Jokes might appear in our daily language or be referenced in order to support the delivery of another joke. For example: “You never see two pretty best friends in the same relationship stage.” It is, of course, completely possible to get through a conversation without a single reference to TikToks or reels. But we college students spend time with friends and classmates in various settings. We inevitably run into these jokes, which have become a universally relatable point of humor for people who may not know each other very well. Social media’s reach has allowed inside jokes to be shared across the globe, spread by word of millions of mouths. 

I’m not trying to condemn this phenomenon. It’s only natural to seek kinship and membership within a social group. And viral jokes are the latest chapter in humor’s illustrious history. It’s a tradition that dates back to radios, television, newspapers, village rumor mills and traveling traders or entertainers. But today’s scope of virality is unmatched. Am I laughing at this joke because I think it’s funny, or because millions of people have laughed at the same joke?

These two ideas are not mutually exclusive. Although humor is subjective, there is a certain science to it. Irony, sarcasm or silliness are typical components of a funny joke. I’m more concerned with the jokes that make up “Gen Z humor.” 

What I have noticed about Gen-Z jokes is that many people often encounter the punchline before the joke’s set-up. Before I saw the video of the young man saying, “I ain’t never seen two pretty best friends,” I came across multiple references to it in person and on social media. I was confused by it until I received an explanation. And I still don’t find it funny. 

This has been my experience for a lot of viral jokes, like the “rizz” face and “you’re telling me a shrimp fried this rice.” And if I’m interpreting the search engine “most commonly searched” topics correctly, then I’m not alone. There are many who are confused by the latest trending joke and have had to look it up or ask in the comments, “Explain please,” “I don’t get it.” After we get the joke, some of us go on to spread it by referencing it in person or repeating it online, prompting a cycle that ensures more people are laughing at the same joke. But how many people actually found it funny in the first place?

While participating in viral trends can be fun and community-building, there is value in being more intuitive with our humor. I’m not trying to say I’m too cool to laugh at what my friends are laughing at — one of the most wonderful things about laughter is that there is no limit to what can kindle it. If I find a viral joke funny, I will laugh and share my enjoyment with those around me. However, some of my fondest memories are of cracking up with my friends at nonsensical things that we keep building on, such as an extreme mispronunciation or an awkward moment in class, and carrying forward funny moments until they become our own established inside joke. Even just making eye contact with my friend during certain situations and knowing we’re thinking the exact same thing is enough to make me smile. I will always treasure the nights my roommate and I spent staying up until 4 a.m., laughing until the girl on the other side of the fire alarm door finally knocked on the wall for some peace. 

I want to be more honest with myself with what I do laugh at; I want my sense of humor to come from authentic amusement instead of laughing at the latest, ultra-relatable joke. We can be more original; we can find a delight in the unexpected and enrich our happiness that much more.

BIANCA NAM is a senior in Saybrook College. Her column “Dear Woman” traverses contemporary feminist, progressive issues. She can be reached at hyerim.nam@yale.edu. 

The post NAM: The Standardization of Humor appeared first on Yale Daily News.

I have held this belief for about a year now, and I was reminded of it quite recently by an unexpected source. During the past couple weekends, I conducted several admission interviews with high school students applying for the summer program I attended when I was their age. One interviewee made a statement about how prejudiced people could be re-educated through logical debates that could convince them that their views were wrong, and I could tell that they genuinely had faith in the power of rational thinking. 

This faith is shared, it seems, by both ends of the ideological spectrum. One of the angriest moments I’ve had at Yale was last year’s Bulldog Days, when I saw a table on cross campus that was manned by members of a pro-life club. Grouped around the table, which was spread with sonograms and fetal diagrams, the students were inviting passersby to engage in logical debates about fetal personhood and abortion ethics. They were polite. They held their voices low and spoke slowly and calmly. They had relaxed, open smiles.

“Would you like to discuss this? Let’s talk about it respectfully,” they insisted. “We can debate about this.” Their smug civility was infuriating; their invitations for debate, inflammatory. I could barely seethe out my opinion about the misogyny of holding such a debate at all; simpering, the male students gestured to the only female student with them. Their wide, innocent eyes asked the unspoken question: how could they possibly be misogynist when one of their club members was a woman? 

