Transcript
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Intro
[MUSIC PLAYING] - Good afternoon. I'm Tomiko Brown-Nagin, the dean of the Radcliffe
Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard University. Welcome to our annual Julia S. Phelps Lecture
in the Arts and Humanities. Julia Phelps was a Radcliffe College alumna
and beloved teacher in Harvard's German department and the Harvard Extension School and here at Radcliffe.
When Julia retired from Radcliffe, her family, friends, and colleagues established the Phelps Lecture Series in her honor.
I'm delighted that Julia's daughter and son-in-law, Susan Napier and Steven Coit are joining us today.
Welcome. I'm also pleased to welcome Kim Yonghyon, the consul
general of the Republic of Korea in Boston. And I want to acknowledge Kate Gellert, who's
here today, the entire Gellert family, the Radcliffe Institute
Leadership Society, and all our generous annual donors who support the institute's work.
Thank you. In a moment, I'll introduce our Phelps lecturer, Min Jin Lee.
But first, let me extend one more special welcome to Min's husband, mother, father, and two
sisters. I'm delighted to have you here. Min Jin Lee is an acclaimed novelist, essayist,
and literary critic. She's the author of two bestselling novels, Free Food for Millionaires, and Pachinko,
which was a finalist for the National Book Award. Min is currently at work on her third novel, American Hagwon,
while in residence here at Radcliffe as our inaugural Catherine A. and Mary C. Gellert fellow.
American Hagwon will complete Min's thematic trilogy on the Korean diaspora.
And it'll be the central focus of her work today. Min is a part of the diaspora that she
chronicles in her novels. She moved from Seoul to Queens, New York as a seven-year-old.
From a young age, Min found refuge in literature. And she has said it was the writings of the novelist
Sinclair Lewis that inspired her to attend Yale, his alma mater.
Despite that inspiration, it never occurred to Min that she could be a writer.
A working class Korean-American and couldn't pursue that path, or so she thought.
She went on to study history at Yale and earned her law degree from Georgetown.
So how did Min become a novelist? To understand Min as a writer is to understand
how Pachinko came to be. Two years into a promising career as a corporate lawyer,
Min quit because of a serious liver disease. As she tells it, it was facing this illness that
inspired her to write fiction. She soon set out to document the Korean diaspora
in Japan, a community that she had first learned about in college.
Min spent the next two-plus decades, on and off, writing the story that eventually
would become Pachinko. Along the way, she worked, much like an academic
or a journalist, reading widely across sociology, history, political science, law, and economics.
She drafted an entire manuscript. Then she put it aside, dissatisfied with result.
At this impasse, Min began a new book project on the Korean diaspora in America,
which evolved into her debut novel, Free Food for Millionaires. It tells the story of Casey Han, a young, Ivy-League-educated
Korean-American from Queens, who aspires to a glamorous Manhattan lifestyle
that she can't afford. Through Casey's story, Min explores
how conventional ideas of money, class, and ambition may fall flat in lived reality.
After the release of Free Food for Millionaires, Min moved with her husband and their son to Tokyo
and returned to her book about ethnic Koreans in Japan. Dozens of interviews conducted across Japan compelled Min
to toss out virtually all of her earlier draft and to rewrite Pachinko.
Released in 2017, Pachinko was an instant hit.
It's a sweeping yet intimate work of historical fiction that chronicles
four generations of triumphs, tragedies, and everything in between as experienced by a Korean family living
as perpetual outsiders in Japan. Like Free Food for Millionaires, it's
rigorously researched, yet wonderfully readable. NPR described Pachinko as "the kind of book
that can open your eyes and fill them with tears at the same time."
The story is animated by a defiant opening sentence. "History has failed us, but no matter."
Unusual for a novelist, Min calls the first line in each of her novels her thesis statement.
This reflects her research-driven approach and her keen awareness of the power of fiction
to reveal complexities, to tell important truths, and to make arguments, as any lawyer would.
For Min illuminating themes of homeland and exile, of identity
and belonging, and of love and forgiveness necessitates the coexistence of many, often contradictory
perspectives. These perspectives are articulated by her characters and omniscient narration.
Min's craft is scholarly, interdisciplinary, ambitious, and creative.
She's a natural fit for Radcliffe's fellowship cohort, which spans academic disciplines, the creative arts,
and professional fields. I'm thrilled to have her among us this year.
In a moment, I'll turn things over to Min. Following her talk, Min will engage in conversation
with my colleague Jeannie Suk Gersen, who is the John H. Watson, Jr. professor of Law at Harvard Law
School. Like Min, Jeannie immigrated to Queens as a young child.
Jeannie has said that her own family experience with immigration and exile, from North and South Korea, has informed her career, including
her pathbreaking legal scholarship on trauma. After Jeannie and Min's conversation,
we'll open the floor to your questions. Thank you, Jeannie, for being with us today. And now, please join me in giving a warm welcome
to Min Jin Lee. [APPLAUSE]
- [LAUGHS] Thank you.
