Of Korean Kimchi: infusion as thinking through and with stereotypes about Asia (1).

Chen, Shudong

Infusing Asia into curriculum is now no longer an option but a necessity. It is our inevitable response to a new world that increasingly integrates as well as diversifies itself in economy, politics, and cultures through globalization, technological innovation, and rapid exchange of information. But the question is always, how shall we do this? Our understanding of Asia, often contrary to what we like to assume, does not automatically improve following the trends of globalization. Instead, old stereotypes persist as people feel more and more concerned about their ethnic, national, and cultural identities with the pressures of globalization. To better inform and enlighten our students about Asia, particularly with regard to its dynamic changes in the recent years, we can no longer afford to teach about Asia as a homogenous, monolithic, stagnant cultural museum, even if under enormous pressure of time. There are many subtle but significant geographical, regional, historical, and cultural differences that have influenced the current changes in Asia. (2)

The situation often becomes further complicated when we move further into detail because we cannot talk about how to infuse Asia into our curriculum without talking about specifically when, where, to whom we teach about Asia. (3) Our approaches to Asia, as a matter of fact, are often defined by the very nature of the institute in which we teach. As a community college teacher, I particularly feel the pressure and responsibility to guide my students through the labyrinth of misperceptions of Asia. Overall, my students, for instance, do not know much about China. Some do not even care about such knowledge under the immediate pressures of life. For many, their knowledge of China goes no further than chow mien, zodiac animals, and brutal communism. Some students, however, have demonstrated enormous energy, enthusiasm, and even devotion to various compelling issues about China, such as those concerning Falun Gong, Tibet, and human rights. But most students know little about the country and the cultural background of its people. Often, they are not interested in the culture itself but the hot issues or right causes that would lend meanings to their lives. They are often, unconsciously, looking for things that would make them feel good and right about themselves. Some involuntarily idealize China as they are disappointed with various problems here in the U.S. This really concerns me as well as motivates me. (4)

But I do not feel discouraged because answers to the problem are always inherent in the problem itself. As a matter of fact, we need stereotypes to teach about Asia. When we teach the humanities for general education, either consciously or involuntarily, we often simultaneously teach against stereotypes as well as through stereotypes. The word, stereotype, in other words, has often been abused. Instead of asking, "What is stereotype?" we probably should ask, "What is not stereotype?" The way we casually dismiss what we perceive as stereotypes is itself quite stereotypical. Of course, we cannot teach stereotypes or teach with stereotypes. But neither can we teach without stereotypes, which sometimes prove to be our vital, tentative points of departure. Stereotypical images often suggest truth because they are accessible popular cultural icons for the people at large. Without understandable social and epistemological values, they would simply cease to exist. Often, between stereotypes and truths, there are, as Chuang Tzu would say, just some blurting or fuzzy lines. As stereotypes exist even in the most cautious or critical minds, we may then trade off one stereotype with another, perhaps, in the most scholarly manner and sophisticated professional languages.

So, what should we do with all our perceived stereotypes? There is no way that we can prevent or dump them all. But we certainly can understand the condition that enables them to occur in the first place. As both Heidegger and Chuang Tzu might suggest, stereotypical ways of thinking occur when we tend over-generalize things beyond their proper contents and contexts. (5) Once we know how to think and teach according to appropriate contents and contexts, we may turn perceived stereotypical images into most holistic and unique cultural icons, such as zodiac animals and kimchi.

