Leo Kim
Staff Columnist
Author Archive
KIM: The noble compromise

What happens when a staunch anti-establishmentarian gets tapped for Skull and Bones? Or when a grad-school hopeful gets an offer from Bridgewater to earn north of $20,000 in two months? Well, simple. They accept.

KIM: The Twinkie shirt

By the time I had matured enough to realize the value of my cultural heritage, I had effectively disbarred myself from it.

KIM: More moral high ground

“They think they’re so much better than us.”

KIM: Not being OK

This isn’t a column for those who are afraid to admit that they may be depressed because of fear of judgment or fear of Yale Health’s inadequacy. This isn’t a column for those who don’t think they have any problems. No. This isn’t about an “unwillingness” to ask for help because of pride, fear or whatever. This is simply a column about not being okay.

KIM: The stories we tell

At Yale, we like to tell stories. Namely, our own stories. Whether preparing for job interviews or reciting our “bios” at senior society, it’s safe to say that we Yalies are conditioned to create narratives for ourselves.

KIM: Rethinking career resources

As snow begins to collect on the ground here at Yale, the annual job search is upon is, and with that search comes the inevitable […]

KIM: The meaning of thanks

It’s a common Thanksgiving activity to go around the table and say what you’re thankful for. Having just come back from Thanksgiving break, I figured […]

KIM: Who we were?

I go by many names, but to you, I am the average Yalie.

KIM: The dangers of intellectualization

What happens when an academic education isn’t enough?

KIM: No time to waste

As I pass by the halfway point of my college career, I’ve learned a few things: dining hall food isn’t as good as Bulldog Days led me to believe, every winter somehow manages to be the “worst winter in years” and, most important, I simply don’t have the time for things I don’t care about.

KIM: A home from the ashes

So when an email noting a series of house fires landed in the mailbox of students on campus a few Thursdays ago, few batted an eye — understandably so. It wasn’t your house, the fires were put out within hours and the situation appeared to be under control. Unless, of course, that house happened to be your home. My home. The place I share with eight other students. It was our house that someone had — allegedly, of course — set on fire.