Lessons in Joy: A Day Inside a Korean Elementary School

Our last full day in Cheonan.

Today, we were stepping into the world of South Korea’s youngest students—wide-eyed, curious, and completely unfiltered. The morning started slow, the kind of slow that makes you appreciate the moment. A local coffee shop, the hum of a city waking up, and on our way back from breakfast, we came across a Korean preschool. Unlike the ones back home, this one was vibrant, spilling into the outdoors with play areas woven into its design. Even their buses—tiny, bright, and covered in cartoon characters—looked like something out of a storybook. It was a small detail, but it set the tone for the day: education here wasn’t just about books and tests—it was about creating spaces where kids could be kids and celebrating that brief and precious phase of life that passes by oh so quickly.

The elementary school was a short bus ride away, and after our experience at the high school the day before, we weren’t sure what to expect. South Korean schools, we had learned, were competitive, rigorous, and held to high standards. But we still weren’t prepared for what we saw. The moment we stepped inside, everything about our understanding of public schools shattered. Brightly colored walls, spaces designed for students to just exist and congregate, multiple libraries—one entirely in English, a broadcasting room where students could learn media production firsthand, music rooms stocked with real instruments, not just a dusty piano in the corner. It was, in every way, a dream school. Not just because it was modern, well-kept, and thoughtfully designed, but because it was clearly built for the students.

It was a place that encouraged curiosity. A place that told kids: “Your creativity matters. Your interests matter. You matter.”

And then we found out something even more shocking—this wasn’t an elite institution. This was the standard.

The reality hit hard. This was what public education could be. It wasn’t about funding battles, crumbling infrastructure, or outdated curriculums. It was about making education a priority and treating students as more than just numbers on a standardized test. For the first time in a long time, I felt genuinely heartbroken about the state of American public schools.

Before diving into our classroom activities, we were invited to eat lunch with the students. The system here was brilliant in its simplicity. The school staggered lunch periods to avoid overcrowding, and each student had a hot, well-balanced meal—banchan, rice, a protein, fruit, and vegetarian options. No sugary drinks, no processed junk—just real, wholesome food. And it wasn’t just good for a school lunch. It was one of the best meals we’d had in Korea. The staff was incredibly proud of their school’s meals, and for very good reason. We sat among the students, eating the same food they ate every day, getting a glimpse into their world not as visitors, but as participants.

Unlike at the high school, where we had just two people per classroom, here, we worked in groups of five. The energy was entirely different. Where the high schoolers had been polite and inquisitive, the elementary students were wide open, fully engaged, and absolutely unfiltered.

They wanted to know everything.

What’s America like? Do you know BTS? What’s your favorite food? Do you like Korea? Can you say this word in Korean?

We ran the same paper quilt activity, encouraging students to draw their favorite things and connect with us through art. But by the end, it wasn’t about the activity anymore. It was about being there, about sharing in their enthusiasm, about watching their eyes light up when they realized we could write their names in Hangul and in English.

Then came the moment that caught us all off guard. They started asking for our autographs.

It felt so strange. None of us had ever been asked for our autograph before, much less by an entire classroom of students. At first, we hesitated—we weren’t celebrities, we weren’t anyone special. But their teachers assured us it was okay.

So, we signed.

Notebooks, pencil cases, phone cases, and even water bottles. Anything they had on hand, they wanted our names in both English and Hangul.

It was overwhelming, a little uncomfortable, but heartwarming in a way I can’t fully explain. To them, we were a glimpse into a world they hadn’t seen before. To us, they were a reminder of why cultural exchange matters.

As we wrapped up our time at the school, we were led back to the conference room where we had started. Waiting at our seats were small lacquered wooden boxes, inlaid with abalone shell, with our program’s name and visit dates engraved on them. A gift. From the school, from the students, and from the experience itself. I don’t think anyone left without a lump in their throat. We had come to learn about their education system. Instead, we had walked away with something far greater. This was why I chose anthropology and archaeology. This was why I cared so deeply about bridging cultures, about finding common ground, and about understanding the human experience. This was exactly what my soul had been searching for.

That night, a few of us made a final trip to Lotte Mart, picking up bigger suitcases and reorganizing our belongings. Because tomorrow? Tomorrow, we were heading to Jeju Island.

And if Cheonan had changed us, Jeju was about to rewrite everything we thought we knew about Korea.