Wow. You guys, it's snowing outside. [LAUGHTER]
Tomiko, thank you so much for that introduction. I'm so impressed. And you mentioned that my family's here.
They're over there, my mother, my father, and my two sisters. My husband's here. And I just want to pause everything for one second.
Mom, wasn't that impressive? [LAUGHTER]
She won the Bancroft Prize for her history book, Courage to Dissent.
Thank you, Tomiko. You did me a solid. And I also want to thank all of you for showing up today because you made me look
less unpopular with my sisters. [LAUGHTER] It's huge.
Thank you. I really owe you one. I will sign whatever you want me to sign today.
I also want to thank the very special people of the Radcliffe Institute. I want to thank Meredith, and Sharon, and Rebecca Haley,
and Rebecca Wassarman. I want to thank Allyson, and Caroline, and Jess, and Jeff.
And so many more of us fellows here are so grateful because you make us jolly and good
every single day. And I think it's fair to say, of all the fellows, we would like another year.
[LAUGHTER] - [INAUDIBLE] - Right?
So if we could work on that-- Also, I really want to acknowledge my research
partners, four Harvard undergraduates whose breathtaking intelligence only confirms my actual research
about higher education, that it must, indeed, take quite a lot to get into this august institution.
So my favorite Harvard unicorns are Sue Lee, Irene Kim,
Guy [INAUDIBLE], and Emily Kim. So thank you. I want you to know, not only am I grateful to you,
I am really, really proud of you. [APPLAUSE]
As a Radcliffe fellow, on Tuesdays and Wednesdays,
Thank you
I get to listen to my incredibly smart fellows give talks.
And usually, you will see me in the first row of either this room or another room at Byerly Hall, slack jawed with wonder and feeling
something called the imposter syndrome, which all of you inflict on me.
But when you're not inflicting that on me, because you guys are the real deal, I want you to know that you teach me to reach higher.
So thank you. I also want to thank my discussant, Jeannie,
who is one of the smartest and most fair persons out there. And her mind is so impressive.
And although she's younger than I am, I do seek her approval.
Thank you for hanging out with me today. Finally, it should be noted here that this event does not
work without the seemingly invisible labor of so many people who are never recognized, people who put out
these chairs, who keep these lights on, who keep us warm and dry, who makes sure that the snow is all shoveled and that everything works.
And I want to thank all of you for your incredible labor. I'm really in your debt.
=====
Childhood in Korea
Now, in March of 1976, my mother, and my father,
and my two sisters and I immigrated to this country. And back in Korea, my father was a marketing executive
for a cosmetics company, and my mother was a neighborhood piano teacher.
And my father was born, and he was raised in Wonsan, which is a northeastern part of what
is now considered North Korea. And he became a war refuge when he was 16 years old,
losing his entire family. My mother grew up in Pusan, which is a southernmost tip of what is now South Korea.
But when they were children, there was only one Korea. Now, I mention the fact that these two separate republics
were formed in 1948 because it's a material fact.
Now, for their married life, they lived in Seoul, where my sisters and I were born.
I was about 7 and 1/2 when we left. And I recall our modest, middle class home in Sudogwon,
in the Mope district. It was an ordinary middle class house with a stone facade.
It wasn't large, and it wasn't very special in its appearance. And these standalone houses are mostly gone now in Seoul.
And they've been replaced by these huge, large apartment buildings. And that's too bad because I would
like to see my old house again. When I recall my childhood in Korea,
I remember the sound of piano playing, the loud plunking of enthusiastic children who tried to please my mother,
who is a very gentle person and a very fine musician. And I never once heard her raise her voice at her students.
And I think her students loved her. And sometimes when she wasn't teaching,
I could hear her play Haydn and Mozart.
School
I remember the smells. There was a time when my mother decided to learn how to make cakes with her best friend.
And during this marvelous period, I recall the gorgeous scents of eggs, and butter, and vanilla.
And it made a really happy impression on me. And I remember the tastes. At Christmas, my mother would have
a Christmas party, serving ice cream to all of her students. My younger sister sang, and I couldn't attend
because we were too little. So we were sent off to our uncle's house. And we would eat lots and lots of tangerines
until we almost got sick. And we would watch television until it was very late.
I attended the local elementary school. And I was the tallest child in the class,
for both boys and girls. And everybody was seated in size order,
so I would sit all the way in the back. And I had a tendency to daydream,
so I was not a very good student. Whenever I was bored, I would just get up from my seat
and try to wander. I hardly spoke. And I had no friends.
And I did not have the words to speak to other children.
And I think in retrospect, I must have had some sort of learning issue. However, back then in Korea, a child
like me was just considered slow or odd.
