Hagwon Hero

At 38, Jeong-min decided to enroll in an adult English class at a hagwon in downtown Daegu, South Korea. “A hagwon is like a for-profit cram school for anything. English. Piano. Basketball. Chinese. Martial arts. Cheaper than a babysitter,” is how his instructor from Oklahoma explained it.

Work. Home. Work. Home. Work. Home. That was Jeong-min’s life for the past 15 years after serving in the military, a compulsory service for all able-bodied Korean men. His hagwon of choice specialized in teaching adults over 30. Many Koreans studied English during their earlier school years, but some had no practical need for it in everyday life. Sure, Daegu was home to four large military bases and hundreds of English teachers, but being in the “conservative south” didn’t leave many Koreans here much creative wiggle room to practice English outside their common social circles. Now, however, it was 2025; globalization was the norm, and monolingualism was a thing of the past for Jeong-min.

Six months ago, Jeong-min watched a stage adaptation of the movie “Titanic.” It was at that moment that he chose his American name, Jack. The play was performed in English, even though the entire cast was Korean, inspiring Jeong-min to learn another language. English, of course, was everywhere; Konglish—the Korean system of loan words—was everywhere. In 2025, anyone who didn’t know English was considered a cultural hermit. “Might as well move to North Korea,” his neighbor Min-kyu often said.

Min-kyu, too, was at the venue with his French girlfriend when he noticed Jeong-min sitting alone. Rather than joining him, the couple remained in the far back. Out of sight.

“He doesn’t have friends?” asked Jan from France.

“Guess not.”

Min-kyu paid Jeong-min no mind until the curtains dropped and the audience roared with applause. When Jeong-min rose from his seat, Fran approached the lonely man. Bouncing on her tippy toes, she asked, pointing to Min-kyu, “Bonjour. You know Meeeeeen-kyu?”

Jeong-min was speechless. English was not his strong point—nothing outside of “hi” and “bye”. He drew blank after blank after blank. Min-kyu approached the two with a sly grin, bringing his neighbor back to earth. The two neighbors then had a lengthy conversation in Korean. Titanic. International couples. Beer. Guy stuff. Fran, unable to understand a single word, only shifted her eyes left to right, left to right. Her Korean was bad, bad.

“She’s been here for three months, and she’ll stay for a year. I think she wanted a Korean man from the beginning. On that first Friday of class, I went to a French Students’ Association party with my niece. She’s a real social butterfly. You know my style: turtleneck, black jeans. And my English is okay since I lived in Seattle for two years. Fran and I hit it off nice that night.”

The two neighbors said their goodbyes. Fran, as French as she was, hugged Jeong-min and kissed him on the cheek. Min-kyu didn’t mind. From that day on, Jeong-min was determined to start studying a new language. Of course, not French. There is no use in Daegu, he thought. He had seen a sign for a weekly English study group at his favorite café, but he didn’t want to jump into an already established cohort. What if they can all speak freely? What if they’re all women? What if they’re all French?!?! Just the mere thought of any of those circumstances gave Jeong-min tremors. So, he did what any man would do in his situation. He asked Min-kyu, the all-knowing, all-powerful Min-kyu, with his French supermodel girlfriend.

Min-kyu schooled Jeong-min on tips for leveling up in English. Finding a nearby hagwon was essential for getting Jeong-min's linguistic cogs churning. In South Korea, especially in the bigger cities like Daegu, the options were far and wide. John Q. Academy. School of Adult English Speech. SkyLeaf Writing Lab. Hero School of English. Ibo Jang's Talking Club. Dozens and dozens of hagwons, big and small.

John Q. Academy had a nice ring to it, and within a week Jeong-min paid the tuition, met with the principal—John Quang, a Vietnamese-American educator who spoke three languages—and enrolled in an adult beginner course.

John Q. was the principal and one of two instructors. He taught in the morning, and his wife taught in the afternoon. And every Friday evening, they hosted a mingling event in the restaurant one floor below; then another, more rowdy event at the karaoke bar below the restaurant. By the time everyone reached the first floor, they were a drunken pile of interlocked limbs rolling out the door like the zombie wave in Train to Busan.

John Q.'s circle of friends extended far beyond his students and private clients. He rubbed elbows with American military personnel, Japanese business owners, and European freelancers—probably even Fran. It seemed that bilingualism was a prerequisite to even sitting in the same room as the Q's. To Jeong-min, being around so many internationals was a frightening spectacle, like watching the moon fall.

After six grueling months of what felt like English grammar bootcamp, Jeong-min was the center of attention at the Fifth Annual Daegu International Spelling Contest. How he ended up at this point was beyond Jeong-min. Having a full-fledged conversation was still an uphill battle, but the basics were a walk in the park. At least that’s what he’d thought before the goofy-looking judge on the panel chose “once” for the final word. He was up against Leah, a 40-year-old mother of two middle schoolers. Her children were students at the school where the spelling contest was held.

“Use… one more, please,” pleaded Jeong-min.

“Once… as in once upon a time,” said the spelling bee judge sitting furthest to the left. His ridiculously large circle frames sat comically on his nose.

Jeong-min was standing directly under a round spotlight that felt like a hovering military helicopter. Beady forehead. Check. Clammy palms. Check. Tremors. Double check. Jeong-min couldn’t tell the difference between the words “once” and “wants”. For all he knew, the judge was saying “Wants a pan of thyme” in his best British accent. And it didn’t help that the damn judge was British! All of Jeong-min’s instructors spoke U.S. English. Now he had no lifeline. No phone a friend. No way to ask the audience—"How To Be A Millionaire” was his favorite show, even though he couldn’t understand a word.

At this point, he was ready to throw in the towel. Then, in the dead silence, he noticed a familiar silhouette near the exit. Min-kyu. Jeong-min couldn’t see his face, but he recognized his professor neighbor by his trademark turtleneck.

“O…”

Jeong-min was ready to give up. So what if he loses to Leah, who liked the name Leah because it was so much easier to pronounce than her Korean name, Ryoung-hui? So what if the British judge doesn’t have the decency to step down from a spelling contest where the contestants only know U.S. English? None of that mattered now.

“N…”

Jeong-min wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead and loosened his tie. Two hundred eyes from the crowd were beaming hot on him. More than the helicopter hovering above. More than the all-knowing, all-powerful Min-kyu. More than Fran, wherever she was; whoever she was; whatever she was.

“C…”

The turtlenecked silhouette in the rear tilted his head. Jeong-min thought about what the silhouette may be feeling. Meanwhile, the silly-looking judge smirked at Jeong-min. And Jeong-min somewhat smirked back at the clown, then at Leah before opening his mouth.

“S.”