Editor’s note: Names have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals referenced.
I think one universal University of Michigan experience is being the main character of a GSI horror story.
And, of course, I’ve already created one embarrassing GSI-centered core memory during my first semester at the University. One fateful Friday morning, I groggily rolled out of bed and trudged to the Samuel Trask Dana Building for my discussion section. Inside, psychology terms escaped one ear as quickly as they had entered through the other. Admittedly, the only reason I made it to my seat was to take a short, likely-meaningless quiz. Still, I powered through the hour and breezed through the quiz — a perfect six out of six.
Even with the quiz now behind me, some otherworldly force compelled me to linger and ask a question about the content. Was it the pang of dopamine from my score that tricked my mind into thinking I should ask a question just to one-up myself? The answer is still unclear, but either way, it was a question most certainly left better unasked.
I got out of my seat and slowly walked towards the front of the room, carefully scrambling through the handful of PSYCH 240 lecture slides with my iPad. Eventually, I reached my Graduate Student Instructor, Cindy, who greeted me with an unassuming smile.
So far, so good — nothing out of the ordinary.
I turned my iPad toward her, presenting a diagram of a neural network. As I explained my question, focusing on the jumble of interconnected nodes and three output layers, she naturally took hold of my iPad and began drawing out imaginary dotted lines with her index finger, and I responded with gradual nods of understanding.
Wow, okay, I thought, I actually might understand this strange web of nodes all somehow connected to birds now.
“Okay,” she concluded. “Is that the only question you have?” She extended her arms forward, handing me back my iPad.
“Yes, that’s all, thank you.” I took back my iPad and found my body habitually lowering itself into position. A cultural reflex. An honest mistake.
Oh shit.
I bowed. An almost fully 90-degree bow. An uncomfortably long bow.
The brief, awkward silence that ensued was deafening.
Realizing my folly, I quickly looked up — my face, now red hot — and encountered her blank expression.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re welcome.”
I have never left a classroom faster.
It has been 122 days and counting since this blunder, but in the next 10 discussion sections I went to (I skipped a couple to recover), I never returned to room 1028 drowsy again. Like the quintessential Pavlovian dog, the sound of a muffled question only reminded me of myself standing just a couple of rows down, looking like a bendable straw. Still, I learned three things: Just email your questions (it’s a safe bet), grief takes time (which is why I’m still writing about this now) and gestures are truly an unspoken, but important, form of language (pay attention to the cultures you’re a part of).
I spent most of my life in Seoul, South Korea where virtually all aspects of life were different: the pace of life, the architecture, the people, the atmosphere. Seoul is a technological metropolis compared to the cozy college town of Ann Arbor. Fortunately, most of these differences were simple adjustments for my college journey, but addressing the culture of communication has been a bump — if not a mountain — in the road. In Korean culture, gestures and speech are frequently used and altered to abide by social norms shaped by Confucianism — most notably the principle of filial piety.
Confucianism is an ancient Chinese philosophy that first established a strong foothold in Korea after the Joseon dynasty was founded under Neo-Confucianism (a blend of Confucianist, Buddhist and Taoist beliefs) in the 14th century — those same values of harmony, wisdom, benevolence and fidelity that dictated social norms haven’t faltered much since, even centuries later. A strong pillar of Confucianism is filial piety, which essentially declares that elders are entitled to respect, so it’s ubiquitous to employ different levels of formality depending on social context and the relationship between speakers. Some etiquettes influenced by Confucianism include turning your head away and shielding your face from elders when taking a drink (by drink, I mean an alcoholic one), receiving absolutely everything with both hands, not making direct eye contact in conversation and, of course, bowing. Any gesture that deviates from these Confucian-influenced rules might just earn you a dirty look or an unwanted lecture. English has a straightforward, singular way of conversation regardless of who you’re addressing. Korean has seven.
Seven.
So, I think that my Confucian slip, as I call it, was very much justified, if you will.
I initially struggled with transitioning from a culture filled with formal bows to one seemingly built upon crisp and casual “daps” and verbal greetings; I come from a high school where lowly freshmen would be sneered at for not greeting their superior upperclassmen with a bow. You see a sophomore who might look older than you — you bow. You see a junior you recognize from the basketball team — you bow. You see a senior who made the slightest eye contact with you — bow. You see your teacher — you bow, except now you’re trying extra hard to form the rightest angle biomechanically possible (you’re a literal L, and yes, I mean deferential loser). But bowing is just what you do. It’s the norm. Walking my first baby steps at the University, I could hardly wrap my head around the sudden comfort of navigating campus without worrying about deferential speech and gestures; this culture shock was especially jarring when I heard some of my professors say, “Call me Ron,” or “Just call me Mika.” I felt trapped in a delicate dance of alternating between cultures, and I desperately needed to find my rhythm and footing.
Fortunately, that would be the first (and hopefully last) time I would ever bow to a GSI, and accidentally bowing had only served as a catalyst to become incredibly conscious of these powerful gestures as my semester progressed: I knew that during Korean (or sometimes, more generally, East Asian social events) it would be appropriate to incorporate bows to upperclassmen while a nice, friendly smile and a “thank you” would suffice for the next GSI I might find myself working with in-person. In hindsight, I find myself grappling with conflicting emotions about that unpleasant bowing incident — I don’t know what to be more ashamed of. On one hand, I feel embarrassed at the thought that I was bowing in a setting where such telling gestures might not be the norm. On the other hand, I’m hit with a wave of confusion as I question why I rot in bed every night thinking about this at all. I was just an Asian kid who found himself doing a very Asian thing. Bowing was my second-nature way of implicitly communicating, “Hey, thanks for clarifying how signals travel down the layers of neural networks.”
I’m constantly reminded that I’m living in a new culture. Classes are no longer filled with desks neatly arranged in perfect rows and columns (or, the more obvious observation: Those desks aren’t filled exclusively by Koreans). If anything, I could be the only Korean in the classroom. I know that, through a Confucian lens, I’m a guest to the United States and should behave according to American customs; but, in doing so I realize I inadvertently mute my own culture in the process — little glimpses of Korea are relegated to only slipping out through unconscious force of habit. Of course, Korean student organizations, the existence of a Korean center at the University and hanging out with Korean friends are familiar safe havens to be Korean. But more often than not, I find myself inside classrooms where it’s significantly easier to be American; hence, I have a fake English name to avoid using my could-be-confusing-but-not-really, actual Korean name. Muddling my own identity is one thing, but being embarrassed about it is another. Because no matter how much I mask my Korean-ness, it will never change how Korean I actually am.
So maybe I’m not sorry, Cindy (and the two unfortunate witnesses who were packing their bags as they shuffled towards the door). I know my unfortunate GSI lore might not be much compared to the stories I’ve heard from my peers, but maybe in some kind of alternate universe, you will know what it feels like to endure the wrath of a Korean ajumma (the scariest type of Korean) in the subway after accidentally misusing one of the seven levels of speaking or know the puzzled looks of a million upperclassmen after saying “what’s up” or reaching out for a handshake.
You’re younger — you should be bowing!
Statement Columnist Philip (Sooyoung) Ham can be reached at philham@umich.edu.