I was profoundly unaware of my social environment, and I could not accurately perceive social cues
of my teachers or my peers. And one day, when I was in the first grade,
and I was six years old, I completed my assignment. And needing to move, I got up from my seat,
and I walked to and fro in the back of the classroom. And my teacher called my name and told
me to come to the front of the classroom. So I went. And she told me to hold out my hands like this.
And I had no idea what she was going to do. She picked up a ruler and she struck my hands.
And I don't recall how many times, but it was more than once. I don't recall if it hurt.
Mostly, I remember being surprised, and I felt ashamed of myself.
And later, the teacher called my mother and asked her to come in.
And to this day, I don't know what they discussed.
But I suppose it must have had something to do with the fact that I was not a good learner.
My mother worked all the time, teaching piano. So the day my mother came to school to talk with my teacher,
it felt like a very special day because we could go home together.
And after talking to my teacher, my mother took me to a cafe near the school,
and she bought me a piece of pastry. She wasn't upset with me, not at all.
My mother just said that I should remain in my seat until my teacher allowed me to move.
So in school, I always tried to do that. I still do. [LAUGHTER]
So those are a few of my very persistent memories
What are Koreans like
of my childhood in Korea. And I share them with you today because writers need their memories the way mathematicians need logic.
I have written about Koreans for most of my life. And I've been asked why I write about Koreans.
And it seems like such a strange question to me. Because why wouldn't I write about Koreans?
To me, Koreans are mothers, and fathers, and daughters, and sons, which means Koreans are like us.
We are worthy of consideration and reflection.
About a year and a half ago, a European journalist interviewed me.
And he asked me this question. What are Koreans like?
[LAUGHTER] What are Koreans like?
Now, the journalist meant well. And I work as a journalist sometimes. And I know that we can fumble with our words,
even though we're supposed to know them better than most. I think he was trying to help Koreans, help
us tell our side of the story, so he was asking a writer of Korean ethnicity to explain my tribe.
And as you know, if and whenever Korea is discussed in the media, especially in the mainstream
news, it is so often about that one young Korean man from the North who
is trying to hold onto his power and is taking desperate measures in order to do so.
And he does this much in the vein of his father and his grandfather have done.
So his story is a story of a dynasty, which means that you know that at its root
it is a story about a family. People around the world who want to see more of Koreans
get such a small and dark window. And that is, indeed, a shame.
So what are Koreans like? I thought about the immensity of this question,
the fallacy behind it, and the overwhelming likelihood of falling into stereotypes in answering him.
And yet, not to reply would have been rude, because I had spent some time with this journalist.
And I knew he was not a bad person. So I answered him.
I told him the Koreans liked to dance. [LAUGHTER]
Dance.
Generalisations about Koreans
I was only half kidding. Three months ago, I turned 50.
It's hard to believe, isn't it? [LAUGHTER] And because I write so much about Koreans
and have done so for so many decades, I have now encountered thousands of Koreans around the world.
And wherever I go, I do my best to take the temperature of Koreans from every age and group.
So if you follow Koreans in the news, you can find some widespread generalizations
about the peninsula and its people. And they go like this. You will know that there was a miracle on the Han,
a phrase used to explain South Korea's incredible, superhuman
economic success as it emerged from a catastrophic, post-colonial, post-war poverty, and all
in a matter of a few decades. Koreans are global leaders in internet speed, shipbuilding,
steel, the manufacture of consumer electronics, automobiles, memory chips, and semiconductors.
South Korea leads the PISA scores, literacy, secondary and tertiary education.
And Korea has produced world class athletes, filmmakers, musicians, and artists.
South Koreans also have the highest rates in plastic surgery, suicide, cryptocurrency speculation,
youth dissatisfaction, and elderly poverty.
And for North Korea, according to the 2018 Global Slavery
Index, North Korea has the highest number of slaves today.
Today, 1 out of every 10 North Korean citizens-- that is 2.6 million people--
live under slavery conditions. It can be argued very logically and fairly that,
because all of its citizens lack the freedom of movement, even at the very highest levels, almost 26 million North Koreans
are actually hostages to one leader. So whether it's the number of churches being built,
the number of speedskating gold medals, or noses being reconstructed, or the trafficking
of human beings, Koreans hold top positions on important lists.
But Koreans like to dance. And if you go to festivals or weddings,
you will see Korean grandmothers moving their arms elegantly,
and swaying their shoulders and their heads.
Koreans have excellent rhythm, Ani. That's a little inside joke.
[LAUGHS] Koreans can be funny. We like to sing.
And we love to eat. And we like a little dazzle. And if you know a bit about the Korean psyche,
you know that we're known for carrying this thing, this feeling called han, defined as a specific kind
of inexpressible anguish that comes from having suffered collectively as a people.
And then there's nunchi, a kind of emotional intelligence, or the ability to perceive subtext.
And there's also the concept of jeong, my favorite, the quality of affection and attachment that people develop with time
and common experience. Now, my job as a writer demands that I avoid generalizations.
