Crying in H Mart: A Memoir

Found in Translation
Philip Roth opens his memoir Patrimony: A True Story with a long and detailed description of his father’s health that sets the stage for what is about to come: “My father had lost most of the sight in his right eye by the time he’d reached eighty-six, but otherwise he seemed in phenomenal health for a man of his age when he came down with what the Florida doctor diagnosed, incorrectly, as Bell’s palsy, a viral infection that causes paralysis, usually temporary, to one side of the face.” Michelle Zauner does the same, but in a much more concise way: “Ever since my mom died, I cry in H Mart.” They are different, but they are the same: they are sparked by pain and suffering, they pay their respects to the ones who have gone and are missed, and they intensely connect with their roots, Jewish and Korean, respectively. And through them, Philip Roth and Michelle Zauner strive to heal their pain, using writing as therapy, no matter how different their success in that endeavor may have been.Michelle Zauner’s writing may not be as ornamented as Philip Roth’s, but her book is a treat all the same. Crying in H Mart is like listening to a candid confession from a close friend late at night, when everybody else has already left and you stay with her, a glass of wine and many stories. It is intimate, sincere, funny and sad, bittersweet, generously emotional. At the same time, it is also a gastronomic trip: Michelle meticulously uses traditional Korean food to connect and reconnect with her mother and her mother’s relatives in Korea, and some descriptions of dishes, ingredients and dish preparations are as detailed as in a recipe book with mouth-watering pictures. There is even an almost literal transcription of one of Maangchi’s tutorial videos, specifically the one where she prepares soothing jatjuk. By doing that, I think Michelle also tried to find roots in Asian references: take the Studio Ghibli movies with their beautiful scenes of food preparation, the importance of food in Haruki Murakami’s novels or Bong Joon-Ho’s movies. From my part, I am now a Maangchi fan.The text is extremely fluid, moving from the main plot involving Michelle’s mother to flashbacks of her childhood and adolescence in a very logical and well-connected way. Up to mid-book (when the main plot sort of resolves itself), the text is so thought-of that it even sounds excessively edited–it is like a perfectly engineered, scientifically-paced Hollywood story: there is the punchline at the end of each chapter making reference to an idea cited before and causing a shiver to run up your spine, there’s the perfect pacing from funny and comfy moments to describing delicious Korean food and then back to dramatic scenes, there is suspense and plot twists, all smooth and seamless. The last half of the book loses some of its stamina (except for a poignant scene at her parents-in-law’s house in Bucks County, all Cinema Paradiso-like), but it is still charming, lyrical and beautiful.Philip Roth concludes his memoir concisely and in a rather bitter tone, with a short and dry sentence: “You must not forget anything.” Michele grants us with a fluid, energetic and dreamlike last scene in a karaoke (noraebang), whose atmosphere made me think of Bill Murray and Scarlett Johanson in the karaoke scene in Lost in Translation, a strange simultaneous state of happiness and sadness. Indeed, this book is a testimony of Michelle’s own “finding herself in translation”, a funny feeling of being awkwardly out of context but even so pertaining, which is why this book seems to have resonated so much with many mixed-race children. Michelle trying her best to sing along Pearl Sister’s Coffee Hanjan with her aunt Nami is indeed a beautiful image to conclude and summarize her search for her own identity by not denying but strengthening her Korean roots.

Vogue calls this book ‘deeply necessary’; I raise that and also call it long overdue. Crying in H Mart doesn’t use the over-analyzing, ponderous prose that so many books about cancer and death do; instead, it is refreshingly modern. Zauner skillfully takes us through her mother’s diagnosis, the stages of her cancer and her eventual death. But she never loses touch with herself or gets swallowed whole by it all; instead, she somehow manages to grow personally and professionally.While death is one of the worst things we face, it doesn’t have to be all-consuming. Zauner channelled so many emotions as she prepared the meals of her Korean heritage and, in turn, shared this with her readers through a lyrical writing style.We also learn about her fascinating extended family, fraught relationship with her father, rise as an indie rock musician, and the founding of Japanese Breakfast. Still, somehow, the book never overwhelms the reader.Every culture deals with grief differently. People generalize that Europeans, particularly the British, are cold, especially in times of extreme sadness; this is far from true. There is nothing wrong with the fact that many of us grieve privately over a cup of tea and Peak Freans biscuits, but I will admit that might not be the copy for a good memoir.Crying in H Mart holds nothing back, so if you are going through someone’s cancer battle or are still raw from a recent death, this might not be the best book for you, but when you are ready, Zauner’s words will bring some pain, some laughter, some soul searching and in the end like the author you will emerge stronger.Michelle Zauner wanted ‘to make the ordinary beautiful’, and she succeeded.

The book wasn’t in the best condition