Until I began my Ph.D. in the United States, I had spent my entire life in Korea, speaking Korean. While I had a sense of “using” other languages, having studied Chinese in high school, French in college, and English while studying analytic philosophy, I had never really experienced what it meant to “live” in a second language. During my first year as a Ph.D. student in the Philosophy department, I have experienced the burden of language barriers and the reality of untranslatability.
As many international students can resonate, the self that speaks English feels remarkably different from the self that speaks one’s native tongue. In Korean, I am much funnier and bolder, more myself. My first semester was an ongoing struggle just to raise my hand and speak in graduate seminars. When translating my thoughts from Korean to English, the subtle nuances I intended to convey would vanish. I was painfully self-aware, terrified of speaking broken English. Whenever my limited English resulted an unsatisfactory presentation, I feared others would perceive this language deficiency as a lack of philosophical rigor or professionalism. I didn’t acknowledge this as imposter syndrome. Rather, I genuinely believed I was incompetent, which was devastating. Furthermore, when trying to grasp an intricate philosophical argument, I could never tell whether the problem was a gap in my background knowledge, a limit in my intellectual ability, or simply a language deficit.
As someone who studies embodied cognition, using a second language feels similar to using a tool that my body hasn’t yet accustomed to. Language is an instrument to perceive, interpret, and engage with the world. Borrowing from Merleau-Ponty, my mother tongue functions much like the lived body (Leib), which is transparent and pre-reflective, whereas a second language is constantly in the foreground of consciousness like the objective body (Körper), interrupting the seamless flow of action. When speaking in Korean, the medium itself does not appear in my consciousness. The language itself acts as a thought. Just as I don’t consciously plan the movements of my hand when grabbing a cup due to motor intentionality, a native speaker makes a sentence without consciously thinking of grammar.
However, when doing philosophy in a second language, this transparency shatters. My focus is directed toward the content of the argument, but at the same time, the language itself surges to the foreground of my consciousness. As Heidegger pointed out, we do not notice the hammer when nailing (Zuhanden), but the exact moment the hammer breaks and is not working properly, we perceive the hammer itself as an object standing before us (Vorhanden). When I develop a philosophical argument in English, language frequently becomes a “broken hammer” for me. The moment I wonder “Is this the right word? Does this preposition sound natural? Is my pronunciation weird?”, the flow of thought that was vigorously extending toward the world of ideas comes to an abrupt halt. It is like a transparent window suddenly cracking, forcing you to look at the cracked windowpane itself rather than the landscape beyond. Language emerges to the foreground of consciousness, causing a cognitive rupture. My thoughts fail to reach their object, repeatedly slipping on the surface of an opaque language.
When I do philosophy in my mother tongue, the tool becomes an extension of my body, and my intentionality is directed solely toward its target: the content of the argument. But the instant I become conscious of grammar and pronunciation, that intentionality bends back upon itself, deflected from the world toward the tool. Much like having to be mindful of every muscle movement in my legs when riding a broken bicycle, I suffer the double burden of having to simultaneously control the content of the argument (what to say) and the form of the utterance (how to say it).
Ultimately, these struggles led me to the following questions: What does it mean to study philosophy in a second language? Is doing philosophy in a second language truly fruitful? I have come to believe that “objectified language” can paradoxically become a philosophical advantage. Because language is transparent to native speakers, it is difficult for them to see the underlying premises built into it. This becomes even more evident when encountering words laden with heavy philosophical context. For example, the Korean translation for “mind” is “maeum (마음),” a term that simultaneously encompasses both “mind” and “heart.” From the long tradition of reason/passion dichotomy in Western philosophy, the English word “mind” is relatively clearly sectioned off into the realm of thought, cognition, and reason, while “heart” governs emotion, affect, and physical reaction. Within the context of the philosophy of mind, it was very conventional to associate mind with cognitive faculties, tending to treat emotion as secondary or as an entirely separate topic. However, navigating through the translation of “maeum” casts the question: “Why should emotion be excluded from the mind in the first place?”
There are things that are only vividly captured when language is felt as an objective body (Körper) and defamiliarizing enables to catch what lies obscured beneath its usual smoothness. Therefore, doing philosophy in a second language is not merely a cognitive handicap. It is the act of defamiliarizing the language and securing the sharpest, most fruitful perspective from which to strike at the blind spots of mainstream philosophy hidden behind the illusion of transparency.
Sharon Yoon
Sharon Yoon is a PhD student in the Philosophy Department at the University of Cincinnati and received a BA and MA in philosophy from Ewha Womans University in South Korea. Her research interests lie within the philosophy of mind and cognitive science. She is particularly intrigued by questions concerning embodied cognition and perceptual experience, mind perception, and bodily self-awareness. Outside of philosophy, she likes diasporic films, urban parks, figs, and purple orchids.