My job as a writer
But I fear that the very prevalent generalizations are so limited and negative that I am anxious as
to how to correct misrepresentations and distortions of my community of origin
and my diasporic community. In my experience, the Koreans that I know are very romantic.
Koreans are romantic
They are full of love and intensity. And they're physical in their expression.
So I want you to know that too. Now, I was a lawyer before I began writing fiction.
And I majored in history, and then I went to law school. And I don't have a degree in English or an MFA.
It took me 11 years to write and ultimately sell my first novel,
called Free Food for Millionaires. And it was a book about Koreans in America, specifically
in New York City, where class and money define a specific reality with hidden rules for outsiders.
I wrote that book because I wanted to understand where poor Koreans fit in
and what it would mean for a poor Korean to be accepted into an elite Ivy League institution
and try to have bigger dreams than the ones laid out by her parents.
Another 10 years passed before I published Pachinko, a book about Koreans in Japan.
Among many things, I wanted to understand the modern 20th century Korean.
And I knew that I could not understand her unless I located her position in the colonial history of Japan
and Korea and how that post-colonial history informed the Korean population in Japan.
So now, to complete my trilogy of the diaspora, which I'm calling The Koreans, I wanted
to know what is the most important value for Koreans,
not just in Korea, but around the world. And I sensed what it was.
Koreans value education. They value it like nothing else.
For Koreans, since the Silla Kingdom, when national exams were first administered to candidates
to become bureaucrats, Koreans have regarded education as a gateway and a path to progress, distinction,
and proof of one's value. Kingdoms have risen and fallen in Korea,
this peninsula attached to China, located east of Japan and south of Russia.
The nation was colonized by Japan and then later split by foreign powers. And then from 1950 to 1953, not a long time
ago, the two Koreas fought a civil war, which killed 2 million Korean men, women, and children,
over 600,000 Chinese, and over 50,000 Americans.
And as you know, although the armistice agreement was signed in July of 1953, there has been a ceasefire,
but the war has not ended. The ancient civilized nation, which
is now made up of two republics, each only 71 years old,
has suffered through dictators, the repression of human rights, the systematic torture and murder of university students
and labor organizers. And many South Korean business leaders have done incredibly good things for their nations.
And others have sought only personal gain and profited through corruption.
South Korea is growing up to be a great democratic nation, as evidenced by the recent Candlelight Revolution, where
several months, from 2016 to 2017, collectively, millions
of South Korean citizens gathered week after week, effectively and peacefully,
and ousted a corrupt regime. South Korean citizens uphold and honor
a long history of protest. And they have excellent voting turnout
and are deeply engaged in the formation of their democracy.
Both Koreas are global players. South Korea is a member of the OECD and the G20,
as evidence of its status as an advanced economy. It is the 12th largest economy in the world.
And North Korea insists on taking the center stage. And in a few weeks, the American president
will meet with him in Vietnam for their second summit.
Koreans are global players
How did Koreans become global players? And how did it happen so fast?
And if you ask Koreans around the world, nearly everyone will mention that Koreans
are willing to figure things out and they will work around rigid systems.
We will read. We will study. We will try to solve problems. Koreans will go to great lengths to learn more.
In short, Koreans care immensely about education.
Well, education is a vital subject to every living creature.
So from birth, every infant has to learn skills. And gradually, if she has the necessary biological capacity,
she will learn how to hold her head up, and crawl, and express herself.
And eventually, she will need to learn enough skills to be independent and productive for herself
and for her community. So if everyone needs an education, then how is the modern Korean's value of education
different than, let's say, someone from Spain, or Palestine, or Syria, or Ghana,
or New Zealand? Well, we can measure the unique interest
in terms of sheer investment, in terms of time, in terms of money or output.
We can look at it through the lens of culture or history.
Now, from its Confucian roots for well over 1,000 years, Koreans have trusted that one's status in life
can be improved markedly by educational achievement. By passing exams, one can attain a position near the ruler,
become a political leader, or serve one. And he can acquire status, privilege, and security
for himself, his family, and his descendants. Well, a millennia of social conditioning
is hard to shake off. Despite the calamities that Korea has suffered, or perhaps
because of the calamities that Koreans have endured, even as recently as the Asian financial crisis and the IMF bailout,
education has become even more valued in South Korea.
In South Korea today, it is not sufficient to send one's child to school. No.
Rather, the child will begin to get supplemental education, private tutoring,
starting at the age of four. South Korean high school students sleep on average five hours a day,
which means some sleep less. And when they are awake, they are studying.
Why? Every year, the college entrance exam, called the CSAT,
The sky school
or the [INAUDIBLE] is offered exactly once on a date in November.
And 600,000 South Korean students take this exam.
And the score that she receives will determine where she can apply and be admitted.
The top three universities are widely believed to be Seoul National, Korea, and Yonsei University.