I think that interaction, which took place a bare week before the Supreme Court’s decision overturning Roe v. Wade was leaked in May, took a few years off my life — and really, it’s my fault for biting the bait. I regret talking with them. I should not have entered such a space and entertained such discourse; to bring the legality of abortion into question, then frame the debate around whether and when a fetus became a person was a red herring, a false path meant to distract someone from the true issue and its massive repercussions for bodily autonomy and reproductive rights. The discussion never should have been entertained, because simply opening space for this “logical, respectful” debate itself is a threat to human rights that should never be up for debate. 

Who approved such a table to be displayed during Bulldog Days? Multiple students have told me that if they saw it as a prefrosh, they would have reconsidered committing. Yale should be more cognizant about the environment it fosters for women. We don’t need perfunctory celebrations of the anniversary of Yale’s women that accompany endorsements of misogynist dialogue. And as to the last question, I thought it was common sense but I guess I have to explicitly explain that women can indeed be misogynists, and indeed, historically have been some of the most major anti-feminists; simply look at how many women fought so viciously against the women’s suffrage movement in the early 1900s. 

This article is not specifically about abortion rights; that story is simply my experience that led me to realize the futility of logical debate. I’m talking about the conversation at Thanksgiving dinner when the uncle begins to rant about immigrants; I’m talking about the conversation in the common room when the friend shares harmful opinions and invites discussion; I’m talking about every uncomfortable conversation we have with prejudiced, ignorant people whom we believe we can convince with logic. I’m telling you, it’s not worth it. And at some point that you have to determine for yourself, you have to disengage. The burden is not on us to talk our mouths dry and educate others, and frankly it is past the point of being an intellectual challenge. It’s an insult to our personhood, experience and rights to have to hold some of these “debates.” 

We can’t all be saviors. Some people are only interested in pulling us below the surface of the water. Let go of the line of thinking. Abort the conversation.

BIANCA NAM is a junior in Saybrook College. Her column “Dear Woman” traverses contemporary feminist, progressive issues. She can be reached at hyerim.nam@yale.edu.

The post NAM: Abort the Conversation appeared first on Yale Daily News.

Faith — there is a specific faith I mean. Given the talents, aspirations and accomplishments of our student body,  this might be expected, but I have observed that many Yalies possess a deep-seated optimism about their future. Friends, classmates, strangers in the library — “It’s okay,” they say confidently, “In the end, everything is going to work out. I’m going to be fine. One way or the other, I will be happy.”

I feel the same way. Even when I am struggling and can’t see an immediate solution, I am always confident that I will somehow come out unscathed on the other side of a bad spot. It could be a kind of affirmation or effort to manifest what we want, but I think it goes beyond that. I think it even goes beyond a simple confidence in our abilities and skills. I believe ours is a faith that requires a leap beyond the boundaries of perfect rationality and scientific skepticism — It’s supernatural.

I didn’t always have this faith. In high school, when I had less to my name, I was more prone to believing that things would not be alright. I doubted myself and I had frustratingly shaky projections of where the next few years might take me. Over the past few years, my determination, hard work, accomplishments and confidence have built upon each other in a stacked lattice that eventually gathered enough momentum to launch my faith into orbit. The more I have, the easier it is to extrapolate my happiness into further futures. I could say that the line connecting the now and later is a rational one, that it is only reasonable to expect greater things in cumulative succession. But, we all have heard enough stories of failures to keep our heads below the clouds. I think we purposefully let ourselves fly like kites on the winds of our wild faith, anchored to the reality of the now by a thin but strong thread of rationale. We want to fly. It’s exhilarating, and we like the horizons we see from so high up. 

Who is afraid of heights? 

Recently, I’ve been looking down, and what’s below is dizzying. I have a visceral fear of the fall, and I wrestle it behind my eyes. I repeat to myself that my earth will rise to meet the heights of my faith, but when it feels like I’m treading empty air, I wish I could cut the thread entirely and give up control to the elements.

To anyone who might recognize such a feeling, I want to offer some words that have helped me find footing in midair. 