Teaching with and through the Great Wall

Based on this understanding, I have been trying to teach my Humanities courses through stereotypes as the indispensable stepping-stones. When I teach about China, for instance, I use popular and stereotypical images, such as the Great Wall, dragon, Yellow River, yin-yang symbol, and Chinese characters, as powerful cultural icons to engage students. At the same time, I also try to de-familiarize these images by bringing in relevant information and facts that students need to know in order to understand these icons in proper contents and contexts. I organize all essential and contextual materials about China through these popular cultural icons. I let each icon tell its own story concerning the facts and values each embodies. Using them for facts and as thought-provoking metaphors, mirrors, and windows, I also help students to see various connections from one icon to another, such as from Yellow River to dragon and to the Great Wall. With these visual images, I want my students not only to read and think about China but also to see it and feel it through the historical condition and cultural and social values these icons stand for and help contextualize. Students often feel encouraged to seek information and interpretation about these icons through otherwise overwhelming, daunting materials about China. Through the process, they also learn how to read and think--not only through logic but also through cultural logic. They have to learn, for instance, how to deal with the issue of necessity, possibility and consequence in order to answer questions, such as, "Why the Great Wall is the unique symbol of China, which remains the only ancient civilization that enjoys its unbroken tradition for thousands of years?" They must know how to look into the historic condition that not only demands such massive construction but also makes it possible to materialize in the first place. Since necessity does not necessarily mean possibility, as I often emphasize in class, my students must find out whatever geographical, political, economic, bureaucratic, cultural, and technological factors that may shed lights to the question, "What made such a massive constriction possible in addition to the available natural and human resources?" (6) They must incorporate textbook information to explain how the gigantic project is initiated, organized, implemented, and sustained. Naturally, they also need to look into the issue of consequence following its construction since the Great Wall is often regarded as an ironic symbol of self-defense and self-isolation besides being the unique icon of national unity and permanent peace treaty with the world at large. Organizing their knowledge about China with the Great Wall as a rallying axis or point of departure, my students learn about facts as well as the means to interpret them. They can visualize otherwise mind-boggling data and interpret their significance through vivid image of the Great Wall.

Kimchi as Revealing Stereotype

For the same reason, I use kimchi as the unique cultural icon in teaching about Korea. For me, kimchi is by no means an overused or abused symbol of Korea or simply a stereotypical image of Korean backwardness. Instead, I approach it as what it is the unparalleled symbol of Korean uniqueness that still remains insufficiently understood and appreciated. Every Korean, as far as I know, grows up with kimchi. On every dining table for each meal in Korea, there is kimchi--whether for formal occasions or casual gatherings. Kimchi's ubiquitous and irreplaceable presence, however, is often taken for granted. We tend to forget how important kimchi is in Korean life simply because it is too important. Kimchi's rich and profound symbolic power of Korean culture therefore still awaits further exploration.

The smell, the color, the variety of its taste, and the process of its making, as I emphasize in class, all suggest the unique ingenuity and resourcefulness of the Korean people in coping with their peculiar natural and human environments. For centuries, Korean have to cope with not only the harsh natural surrounding, but also the treacherous human environment personified by its giant neighbors: China, Japan, Mongolia, Manchuria, and Russia. But the natural and human environments that surround and, from time to time, overwhelm Korea, as kimchi may suggest, also provide the Korean people with the unique means and determination to be themselves. With carefully arranged photos and videos along with accounts of my personal experiences in South Korea, I tell my students how the simple but rich tastes of kimchi enrich my memory and understanding of Korea. I describe to them how I smell kimchi everywhere in Korea. I smell kimchi, for instance, not only in the restaurants and hospitable Korean families but also in Korean landscape that suggests a refined union of masculinity and femininity. Like kimchi, which is simultaneously raw and refined, processed and natural, simple and rich in flavor, the natural and human environment of Korea is delicately balanced with its misty, green, hilly/mountainous terrain and its well-proportioned but compact cities.

