The quality of Rice's academic life and the Residential College System are heavily influenced by the unique life experiences and cultural traditions each student brings. What personal perspective do you feel that you will contribute to life at Rice?
"Don't trust anyone," my parents constantly reminded me. "The moment you let your guard down could be the day you find a bullet hole in your chest." Strong words, but sadly not unreasonable. With the Mexican president's declaration of war on the nation's drug cartels in 2006, Mexico broke out into some of the worst violence the country had seen in a century; and as missionaries there for ten years, my family had front row seats through the worst of it. One particular day I was sitting in my room when suddenly the air exploded with assault rifle fire; as I later found, our neighbors had been gunned down in their own home, and the assailants were never found. Another day, gunmen invaded a rehab center near where my dad taught theology classes, killing nineteen people. By the time we moved back to the States in 2011, over 80,000 would be killed as a result of the drug war: politicians, journalists, soldiers, and our own friends. By nature, most Koreans are cautious people; the violence only served to kick that instinct up a notch in our own family. Our parents didn't allow us outside alone after dark. We raised a vicious dog who would end up biting five people by the time we left (although she was an absolute doll to us). One day a man made a threatening phone call to my dad, claiming to know our names and address; we unplugged the phone for two weeks after that, living in constant fear of a gunman arriving at our front gate.
When we moved back to the States, the biggest culture shock for me was the relatively absolute safety that we experienced for the first time. No longer did we have to check and lock three gates every night before bed, nor did we have to make a mental note of anyone who looked threatening on the street. More than anything, though, the sudden transition from anxiety to security made me realize all the more the opportunities I had missed as a result of our fears. Our precautions might have been necessary at the time, but living in constant terror is no way for anybody to live. In exchange for my cocoon of safety, what possibilities to connect with others might I have missed? Perhaps I might have made more friends, learned Spanish better or even discovered a better food cart that served tacos al pastor. The literal barricades I'd lived behind kept out not only danger but the chance for exploration, for discovery, for life. The dangers of my past life may have been unavoidable, but they can't stop me now from taking those mature risks that I could never have done then. At Rice, I want to be an example of daring to the new friends I'll meet, taking those (legal) risks that nobody else would dare, proving both to them and to myself that a period of worry should never lead to a lifetime of insecurity.
"Don't trust anyone," my parents constantly reminded me. "The moment you let your guard down could be the day you find a bullet hole in your chest." Strong words, but sadly not unreasonable. With the Mexican president's declaration of war on the nation's drug cartels in 2006, Mexico broke out into some of the worst violence the country had seen in a century; and as missionaries there for ten years, my family had front row seats through the worst of it. One particular day I was sitting in my room when suddenly the air exploded with assault rifle fire; as I later found, our neighbors had been gunned down in their own home, and the assailants were never found. Another day, gunmen invaded a rehab center near where my dad taught theology classes, killing nineteen people. By the time we moved back to the States in 2011, over 80,000 would be killed as a result of the drug war: politicians, journalists, soldiers, and our own friends. By nature, most Koreans are cautious people; the violence only served to kick that instinct up a notch in our own family. Our parents didn't allow us outside alone after dark. We raised a vicious dog who would end up biting five people by the time we left (although she was an absolute doll to us). One day a man made a threatening phone call to my dad, claiming to know our names and address; we unplugged the phone for two weeks after that, living in constant fear of a gunman arriving at our front gate.
When we moved back to the States, the biggest culture shock for me was the relatively absolute safety that we experienced for the first time. No longer did we have to check and lock three gates every night before bed, nor did we have to make a mental note of anyone who looked threatening on the street. More than anything, though, the sudden transition from anxiety to security made me realize all the more the opportunities I had missed as a result of our fears. Our precautions might have been necessary at the time, but living in constant terror is no way for anybody to live. In exchange for my cocoon of safety, what possibilities to connect with others might I have missed? Perhaps I might have made more friends, learned Spanish better or even discovered a better food cart that served tacos al pastor. The literal barricades I'd lived behind kept out not only danger but the chance for exploration, for discovery, for life. The dangers of my past life may have been unavoidable, but they can't stop me now from taking those mature risks that I could never have done then. At Rice, I want to be an example of daring to the new friends I'll meet, taking those (legal) risks that nobody else would dare, proving both to them and to myself that a period of worry should never lead to a lifetime of insecurity.