Our faith is more than the capricious gust of wind. It is the vast updraft of balmy air that remembers our lessons learned and harnesses the pain of our tumbles and sleepless nights, our breakdowns and panic attacks. Our faith is born not only from security in what we have amassed, but also from the knowledge of what we have lost. Our greatest mistakes and failures are the steel beams that make it possible for our faith to scrape the sky, and I promise, we can trust it to take our weight.

It’s okay to extrapolate, to take that leap. It’s even okay to look down and remind ourselves of how high we dream. But remember; always look back up. It’s okay to put faith in our stars.

BIANCA NAM is a junior in Saybrook College. Her column “Dear Woman” traverses contemporary feminist, progressive issues. She can be reached at hyerim.nam@yale.edu.

The post NAM: Faith in our stars appeared first on Yale Daily News.

I am a premedical student in my junior year, and I have consulted all of the above along with my other premed friends when deciding my classes. We scroll through CourseTable reviews, ask other students for advice on how to do well and pore over course syllabi. The latter, which comes directly from our instructors, is perhaps our most objective resource in this process. During shopping period we compare the grading and assessment sections of the syllabi across our schedule and project our performance. Throughout the semester, we refer back to those syllabi to see how well we are doing in each grading category. Our reliance on this resource depends on the transparency with which our instructors are willing to present their classes. Their secrecy, as well as the motivations behind it, is what has disappointed me in my recent semesters.

Our major and premed requirements tend to be notoriously rigorous. We are prepared for this — I am not complaining about the difficulty of the material or structure of the course. However, when both the syllabus and the instructor repeatedly promise a particular grading plan, the students listening will expect that to be the truth. And when final grades are released, often without the final examination grades even being released, it is pretty much too late to contest them. Attempts to address unfair or incorrect grading are frequently met with dismissal or silence. I know multiple instances, including my own, of students maintaining nearly perfect grades all semester and still being shocked over final grades. I had a class with a professor who intentionally withheld grading criteria until after final grades were released, for the purpose of ensuring few people could earn all the points. Can we discuss this mindset?

I took another difficult class where we were repeatedly told not to worry about grades. After we largely struggled on the first midterm, we studied harder and notably raised the class average for the following exams. Our instructor thought the exams had been too easy and made the final exam so difficult that the class walked out sobbing or laughing — or just numb, past the point of upset. It was later revealed that the entire time, each student had been ranked one by one compared to the rest of their class. Grades were assigned to a certain range of ranks; in order to jump a letter grade, a student would have to surpass however many of their peers. None of this had been communicated to us. In fact, we were told grading would be holistic in consideration of our overall performance. This misleading lack of transparency frustrates me so much.

Why do some professors find perverse pride in jealously guarding high grades in their classes? Their purpose is to share their knowledge with us; They should want us to learn and love what they are passionate about, instead of punishing our adaptation and effort with more difficult grading and exams. Class should not be a competition between the professors and students. Grades should not be a tug-of-war game in which the harder we sweat and pull for the ribbon, the harder our instructors yank them out of reach. Our success only reflects their own teaching prowess.

Maybe, because I am a student with a vested interest in good grades, I cannot fathom some deeper wisdom on part of my instructors. I accept that I am young, inexperienced and biased. I do acknowledge this: if our instructors truly desire their classes to be difficult to achieve high marks in, so be it. They can teach and grade as they will. However, they need to communicate this with us. I honestly hate feeling like I’m reliving my high school mentality towards grades. This is my passion, and I genuinely and deeply love learning from my professors. I just wish the former didn’t detract from the latter.

We deserve transparency so that we can make informed choices, and frankly we deserve more of a fair shot at this than what we are getting. Please. At least give us that warning so when we shop your class, we know what we are buying into.

The post NAM: Those wretched grades appeared first on Yale Daily News.

Throughout my younger years, especially early high school, I wasn’t shy at all of confrontation and communication. In the reckless spirit of pubescent teenagers, my friends and I jumped into sensational drama and shared our every triumph, worry and petty Snapchat story. I wasn’t afraid at all to confront or communicate with someone when I had a concern. 

I probably changed, like many people, primarily through hurt and stress. The more you trust and love your chosen family, the more vulnerable you become to their words and actions. Friends came in and out of my life, some quietly and some quite loudly. I hurt my friends, my friends hurt me, and through it all we grew together or grew apart. Part of this growth was realizing unflattering things about myself I had never known before. 

