Crying in H Mart - Michelle Zauner (2021)

We do not need to run through all of the so-called indie rock memoirs reviewed on Flying Houses. Suffice to say, there are many, and if I happen to do another in the near future, I will make a separate post compiling them for easy access, rather than needlessly clutter this review with links and comparisons. Because this is a very different type of memoir from those.

With Crying in H Mart, Michelle Zauner has established herself as one of the preeminent artists of today, probably because this book is not really about the music. I am sure many other musicians are hobbyists in some other discipline and possess redoubtable knowledge on certain topics--but they never choose to write about them at length. 

Zauner's material on Japanese Breakfast and her earlier band, Little Big League, comprise 10 or maybe 15 pages out of this 239-page narrative. This isn't a book about her travails in trying to "make it." It does, however, reflect upon her meteoric rise in beautiful fashion. And this was one of the many, many pages that brought tears to my eyes--of sadness, happiness (for others) and hope. This is to say, I often begrudge others their success, particularly when they are quite a bit younger than me. But Zauner isn't really that much younger than me, and one cannot help but see her success as hard-earned, beautiful and touching.

This book took me quite a long time to read--perhaps six weeks--owing as always to other life events, but also because, this is very heavy reading. It's not leavened with photographs (clearly, there could be many, as evidenced by one of its final episodes) or sprinkled with clever asides or footnotes. There clearly could have been footnotes in this, but they would have detracted from its overall power. There is levity in this book, but it is juxtaposed against heartbreaking anguish, and the overall mood is honorary and respectful towards its true subject, which is Zauner's mother. 

I cannot locate her proper name in this book, which probably is best written in Korean, though one of the many things Zauner does well is translate Korean into English as "Konglish." We know her mother's sisters are Eunmi and Nami. Michelle doesn't speak Korean particularly well, but she was born in Seoul; her mother was from there and her father was American. 

The book opens up like The Stranger, as it should:

"Ever since my mom died, I cry in H Mart." (3)

From there, she launches into a description of the H Mart franchise and the magic she feels upon stepping into one, tinged with nostalgia and sadness: she cries in several places in the store, and apparently does this often. The opening is kind of a delusive move, because it makes the book seem like it will be an exercise in dark humor, or irony--and while it has such moments, it is more closely about the absurdity of grief that many of us have endured or must endure, at some point. Really though, it's all about the food.

***

Our previous subject, Parker Posey, included several recipes in her memoir. These were kooky but not unwelcome. Here, Zauner could clearly justify an appendix of recipes. So why does she not? Perhaps it is to maintain the sanctity of the dishes, or perhaps because she doesn't want to cheapen it by offering facile instruction. The text itself should be sufficient for anyone seeking to replicate these recipes. 

We need more books like this, about food from other parts of the world. We have every kind of food imaginable in a big city, but there is nothing better than authentic cuisine, recipes passed down through generations, tied to homeland traditions and memories of being together, intrinsic to one's identity. I knew about H Mart but I haven't been in one. The first time I go, I might just cry. I'm actually feeling pretty emotional today. I finished this last night. Maybe I'll go today. 

***

Briefly, the book concerns the period between 2013 and 2014, in which Zauner lived in Philadelphia, playing smaller shows with her smaller band, Little Big League, for a few years after graduating from Bryn Mawr College.

Now then, she does write a bit about her high school years, and the bad relationship she had with her mother at the time, and how poorly she performed in school, and how it was a miracle she got into college at all, later graduating with honors--but she downplays Bryn Mawr's prestige. While there may have been personal issues, clearly her parents did something right with her education, and this book is proof that she contains multitudes and can do these things at a high level. She is the only person that can get a "Best New Music" designation on Pitchfork, publish a NY Times Bestseller, and make a proper bowl of nurungji, or galbi, or jatjuk, or authentic kimchi.

