Crying in the first chapter of a book is a good sign, right?
There was something so compelling about the opening of the author crying in H Mart while eating something reminiscent of what home and her mother felt like. I’ve been there. Perhaps not literally, but I’ve found myself busting out in tears in random (public) places when something normal strikes a certain chord of grief.
The narrative might be much more near and dear to someone Korean but as a child of immigrants, and an immigrant myself, I found many passages that felt like home. There was so much recognition and familiarity in her youthful incessant need to erase her immigrant heritage and just be ‘American,’ only to realize as she grows a bit older that she’s been trying to erase the best parts of herself. Finding the true meaning of comfort food in the recipes of our childhood and realizing that our culinary skills are grossly inadequate. Turning to YouTube for the guidance of strangers in preparing something that tastes like home and feeds the soul just as much as the body.
Unlike the second languages I attempted to learn in high school, there are Korean words I inherently understand without ever having learned their definition. There is no momentary translation that mediates the transition from one language to another. Parts of Korean just exist somewhere as a part of my psyche—words imbued with their pure meaning, not their English substitutes.
I loved this memoir. It’s poignant and honest, and Michelle finds tender ways of expressing concepts and feelings that I recognize deeply but didn’t necessarily have the words for myself.
How cyclical and bittersweet for a child to retrace the image of their mother. For a subject to turn back to document their archivist.
This is a gentle reminder to hug your mother if you're lucky enough to be able to do that, and have that extra bowl of food that she keeps pushing on you. I'm heading to H Mart to have some bibimbap since all those tears shed while reading left me famished.
