Teach You a Lesson, Pt. 1

I am shaking as I write these words.

I do not know what speaking publicly about this will bring. Some people may see it as weakness. Others may dismiss it as complaining. Part of me worries that sharing these experiences could affect future opportunities or change the way people see me.

That fear is real.

But so is the feeling that I can no longer keep these stories to myself.

Recently, I started watching Teach You a Lesson, a new Netflix series. It resonated with me so deeply that I decided to create a painting for each episode, capturing what I felt while watching it.

In Episode 1, Dae-Seok dies by suicide after enduring relentless bullying at school. In response, the Educational Rights Protection Bureau (ERPB) steps in to investigate. What struck me most was not only the tragedy itself, but the idea behind ERPB — an institution with the authority to protect vulnerable people and hold others accountable.

Of course, reality is rarely that simple.

In the series, the bully, Ryu Jun-hyeong, appears insulated from consequences because of his family's influence. The adults around him recognize what is happening, yet few are willing to intervene. While dramatized for television, that dynamic felt familiar to me: the tendency for difficult situations to persist when addressing them carries a personal or professional cost.

My experience did not take place in school.

It took place in the financial industry.

For more than a year, I worked in an environment where I frequently felt isolated, undermined, and unwelcome. Some interactions included comments about my background and identity that left a lasting impression. What affected me most was not a single remark, but the sense that my concerns were often dismissed or minimized when I raised them.

I tried to address those concerns through the channels available to me.

During that period, organizational changes left me without consistent management support for extended stretches of time. At the same time, I was dealing with the aftermath of a physical assault outside of work, attending legal proceedings, and navigating responsibilities that were emotionally and logistically demanding.

I communicated those obligations as clearly as I could. Yet I often felt that assumptions were being made about my performance and commitment without full consideration of what I was managing behind the scenes.

Then there were the comments.

"You look different, so you were probably picked for sure."

When I lost my MetroCard in the office:

"Why do you even have a MetroCard? You're not from here."

When I brought homemade cookies for Thanksgiving potluck:

"There's no way you made these. You must have bought them."

None of these comments were devastating on their own. What stayed with me was their accumulation. Day after day, week after week, they reinforced a feeling that I was being viewed as an outsider.

The message I internalized was simple:

You do not belong here.

What many people did not know was that I had already survived challenges that once felt impossible.

I completed my studies in the United States largely on my own after losing financial support from my family. I navigated visa restrictions, financial insecurity, discrimination, and periods when I genuinely did not know how I would pay my rent after employment opportunities disappeared because of sponsorship requirements.

I made it through those years because of the kindness of others: a former internship supervisor who once gave me a bag of rice when money was tight, neighbors who helped when they could, and people who extended compassion when I needed it most.

I did not come that far just to give up because I felt unwelcome.

So I documented everything.

When I eventually presented my concerns, I hoped for understanding and support. Instead, I left those conversations feeling that little would change.

Over time, I was transferred to another team. By then, I already felt marked by the experience.

I convinced myself that the problem was specific to one workplace. Perhaps a smaller firm would be different.

It wasn't.

The work improved. My sense of belonging did not.

Once again, I encountered comments that made me feel as though parts of my identity were unwelcome. Conversations about other people's interests and backgrounds seemed to flow naturally, while discussions about my own experiences often ended abruptly or shifted elsewhere.

The message felt familiar:

Everyone else was allowed to have an identity. Mine felt like an inconvenience.

Eventually, I was placed under performance review and later laid off.

The explanation was that I was not performing at the level expected and was not a strong team fit.

What made that difficult to accept was that my own understanding of my work experience looked very different. I believed I had contributed meaningfully, supported colleagues, and often identified issues before they became larger problems. Like anyone, I made mistakes. But I struggled with the feeling that my mistakes received far more attention than the mistakes of others.

Their errors often seemed to be treated as misunderstandings.

Mine felt like evidence of who I was.

Watching this episode made me wish institutions like ERPB existed in real life — not just for dramatic cases, but for the quieter forms of exclusion that can occur in everyday environments. The kind that leaves no bruises. The kind that can be explained away as jokes, misunderstandings, personality conflicts, or "just workplace culture." The kind that can leave someone isolated long before they have enough evidence to explain what happened.

The painting I created emerged from that idea.

The spoon in the painting is not bent because someone intentionally twisted it. It is bent because it was already bent before anyone picked it up. The act of lifting it is simply the act of making visible what was already there.

There was a period in my life when everything felt so hopeless that I seriously considered suicide.

Looking back, I realized I spent a long time blaming myself. I thought I had failed. I thought I had somehow created these situations.

What I understand now is more complicated.

There were people who could have asked questions instead of making assumptions. People who could have offered support. People who might have chosen curiosity over distance.

Many did not.

Some pointed out how different I was and then seemed puzzled when I became quiet.

In the episode, consequences eventually arrive because people with authority decide to act.

I never had that kind of authority behind me.

I was not powerful.

I was not important.

All I had were my experiences, my paintings, and my words.

So that is what I will use.

No grand investigation arrived. No institution stepped in. No neat resolution appeared at the end of the story.

But I am still here.

That is why I am writing this now.

Not because I am fearless, but because I am afraid.

Afraid of being judged. Afraid of being misunderstood. Afraid of what speaking up may cost me.

Yet after years of staying silent, I have learned that fear does not disappear when you hide from it.

So, I am choosing to speak anyway.

If I cannot force people to listen, I can at least refuse to remain silent.