After having an orientation with the sponsor in charge of the students in the Work, English, Study program in New York, I started to study at the City University of New York at the beginning of September. Because I was studying and working a night shift, I never finished my homework and I always dosed off during classes. As usual, I was catching up on my sleep before class, and I heard my professor start to read an essay aloud. The overwhelming expressions made me think it was written by a professional, but praise to the student who wrote it proved me wrong. As she read aloud each verse, my mind was filled with envy. It made me think I wanted to get complimented for my English essay.

After that day, I studied and prepared for the essay class as if every class was the last. Having only read high school English textbooks and TOEIC prep books in Korea, my vocabulary was seriously lacking. I was unable to express myself. No matter how much I searched the dictionary, I could not find the terms I was looking for. Also, translating Korean-style expressions into English-style did not help to convey the meaning at all. I wanted to, no, needed to command English like an American.

The reason why I was working so hard to write an essay was I wanted to write something that would make Professor Michelle gape in awe. It was the ultimate goal of my study abroad. I tried many times, but my essays came back beaten by red pen. The honor of being read aloud was always given to someone else’s paper. I put up a smile whenever an essay was read aloud, but in my mind I was crying. It wasn’t as if there were any rewards given for being read aloud, but strangely I refused to give up. Editing the red-filled paper, I swore that before the class was over, I would succeed.

Before the class, I met the professor in the elevator. She greeted me with praise. It was the first time she complimented my work. While she didn’t say much, she knew that I was trying hard. I hoped she would read mine aloud. But again, it was another classmate’s that got the honor. But hearing that compliment filled me with confidence. The end of the semester was near, and I just had one more opportunity.

The seventh session was visiting the Park Ave. Armory. It was once used as an armory, but now the place held portraits and reminders of the generals. Listening to the lecture didn’t give me any inspiration. Leaving the professor and other students behind, I left the class and wandered around the building. A bit later as I sat down and started to think about the last essay I had to write, the professor announced groundbreaking news. “Please write your last essay about this armory.”

Even until the night before the last class, I couldn’t get any writing done. I could have just copied various parts of the data I gathered through the Internet, but I didn’t want to do that. To shake the weary feeling off, I ventured into the old landlord’s library. Mountains of books, LP records and videotapes were just lying there, covered in dust. Wanting to watch a movie of some kind, I browsed through what little collection of DVD’s the landlord had and found a case that looked relatively modern, A Night at the Museum. It was something I’d never heard of, and an Internet search revealed to me that the movie was released in Korea with the title The Museum Is Alive.

I sat alone watching the movie, chuckling and laughing. And then I had a bright idea. The movie was my inspiration. The armory and the museum were completely different places, but with the right twist, a great story could be made. I was planning to just finish the movie before going to sleep, but the drive to put my ideas into the essay made me grab my laptop and write. I wrote mixing the scenes from the movie and the armory I had visited. Thinking of the old building coming alive gave me numerous ideas.

Staying up late to write the essay made me late for the last class. Looking around to figure out the situation, I saw that even the professor was starting to laugh. Considering that she always cringed whenever I was late, it was a weird scene indeed. “Bumjin, you did a really great job! I loved your essay.” She read my essay aloud. Apparently the way I gave character to a mundane building and incorporated my own journey in the United States was finally enough to meet her standards. I was delighted beyond belief that my essay was read. I missed the joyous moment due to my tardiness. I was proud that I kept that promise to myself. Something that started as a small challenge improved my composition skill to a new level. After that class, essays no longer meant tedious work but rather, they became a hobby. My English in general became much more fluent and it came to be a big help.