I also tell my students how I smell kimchi in P'ansori. Like kimchi, it is hot, spicy, and strong in flavor. It may overwhelm audiences with overrunning emotions but also leaves them with delicate and enduring memories. It captivates them with all its subtleties--hidden in and conveyed through its simple music and enriched performance. It is not an "opera" to sing through but to scream out with full passions and husky voices. Indeed, I want my students to smell kimchi while listening to a Korean musical instrument performance, which emphasizes unmistakably the raspy sound quality. To move a step further, I want them to smell kimchi when I demonstrate photos of well-tended Korean parks and historical museums, where refined environments were often deliberately "marred" with rough spots that suggest untamed or untamable life of wild nature as well as human respects to it. With all these suggestive descriptions, my students start to smell kimchi themselves when they examine the ancient Buddhist temples with purposefully unpainted exteriors as well as exquisitely painted slim-shaped gates and designs.

Through kimchi, I also want my students to smell Koreaness or sense Korean uniqueness with regard to its aesthetic preference for slightness as reflected in the peculiar sizes of its ancient palaces, Buddhist temples, modern skyscrapers, coke cans, and beautiful mountains in the classic paintings. (7) Kimchi thus enrich and endear our memories of Korea concerning its distinctive history and value. Once my students' imagination start soaring with the evasive but pervasive smell of kimchi, they come to see, feel, understand, and appreciate Korea with all the subtle differences in content and context. Thus, everything there in their minds outskirts and substantiates the hard-to-tell but never-hard-to-feel differences, such as the ones concerning architectural designs of the ancient palaces and temples in Korea and China, which are often contextual rather than formal. (8) All in all, I want my students to understand and appreciate humanity in, about, through, and beyond Korea. I want them to understand Korea, as Martin Heidegger and Herman Melville both would suggest, not like a fish stranded on the land or a dead whale in the museum, but as real life in the deep water. I have thus used kimchi not only as the indispensable stepping-stone but also the essential rallying point in teaching about Korea. It means that I have been trying to teach about Korea, not through negating but through negotiating with the stereotypical/stereotyped images ingrained or entrenched in students' minds. It means that I try not to categorically deny the relevance of these stereotypes about Korea. Instead, I use them as the first step or introductory part of the organic process for students to reach out for meaningful cultural perception and understanding.

Asia's Interrelations

I also try to contextualize Korea through its relationships with other Asian nations, such as China and Japan. I teach about Korea, for instance, not only because it has its own proud history, culture, and values, but also because it has increasingly become an indispensable, eye-opening metaphor, model, and perspective for cultural understanding. Understanding Korea, for instance, helps us better understand China's present and future with regard to its current chaotic and dynamic uncertainty. Korea's yesterday, today, and tomorrow, as I emphasize in class, may well suggest what would happen to China in terms of its past, present, and future, particularly in terms of its economic and political reforms and its relationships with Taiwan. I also explain to my students how Korea is a "small" nation with big dreams and how it creates myths, miracles, and miseries simultaneously through its national and nationalistic thrusts or drive for Korean greatness. I explain to them how South Korea tries to negate and/or renegotiate with its past in accordance with its modernized or reconstructed national/nationalistic image; and how, at the same time, either consciously or involuntarily, it also constantly falls back to the tradition it has been trying so hard to push aside--following its other political and practical agendas, such as promoting Korean uniqueness and boosting tourism. Signs of such ironical and paradoxical intentions and endeavors are abundant in the scholarly works and everyday occurrences, such as Koreans' particular sensitivity to the word "small" (scholars and politicians alike), the nation's official title in Chinese (The Great Republic of Korea), and its baseless claim of The Divine Bell of King Songdok as "the largest of its kind in the Orient," and its often Sisyphian efforts in defining "Han." (9)

Teaching Korea in this way thus enables my students to understand how to assess and appreciate a culture, such as Korea, not only for its own rich history but also for its unique comparative values. It helps them to understand the particularly subtle but vital difference in similarity as well as similarity in difference concerning China, Japan, Korea, and various other Asian countries, such as Vietnam. As a cultural comparist, I want my students to see both the forest and the trees--to stay away from detrimental biases resulting from cultural chauvinistic impulses or nationalistic zealotry. If it is inappropriate to mistake Canadian culture as the sub-culture of America, it is equally mistaken to regard Korea as another marginal sinified peninsular. Neither would it be helpful for the Canadian to deny influences from America nor for the Korean to negate its historic and cultural tie with China to reconstruct a national image for its current political agendas. So in order to de-stereotype students' minds, we should let them see the fish in the water and whale in the sea. We should let them understand the contextual elements that make the icons alive.

