Speech Script

   
Hi. Today I'll talk about an experience I had when I was 12. Obviously, it contains a moral, so I expect all of you ambitious, aspiring students to attain yet another string of wisdom at the end of this speech.

     Not long after my return from America, there was an election for the class president. As usual, the loud, popular students won the position, and the promises they had given were already dangling on the edge to be dissolved into nothing. But whatever, who cared? The winners were happy, the losers tried to be happy; the deed was over. Except for one.

     The girl elected as a vice president was crying. Hard. At first I thought her yearn for over-achievement had led to despair, that she was angry for failing to earn the glamorous badge of 'class president'. As I was unsure, I decided to investigate the issue. I squished through a crowd of girls, keeping their place firm as a fortress, and there she was; her eyes tainted red, and a dark stain on her cheek where BB cream had been applied thoroughly. I asked her quite blatantly.

     "Why are you crying?" Her face lost its shape, and she spitted bitterly. "Because Jenny hates that I won." By the way, Jenny is a fake name I created for convenience. Anyways, Jenny was one of the losers. She was a girl who was enthusiastic and participating for every school event, so this arrow of blame seemed out of nowhere. From my knowledge, the ones who expressed contempt for this soon-to-be vice president were the girls who wore a makeup, or boys. And she didn't fit into any of the categories.

     So I asked her again. "What makes you think she hates you?" She muffled through broken cries, "Because she's looking at me." I felt my sense of logic wavering. But I countered anyways, "Looking at you doesn't mean she hates you. Why don't you go and ask her about her intention?" That was when her face suddenly jerked up, and she shot out, "No, she hates me! Just look at her, you can see distaste looming in her eyes... Oh, I know where you're going. You hate me too!" The girl busted into tears. I wanted to refute her; much as I was baffled, I was as eager as ever to persuade her. Then someone from the crowd hissed, "Stop. She’s saying the right thing. You’re hurting her." I felt a thread of conviction nearing me. I retreated. As I seated myself, all I was thinking was, "Jesus, they're weird."

     It was years later that I realized the significance of that obnoxious, incomprehensible encounter. Looking back, though I still despised the vice president as much as I despise Wordsmart, I never challenged nor raised a question against her again. And it was because I knew she determined and managed what is true and false. That is, my definition of truth widened as to include 'the words alleged by the person in power'. But if my realization was confined to that, I'd only be encouraging servile, docile attitude. Right?

Now, after hurrying out from that scene of crime, I was boiling with frustration and embarrassment. However, beneath all that layers of emotion, there was a profound pride. I was proud that I had bought their disfavor. I was proud that I had the courage to raise objection to that bossy girl. And I believe this is what lighted my conscience even through the darkest days. Of course, nowadays I’m not as reckless and aloof as I was back then, and the stakes have gone too high for me to become an outright pariah. I just think there are different ways to express your despondency towards authority, and you don’t necessarily have to go so far as to call up the headmaster in 애국조회. What’s important, though, is to be aware that those situations are indeed unfair, and always remember to leave a tinge of sarcasm in your voice. That, I think is enough to persist as a rebel in this society. And that, is what I learned. Thank you.

 

A revised version of 'personal narrative'

