online databases. But the movement falls short by yielding to humanists’ anxieties about code. Rather than take actual web-design courses, typical grad programs encourage students to attend one-shot DH workshops, where they learn WYSIWYG tools like Scalar (sorry, alma mater) and Wix. These are great ways to get your feet wet and explore the possibilities of web design, of course, but truly lit projects in DH usually combine solid underlying research with attentive, material-aware design well beyond Squarespace’s capabilities. A favorite is the Slave Voyages Database, although I must admit I preferred its web-1.0 look to last month’s AirSpace-informed redesign.

Another mistake of the DH movement is to reduce to the web to a content-delivery system—and miss its potential as a medium unto itself: I won’t @ any individuals here, but while uploading PDFs of your journal articles to Scribd or is better than nothing, it probably doesn’t count as digital humanities.

Lingua Franca

I’m back from Ulsan, where I spent my days studying at this spaceship of a public library:

In cultivating a resolution to learn Korean, I notice I’ve contracted an anxiety about being that American, the one who crosses the ocean only to socialize with other foreigners. The anxiety had me shun expat restaurants, abstain from the English section of the library, and direct my gaze sternly forward when passing tourists in the street.

I was overdoing it.

In Ulsan, I discovered an Indian halal restaurant hiding around the corner from my guesthouse. Intercultural metaphors abounded: the trilingual menu introduced samosas as deep-fried mandu; on the wall hung a pointillist treatment of Korea’s iconic autumn ginkgos. I asked the server if I should order in Korean or English or what. Korean, please, he said, and we chatted a little about how business was doing.

Lingua franca: an expression in Latin, meaning French, used most often to refer to English.

I originally studied Korean so I could communicate with, you know, Koreans. But I cherish the shared dysphasia that arises when speaking Korean as a bridge language. Each knows the other’s effort, knows that the conversation can only take place because we chose to make it possible.

Shoring Up Certainty

I am thinking about the word overbearing.

My computer’s desktop is an early-winter landscape, decaying .txt files strewn all over. As I sift through the leaves, I notice I often use this hedging device: when a particular behavior or phenomenon is upsetting me, rather than say outright that I am upset by that thing, I say that I’m ruminating on the meaning of the word that describes it.

It’s not the worst habit to have. I’d like to be the sort of reflective person who, before rushing to label someone as nosy or overbearing or whatever, thinks about the true meaning of those words and their appropriateness for the context.

But quibbling over definitions is also a way of privileging theory over practice. It lets me shore up certainty in the literal accuracy of my statements by baking uncertainty into their phrasing. You probably have met someone who talks like this: I’m not sure if annoyed is quite the right word, but I feel a kind of … annoyance about the way he—

Sometimes epistemological honesty comes at the cost of obnoxious phrasing.

My school's break started at the beginning of January and will run until the end of February, with a few odd work days in the middle. By the time this post goes up, I'll be several days into a three-week stay in Ulsan, where I'll continue holing myself up to work on writing and calculus.

I woke up in a cold sweat recently, having dreamed I was a interviewing for some generic marketing job when the manager asked, I see you taught English in Korea for two years—care to tell me some about the measurable outcomes of that work?

The next morning, I signed into LinkedIn and aggressively added new connections to abate my fears of never ever being hired. (The fears have remained at bay for several days—is that a measurable outcome?) Far be it from me to fish for pity, but there's something singularly hard to itemize about the ways I am growing, the things I am learning here. To choose a concrete example, it's not that hard for me to identify progress in the math I've been studying—I can point quite easily at the problems I can solve now that I couldn't in September. But I don't know how to go about "measuring" these outcomes in a way that would satisfy my nightmare interviewer. Ditto with Korean, although at least there's a formal certification test there (the TOPIK) that I'll take in a few months.

I'm not writing out of a sense of futility here. I truly want to know: How can self-educated people demonstrate proficiency in fields where there aren't certification exams or technical interviews? Do people who work in hiring intentionally seek these people, or is it more cost-effective simply to pursue candidates with traditional credentials? Email me your thoughts.


So Max, in English, virgin means an unmarried woman, right? asks my coteacher.

Sure. It means she's, you know, pure.


Well, I say, it's a little more specific than that.

Our office Catholic joins in: It means she's clean.


And free of sin. Well-mannered.

… Let's go with that.