Right now, with half of Yale behind me, I have learned that I tend to overthink interactions and get into my own head; I care deeply about my friends and even as I show them love in my way, I get hurt when they show me theirs in a way that, in my language, would indicate lack of reciprocity — even knowing very well that people express caring in different ways. And as I learned these things, in an attempt to compensate for these vulnerabilities, I concluded that I should forget to forgive; if somebody hurt or disappointed me, it was simplest to cut my losses and just drop any emotional attachment so they could never affect me like that again. This began as an idea, and as I reminded myself of it again and again, it burgeoned monstrously until it ingrained itself into my nature. 

I started to believe that communication only made myself more vulnerable to someone who had already shown they didn’t care. This came less out of a desire to be a Stoic Alpha Male Who Feels Only Rage and Hunger — I’m aware of how I might be coming across — and more out of impatience with myself for not being able to control my emotions as well as I liked. I used to think closure was important. I wanted to have final conversations, to say goodbye or share last thoughts. 

But confrontation, communication, closure — all of those conversations require time and emotional investment, and that burden can be heavier than the fruits of any one-sided peacemaking. I found that not every loose thread in my life needs to be tied; not every wound needs closure when it will dry and heal on its own time. If friendship is a cohabited space, it doesn’t take two for me to pack my bags and walk out the door.

I confided this to my best friend — generally a much more forgiving person than I am — one night as we discussed my reaction to an event of the past week, and she returned my honesty with her own: how could she, or any of my friends, trust me not to drop her without a word the moment she crossed a line she might not know about? The conversation forced me to challenge what had become my way of life, and I realized it ultimately came down to trust and faith: trust in my friend’s intentions and heart, and faith that my vulnerability would be nurtured and our relationship could move forward. I promised myself something new: no matter how much I wanted to pull away, I would always try one more time to communicate with my friend and ask if they were willing to have a conversation. I like this. 

This has led to some unproductive conversations that made me feel foolish for saying anything at all, and I did end up closing myself off in some cases, but regardless I believe this is a better way to protect myself while allowing myself to hold on one last time to something I cared deeply about.

I also like, however, that I still no longer think of closure as a requirement for moving on. Now, confrontation and communication are a choice to me, neither necessary nor forbidden, and with that foundational balance I want to do the most important thing: improve my confidence and shed such negative patterns of thought — because I know that sometimes, the hurt I feel is less from another person than from my own insecurities and self-doubt. Like all self-improvement efforts, it’s always a work in progress.

The post NAM: Minding my C’s appeared first on Yale Daily News.

The night was loud and sepia yellow. I lounged by the nightclub entrance, a glowing cigarette tucked between my fingers, and took one parching breath after another. I inhaled, exhaled and expanded; I billowed in the crowded alley like the smoke that spilled from my lips. 

Such is the ambivalent memory I have of my first cigarette. I count it not only as a coming-of-age experience, but one that freed me from a period of debilitating fear. I spent the summer researching at a German university, and in those 12 weeks found blessings and trials. Among the latter was a series of violent, traumatic events.

My honeymoon phase was marked with round-eyed wonder at the German mundane. Ironically, I remember discussing with another Canadian-Indian intern how we had never been catcalled in Europe — “The men here are so much more respectful,” we agreed. Then, not even a week later, as we walked back from a night at the harbor, we had to almost run when a group of men started calling out and following us. That was after several instances of catcalling earlier that night.

“Can girls just breathe? Exist? Without fearing for their lives?” I wrote in my diary at five a.m. 

From there, it spiraled.

There was the man I met at a house party who followed me home and shouted my name outside my window at three a.m. Afraid he could see into my room, I turned off the lights and lay motionless as my phone rattled with his calls and texts. Weeks later, he saw me at a bar and followed me to my table. My friend and I sat rigidly, eyes down, as he drunkenly cursed and demanded to know why we were ignoring him. We were powerless to push past or force him to leave, and his companion had to manhandle him away.

There was the man who owned the grocery on my way to work and gave me his number. When I casually mentioned my father’s age, he interrupted me: “No, no, I don’t want to hear.” Later, he asked why I hadn’t texted him and mentioned going on a date. I changed my commute to avoid his store.