And the initials SKY, making up the acronym SKY,
reaching for the sky-- the metaphor is not lost on this crowd.
And of the 600,000 examinees, there about 11,000 spots.
So only 2% can attend the SKY schools. And to be sure, not every examinee
wants to attend a SKY school. Last year, about 108,000 applied to those three schools.
And whether or not this is an objective reality, the overwhelming majority of the entire country
believes that SKY graduates are the most desirable.
SKY graduates and their alumni networks dominate the most prestigious companies and government
positions. And also keep in mind that the youth unemployment in South Korea is hovering officially around 9%.
But because so many have given up seeking employment, most economists and sociologists believe
that it's well over 20%. So if you are a Korean parent, and you
want to help your child, what do you do? What would you do to help your child to be part of the 2%?
If you have the means, you may try to get your child out of South Korea. And this is precisely what many South Koreans attempt to do.
They send their children abroad at various stages so they can avoid the intense and suffocating
examination-based paths to getting a university-level education.
And maybe, if that is not an option for you, what do you do?
But more likely than not, nearly every South Korean parent of every socioeconomic level sends her child
through hagwons. A hagwon-- H-A-G-W-O-N--
The hogg
is the Korean word for a for-profit tutoring business,
a place to receive private supplemental education. There are hagwons in South Korea to study anything.
You can find a hagwon to study any language, any exam, and even non-academic fields like Model UN, debate,
video gaming, or even how to boost your child's creativity.
And if you think about it, private tutors have always existed.
Universal public education, or compulsory education, is a modern concept for many countries,
including the United States, which still varies its requirements from state to state.
In the United States, we have Stanley Kaplan, or Princeton Review. Those are our national hagwons.
And for elementary school levels, there's Kumon, a Japanese export, where children can start as young as three years old,
in America. In South Korea, we can safely assume
that the average Korean household income is somewhere between $20,000 $30,000, depending upon your calculation.
So if you spend $300 a month for your four-year-old, and if you continue to pay $3,600 per annum--
and this amount will only increase every single year dramatically because she will need other subjects,
and there will be tuition for high school-- you are spending a significant portion of your income
over the lifetime of your child for supplemental education.
Now, my third novel, which I'm researching and writing here, and it is about the value of education for Koreans
around the world. And I'm interested in what an education should mean.
And at this stage in my life, I am interested in the metaphysical question of wisdom.
How can I live a wise life? What is a wise life? And how is education different than wisdom?
So how do I work? How do I write a novel? When I write fiction, I do a lot of research.
And I look at the relevant scholarship in the fields of economics, anthropology, law, education, sociology, psychology, and history.
And then I review the traditional mainstream media. And concurrently, I interview hundreds of people and conduct
site visits. And for this book, I have just done fieldwork in New York, Seoul, Jeju, Los Angeles, and London.
And I will head to Australia and New Zealand for the summer because these English-speaking countries are
among the many places that South Koreans send their children to learn English.
And this past December, I was in Seoul with two of my research partners, where I had the chance to meet with hagwon
owners, private tutors, parents, school teachers, and all kinds of students.
I've met with [INAUDIBLE] fathers. And these are fathers who live in Seoul, or who live somewhere in South Korea.
And they send their money abroad to their wives and children who are studying outside of South Korea.
I have met homestay guardians. These are Koreans who serve as guardians for parachute children.
And parachute children are kids who are dropped off in foreign countries to study.
I visited international students, international schools, and cafes where
students go to avoid studying, universities, international school fairs.
And I've been to goshitels. Goshitels are cheap hotels where students in South Korea
live in windowless rooms. That's about 40 square feet.
I have visited a K-pop museum, internet cafes called PCBang's,
and many, many, many hagwons. In the United States, I have met their American counterparts
and talked with admissions officers from universities like Yale and Harvard,
admissions officers of elite private schools, and interviewed college presidents. And this past October, I attended the Harvard admissions
trial. And I mentioned some of my research. Because doing this kind of work, as I write and rewrite
a work of fiction, humbles me. It teaches me to listen more.
Reality corrects my preconceptions. And my eyes and my ears experience what my characters
may ultimately feel. Now, it may be true that a Korean child studies from dawn
to dusk and that a Korean parent may impoverish himself to support his child's studies.
And when I share some of what I learn, I noticed that people seem alarmed at my findings.
And sometimes I share your alarm. However, I've noticed that every single Korean I've
spoken with has specific wishes and reasons. So I try never to judge.
I try to ask more questions, and I consider his point of view.
I worry a great deal about how Koreans are perceived,
not because I think Koreans are ideal. No, far from it.
I worry because when I encounter the way Koreans are perceived in the world by non-Koreans and diasporic Koreans,
I find that the Koreans don't get to tell their full story. And I'm hoping that you and I can
be more fair if we realize the Koreans have achieved impressive outcomes and they care intensely about education
because they have good reason. Why?