One of the efficient ways to do that is to do it through arts. For this purpose, I also take advantage of the available facilities near by in my area, such as The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Kansas City, Missouri, which has one of largest invaluable collection on Eastern Asian artworks in the U.S.

Here is an example of how I use the traditional Chinese scholar's study of later Ming dynasty named "Water-Tasting" reconstructed in the museum for the annual event we call--"JCCC Night at Nelson." Every year, we bring our students and people from our community to the famed museum to inform them of the celebrated collection and to explore the treasures with them. In addition to Chinese paintings, I also use the reconstructed scholar's study, the often overlooked example of Chinese culture, to highlight significant points of similarity and difference among various genres of art and between the Eastern and Western cultures. As in class, I start with questions, such as "What do you see?" "What do you want to see?" "What should you see here in this representative Chinese scholar's study?" "How do you know this is Chinese?" "What makes you think so?" As always, there are often two ways to look, see, understand, and appreciate this simple but elegant cultural sample. Like amateurs of art appreciation, who often see colors without detecting any subtle and essential shapes, forms, and lines behind and beneath them, my audiences initially cannot see anything other than the pieces of wood furniture there. They look at each piece carefully, examine its shape and quality, and ask questions about the materials each piece was made of. Some are even curious about the current market values of the furniture.

While letting my audiences look at whatever they can and want to see, I also tell them that they should not just stop and hang around at this level. If so, they might not have seen much of this scholarly study. In other words, they have not seen the essential spirit and culture that make these pieces there the way they are. Analogously, my audiences have been paying attention only to trees at the expense of the forest. They might have seen the veins of individual woods but miss the live spirit of trees. They only see colors but overlook "significant form," which, according to Clive Bell, is the essence of art (Bell 1949). As Wittgenstein would also say, they only see pieces on the chessboard, not the rules that make the game possible and meaningful in the first place--regardless how costly or cheaply each piece might be made in plastic, wood, irony, or gold (Wittgenstein 1958). As in Japanese flower arrangement, what really matters is not just the flowers but the arrangement--as I remind my students in the audience. "Don't look at my finger but what it points at!" Trying with various suggestions, I want my audiences to transform their naked eyes into X-ray like mental visions to see through the noticeable skin color and overall shape of our body to examine the bodily frame beneath and behind the appearances. Then, I also ask the whole audience, what is there between, around, and beyond the wood furniture?

Responding to my suggestive questions, my audience then come to see the significance of arrangement about the furniture and understand the principles and esthetical traditions that dictate the arrangements, such as the interactive yin/yang balance between symmetrical and asymmetrical orders of things as well as the principle of "less is more." What my audience has seen, in other words, is very much like a traditional Chinese landscape painting but "painted" in form of carefully arranged pieces of furniture. As viewers of Chinese paintings, we understand that what often really maters in a painting is not what is there or is painted, but what has been left unpainted. We therefore must learn how to see the subtle arrangements, designs, and/or meanings through what have been painted. We must learn how to experience, for instance, the invisible sun through scattered shades and shadows that all suggest the ultimate but absent powerful source of lights. What they should learn, in this case, is not only how to look at or into what is painted but also how to look through and beyond it. The scholar's study they see is arranged in such a way as to enable them to look at, into, through, beyond what is there. It is arranged for them to look through the window to the garden and, through the garden, the beauty of nature simultaneously within and beyond the garden. Everything about the study is quite deceptively simple but deliberately natural with its most elegantly asymmetrical arrangements. It is arranged for us to see not only what we can see with our naked eyes but through our mental perceptions.

