Testing Up

SEOUL, South Korea — The months leading up to South Korea’s college-entrance exam, the College Scholastic Ability Test, are some of the most stressful in a South Korean teenager’s life. Far more than the SAT or ACT, the CSAT holds bearing on people’s well-being 20 years after they take it. If students score highly enough to get into a “SKY” university—a Seoul National University, Korea University or Yonsei University—they land on the path towards an enviable job, salary, and social class.

The heavy consequences of CSAT scores drive the Korean high school education system into a frenzy—one those creepy parents on CollegeConfidential.com can’t even touch. High school students almost all attend “cram school” classes, where they’re taught material expressly for the CSAT. Even more serious parents send their children to boarding cram schools, where they study for the test from 7a.m. until midnight, and are banned from watching videos, the Internet, and having boyfriends/girlfriends.

The CSAT holds a singularly sacred place in Korean culture. On the day of the national exam, many businesses and the stock market open late in order to keep the roads clear for students driving to their testing locations. Airplanes are prohibited from landing or taking off from Korean airports during the listening section. Korea’s temples and churches are filled with praying parents.

And yet, despite its excesses, the CSAT is compellingly meritocratic. Rich students and poor students alike get to compete for the same lucrative prize and are judged by the same measure. The best example of this is the South Korean president, Lee Myung-Bak. Lee grew up as the penniless son of an agricultural laborer but he aced the CSAT, got into Korea University, and was vaulted into a sphere of job opportunities completely beyond the reach of his father. Sure, wealthy students have access to more personal tutoring and highly rated cram schools, but with hard academic work, every Korean has the chance to earn a higher place in society.

In a highly stratified culture, this promise is a powerful one. When I ask my Korean friends what they think of students who go to Seoul National or Yonsei, their first reaction is, “They must work really hard.” In contrast, when a Harvard student drops the H-bomb, often the first reaction is, “Wow, you must be really smart.” Since Korean college admission is based entirely on a test score, it is widely acknowledged that no matter how naturally intelligent you are, if you don’t study intensively for the exam, you won’t go to a top-tier university. Grades don't even matter: I know one Korean girl who got sick of her high school’s competitive atmosphere, dropped out, and studied on her own for the CSAT. She scored highly enough to go to Ewha University (the top-rated women’s college in Korea, and part of SKY’s emerging acronym rival, SKYPE, which adds Pusan and Ewha Universities to the older triad).

The dark side of this unequivocal faith in hard work is that people who don’t succeed academically take this failure very personally. In America it’s comforting and often valid to write off disappointing admissions results as bad luck or unfortunate circumstances. Korean students blame themselves. It is common for those who don’t get the score they want on the CSAT to take a year off to study and then re-take the exam. If they fail again, it’s even more heartbreaking.

Yet, harsh as it sounds, the equalizing nature of the entrance exam—which reflects the value Korean society places on hard work—makes the CSAT well worth the stress and heartbreak it visits on thousands of students each year. Sure, the thought of having your college admission and social cache based on a day of testing is terrifying for everyone already in the upper echelons of society. But, for those at the bottom, it’s a uniquely Korean opportunity that’s missing in so many other countries.


Anita J. Joseph ’12 is a Crimson editorial writer in Leverett House.