Education
Why do Koreans care so much about education? Well, one reason is that Koreans want power no less
than any of us in this room. Koreans want power because the average Korean,
whether she lives in Pusan or Toronto, may feel less than powerful.
And who among us would deny that we sometimes feel less than powerful and that sometimes life can
feel like a dead end? So I ask myself, what will a mother
do when she wants her child to have a little more than she has?
And how is she different from me? And how is she different from us?
I am overwhelmed by the complexity of my subject,
and because I realize that I am not writing about education, the diaspora, or Koreans,
I'm writing about humans. And we are very complicated. We are vulnerable.
We are needy, and we are frightened. We make terrible choices, and we live with regrets.
And more often than not, we cannot give voice to our most important feelings.
When I teach writing, I set ground rules in my classroom. We will respect each other's privacy,
and we will encourage each other. Because we are writers and we are developing our stories.
The quest is for each writer to work on her most important questions, even
if her questions are strange, embarrassing, or peculiar.
Because her most important questions will allow her to finish her work.
I want to know what drew my writer to her subject. And more than that, I want my writer to own her questions.
And through her process of writing, I want the writer to own her answers.
Because I believe that, as a society, we need these answers.
Dance
When the European journalist asked me the question, what are Koreans like, what
I heard in his question was really the question, are Koreans human.
Are they like me? So I had told him that Koreans like to dance.
And here, let me explain more fully what I meant.
Dance is a physical allegory of our emotions. Our bodies are telling our hearts' stories
without using words. I told the journalist that Koreans like to dance because I
wanted him to understand that a Korean cannot always say what she means, and she cannot always sit still until she is told she
can move. Dance requires twists and gestures, backward
and forward motion. Dance requires reaching, and stretching, and bending.
And dance allows some freedom of desire and the manifestation of will.
Perhaps the journalist thought that I was alluding to the extraordinary choreography
and the dramatic execution of synchronized movements of K-pop.
I was not. [LAUGHTER] I was talking about the old woman
who wants to roll her shoulders while closing her eyes.
I am writing, though I'm a writer. Why am I talking about dancing?
I am talking about ordinary people dancing because I worry that the literate and the elite,
the ones who have the fancy words, are the only ones who get to be considered.
And if you think about that, it is both absurd and immoral.
Less than 100 years ago, nearly all the women in Korea were illiterate.
In my mind, I was thinking, why is it that the poor, old, Korean woman likes to dance?
Why is that? Perhaps, despite all the constrictions
of a nation geographically bound by superpowers and culturally bound by ancient precepts,
and despite all the difficulties of a people who've been scattered around the globe, Koreans from many corners
like to dance because we are human, and our physical bodies crave expression.
Even with the fear of censure, and the fear of shame,
and the fear of exclusion, we will express ourselves fully,
even if it is for just one dance. And we will do it with rhythm.
More than our spectacular accomplishments or our catastrophic failures, perhaps
it is our daily bodies, our yearnings, our very weakness,
and our wish for expression that makes us human. And I hope that is what I will carry with me as I
continue to write about us. Thank you. [APPLAUSE]
=====
Jeannie
I'm so glad you're here, Jeannie. [LAUGHS] - I'm so glad I'm here too. - It's scary being up there.
- So it's really amazing. I've often said to Min Jin that I really feel like we were twins separated at birth because we
have-- - Well, your mom and dad are here. [LAUGHTER]
- There are so many things that we have had in common, including the hometown of Wonsan
and many, many things. And I want to say, first of all, I
am amazed that you're writing about hagwon. It's kind of one of these shady secrets that Koreans have.
- I like hagwons. - Yeah. And I will come out and say for the first time,
in front of a public audience, I attended hagwon when I was five years old and going forward until probably--
- Your mom was just trying to show her support. - Yeah. But in the American culture in which
we operate, this idea, this ethnically inflected, private,
after school venues in which Asians
go to do more than what they do in school, and probably
in these windowless rooms, in basements, so that they can pass these standardized tests
and, in fact, score as well as they possibly can, there is something very, I think,
stigmatized in our culture about that phenomenon. - In Western culture. - Yeah.
- In Korea, it's really normal. If you didn't send your kid-- - It's very normal. - --to hagwon, you'd be a weirdo.
- Yeah. But in the United States, it's not something that, even as a person who was a member of an elite university,
a faculty member or a student, it's not something you openly bandy about as something you're proud of.
- Oh. - And I just think that it's really amazing that you're writing about this because we need to know more
about what is up with these hagwon, and how do they fit into our Korean-American,
Asian-American, and just American educational landscape. What do they mean?
What are they about? What is the stigma around them?
And what is it that makes them just kind of vexing phenomena?
Hagwon Daycare
- Well, I actually like hagwons. And the more I study them, the more I like them. And it's kind of curious because you would think
that I would dislike them. But I've met so many people who've gone to hagwons all their lives.