To create indispensable cultural content and context for such culturally specific perception and understanding, I particularly refer to the image of water, as suggested in the couplet of the hanging scrolls, which roughly state, "The best taste of tea is its aftertaste, as the profound experience with the spring intensifies as the season passes away. That's the meaning of Buddha or the essences of life that Buddha personifies." The typical question from my audience is "What does it mean?" The meaning, as I explain to them, could be better explored in terms of the name of the study itself--Water-Tasting Study. "What? Does water have taste, like Coke or Pepsi?" This is the silent question I read in the face of my audiences. Yes, as I further explain to them, water is as meaningful as the simple lines in Chinese, Japanese, and Korean paintings. Without water, we can have no juice, tea, beer, liquor, and coke. Water, as a matter of fact, is the most philosophical and enriched image in Taoism, Confucianism, and Buddhism. It is the tastiest even though for many it might be as pure but tasteless. But for anyone, who understands and appreciates quintessential traditions of Taoism, Confucianism, and Buddhism in China, Japan, and Korea, water has the simplest and richest taste. It is the softest and strongest. It stands for grace, flexibility, wisdom, as well as endurance, perseverance, and tenacity. It can wear off rocks and wash off lands. It creates life as well as destroys it. People often use water to underline their insights of life. Heraclitus asked, can anyone enter the same rive twice? Confucius might also have perceived in his mind when he was standing by the river (Confucius 1979, 9.17). For Confucius, a man of virtue delights in the image of mountain while a man of wisdom enjoys water (Confucius 1979, 6.23). Going to sea for knowledge and wisdom is also rich in western tradition as in Odyssey, Moby-Dick, Gulliver's Travel, and numerous sea adventure stories. Good friendship among gentlemen should be as tasty and enduring as water--as expressed in a Japanese movie I watched about fifteen years ago. (10)

Water is indeed a favorite image of Taoism, that intrigues human imagination with its most Protean nature. It may incarnate itself in the forms of streams or steams; it may celebrate its mercurial existence in forms of falls, rivers, lakes, seas, or oceans; it may creatively shape itself into any conceivable geographical forms that resist, retain, contain its flows. With its tributary or watery tenacity, flexibility, and purpose, it ultimately overflows or outflows whatever obstacles temporally house or detain it. This tributary quality inherent in the Chinese context is hard to define but is actively present in the process of our understanding and appreciating the Chinese culture. So what my audiences see in the study? They see the enriched image of water, even though it is not literally there. But through the perceived image of water, they have been in contact with the aesthetic and cultural principle behind, beneath, and between, and beyond these pieces of furniture. The position each piece occupies, the pace or distance from one piece to another, and decorative devices here and there all speak for the cultural spirit or the Tao--otherwise invisible, intangible, and elusive. They might have seen the flowing water through the standing furniture or re-experience nature beyond by looking at furniture within.

Conclusion

But whatever methods, ways, or strategies we may adopt, we teach as who we are. We teach as culturally specific individuals in terms of where we were born and grew up. We personalize our teaching through the way we talk, look, laugh, ask and answer questions. We personify every method we use regardless their origins. Whether consciously or involuntarily, we also customize our teaching through and against various stereotypical perceptions or misperceptions of us as teachers. For instance, when I was teaching Western Civilization 204 and 205 at the University of Kansas as a graduate student, I often saw some students rushing in and out of the classroom upon catching a glimpse of me on the first days of class. Then they rushed in again with their schedule in hands and confused looks on their faces. Of course, they had initially assumed they were in the wrong classroom as they confessed later. But I never had the same experiences even when I was teaching Honors Eastern Civilization 305 at the same university. As a result, I had battles to fight on two fronts. On the one side, I had to de-stereotype students' mind by proving myself that I was up to the job, even though I did not took like western. And, on the other side, I had to de-stereotype students" mind by making them understand that I did not know everything about the East. Sometimes, quite ironically, my Western Civilization classes went better than my Eastern civilization classes, especially in challenging students for thought-provoking reading, thinking, and discussing. It was because my students did not take everything I said for granted, even though I did earn their admiration and respects for teaching the classes that intrigued them. Their initial low expectation and skepticism may account for the positive results.

