Do you take delight in watching films,
listening to pop music, or reading books? For English learners, movies, songs,
and books are one of the most wonderful sources to explore the language! You
can indulge in your favorite
wisdom, and oftentimes good lessons while
you’re at it.
#110. American Hagwon (novel authored by
Minjin Lee)
This novel
unfolds as an epic journey of a Korean family—Helen and John Koh and their
three children, Bo, DH, and Mido—whose once-comfortable middle-class life is
shattered by betrayal and economic turmoil. When John’s business partner, Shin,
betrays him and the 1997 Asian financial crisis strikes, the family is forced
to leave Korea, seeking a fresh start in Australia before eventually settling
in Southern California. Yet, in a foreign land, their former status and
financial security gradually slip away, pushing them down the steep slope of
social and economic hardship.
In the midst
of uncertainty and the struggle to rebuild their lives, the family clings to
one enduring hope: education. Believing that academic achievement could secure
a brighter future for their children, they turn to hagwons—South Korea’s
private tutoring academies and a familiar part of many Korean immigrant
communities.
“Throughout
her childhood, Mido’s teachers had asked Helen to come in to discuss her
daughter’s excessively quiet manner. At her preschool in Paramus, and in the
first years of school in Seoul, Mido barely spoke with the other children and
was left out of friendships. At her primary school in Sydney, the teachers had
hinted at learning issues, despite her high marks. They’d encouraged her to
talk more in class, advocate for herself, and work better in groups.”
ð Mido’s
educational journey across Paramus, Seoul, and Sydney reveals a quiet but
profound cultural conflict over what it means to be a successful student. In
many Western classrooms, active participation, self-expression, and
collaboration are encouraged as signs of engagement and healthy development. In
contrast, some East Asian educational traditions place greater value on
attentive listening, restraint, and quiet concentration. Caught between these
differing expectations, Mido’s silence is repeatedly misunderstood—not as a
natural expression of her personality, but as a problem (i.e., lack of social
relationship) that needs to be corrected. Through their experience, the novel
illuminates the invisible emotional labor immigrant families endure as they
struggle to adapt, belong, and protect their children’s sense of self.
“Natives
would correct her when she made a mistake and smile like they’d won something,
as if to say, You might have lived somewhere else but you’re not so special.
Some of them felt left behind and disadvantaged by those who had lived
elsewhere, when in reality, Helen felt lost herself.”
ð This
scene captures the psychological and cultural tension of returning home after
years abroad. Through Helen’s experience, the novel reveals how language can
become a subtle battleground for belonging, exposing the insecurities,
resentment, and mutual misunderstandings that divide those who left from those
who stayed.
When local people correct
Helen’s mistakes and smile as though they have won a small victory, their
reactions suggest more than a concern for grammatical accuracy. Language
becomes a way to reclaim social superiority and remind Helen that she no longer
fits comfortably into the world she once called home. Their satisfaction
exposes the painful possibility that even familiar words can become tools of
exclusion.
Beneath their reactions lies another
layer of insecurity. Some may perceive Helen’s overseas experience as a source
of privilege, cultural sophistication, or social advantage. Feeling left
behind, they may resent what they imagine she has gained abroad. Correcting her
language becomes a way to challenge her perceived superiority and restore a
sense of equality.
(Helen’s
older sister Sonya said): “Who cares what it costs? You have to pay whatever
they ask. Your kids are behind. I know you might send the children to America
for school, but you might also be sending them to college here, and these
school grades matter when they apply. How in the world will they catch up without
hagwons? You just got that job at Lotte. Even if you have to borrow the money,
you have to get them a spot.”
ð Sonya’s
insistence that Helen pay whatever is necessary, even if she must borrow money,
exposes a culture in which private tutoring is often perceived not as a luxury
but as a necessity in Korean society. The pursuit of educational success can
become so consuming that families risk their own financial stability, treating
parental sacrifice as the price of their children’s future.
Having lived abroad,
Helen’s children face the challenge of adjusting to South Korea’s demanding and
unfamiliar academic environment. Sonya’s warning that they are already behind
reflects the anxiety surrounding a competitive education system in which keeping
pace can feel impossible without supplementary tutoring. The hagwon becomes
more than a classroom; it represents a desperate attempt to close the gap
before it grows too wide.
“Tom
would answer with Oscar Wilde, who was up there with Mark Twain for a snappy
retort: “Life is never fair, and perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that
it is not.”
ð
Oscar
Wilde’s witty observation offers a cynical yet humbling perspective on life’s
unfairness in this novel. Rather than simply condemning an unjust system, the
quote reminds us that perfect justice might not always work in our favor, given
our own flaws and shortcomings. It encourages us to approach life with
humility, recognizing that we may sometimes benefit from the very imperfections
we criticize. Ultimately, we can reflect on the delicate balance between
justice and mercy, reminding us that life’s imperfections can sometimes be more
forgiving than perfect fairness, only if we could view our weaknesses and flaws
just the way they are.
** Jean’s Small Thoughts:
As a Korean
American immigrant living in the United States, I found this story painfully
realistic and uncomfortably intimate. At times, reading it felt like standing
before a mirror that revealed something I had long preferred not to examine—a
hidden contradiction between my good intentions and the consequences of
pursuing what I believed to be a worthy cause.