And now I realized, it's not just for studying. It's actually almost like a community center.
- For sure. - It also serves as a daycare function, which is really important to recognize for working
women and working men. So when I was just recently in Los Angeles, I went to this entire area where you have all these strip malls.
And then you have, like, let's say, the pizza store, the drugstore. And you'll have this weird looking building,
and it'll have kind of blacked out windows, with children looking sort of happy, but I don't know. [LAUGHTER]
And there'll be all these buses in the front. And it turns out that these buses
pick up the children after school and bring them back in. And the kids stay at these hagwons from 3 o'clock
until, let's say, 6:30 until their parents pick them up. And the parents pay about $300 a month.
And that means that if the parent is working when the school is off, for a public school especially,
well, what's a working parent to do? And we know that in this country, we don't have daycare.
So I was actually quite happy with it. And these kids were not studying a lot, especially the ones in LA.
I mean-- [LAUGHTER] They were not studying. They were, you know, chatting.
- I, too, used to play hooky from hagwon. - Right. right. Yeah, I met some really impressive people in London
when I was doing fieldwork. And I said, so did you go to hagwon? And this seemed like a very attractive Korean man.
He's like, in this 30s. You would hire him in a minute. And I said, so did you go to hagwon? He was like, yeah.
And I said, did you like them? He was like, I loved them. And I said, why? And he said, well, because on Wednesdays and Thursdays,
I would play hooky, and I would see all my friends. And we would go to PCBang's, and we would just
basically play video games and eat [INAUDIBLE].. And I was like, OK, I get it.
And it turned out the teachers would sort of turn a blind eye because they knew that these kids needed a break.
And then I realized, like, no, these are very human institutions. So we have all this data, like oh, kids study 18 hours a day.
And some kids are studying 18 hours a day, absolutely. But for the most part, there's a lot of hooky.
[LAUGHTER] - I wanted to return to two different statements
Reality corrects preconceptions
that you made that juxtaposed next to each other, I just thought maybe would be revealing.
One was that you said that reality corrects my preconceptions, that as you learn more,
you have these preconceived ideas, they change as a result. - Right. - The other is the idea that when
you describe the research that you've been doing and the findings, some of which you shared with us today,
they are alarming, possibly to you and possibly to the people who are hearing about them.
Certainly, some of them alarmed me. - Yeah. No, the Western audience, like, that's crazy.
These people are crazy. They often say things like, these people are crazy. And then I kind of think, actually, if you spent, like, six hours with them, you wouldn't
think that they're crazy. - Yeah, so what is this relationship between feeling like your preconceptions are changed by more reality, more,
let's say, field work, more talking to these people, and really learning about what motivates them,
and the idea that what is happening as you do learn more is that things get even more alarming,
and that they are even more surprising, and possibly
less reassuring? - Yes. I did have this one thing where I interviewed a really, really
fancy hagwon tutor. And she teaches SATs. And she's very private.
And I talked to her. And she worked-- she went to Harvard. And she worked at Goldman Sachs.
[LAUGHS] And then now, she's a hagwon teacher, and she makes a lot of dough.
And I was talking to her. I liked her. She was really kind of cool and fun. And if I needed a kid--
if I had a kid who needed SAT tutoring, I could kind of see why I would hire her because she just seemed really relatable
and kind of no nonsense. But at the same time, I'm kind of thinking, you went to Harvard, and you're working at Goldman Sachs.
And she had a baby. And I said, so did you send your daughter to hagwon? And she said, yes.
And because I had the data point already that 85% of four-year-olds in South Korea start hagwons, I was like--
I kind of knew. I was like, maybe four, maybe five. But then again, she's a hagwon teacher. Maybe she's kind of like, I'm so above this.
I said, when did you start your daughter? She said, age two. And I was like, damn.
[LAUGHTER] Seriously? And of course, I try to be a good ethnographer.
And I said, for what? And she said, well, she was trying
to get into a pre-school. It was really hard to get into this preschool, so she had private consulting.
And I said, OK. So like, this is a situation where I'm alarmed, because I'm kind of thinking, you have your shit together.
Why would you need this? And she doesn't need daycare because she has money. But she said it's because she had
to get into a certain kind of preschool because this preschool is a feeder for a certain kindergarten. And so she had a [INAUDIBLE] of a consultant
who knew about this school. And it was like $60 a thing. And I said, so what did they do?
And she said, well, you'll have, let's say, a pizza, kind of like a wooden pizza. And you cut out little sections, and you
learn about percentages. And I was like, oh, OK. And also how to hold a writing implement,
that was apparently something that people get tested on.
But again, if you hung out with her, you'd like her. This is the thing I really want to make as a defense.
Because we have this tendency to say, that's crazy. Why would you do that?
