What ‘Only The Obedient Become Leaders’ Reveals About Korean College Admissions And Parenting
The iced americano in front of me sweats through its paper cup onto the plastic table at the Gangnam cram school parking lot café. It’s 9:45 pm, and my 18-year-old son is inside his third extra class of the day, polishing a mock college entrance essay. The mom sitting across from me, Soo-jin, just pulled up her son’s early admission rejection email from Seoul National University. She leans forward, taps the screen with a manicured nail, and says the line I’ve heard my whole life, from my own high school teacher to my parents to PTA meetings: “Only the obedient become leaders.”
Soo-jin’s 19-year-old son, Min-woo, is the kid I’ve watched take the road less traveled for the last three years. Instead of checking the pre-approved community service box – 100 hours at the city orphanage, the default for every top applicant – he spent three semesters putting together a small zine about teen anxiety in Korean high schools. He printed copies at his own expense, passed them out at schools around Seoul, and even interviewed a handful of school counselors for it. When applications opened, he led with the zine in his personal statement, calling it the work he was most proud of. The kid who got the spot Min-woo wanted was the class valedictorian, who had the exact same 100 hours at the orphanage, the exact same five AP scores, the exact same student council presidency that hundreds of other applicants have.
“He thought when the admissions guides said they wanted ‘original experience’ they meant it,” Soo-jin says, stirring her coffee so hard the ice clatters. “I told him it was a risk. But he said it showed character. Now he knows. The only original thing they want is something that doesn’t rock the boat. If you obey the unwritten rules, you get the scores, you get the spot, you get to be a leader. That’s how it works.”
I know that logic too. Last year, when my son told me he wanted to take a gap semester to work at a small independent game studio after graduation, I almost said no immediately. The unwritten rule is you go straight from high school to a top university, any deviation is seen as a failure on your part, and on your parents’ part. I grew up with that phrase written on my senior year classroom blackboard, right next to the exam schedule. It’s not just a saying – it’s the backbone of how our college admissions system works.
Over the last 20 years, Korean universities have changed their admissions rules over and over, trying to cut down on cram school dependence and encourage more individual creativity. But every change just leads to a new set of unwritten rules that families learn to follow to the letter. When schools started weighting extracurriculars more than test scores, parents started mapping out a resume of approved extracurriculars from the first year of middle school. Any activity that isn’t on that map is a waste of time, because it doesn’t signal “good applicant” to admissions officers.
I’ve done it too. I have a spreadsheet that checks off every requirement my son needs for his top three schools. Last semester, when he wanted to skip a weekend of math cram to attend a local game jam, I hesitated for a full day before saying yes. I knew skipping that cram could drop his practice test score by a few points, and those few points could be the difference between acceptance and rejection. That’s the tradeoff: obey the schedule, keep checking the boxes, and you get closer to your goal. Step off the path, and you pay for it.
But after meeting Soo-jin that night, I made two small changes that any parent in this system can try, without dropping all the cram classes or throwing the application process out the window. First, I added a non-negotiable two hour block every Sunday that can’t be used for anything related to college admissions. No test prep, no cram homework, no application editing. It’s just for whatever my son wants to work on, even if it’s just playing around with his game or hanging out with his friends. It doesn’t go on the resume, it doesn’t help his application, it just exists for him. Second, I split our application checklist into two parts: the “required box list” that we check off to meet expectations, and the “real thing list” that makes sure at least one of his actual interests is front and center, even if it’s a risk.
I talked to my son about Min-woo’s rejection last week. He said he heard the same line from his cram school teacher a few months ago: “Only the obedient become leaders.” His teacher meant it as good advice, that following the system is the only way to get ahead. My son told me he thinks that means the system only wants leaders who will keep following the rules even when they’re on top. That makes sense to me.
Soo-jin’s son is re-applying this year. He took his zine website down, added two extra cram classes, and signed up for the 100 hours at the orphanage. He told his mom it’s not worth being different if it means you never get to lead at all. We submitted my son’s application last month, with his independent game project listed first on his extracurricular list, right before the student council and the community service. We don’t know if he’ll get into his first choice. It’s a gamble.
Last night, he stayed up until 1 a.m. adding a new level to his game after finishing his cram homework. I brought him a bowl of spicy ramyun and sat with him for 10 minutes while he showed me what he’d built. I didn’t mention his upcoming mock test, or remind him that he needed to get to sleep. That’s all I can do right now. The phrase is still everywhere, written into every part of our admissions system. We’ll see what happens next.
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