There were the catcalls, the “nihao’s” on the street. Men would fall silent as I walked by, and then mutter something in German to each other and burst out laughing. Unable to understand them, I grew more and more paranoid. Attempts to confide in others were extinguished by well-intentioned, but ultimately alienating dismissals: “That is so hard to believe,” “Muenster is so safe.”

Then there was the horrific incident. After a late night at lab, I stopped by a bar for drinks — stupid decision. As I sipped my daiquiri, I ignored the table of drunk, ogling men. One uncomfortable drink was enough. I got up to leave and didn’t realize they had followed me outside until a rough hand grabbed my arm.

“Nihao,” they slurred as they surrounded me. 

I have never felt weaker and more powerless, more violated than I did as I struggled to get their hands off my body. I tried to call for help, but I felt sick and dizzy. Hands on my waist, hands on my arms, trying to drag me somewhere. I thought I was going to die. I cracked. I started screaming and twisting, and somehow broke away. They were too drunk to give chase, and I ran until I miserably retched a sour, acidic pink mess into the street.

I became a skittish, nervous wreck. I dressed in baggy clothes and walked quickly with my head down. I couldn’t bear the idea of being seen, of being perceived at all. Lab was the only place where I didn’t feel vulnerable. In the grocery, I jumped whenever someone came up behind me, and I had to keep all men within sight. In the street, I dreaded having to pass any gathering of men.

Don’t look at me, don’t look at me. The mantra rang in my head. I quickly realized I hated my Instagram profile as I stared at a bathroom mirror selfie I had recently posted. My tilted hips, my bare midriff. My brilliant, confident grin. I thought of anyone looking at my profile and seeing my body in such a way, seeing me in any way at all.

And I crumpled.

Don’t look at me!

I frantically disabled my account and tried to disappear. I found that when I let the world shrink around me, it was less threatening. That tiny straitjacket world was so comfortable that before I knew it, I had shrunk to fit the confines of my fears. 

When my friends and I visited Belgium, I had started exposure therapy: I pushed my limits with more revealing clothing in safe spaces. I felt comfortable going clubbing in my silky chemise, surrounded by my friends. We danced wildly and sexually on a raised platform in a gay club, and I lost myself in my body, feeling safe under the male gaze. My sexuality was my own. I felt loud and brave and big.

When we took a break outside and my friend offered me a cigarette, I took it. I wanted it. And I realized as I smoked with my friends in the midst of night life, I was taking up a space that I had always known to belong to men — and in my performance of masculinity, I found power.

I’m not endorsing tobacco; that cigarette was my only. Truly, I found freedom in the de facto assumption of space that accompanied such gendered behavior. 

I am still a smaller person than before. But if I could share advice with anyone, it’s finding a safe space — physical or one with people you trust — and claiming the power held in constructed behavior. Take a nighttime walk, play frisbee on cross campus, wear a shirt and tie. Make that power your own.

Spread your legs like a man. Take up your space. 

HYERIM BIANCA NAM is a junior in Saybrook College. Her column ‘Moment’s Notice’ runs on alternate Wednesdays. Contact her at hyerim.nam@yale.edu.

The post NAM: Spread your legs like a man appeared first on Yale Daily News.

I’ve been wanting to say this for a while now. I’ve only been watching as you slowly circled the drain —  calling it getting to know yourself  — but I need to tell you something.

You’ve changed. I noticed you’ve been tired lately. You go to bed at four in the morning, promising yourself that you’ll wake up at eight in time to go to your nine a.m. lecture. You wake up past ten and as you stare from your pillow at the digital clock on your dresser, your first foggy thought of the day is that you should cease to exist. A dramatic response to waking up two hours later than you wanted to, but when it feels like you’ve lost control over the rhythm of your life, sometimes you want to remove yourself from the equation altogether.

It feels like you’re always forgetting something in one of your classes. You think about the upcoming midterms and those final papers that you already know the prompt for, and could theoretically finish now, but the deadline seems both much too close and very far away. You make a Microsoft Word document for the paper, add page numbers and close the window. As you go through your day, you complete assignments and check them off your weekly to-do list. However much you finish, though, it feels like you’ve done nothing, even as you’re exhausted. It’s already past midnight but there’s so much left to do. Therefore, you get an overpriced sandwich and gummy bears from Good Nature to keep yourself awake and work until four. Rinse and repeat.