There are certainly moments of ridiculous "culture-specific" humor:

"I was afraid of my grandmother. She spoke harshly and loudly and knew maybe fifteen words in English, so it always seemed like she was angry. She never smiled in pictures and her laugh was like a cackle that ended in loud hacking and coughing. She was as hunched over as an umbrella handle and always wore plaid pajama pants and shirts with glittering, rough fabrics. But I was chiefly afraid of one particular weapon she brandished--the ddongchim. Ddongchim literally means poop needle. It involves clasping your hands in the shape of a gun, index fingers pressed together to create a needle used to penetrate an unsuspecting anus. As horrifying as it sounds, it's a common cultural thing, something akin to a Korean wedgie and not some unique form of sexual assault. Whenever she was near, I constantly hid behind my mother or Seong Young, or scooted by her furtively with my butt pressed against the wall, anxiously expecting my halmoni to prod her index fingers through my pants, cackling and then hacking at my surprise and terror." (28-29)

There is some material on indie rock, and it was heartening to read that the first song Zauner learned how to play on guitar was "Carry the Zero" by Built to Spill (an impressive start, especially if she could do the solo). She rhapsodizes about Modest Mouse as the keystone to the regional scene. She waxes poetic about seeing Karen O and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and how she gave her the confidence to believe that someone that looked like her could be in a band like that. But she was also ambivalent and cynical: maybe Karen O had fulfilled the demographic quota, and there was no space for another half-white, half-Korean indie rock icon:

"Back then, I didn't know what a scarcity mentality was. The dialogue surrounding representation in music was in its nascent stages, and because I didn't personally know any other girls who played music, I didn't know there were others like me struggling with the same feelings. I didn't have the analogical capacity to imagine a white boy in the same situation, watching a live DVD of say, the Stooges, and thinking, if there's already an Iggy Pop, how could there possibly be room for another white guy in music?" (55)

So, there is a little bit about music, but that's just her career, and she does not have many anxieties about deciding what she wants to do with her life, though she does later work at a pizza restaurant as a way of distracting herself from grief. I am not sure if the phrase "tiger mom" appears in print here, but a word need be said about this.

Now I do not know what it is like to grow up with an Asian or Asian-American mother, but they are apparently very tough on their kids and hold very high expectations for them. Some consider this brutal treatment, and this entered the cultural conversation when Amy Chua published her book The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. But Chua's mother was Chinese and I wouldn't want to conflate the cultures.  Regardless, it's impossible to avoid that disambiguation in America, unless it's part of your own identity, or has become your adopted identity. I can try to be sensitive to these differences, but I will inevitably stick my foot in my mouth. 

Zauner's mother is harsh, but lovely in that harshness. She only wants to steel Michelle against the innumerable criticisms of the world, so that she may transcend them. She criticizes her extensively, and the relationship is so bad that at one point, in a fit of anger, she instigates physical abuse, asks her husband to overpower their daughter, and loses it:

"'Why are you doing this to us? After everything we have given you, how can you treat us this way?' she yelled, her tears and spit falling onto my face. She smelled like olive oil and citrus. Her hands felt soft and slick, greased with cream, as they pushed my wrists against the coarse carpet. The weight of her on me began to ache like a bruise. My father hovered over us, unsure of his place in it all, searching for a reason why a kid like me could wind up so miserable.
'I had an abortion after you because you were such a terrible child!'
Her grip went slack and she shifted her weight off me to leave the room. She let out a little cluck, the kind of sound let out when you think something is a real shame, like passing a dilapidated building with beautiful architecture." (65)

This is the major thread running through the book--Zauner's regret over the wasted years of her upbringing, when she couldn't properly appreciate her mother's form of love. She could appreciate the food, but little beyond that. By the end it is clear that she has made good, and they are about as close as a mother and daughter can be. 

***

There was one surprising element to this book, and I will not spoil it, but I will just say there is a kind of House of Broken Angels-vibe to it. Of course, as a grief memoir, there is plenty of material about hospitals, chemotherapy, hair loss, nausea, bodily fluids, humiliation, thankless caretaking, dreaded phone calls, and magical thinking. 

But there is more about love in here, and food. Zauner does not shy away from graphic details, and while she conveys the horror of the events in question, she prefers to remember her mother at the height of her powers, focusing on the knowledge and the memories that she hopes to preserve. 

But God, the crying. I am not sure this book will make you cry, but it definitely made me cry. Like, a lot. Like, I had tears welling up for maybe 15-20% of the pages I read. This is why it was a heavy read for me, because I felt that every time I picked it up, it would remind me of things, things that didn't even have to do with death, such as the trip to Seoul she takes with her husband Peter. The book is also an account of their relationship, from a certain remove, and it seems so effortless, we can only imagine how much more difficult the grieving process must be without a good, supportive partner. If anything, this thread shows all the elements that comprise a good relationship. Those of us with less impressive partners (or delusional crushes) may find deeper longing in it.

