A Tribute to My “Blinded” Mentor

by Jaehee Yi, Ph.D., MSW  

     I pressed a button on the manuscript submission website, not realizing the world where I was entering. First middle school graduate in my family in Korea, I had come a long way to the social work Ph.D. program in the U.S. It would be flat wrong if anybody thinks I am not independent or bold. But, I always felt I was perceived to be too quiet, too timid, too everything negative that they could think of in the U.S., although I was trying to be respectful to others, humble, and everything that my culture values the most. So, I pressed the button, maybe to prove that I was still worthy and not too bad. But, I didn’t know what the publication world looked and ran like. I did my best to polish my class paper that I got an A on and submitted it to a journal that seemed fitting to the topic of my paper. Believe me, there were many renowned scholars in my graduate school. The problem was that this inexperienced international student was just not good enough to collaborate with the famous professors. I attempted to approach potential mentors, but their expectations and mine had a huge abyss in between; it felt like it would be a 10-year odyssey to publish as a co-author with them, meeting their expectations and with their sporadic feedback. At the same time, I felt the pressure to publish that all Ph.D. students experience. So, I pressed the button on my own.

     A few months later, I received the review from the journal. It was more like a judgment in a holy book than feedback, and it felt like there was no salvation, only an illumination of a shortcut to hell. Everything, from the conceptual ideas to the grammar was wrong. I could not believe that the decision was “major revision and resubmission” instead of “death sentence.” Maybe it is true that my abilities were not up to par, and therefore I was not worthy....

     After a few days of being depressed, I got an email from the editor of the journal, saying that one of the reviewers would like to talk with me on the phone about the revision and asking what I would like to do. Remember, this was my first-ever attempt to submit anything to a journal, and I had no idea what was involved in the process. Remember, too, that I was not only the first college graduate, but the first middle school graduate in my family. I was clueless about academic culture; I was just bold, despite others’ perceptions of me. I did not even know that this kind of phone call with a reviewer is not typical, and actually is unthinkable and arguably unprecedented. What I knew was that I was feeling so nervous that I did something so terrible that the judgment that I go to hell was not enough and there should be a public hearing and condemnation, or even an on-the-phone stoning. Despite all my doomsday scenarios, I agreed to take the call, because “how could I say no to the judge?”

     The editor said that the review process was blinded, so he could not tell me this person’s name. The reviewer called me at 7 a.m. The call happened just like in a spy movie, no information about the informant. The gentle but enthusiastic voice said, “Would you like to review the paper line by line with me? I think it might take about three hours (it was that bad). Would that be okay with you?” My small voice said, “Yes, sir.” We went on to review every single line of the paper, and I frantically wrote down everything he said and his answers to my questions. I was sweating the whole time, because of my nervousness and the enormous gratitude I felt. Foolishly, I could not tell him anything else other than “thank you so much” in an embarrassed voice. If it were the current me, who is so Americanized now, I would have said, “I am so grateful that you went so far out of your way to guide me. How wonderful and awesome a person you are and how lucky I am to get this kind of mentoring,” blah blah blah. But, I was me, back then, who still clung to the idea I grew up with: that gratitude is expressed in action, not in words, so save your words and find a way to authentically express it in action.  

     After reflecting on all his feedback and three additional revisions, I birthed my first publication. I was as exhilarated as anyone who has just gone through a long labor and finally gave birth to a beautiful life. Getting your work published is exciting and makes the author happy, no matter what. Yet, I believe what I experienced with my first publication is something unique and special, because I did it myself with my boldness and perseverance, and with no idea at the start and tremendous learning through the process. Also, I had this guardian angel mentor, blinded, that I don’t think anybody else had. Some fortunate students co-author papers with their great mentors in a big lab-like environment and produce their first and multiple others in relatively smoother ways.

     However, I was also so fortunate in a different way, because I earned more than publication. I became a better person. I have no fear of receiving harsh criticisms of my manuscripts, of being rejected, or of negotiating different views from different reviewers. Now, as an associate professor with a decent number of publications, I still don’t fear this monster called publication or productivity, not because I became obnoxious (I reassure you that I am still Korean), but because I truly enjoy writing my manuscripts and have fun exchanging intellectual dialogue with my blinded reviewers. I still have this fantasy that someday MY SPECIAL BLINDED MENTOR will review my manuscript again and give me long reviews. Maybe that motivates me to keep writing and to get excited to open review letters and answer and revise.

     Many Ph.D. students and junior faculty are not as productive as they want to be. I know that one of the biggest challenges for us is fear and facing criticism. We all need our special blinded mentors, who guide us without trying to take credit for the success, and who have patience to take time to repeat the same explanation over and over again, and see us, not as we see ourselves–as not worthy, not capable, and hopeless–but as someone who has great potential. Being a mentor is difficult, especially in American culture where professor-student or mentor-mentee relationships are different from those in some cultures, such as Korea, where children are taught that they should not even step on the shadows of their teachers, out of respect.

     While I try to be the kind of mentor who deserves that much respect, I sometimes meet students who try to compete with me, or only focus on their consumer rights, with no evidence of respect. Those are the days when I again meet all the criteria for a diagnosis of depression. Then, I remember my blinded mentor and his spirit of guiding me without expecting anything in return. I still don’t know why he invested so much time and effort to help me to succeed in publishing that paper or who he was. I wonder if he will happen to read this article and remember. Even if he doesn’t remember, I remember him and the difference he made in my life.   

Dear my blinded mentor,

I thank you for your mentoring. Every day, I am trying to express my gratitude in action and become a mentor like you.

Jaehee Yi, Ph.D., MSW, is an associate professor at University of Utah College of Social Work. Her research interests are in the impact of traumatic events on individuals and families in the cultural context.