I miss you. I miss how you used to wake up at eight and get ready for the bright day stretching ahead of you. I miss how you used to excitedly greet people in the dining hall or the street, how you used to love meeting new people and setting up boba dates. Now you sleep in and wake up tired, you look blankly straight ahead as you walk past people you know because you can’t muster the energy to socialize, you eat silently as your friend talks to someone you guys bumped into at the dining hall, you ghost people and avoid responsibilities. You look in the mirror and look at your grades and get caught up in self-doubt and disappointment. You overthink your interactions with your closest friends, you get into weird moods and lock yourself in your room to study with classical music playing on your speaker (the first time you did this, your suitemates laughed at you). You say it’s an introverted phase, that you’re learning to love spending time with yourself, but I disagree. Yes, maybe you’re more of an introvert than you thought, but introversion is not inherently self-destructive behavior. Because let’s face it, that’s what this is.

You’re not being efficient or taking care of yourself when you force yourself to stay up late, just to wake up late the next day feeling drained. You’re not learning to love yourself when you exhaust your body and torment your mind with the demand to do more, do better. Let’s be honest. That’s not love. Love is wanting the best for yourself, thinking of your long-term health and happiness instead of immediate but ultimately meaningless deadlines. Love is encouraging yourself to improve and mature with the same gentle words and praise you would give your friends, instead of tearing yourself down with scathing criticism. Love is understanding that you won’t always satisfy your own high expectations, and that’s okay, because you’re doing what you can and that means you’re doing great.

You see, I’ve realized I’m in love with me. Really, truly, heart-achingly in love. I want me to be happy. But that also means I have to let you go. We can’t both have me at the same time. It doesn’t mean I’m erasing you completely from my life. You’ll always be a part of me, but I can’t let you eat away at my happiness and hope for the future. I can’t let you treat me like this anymore. So this is goodbye. I love and respect myself, and I want to be happy. 

Hyerim Bianca Nam is a sophomore in Saybrook College. Her column ‘Moment’s Notice’ runs on alternate Wednesdays. Contact her at hyerim.nam@yale.edu

The post NAM: Love Letter To Myself appeared first on Yale Daily News.

The incident goes as follows: Oscars host Chris Rock made a tasteless joke on stage about Jada Pinkett Smith’s shaved head, and after the camera panned to a shot of Will Smith laughing while she rolled her eyes, he strode onto the stage, slapped Chris Rock and told him to keep his wife’s name out of his mouth. Quoted here sans expletives. 

Of course, the reactions were immediate and dramatic: a deluge of social media comments making a joke out of, condemning or applauding Will Smith’s actions. It certainly sparked a storm of renewed interest in the Oscars, a ceremony that, only the day before, had been remarked upon as a dying tradition. However, after looking through the various tweets and statements about the incident, especially from fellow celebrities, I began to get a sense that people were riding the tide of this public outrage in order to virtue-signal or push their own prejudices or agenda onto the trending page. 

Again and again, people stressed that violence was never the answer. Words like “love” and “peace” flooded the topic feed, and people from all over the world felt invited to impose their own copy-and-paste morals and opinion on the situation. They qualified their positions: They allowed that neither man had been in the right, but repeatedly the word of online judgment punished Will Smith for his actions. Comedian Judd Apatow took it further and even stated in a now-deleted Tweet that Will “could have killed” Rock in “pure out of control rage and violence.” Other Twitter users were quick to condemn him for his placement of Will Smith in the role of the “so scary” black man, but the message was clear; A country as racially divided as America was going to dissect and maul this incident between two successful Black men, and drag it into politics. 

Aside from virtue signalling, what happened at the Oscars should certainly not be an event for prejudiced or racist people, of which America has plenty, to chew up and blow bubbles out of like gum. Ultimately, the altercation between Will Smith and Chris Rock was an intensely personal one that, while highly publicized, still does not deserve the massive blow-up and scrutiny it got. Will Smith’s Oscar acceptance speech, after the incident, stressed his determination to “protect” his loved ones, and I believe his actions on the stage were just that: an effort to protect his wife from a potential repeated, mocking and demeaning campaign. Standard disclaimer: I do not condone violence. However, Will’s action was not political, it was not “out of control rage,” and frankly I believe the slap had less to do with the violence and pain of the impact than the public humiliation that Will wanted to return to its unprovoked inflictor. 

