being at a wehgo, our exams were much more difficult than the standard curriculum.

Myongji had mandatory boarding for all. The school’s philosophy is explained in an old brochure I found recently in a cardboard box. It says the school is not a building but a “software” to build your academics and character: “a professional operating system to allow you to study and live in an environment as comfortable as home.” Under this system

Music blares through the sound system. I’m on the top bunk, so the speaker is blasting into my ears. I groan and smother myself under my pillow. It’s 6:20 a.m.

By the time you’re a senior, called a gosam, you should look like a zombie. You shouldn’t be seeing friends, God forbid dating. You are not expected at family gatherings. You should be fat, constipated and full of acne.

Now here I was, trapped in this hyper-regimented school, with a total lack of personal space, any meaningful exercise or extracurricular activities.

or unzip a pair of tight trousers. I could finally breathe again. The alcohol coursed through my brain, allowing the neurons to reconfigure and snap into place. Click. Then it pumped through my body, radiating into each limb. I could be me now, no inhibitions or social niceties, no norms or expectations.

One fateful November day, over half a million gosam students all over Korea sit suneung, eight back-to-back hours of standardized exams.

When I left the US at fourteen, I was heartbroken to leave my best friends. When I left Korea at seventeen, I was heartbroken to leave my boyfriend. When I left Paris at nineteen, I felt nothing but excitement to start afresh, once again.

Reading the articles gave me the validation I needed to feel like I wasn’t just being self-indulgent, wallowing in self-pity, but that I had a point. I could stop being so apologetic about my privilege, afraid of sounding like a brat—a “diplobrat” as we are sometimes called. What I was going through was real.