Whatever stereotypical perceptions we have to teach through and/or against, once we know how to dance through the minefield of the ubiquitous stereotypes or misperceptions, we may know how to teach critically and creatively. Whatever stereotypical images we want to de-stereotype, the agents for the process are always ourselves. Once I know how to reach out for interactive teaching being who I am, my teaching goes well. As suggested by water, teaching about Asia should also be as poetic, intuitive, inspirational as culturally logical. Like water, with its vigor and rigor, subtlety and sophistication, infusing Asia into curriculum should be as content specific, context oriented, and personally approachable as well.

REFERENCES

Bell, Clive. 1949. Art. London: Chatto and Windus.

Chuang Tzu. 1964. "Autumn Flood," Chuang Tzu: Basic Writings. Trans. Burton Watson. Columbia UP, New York, 1964.

Confucius. 1979. The Analects. Trans. D. C. Lau. London: Penguin.

De Man, Paul, 1979. "Semiology and Rhetoric," Allegories of Reading. New Haven: Yale University Press.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 1950. "Self-Reliance," The Selected Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson. New York: The New American Library

Heidegger, Martin. 1977. Martin Heidegger: Basic Writings, Ed. & introd., David Farrell Krell. New York: Harper.

Lao Tzu. 1955. Tao Te Ching: The Ways of Life. Trans. R. B. Blakney. New York: The New American Library.

The New York Times. 1997. "Where Sushi Orders Are Given, Not Taken." October 24, 1997.

Twain, Mark. 1980. The Innocents Abroad. New York: The New American Library.

Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1958. Philosophical Investigations, Trans. G. E. M. Anscombe. New York: Macmillan.

(1) This paper also results from my participation in various ASDP events, particularly the ASDP 2000 Summer Institute on Korean Society and Culture. Thanks to Betty Buck, Roger Ames, Peter Hershock, and Ned Shultz, ASDP opens up in me a brand new world that has significantly benefited my teaching, thinking, and writing.

(2) Looking back to my last summer's visit to China (2000) after I had left it for ten years, I still cannot fully explain to myself what I have experienced then. How can I say that I know China while I could not find my way home in the city (Shanghai) that I call my hometown? How can I explain to my students what make me fail to recognize the very house in which I spent my entire childhood and part of my adolescent years when I was literally there in front of it? How could I feel so lost in Beijing, the city I used to know as well as I do with my own ten fingers? When I teach about China here, I often feel myself very much like the bookish scholar described in a Chinese proverb who marks on the boat where he has dropped his sword and waits to find it in the water after the boat reaches the bank many hours later. How can I then enlighten my students of China with regard to all these dramatic changes, creative chaos, dynamic uncertainty amid die-hard habit and mentality that have so bewildered me? Have I not taught my students about China that flickered somewhere in a corner of my faded memory? Have I not invited them to look for the sword with me where it simply does not exist? Am I not feeding them with outdated knowledge? Am I really doing my job as a teacher then? "Que sai-je?" to echo the forever skeptical Montaigne.