     I was 10 years old when I found a small callus on my ring finger. Not larger than the size of a coin, it was embedded right on the tender nuckle like an unwelcomed guest. Usually kids my age had a pinkish trace on their middle finger, but nobody had one with such a definite shape. This gave me nerves. I knew well that being a lefty, I was bound to put more burden on my finger which may cause in calluses. But looking at the soft, smooth hands of fellow students, I couldn't help but feel frustrated towards my already contaminated hand. It wasn't only me who was hostile, either. My friends, upon discovering a new chunk of skin resting on my finger, seemed to think of it as a bit gross, while my mom simply sighed. She just said "I told you" in a way that I felt very guilty.
      As the callus grew, my hatred for it also increased. I started having calluses all over my hand;
wherever the pencil touches it spread its ugliness. I adopted the habit of peeling the dead skin off the callus. Sometimes it would end up bleeding, sometimes it would not, but I didn't care. My only aim was to get rid of that creature of a devil out of my finger. But irritable enough, the thing
kept its expansion. Steadily it grew, and never seemed to stop.
     Then one day, it did stop. 
     It was from the words of someone I only knew the face of . It was that time of the day when you didn't have anything in particular. I was staring into the void when she said, "You must have studied very hard. It shows on your finger."
     A new perspective swept over me. I realized for the first time how my foe could have actually been a friend, a token given for all the time I spent forcing words down the paper with my left hand. Rather than a doom, it was a present I could gloat over. After that was a wave of appreciation. Looking back, there had been some perks of having a callus, such as when I was able to identify left and right through where my callus was: left with the callus, right without callus. I took each of them with gratitude and laughed at all I had missed during the past years. It was a jovial encounter.
     In conclusion, the moral I got from this experience is simple: be positive. If I kept the horror towards having a callus, I'd probably still be obsessing over it, ripping off of it untill my skin hurts. What's more productive, however, would be to wake up from the bad dream and face what you have in front of you. Then you'd be able to perceive what you never did before: that the horror and the monstrosity was nowhere but in your mind.
    

    

A reflection on the movie: Les Miserables

     The movie 'Les Miserables'  had been arousing quite a worldwide phenomenon, producing
 dozens of parodies and a fair critical acceptance. Especially in Korea, the release date of the movie coincided with the election and gathered a great deal of audiences disappointed about the result. The revolutionary vigor and the grand musical number 'Do you hear the People Sing?' left a deep echo in the hearts of those who watched it, and soon the movie was treated as an altar of leftists. Personally, I have no will of supporting a certain political aspect. However, I did grow a bit skeptical about Les Miserables being a flawless political enlightenment.
     Les Miserables is a movie about salvation. The protagonist Jean Valjean's repentance and following affluence  is a manisfestation of individual salvation, while the revolution of February, to which the second sect of the movie is devoted to, is about the salvation of the society. Each of these two themes is developed thoroughly on its own, unraveling into a heartfelt tale. However, these themes fail to blend into one another organically.
     Individual salvation and social salvation are concepts that inevitably contradict each other. The former is often very confined, because one's success means another's fall. Look into the cover of every magazines. People who overcame their hardships and was accepted to a higher social class are the exact faces of those who threw others in inferno.
     Returning to the movie, Jean Valjean is actually a character uninterested in social equality or reformation. He sympathizes the poor and is generous towards them because he was once one of them, but it does not get him to dream the same dreams of those who threw their chairs and tables to build a barricade. He may be a nice mayor who feeds the people working under him, but he doesn't know he can change the system itself so that all people gets a daily bread to carry home. The only reason he puts his life on peril is because his dear Cosette's destined lover is walled in the barricade. He is 'not' a part of the revolution. His life centers around his salvation, and not upon the salvation of France.
The movie, however, seems in complete oblivion of the big gap between him and the revolutionists. It just clumsily juxtaposes a separate story, then sews it up by 'Do you hear the People Sing?', denying the character they developed throughout the movie by saying, 'hey, he was probably into this revolution stuff, because he's nice.' They don't explain why Jean Valjean's life is related with the revolution of February, why he, a rather self-absorbed character is depicted as a 'revolutionary hero' at the end of the movie. The two theme simply doesn't fit together, and they are pouring glue into the blanks to keep it from falling apart.   
     This is why the movie(and the novel if it didn't come up with a better explanation) didn't convince me of its political purity. Jean Valjean's story holds a religious, conservative tone, rather obedient towards the existing social order than against it. Sure, the grand musical scenes may stimulate our lacrimal system well enough, but we must not forget the amount of capital poured into the very scene, and where it came from.