The true beauty of the book, however, comes at its end, and while it is something of a spoiler, I cannot help myself:

"I hadn't believed in a god since I was about ten, and still envisioned Mr. Rogers when I prayed, but the years that followed my mother's passing were suspiciously charmed. I had been playing in bands since I was sixteen, dreamt of succeeding as an artist practically my whole life, and as an American, I felt entitled to it in spite of my mother's aggrieved forewarnings. I had fought for that dream thanklessly for eight long years, and only after she died did things, as if magically, begin to happen.
If there was a god, it seemed my mother must have had her foot on his neck, demanding good things come my way. That if we had to be ripped apart right at our turning point, just when things were really starting to get good, the least god could do was make a few of her daughter's pipe dreams come true.
She would have been tickled to have seen the past few years, me dressed up and shot for a fashion magazine, watching the first South Korean director win an Academy Award, YouTube channels with millions of views dedicated to fifteen-step skin-care regimens. And though it felt contrary to my beliefs, I had to believe that she could. And that she was glad I had finally found a place where I belonged." (233)

Sometimes, success brings the unfortunate tragedy, and sometimes the unfortunate tragedy brings success. The only problem with this book is that it will make other writers want to give up. There's a span of a few pages towards the end, which I will not excerpt, where she puts some redoubtable vocabulary on display. There's poetry in the language, and she writes about taste sensations with such precise detail that she could easily moonlight as a restaurant critic. The book ultimately hits every nerve of the human experience and imbues it with truth. As such, it is one of the Best Books reviewed on this blog. 

Grade: A

****APPENDIX****

For my own personal perusing, I want to include one recipe. I won't do the kimchi (pp. 214-216), because that would be a long excerpt, but that may be the most instructional one in the book. She writes a bit about Maangchi, who does videos on YouTube and who seems almost like an avatar for her mother. She seems to consult the videos for verification purposes. Maangchi does do a video for jatjuk:

"The recipe was simple--pine nuts, rice, salt and water, all ingredients we already had on hand. Per Maangchi's instructions, I soaked a third of a cup of rice and set it aside for two hours. I measured out two tablespoons of pine nuts, and began removing the tips, then tossed the soft, picked kernels into the blender. When the rice was finished soaking, I rinsed it under the faucet and added it to the pine nuts with two cups of water. I closed the lid and ran the blender on high, then emptied the liquid into a small pot on the stove.

'You don't need many ingredients, but as you can see it takes time. That's why jatjuk is very precious. Like, for example, one of your family members is sick, nothing much you can do. When we visit the hospital we usually make this jatjuk because patients can't eat like normal food. Pine nuts has protein and good fat for body so this is perfect food for patients who are recovering from their illness,' Maangchi explained.

The mixture was a beautiful milky-white color. On medium heat I stirred it with a wooden spoon. At first, impatient for it to thicken, I was afraid I'd used too much water. Then, as its consistency turned from skim milk to peanut butter, I was afraid I hadn't added enough. I lowered the heat and continued to stir, hoping it would thin as Maangchi's had. When the pot began to sizzle, I took it off the heat and added salt, then poured it into a small bowl. 

I cut chonggak kimchi into small disks and ladled some of the brine over the radish pieces. The soup was creamy and nutty, and felt soft and soothing as I swallowed. I ate a few more spoonfuls before crunching into some kimchi to break up the rich flavor with something spicy and tart. That wasn't so hard, I thought to myselff, happy to have conquered the dish that Kye had mystified. 

This was all I wanted, I realized, after so many days of decadent filets and pricey crustaceans, potatoes slathered in the many glorious permutations that ratios of butter, cheese, and cream can take. This plain porridge was the first dish to make me feel full. Maangchi supplied the secrets to its composition step by step, like a digital guardian I could always turn to, delivering the knowledge that had been withheld from me, that was my birthright. I closed my eyes and spooned the last of the soup into my mouth, picturing the soft mixture coating my mother's blistered tongue, the warm liquid traveling slowly into my stomach as I tried to savor the aftertaste." (189-191)