I acknowledge that Will Smith has an immense public platform and is admired by vulnerable young people who may have been adversely affected by the incident. However, I argue that above being the Will Smith to his millions of fans, he has every right to claim his private role as husband, father and protector of his family. Let the Academy fret over disciplinary measures, let Chris Rock decide whether he wants to press charges; Such is their right. But we must realize that celebrities don’t give up their personal identities in exchange for their fame, and their spotlight is no excuse to drown them in our delicious, lucrative outrage.

In the spirit of fairness: At the beginning of this piece, I described the process of my decision to write my article about this incident as an example, in and of itself, of the growing value of outrage. Even with a relevant background and current course, I was immediately drawn to the intense controversy of the Will Smith slap. Instead of waxing eloquently about the transforming face of film and cinematography, I offered my condemnation of the online outrage over the incident, and shared in the hogpile mentality of this age of outrage. I don’t think of myself as being in a better moral position than anyone who publicly commented on this; I simply wanted to share a certain growing feeling of disappointment with the wild trend of capitalizing on outrage at the expense of personal and private identities and lives.

Bianca Nam is a sophomore in Saybrook College. Her column, “Moments Notice”, runs every other Wednesday. Contact her at hyerim.nam@yale.edu.

The post NAM: Outrage is the new gold appeared first on Yale Daily News.

Firstly, of course, I feel pride; it fills my heart to know that my culture is being enjoyed and shared with other communities. Most of hallyu is contemporary, I’ll admit; deep-fried sausages are hardly a centuries-old Korean culinary tradition. However, I’ve also taken restaurant orders from American customers seeking out stone-pot bibimbap and spicy stir-fried pork as old favorites. Besides, culture is an ever-evolving fluid, and BTS is no less Korean than the legendary King Sejong, who introduced the Korean hangul script we still use today. Every time I see hallyu around me, I feel supported and affirmed.

However, this glow is dampened by my inability to ignore the current political and social situation in Korea. Behind the comedic office scenes of popular romcom K-dramas like “What’s Wrong with Secretary Kim?” and “Strong Woman Do Bong Soon,” South Korea is actually held by researchers to have the worst workplace environment for women out of industrialized countries with a pervasive culture of sexual abuse, harassment and objectification. “Femi,” short for feminist or feminism, has become a widespread derogatory term, weaponized by outspoken meninist communities that have taken the push for women’s rights as a personal insult to their position of privilege and as a perceived threat to their own safety; these communities have even shut down idols for simply reading feminist books and forced a company to apologize for and take down an ad campaign that used a so-called “anti-male” hand gesture. The LGBTQ rights movement is largely ignored, with little awareness of the struggles that queer Koreans face; K-dramas like “Kill Me Heal Me” and “Strong Woman Do Bong Soon” use gay-coded characters for comedic effect, but the companies behind such shows only seek to profit from this “entertaining” representation, with no action to support queer rights. In such an ethnically homogeneous country, racism is also normalized to the point of blatant slurs being accepted in casual conversation— there is no perceived “political incorrectness” or social faux pas when Koreans discriminate against practically any other race and ethnicity. As I keep up to date with domestic Korean social and political trends, I have to admit, the future doesn’t look bright; the political right are too outspoken, too numerous, too powerful. 

Even with the positive, beautiful wave of culture roaring outwards from the peninsula, the domestic state of Korea itself is stagnant with violent misogyny, normalized sexism and patriarchy, homophobia and livid racism. As strongly connected to my culture as I am, I also feel hopelessly alienated from Korea’s morbid reality. Korea is so eager to peddle to the world her wares of dazzling idols, thrilling TV shows and delicious cuisine, but when will she stand behind the messages of its media exports instead of using them as empty, profitable shells? 

