DJing

“I can do this.”

I’ve murmured this short but clichéd phrase probably thinking that it would help me. But no. Never in my short life have I trembled so frantically. Perspiration dripped from my sweaty palms and my legs were literally shaking from anxiety. My initial response? I thought I had to run away, far from this nightmare. Fortunately though, before emotion ruled my reasoning, my sanity kicked into play. ‘You brought these people together. You must be the one responsible for each individual’s breathtaking night’, I thought. So, there I stood, encompassed by the colorful eyes of the zealous crowd, possibly among dozens of astray sheep to guide on a journey to an ephemeral Arcadia. I was the DJ minutes before the debut night, the night when everything changed.

To look back, I was once considered a kid with “kki” - Korean term for innate talent to express oneself fluently - before puberty took a serious toll on me. An occasional trip from Seoul to Daegu was especially considered a three-and-a-half-hour joyride for I could confidently brag about my trifle knowledge and dry up my father’s saliva. Turning fifteen, though, the inevitable came. The boy who used to jabber about extraterrestrials for hours was gone. The boy who used to come forward to every school election was gone. A typical gen-Z teenager I was, fashion was my primary interest, and my playlists were filled with self-explanatory genres: Hip-hop and Emo rock. Being “that quiet student”, I was masked by my alter ego - no “kki” to be found.

In the midst of this existential crisis, I first dabbled in DJing. Blessed with all thumbs, I was enchanted by the fact that DJing allowed me to mix sounds for instruments that I wouldn’t have normally been able to play – clarinet, gayageum (traditional Korean zither), saxophone, or even harp – all at the push of a button. In other words, while handling the apparatus, I was the conductor, the concertmaster, and the drummer. An all thumbs music producer. Ironic, isn’t it?

Over time, I’ve developed a strong attachment to my 300 square inch playground. I cultivated my fundamental set of skills, adjusted by DJing, via exploratory endeavors. As I learned how to tweak the knobs just before the chorus, I’ve managed to refine alacrity to cope with unforeseen situations. As I grasped the concept of syncing tempos, my yet feeble tenacity formulated perseverance to fine-tune tracks in a few millisecond units. As I started to read the flow of the crowd, I embodied the bigger picture. Most of all, however, standing in front of the apparatus transformed me into my original self, though a long-forgotten one.

As scratches were added to the machine, I’ve slowly, and partially, reclaimed the boy I’ve longed for. Just as the ten-year-old boy curious about everything he encounters, I probed the art of cutting frequency, fixing tunes, and mixing synthesizers, all while exploring every and all possible cases. With the machine in hand, I shout, jump, and empathize with the crowd, whether imaginary or real, just as the thirteen-year-old boy who used to dress up as Steve Jobs and deliver a frenetic speech.

I am now eighteen, and the apparatus once destined to take me on a grand odyssey lies deep inside my closet with all its glory behind. Nothing matters, though. I still manage to select music for school barbecues. I am also still in charge of selecting the dorm’s reveille, which my roommates hate, signifying its successful sole purpose as an alarm. Music still fuels my blood and rushes energy through the veins. Kick drums still synchronize with my heartbeat.

If my short life has taught me something, it is that life itself is music, with some high and low notes, but always a beautiful song. And just as a DJing machine embroiders music, the machine embellished “my life”, probably altering what is expected in my future. And thus abandoning the past in my early works and composing the present, I look forward to whatever the altered future brings.

So I dive in.

A machine

    Intense sunlight dazzles from the sky and pervades through the streets, creating a neighborly environment. Sprinklers spray water all over the road where car tires seem to be hauled by the heated asphalt. Downtown streets embody vestiges of the Japanese colonial period with its stone buildings, and yearly countless visitors explore the area with their sunscreen on. Daegu, the hottest major city in South Korea, is also known as the second biggest city of education, as if the heat is coming from the city’s education fever.

    The academies and high schools boast their college entrance examination results, posting a placard up as high as if they are announcing to the world. However, occasionally, young students with fatigue all over on their faces break the tranquility and pride of my hometown. These students, who are living proofs of the remnants of the cramming education system, inspired me to expand my horizons and pursue studies elsewhere even though I love Daegu. My hometown is a wonderful place to study, but there belie some austere truths about the educational system.