(3) For me, there are various ways infusing Asia into curriculum as there are different ways of introducing Asian cuisine into America. One is like the Japanese sushi Master in Los Angeles. He never allows his customer to pick what they want or the way they want their meals to be cooked and/or served. His daily menu is only two words "Trust Me." Instead of mining his business by offending his customers or "gods" in this ways, he attracts more and more customers who flock to his restaurant to be "insulted." They would like to endure a little annoyance or momentary inconvenience to learn everything Japanese way--not only the authentic food but also the authentic way the food is served. The sushi master's way may sound very authoritarian but is authentic. On the other hand, there are too many ethnic restaurants that serve customers like God or mammon because they work so hard to accommodate or cater to the customer's whimsical, undisciplined, or inexperienced tastes. See "Where Sushi Orders Are Given, Not Taken" (The New York Times, October 24, 1997). As teachers, we are facing the same situation. So how should I teach my students' about Asia? Should I set up my courses like buffets that enable them to pick or stuff themselves with whatever they like or formal meals that offer balanced menus? Or should I cook to their tastes or insists on "Trust Me"? Ultimately, will I ever find an easy language that my students could understand, regardless what Lao Tzu says, "The tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao. The name that can be named is not the eternal Name"?

(4) This situation underlines how important it is to infuse Asia into our curriculum for indispensable cross culture understanding, especially with regard to the literary examples that I am familiar with, such as Henry James' "Daisy Miller" and The American, William Dean Howells' A Foregone Conclusion," and Mark Twain's The Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court and The Innocents Abroad or The New Pilgrims Progress. As a Connecticut Yankee, Hank Morgan, for instance, wipes out the entire ancient civilization he wants to reform. "The innocents" expose their problems in understanding and appreciating the Old World in perspectives, even though they make relevant points about the problems that confront the Old World from their points of view. For them, the glory of ancient Athenian civilization is no more than bunches of broken bricks and Jerusalem a filthy little town. Traveling thus does not open their minds. Instead they remain further entrenched in their previous prejudices against the Old World. This is perhaps why for the wise man, as Lao Tzu suggested, "The world may be known Without leaving the house" and, for Emerson, "Travelling is fool's paradise." Or as Mark Twain sarcastically concludes, "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts [...]. Always on the wing, as we were, and merely pausing a moment to catch fitful glimpses of the wonders of half a world, we could not hope to receive or retain vivid impressions of all it was our fortune to see." For Lao Tzu, see Tao Te Ching: The Ways of Life, Trans. R. B. Blakney (New York: The New American Library, 1955), p. 100. For Emerson, see "Self-Reliance," The Selected Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson (New York: The New American Library, 1950), p. 165. For Twain, see The Innocents Abroad (New York: The New American Library, 1980), pp. 474-5.

(5) In Chuang Tzu, there is a story about Prince Lu who involuntarily kills a rare sea bird he loves so much simply because he wants to treat it the best way he wants himself to be treated. The incident occurs because the Prince fails to understand and assess the content and context vital to the bird's wellbeing. See Chuang Tzu, Chuang Tzu: Basic Writings, Trans. Burton Watson (Columbia UP, New York, 1964), pp. 108-9. See "Origin of the Work of Art," Martin Heidegger: Basic Writings, Ed. & introd., David Farrell Krell (New York: Harper, 1977). In "Letter on Humanism," Heidegger suggests similar thoughts. He underlines, for instance, not only his interest in thinking but also in thinkers. He examines not only the forms and modes of thinking but also the things we think of. Like Melville who wants his readers to see the whale in the sea not just in the museums, Heidegger emphasizes importance of "evaluat[ing] the nature and powers of a fish [not] by seeing how long it can live on dry land." By saying this, he underlies how often we miss the point in evaluating critical thinking only in terms of the form and formality of thinking at the expense of the vital contextual relationships between things and thinkers on the spot. As a result, "thinking," according to Heidegger, is "judged by a standard that does not measure up to it." He calls for "the effort [to] return thinking to its elements." See Martin Heidegger, "Letter on Humanism," Martin Heidegger." Basic Writings, Ed. & introd., David Farrell Krell (New York: Harper, 1977), p.195.

(6) To illustrate my point, I often use examples near at hand, such as this one. Nuclear weapon, for Castro in Cuba, as we discuss hypothetically in class, might be a necessity for national defense. But it is obviously not a possibility for him in terms of logistical, financial, and technological resources. I also raise further questions for students to explore, such as "Why did dragon, such a supernatural image, become one of most important and enduring national icons in China, unlike the national emblems of most other nations?"