Maybe I’m reaching too far when I try to connect domestic Korean issues to the international boom of hallyu. But this matters to me. I am a member of the Korean diaspora who will never quite be fully Korean nor American, but rather a new entity: a Korean-American carrying cultural, social and political values and experiences from either side of the globe. These issues will never be separate to me, and I will always think of the bigger, messier, even uglier picture. For the general audience: Korean culture is not just a fascinating product to be celebrated; it should also be examined critically and protested for its flaws and hypocrisy. And for the Korean diaspora: hallyu should be met with not only pride, but somber recognition of the struggles that plague its cradle. Our heritage, our culture, our history; it’s complicated.

Hyerim Bianca Nam is a sophomore in Saybrook College. Her column ‘Moment’s Notice’ runs on alternate Wednesdays.

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During my second semester of senior year, opportunity came knocking, and I started working as a waitress at a neighborhood sushi restaurant. I showed up on the first day with wide eyes, excited to fulfill a long-held dream. As my boss, “Auntie,” walked me through the basic steps of setting up for my shift, I quickly realized this was a lot more complicated than I had originally thought. There was an entire ritual of cleaning, restocking and preparation that I had known nothing of — I found out very quickly that while I enjoyed wiping windows, sweeping was far from my strongest suit.

As tedious as I found the routine sometimes, working the floor was insanely fun — immersive, exhausting and exhilarating. I memorized the menu and learned how to balance a tray and use a POS system. I could listen to a customer’s preferences and recommend specific sushi rolls or entrees, and I loved to take orders on the phone, my finger tapping expertly between the options on the register screen. I would pick up receipts after the customers had left and sneak a peek at the tip to see how well I had done. Sometimes, when I wasn’t at work, I would pick up a call on my cell and automatically answer, “Hello, [restaurant].” Some days I would arrive at work feeling down, but somehow, somewhere in between carrying dishes across the floor and chatting up the customers with the chirpy customer service smile, I would realize that I felt much better. As I moved my body almost mindlessly, I could forget everything outside the restaurant and focus only on my work.

“Watch the customers,” Auntie told me as we stood in front of the sushi bar one night, looking out to the floor. “Look at whose glasses are empty, whose tables have finished dishes. What do they need? By the time they raise their hand, you should already be there.” 

The restaurant was small enough for one waitress to cover on a relaxed day, and the task of collecting orders and overseeing the tables was like juggling; once I fell into a comfortable rhythm, patrolling the shiny wooden floor as conversation and chopsticks clinked and hummed gently in my ears, I felt like I had found some sort of dynamic peace in that small, quiet, sun-filled restaurant.

Over the next few months, I came to realize what I was learning from this job. Waiting on the tables and keeping an eye on people’s body language and tabletops to see what they might need, communicating with the customers when there was a problem, setting up and cleaning the restaurant, even just the simple customer service smile when dealing politely but firmly with irate customers — all of these are crucial skills for anyone to have, all the more so for those in leadership positions. 

It’s commonly believed that leaders stand above those they lead, by nature of their position in command, and it’s easy to think that when you lead, those who “follow” will serve you. However, I have found that it is the opposite: the most trusted and wisest leaders that I have met have been those who put others before themselves and served the people in their charge with compassion and selflessness. In the clubs that I have been a part of, or just listening to friends talk about their activities, I always admired it the most when the students in charge put themselves on the same level as everyone else and worked to understand what everyone else needed, instead of trying to forcefully carry out their own vision or thinking they knew better. Those leaders were the most successful in gathering other people around them, precisely because they understood that to lead is to serve.

Working in the service industry and all it entails — getting ignored or shouted at by customers as if you aren’t human — is nothing to look at lightly, or even glorify. Depending on the employer, the job can be miserable and exploitative, and it is always exhausting work. However, I think taking a job as a cashier, waiter or other service industry worker is an important experience that anyone can take away so much from, especially students at prestigious colleges such as ours. It’s easy to get carried away in lofty visions of ourselves as the leaders of the future, but I argue that it’s equally, if not more, important to take a couple steps back and learn how to serve others from a basic, square-one perspective.

​​Hyerim Bianca Nam is a sophomore in Saybrook College. Her column ‘Moment’s Notice’ runs on alternate Wednesdays. Contact her at hyerim.nam@yale.edu.

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