    To avoid becoming a “question-solving machine” (Not to disparage all the students, but they really look like a machine), I had to take a leap of faith. The school I applied to, is located in the middle of a mountain valley in Gangwon-do, and has the most unique educational system in South Korea. It was a new dawn for me, a challenge.

    Compared to the local education system, the new school system required us with a mix of grit. We rarely were guided manually, nor did we were confident about anything regarding the admission process. We had to search through the darkness to reach our exit. I thus began to learn as much as I could get my hands on, as much as I liked. To keep up the pace with the cataclysmic international situation, I started to subscribe to English newspapers, to not lose myself in the midst of hectic daily-life, I started to write daily planners, and to cope with any potential job I get, I started to learn computer programming. Among all the activities, however, I was deeply mesmerized by the computational abilities and the potential applications of computer programming, and especially, deep learning and artificial intelligence.

    Since then, computer programming for me was an apparatus to reassemble the real world. From astrophysical simulations to statistical inference on cancer rates, there seemed to be no limit to whatsoever computer programming could do. To be specific, my concerns about CS drove me to take every course available in my high school, even designating my position as a school programming club leader.

    I believe that CS in the near future will be residing among every other field, affecting the prosperity of the businesses and the diversity of the economy. Years ago, people did not anticipate how Amazon would revolutionize how we purchase products, or how smartphones would be a ubiquitous and useful presence in our daily lives. Just as we couldn’t predict these shifts, being a leading role in the “information revolution”, CS will bring major changes to our lives.

    These developments, however, are unlikely to be distributed to cities and countries with less regard for the field. I don’t see any compelling reasons why these innovations cannot be embraced in my community if talented leaders choose to care. I want to be a part not just of cutting-edge innovations but finding ways to distribute access to innovation opportunities more evenly. I consider placards in my hometown, and I think about how they can relate not just to college examination results.

Cold relationships

I belong to the forest, the forest made out of concrete and steel. The trees of the forest, also known as skyscrapers, rise high up as if they are entering the realm of divinity. The leaves of the trees, also known as people, tend to pass by others without emotions or feelings. I take a deep breath, and with a lung filled with the scent of artificiality, I head toward the taxi station, which is just below a 10-story building. I book a cab and wait until the cab arrives at the station. Amazed by the scenery of the new district, I lost track of time, and fail to notice that the cab has arrived. With a simple apology, “Sorry, sir”, I let the driver take me to today’s destination: the company’s conference room.

Some time ago, the world was not so much of a cold-hearted place. I was a high school senior student, preparing for the college entrance exams. I attended a school with a dormitory, thus I had to spend 24/7 with my “friends”. We laughed together, studied together, and even ate together. The “friends of mine” shared the same goal, and we were genuinely close in terms of academics, social relationships, hobbies, and so on.

I have no idea what they’re up to lately, but thinking of them now, the sole reason I was so acquainted with them was my first approach. I slightly tend to judge a book by its cover, so every time I see a new face, I try to judge them myself. Even though the habit, which I now am attempting to lose, is not the politest way to treat a person, most of the time, it fits one’s characteristics. Everyone wants to make a solid first impression. So am I. However, trying too hard on our first impressions are easily noticeable to others. Everyone hates to be penetrated by others, right? As others treat me just as I treat them, I hate being biased by other’s own stereotypes about my first impression.

Recalling back for once more, unlike today’s society, we actually had time to spend a great deal of time with our family back in the 2000s. Family members were considered to be the closest people one will ever be acquainted with. Although, as close as the relationship can be, we always argue over misunderstandings. The key to becoming one step close to a person was to solve the problem and to keep reminding myself. I had this feeling quite ago when I was still a child, my parents were too busy. They both run a hospital, so for little me to perceive the circumstances, I was left alone for several hours every day. Despite that my parents always spent their time with me on the weekends, the vacancy of them during the weekdays was so grave for the younger me. As time went on and I grew up, I eventually realized they are working so hard for the sake of our family’s support and my education. Time heals wounds.

The recollections of the memories evoke emotions that I’ve forgotten. Being a CEO of a space industry company, more than 95% of the relationships I make tend to be shallow, but connected. The cold society plays a key role in structuralizing my relationships, too. Individualism is prevalent; nobody cares about others anymore. In this cold, mechanic, precise world, I attempt something most people never achieve in their lifetime. I call the driver, “Hey, how was your day?”