나는 느리다. 그러나 나름대로 존재한다
“Philosophy thinks through language,” someone once said. I had come to prove it — by enrolling in an English school.
The problem: I did not yet know English fully.
My thoughts were long and slow, while New York’s English was short and sharp. Once proud of being the “last bastion of slow thinking,” I now sat through four hours of speaking drills a day. It felt like a turtle crouched at the starting line of a 100-meter dash.
My third morning in New York.
On the registration card, I paused at Occupation. Should I write Philosopher? Teacher? Or confess: Owner of a failed chicken shop?
In the end, I wrote the oldest name I had: Philosopher.
Less a profession than an old habit I could not shed.
First class: the beginner’s room.
Six nationalities, eight accents. On one side sat Camila, a Colombian woman with bright eyes; across from her, Raima in a hijab; and in the front row, Satoru, a Japanese man gripping his textbook as if it were an anchor. Everyone was tense, clutching at stray English words like lifelines.
Outside, car horns faded. Inside, the air grew heavier.
Some students fidgeted, some coughed into their hands. I stared at my notebook, heart pounding, afraid the sound might leak into the silence. Soon my entire being would be reduced to a few English words.
“Speak simply,” the teacher said. “Short sentences.”
Short sentences. The phrase struck me as painfully precise. Philosophy is the habit of thinking long. English, the art of crossing short bridges. Language was always outrunning me.
Introductions began. Camila raised her hand first.
“Hello, my name is Camila. I love dancing.”
Her fingers tapped a tiny rhythm as she spoke. The brief sentence loosened the room’s air. Existence, I thought, could be spoken through a gesture as much as through words.
Satoru set his textbook down and said carefully, “My name is Satoru. I study… again.”
His voice was firm, yet tinged with sorrow. In his confession, existence seemed to carry the possibility of beginning even inside repetition.
Then my turn came. I wet my lips.
“My name is Yoo Jon.”
A student in the front row squinted.
“You John?”
I hesitated, then nodded.
“Yes. Jon.”
That small “Yes” carried a trace of betrayal. A name is a label, but sometimes also the handle of a soul. And I had let go of the handle.
The teacher wrote a sentence on the board.
“Repeat: I am happy.”
I stopped at ‘am’.
The English verb ‘to be’ ties being and state with a thread so thin it almost breaks. I — am — happy.
Is existence itself happiness? Or is happiness the proof of existence? If unhappiness comes, am I no longer there?
My mind was summoning Hegel and Sartre, but the class was already stepping into the next beat.
“I am happy,” they echoed.
I said, belatedly, “I am… trying.”
The room went still. A student glanced sideways. Another smiled faintly.
The teacher nodded. “Good trying.”
The words were strangely warm. Effort sounded more human than completion.
I wrote in my notebook: Effort is existence in the present tense.
At the end of class, the teacher asked, “Say one goal in English.”
I looked out at the gray buildings and spoke quietly: “I want to become… audible. Not loud, but clear.”
The silence deepened. It felt as if everyone was translating my sentence in their own mind. The teacher nodded. “Clear is good.”
At the window at the end of the hall, I repeated my name under my breath.
“Yoo Jon. Jon Yoo.”
A name reduced. But still, a choice. The sound on my lips, however imperfect, was another form of being.
In short English sentences, my slow thoughts followed behind.
I was slower than English—but at least now, we were on the same road.
“I am slow, but I am.”