I can still conjure the scent of the fields on my way to Rashkis Elementary in Chapel Hill. Flashback to 2013: while my dad was struggling through case studies for his MBA at Duke, I was caught up in my own world, fascinated with something else—the rotation of a baseball.
At that time, I perceived my surroundings much differently. As a shy Korean boy in Chapel Hill, I was trying to make sense of where I was and who I was. One thing that came naturally was baseball. More specifically, one of baseball’s marvels, Clayton Kershaw’s 79 mph curveball. I wasn’t just another fan watching the game, I was a learner eager to explore the depths of every single detail about the game. It was something I brought back home when I returned to Korea in 2014. During breaktime, I was the only kid to remain seated, drawing sketches of a four-seam fastball, curveball, slider, and changeup that I would later use to make a handbook for my friend.
In hindsight, perhaps that was my first experience with ‘education.’
As someone trying to learn the incredibly complex world of adulthood, meeting new people and pondering upon career paths, I find myself often daydreaming about that baseball book. We usually see education as something that happens inside the classroom: a teacher teaching content, while students learn and are evaluated with tests. However, one thing founding and leading the Robinson Review taught me is that real learning isn’t that static. It’s active. It’s like constructing a building: breaking down old structures, designing the facade from the ground up, and building each floor starting with the foundation.
During my journey building the Robinson Review and later Truth Review, I had no syllabi or curricula to guide me. Publishing articles was certainly important, but I cared more about how I could fascinate people with the art of writing. Countless nights went by as I edited my friends’ articles. Instead of simply revising and fixing grammar or certain phrases, I kept on asking the question: “Why does this matter?” That back-and-forth, or the so-called Tiki-taka in soccer, is what makes writing special. In every step of the way you are challenged to bring life to each phrase, cutting withering branches and watering sprouts.
Perhaps I could say this: education isn’t a noun to me, it’s more of a verb. It’s when one chooses to find the pattern hidden underneath messy rumors, whether it’s scandalous political news or historical crashes in the market. This brought me all the way to my fascination in technology, especially when it comes to writing. Coding the fact-checking practice tool for my TruthReview website, mapping out from Step 1 to Step 5, I realized it was just like making that handbook I had made as a kid. In the end, it was all about designing a system, one that students can use to decipher facts from rumors, biases from information, and eventually what kind of topics are worthwhile to discuss.
So, suppose a person asks me what education means to me. I would answer by saying: gripping a baseball, throwing it to move in a certain pattern, failing, adjusting my approach, and throwing it again. Obsession becomes skill when combined with agency and dedication. Whether it’s something more casual like Sabermetrics in baseball or something more formal like a thesis statement, curiosity, action, feedback, and refinement get the job done. Everything else is just noise.