(7) I particularly refer to Professor Yi Song-mi of the Academy of Korea Studies and her presentation on "Korean 'True-View' Landscape Painting" at Nelson Atkins Museum of Art Kansas City, Missouri, Saturday, February 17, 2001. Professor Yi pointed out the uniquely slim vertical images of the mountains on the paintings by comparing them with the actual ones the paintings imitated and she photographed for her studies, even though she did not explain why. But still what a coincidence, reminder, and assurance in terms of what I had personally observed and amazed at in South Korea!

(8) My experience in Korea further convinced me of the importance of understanding cultural nuances in terms of content and context--not just assumed formal differences. Even from an expert's point of view, I believe, there are not many overall formal differences between temples in Korea and in China other than certain noticeable ones in size and detail, especially as shown from photos. But once there in Korea, I can immediately see, feel, understand, and appreciate the subtle differences in detail, content, and context. Everything there indeed outskirts and substantiates the hard-to-tell but never-hard-to-feel nuances. Even the seemingly universal and uniform modern skyscrapers could be as much expressive and representative of the Korean culture as the ancient imperial palaces and Buddhist temples, especially with regard to its distinctive slim sizes. My experiences seem to coincide with the argument that Professor Nancy Steinhardt of University of Pennsylvania presented on Taoist Architecture at International Symposium on Taoism at the Art Institute of Chicago, December 2-3, 2000. She argued that it might be quite desirable for the Western mind to "pinpoint" assumed or perceived differences regarding Taoist, Buddhist, and Confucian temples, whether for convenient identification or necessary definition. But there were often not many fundamental differences as between Taoist and Buddhist temples other than certain traceable, very common ones in overall architectural designs as a result of the vicissitude of time, dynasty, and taste. The differences are rather internal/functional than eternal/formal. Therefore, as Professor Steinhardt emphasized, we should not simplify a much complex cultural phenomenon by forcing apart the highly intermingled traditions of Taoism and Buddhism throughout the history, especially in the areas of architecture. As she pointed out, it is quite daunting task even to identify, from afar, which is Confucian temple and which is a Muslin mosque as in Xian. They all look alike in distance. The only signs that tell the difference are the Arabic writings and decorative elements on the facades, which are barely visible until close by. Historically, Taoist temples, as Professor Steinhardt further emphasized, were often turned into Buddhist ones and vice versa when she discussed the issue of sanctification of space. All in all, her entire argument was literally based on this fundamental theme--All temples were alike in overall designs and, as a result, it was crucial for us to understand the vital content and context rather than any assumed formal differences.

(9) I particularly refer to Lee Hong-koo, Ambassador of the Republic Korea to the United States, and his speech on "Korean War and Its Unsettled Legacy" at Harry S. Truman Library, Independence Missouri, Wednesday May 17, 2000. The Ambassador shifted all his attention and responded quite emphatically for a while that Korea was not a "small" country after one of his audience used the word, "small" in his question and defended his verbal choice regardless the ambassador's efforts to correct him. At the University of Seoul, the professor who lectured on Korean history also immediately corrected me when I happened to use the word small in my question. He suggested I use "compact" instead of "small." Also in South Korea, I read on the spot the official description of The Divine Bell of King Songdok as "the largest of its kind in the Orient." But as far as its height (3.78 m), its diameter (3.24 m), (18.9 tones) are concerned, the Bell is not as large as the one in Great Bell Temple, Beijing, with its height (6.94 m), diameter (3.3 m), and weight (46.5 tons).

(10) It is also implied in The Analects (4:26) as Tzu-yu says, "To be importunate with one's lord will mean humiliation. To be importunate with one's friends will mean estrangement." See Confucius 1979, 75.