My personal
history may explain why this novel struck such a deeply personal chord. I grew
up and received my education in some of South Korea’s most competitive school
districts. Later, I began my professional career as an English as a Foreign
Language (EFL) teacher at a private hagwon for elementary school children in
Gangnam, Seoul, one of the city’s most prominent centers of private education.
Having lived through that educational culture myself, I found the characters,
settings, and circumstances in the novel remarkably convincing. At times, I
could hardly believe I was reading fiction. Even more striking was the story’s
timeline, from 1992 to 2007, which closely overlaps with my own years in the
United States, apart from a two-year stay in Korea from 2006 to 2008.
I still
remember my early days as a hagwon teacher. Although I knew that many children
had little interest in attending after-school English classes, I did my best to
persuade their parents of the benefits of early language education. I
believed—or perhaps desperately wanted to believe—that teaching English to
these young learners was my calling and that I was helping prepare them for a
brighter future.
Yet the
reality inside the classroom often told a different story. I can still picture
the children’s vacant eyes and hear their constant yawning as boredom settled
over the room. Between the teacher who was trying her best to teach and the
children who were expected to learn, there seemed to be an invisible wall that
neither side could cross. The genuine joy of learning and teaching remained
frustratingly out of reach.
Looking back,
I sometimes wonder whether my good intentions were enough. Was I truly serving
the children’s needs, or was I participating in a system that measured
educational success through parental expectations and academic advancement
rather than the children’s own curiosity and happiness? It is an uncomfortable
question, but perhaps that discomfort is precisely what makes this novel so
meaningful.
Through the
Koh family’s struggles, I sense that the author is asking us to look beyond the
boundaries of our own families. No matter how devoted parents are, how
passionately they pursue educational opportunities, or how much they sacrifice
for their children, their efforts may fall short of securing their children’s
happiness if they remain blind to the well-being of others. A community cannot
flourish when every family is concerned only with getting its own children
ahead of everyone else.
Wisdom,
friendship, and human connection must be part of the foundation upon which we
build a better society. Even characters who betray others or manipulate
circumstances, such as John’s former friend Shin and Danbi, the femme fatale,
seem to operate within their own personal boundaries of morality. This raises
another question: Have these characters—and the people around them—ever stopped
to consider the deeper purpose of their roles in the world of hagwons?
What about
the Korean American hagwon run by Lion Han in the United States? Even if its
educational philosophy differs from that of conventional cram schools in Korea,
does it genuinely nurture students’ self-esteem, independence, and sense of
competence as human beings? Or does it simply reproduce the same relentless
competition in a different cultural setting?
As I turned
the pages of this sweeping family saga, I found myself caught between hope and
despair about the promise of education. I, too, was once a parent who placed
enormous faith in education as a pathway to opportunity. Yet beneath that faith
lies a question I have increasingly come to ask myself: ‘Can education truly
become a bridge to a better life, or does the relentless pursuit of success
exact a price that families may not recognize until it is too late?’
Over time, I
began to question the unquestioning faith that some Korean parents place in
academic achievement. Education is undoubtedly a worthy cause, and giving
children the opportunity to learn is one of the most meaningful
responsibilities of parenting. But education should never become a weapon with
which children are pitted against one another, nor should academic success
become a lifelong badge of superiority—a means of taking advantage of those who
have been less fortunate or have had fewer opportunities.
Every child
deserves the chance to grow, learn, and discover their own potential. The
purpose of education should be to expand that possibility, not to narrow a
child's worth to grades, school rankings, or future earning power. Perhaps the
true measure of an educated person is not how far ahead they can move in the
race, but whether they have learned to recognize the humanity of those running
beside them.
One of the
passages that stayed with me concerns Helen’s encounters with local Koreans who
ridicule her mistakes in speaking. Their reactions reveal a painful
contradiction in human nature: Why do we sometimes respond to another person’s
differences with resentment rather than curiosity, or with judgment rather than
understanding? Helen’s experience reminds us that returning to one's native
country does not necessarily mean returning to a place where one effortlessly
belongs. Years abroad may change a person’s language, habits, perspectives, and
sense of identity. Yet those who stayed behind may interpret these differences
as signs of arrogance, inadequacy, or disloyalty. What should be an opportunity
to reconnect can instead become an uncomfortable contest over who belongs and
who has the right to judge.
There is
something deeply heartbreaking about this kind of estrangement. A person may
return to familiar streets, hear a familiar language, and recognize the customs
of home, yet still feel like a stranger among their own people. The distance is
no longer measured in miles between countries, but in the invisible barriers
created by insecurity, resentment, and prejudice.
Perhaps this
is one of the most enduring struggles of the immigrant experience: learning to
live between worlds without being entirely accepted by either one. Also, the
lesson extends far beyond immigration. We all carry assumptions about people
whose experiences differ from our own. We may judge their accents, their
silence, their achievements, or their failures without understanding the
journeys that brought them there.
Ultimately, this
novel has led me to reflect not only on the educational system I once worked
within, but also on the values I have carried throughout my own life. I began
reading a novel about a Korean immigrant family’s pursuit of the American
Dream, but I found myself confronting much larger questions about ambition,
morality, belonging, and the meaning of a life well lived.
If education
teaches us how to compete but not how to care, what have we truly learned? And
if our pursuit of a better future requires us to overlook the struggles of
others, can we honestly call that future a better one? Perhaps the greatest
lesson of education is not how to rise above others, but how to create a world
in which fewer people are left behind.
