Thales Essay Contest: Second Place
By Evie Lee.
Walk into any modern coffee shop and you’ll see dozens of people, each in private bubbles of headphones and laptops, together yet completely alone. The carefully choreographed distance between strangers isn’t just coffee shop etiquette—it is a microcosm of American values. While Americans have mastered the art of respectful distance, treating personal space as sacred territory, I’ve experienced it in a different way. In Korea, there’s Jeong—the glue that holds Korean society together. Americans are taught from day one about healthy boundaries, keeping our distance, and respecting that invisible bubble around each person. But step into a Korean community, and those neat boundaries vanish into thin air. Jeong is why that Korean auntie at the restaurant will not take “I’m full” for an answer and keeps piling food on your plate, or why complete strangers might fuss over you like a worried relative. To American eyes, this might seem like crossing boundaries. That’s exactly what Jeong is about—crossing lines to create real human connection, even at the cost of discomfort.
This sense of connection is part of our language itself. We use 우리 (pronounced “woo-ree”)—meaning “we” or “our”—instead of 내 (“my”) when talking about things that belong to us. When I tell my American friends that I say “our mom” instead of “my mom,” they’re puzzled. But this linguistic difference reveals everything about how we view belonging: is family something we possess individually, or something we share collectively? Meanwhile, American English emphasizes possession: “my rights,” “my space,” “my time.” These aren’t just vocabulary choices—they show how we understand self.
In contrast to Korea, individualism has been a crucial part of American identity. This isn’t merely about being independent; it’s about the gritty determination Americans admire. In the States, everyone values independence: it shows that each person has the freedom and the power to go on his or her own path. The American Dream is a clear example—the belief that anyone can be successful through hard work. It’s what caused generations of immigrants to build their life in the States and to pursue personal freedom. In many ways, individualism is synonymous with opportunity.
However, this admirable emphasis on individual success has come with costs to our community bonds. Drive through any American small town’s Main Street, and you’ll see the change: spaces that once buzzed with community life now stand quiet. The diner where locals gathered for morning coffee and conversation has been replaced by a drive-through Starbucks. The movie theater where teenagers met for movie nights has given way to Netflix. The corner store where the owner knew everyone’s name is now a self-service shop. While technology promises to connect us more than ever, we’re actually building digital walls around ourselves. We might have hundreds of online friends and followers, but when was the last time someone borrowed a cup of sugar from a neighbor or hosted an impromptu barbecue? This isn’t just about nostalgia—it’s about how community unravels from neighbors to strangers.
Fixing our fractured communities is not as complicated as we think. I remember watching my grandmother make bojagi, the traditional Korean wrapping cloths she used daily. Unlike American wrapping paper that gets torn apart and discarded, bojagi are patchworks where different fabric scraps come together to create something lasting and beautiful. “Each piece stays itself,” she’d say, smoothing the cloth with her worn hands, “but becomes more beautiful with others.” I see this wisdom in how my generation naturally builds community. We’re creating our own kind of bojagi, where individual success and community flourishing are stitched together by choice.
Belonging need not disappear just because we value independence. In fact, my generation can redefine individualism—not as isolation, but as a chance to strengthen ourselves so we can support each other better. It’s about finding the balance between standing on our own and reaching out a hand when someone else needs it. I think we are doing a good job blending. We’re the ones who start independent businesses but create community-focused spaces. We’re learning that success doesn’t have to mean choosing between “me” and “we”—it can mean building something of our own precisely so we have more to share with others.
For my generation, finding this balance between ‘me’ and ‘we’ isn’t just philosophical—it is practical. We can start small: maybe it’s creating a monthly potluck tradition in our apartment building, where everyone brings a dish from their culture. Or perhaps it involves study groups where we share not just notes but also our struggles and victories. It could be as simple as putting phones away during meals and listening to each other, or as ambitious as starting community projects. These aren’t just acts of charity; they’re ways of proving that personal success and community connection can grow together.
When we are trapped in the bubble of extreme individualism, our decision-making becomes myopic. I have seen friends chase prestigious jobs that look good on paper but leave them feeling empty and isolated. They achieve the American dream of individual success but miss out on the real understanding of success—one that’s measured not just in personal achievements but in the strength of our connections. The most fulfilled people I know are not necessarily the ones with the biggest paychecks or the most impressive titles; they’re the ones who’ve learned to balance personal ambition with meaningful relationships.
In a world that increasingly pushes us toward isolation, my generation should redefine true individualism. Rather than maintaining our personal bubble, a healthy individualism is about being secure enough in ourselves to let others in, even if it means getting a little squished..
Evie Lee is a junior living in Seoul, South Korea
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