But you hang out with them, you're going like, yeah, I guess I could kind of see that. - Well, this process of moving from empathy
Empathy to alienation
to a real sense of alienation, like, I can't possibly imagine why someone
would do that, that must be a really interesting process for you as a writer who, I think throughout your talk,
you occupied both the position of speaking of Koreans as them
and also representing an us. - Us. Yes. - And of course, you are also working across national divides
like the Koreans in the United States and other nations, diaspora Koreans,
versus the ones in Korea. And there is a very-- for lots of people, a very stark divide.
- LA Koreans are so different-- - LA Koreans versus New York Koreans. - --than New York Koreans. Oh, my goodness, it's like different gangs. - And the kind of Koreans who get
into schools like Harvard University and their perceptions of the kinds of Koreans
who don't have what it takes to get here or we don't really work hard, but we don't have the special--
you don't have the special creativity and the innovation that Harvard University looks for in its selection process.
I think there's so many different kinds of us and them processes going on within the--
- Here's a generalization. Korean-Canadians, very nice. [LAUGHTER]
Never met a Korean-Canadian I didn't like. [LAUGHTER]
- I know. So one of the things that I--
Are Koreans human
I didn't realize until in the middle of your talk. When I saw the title, Are Koreans Human?
And I think you told me that some people said, wow, are you getting pushback because it
sounds like you're suggesting they might not be human? And-- - We are.
- Right, whereas I read it totally differently in that I thought you meant like, are we superhuman?
- Right. - Not like are we subhuman. - You are. - No, no. But that's how I read this title, especially
in light of the idea of superpowers. And of course, now I understand that part of what you're saying
is how flanked both the Korean nation and the culture
have been by geopolitical superpowers and how-- - Which makes Korea-- right.
Which makes Koreans feel like they have to kind of be a superpower in order to deal with the fact that, for thousands of years, you've
had these superpowers constantly in their face. - Right, despite the name for the country, which
was the Hermit Kingdom, the idea that we are so separate that we
don't mix well with others. - You and I mix well.
- Now, we do. And it's also one of the--
hearing you talk about your almost mute childhood-- - Mm-hmm.
This can be confirmed by my family. I didn't really start talking until almost middle school. - I believe that because that was the same for me.
- Right. We had rich interior lives. - The idea that I'm here speaking with you to hundreds
of people, that's insane. - Right. - Given the way I grew up and the way I thought of myself.
- This is actually virtual reality. - Yeah, it can't be real. But yeah, I mean, how do you--
and is that something about Koreans that-- - Sure.
- Because that's how I always thought about that muteness. - But I think a part of it's Korean.
But I have two sisters, and so do you, because we were basically separated at birth. - Right.
- And both my sisters, all three of us didn't speak any English when we came to this country. - Same. - Right? But my older sister and my younger sister,
who I'm going to embarrass right now, they're wildly popular. And they picked up English immediately.
They had friends. They got tracked into the smart class right away. I was in a dumb class for two years.
That's what they literally called it at PS 102. And I just kind of always thought
that I would have been tempted to say it's a Korean thing for my silence. But because I had evidence in my house that I was just a loser,
that it was very-- I knew that it was me.
I knew that some of it was me. So part of it's a fact that, of course, in Korean-- if you look at Korean fairy tales
or folktales, the fact the girls speaking is not necessarily a virtue.
The big virtue for Korean girls is sacrifice. [SNORES]
Endless fucking sacrifice. [LAUGHTER] So I really don't like that.
But I got it. I mean, we get the message, right? We get the message that you're supposed to sacrifice, you're supposed to suffer.
However, as a child, I think there was something-- I had something. I don't know what it is.
- But what about this juxtaposition between the extremity of the educational imperative
and the extremely high rates of plastic surgery? You mentioned this.
Is there some relation? - Of course. - How do you think about both of those sometimes alarming facts?
- Well, in Korea-- I wrote an article about this for The Chosun Ilbo, and I got death threats.
Because I said that plastic surgery is an option. I am not against it.
If you want to get it, that's fine. I'm 50. I've thought about it.
Now, having said that, what I wrote in my article for The Chosun Ilbo was that it's
something-- it's not really consent technically if you make your child get it.
Because you're a child. So if you tell your child, you are ugly, or you tell your child, there's something
wrong with your eyes-- so for, example my eyes are not desirable. They're supposed to have another lid.
So the most common surgery for Koreans is the eye surgery where you sort of tuck it in. And sometimes, it can turn out great and sometimes,
not so much. I had a friend of mine who had her nose done twice because it moved.
And that was kind of a drag. And her parents made her do it. Her parents literally-- her dad was a psychiatrist.
And he actually said, there's something wrong with your nose. We have to fix it. So they put a bridge in there.
And I kind of thought, you know, if your father told you that you're ugly, or that your nose is ugly,
that's not consent. Right? I mean, it's like trauma. So it is absolutely kind of a psychological terrorism.
So I kind of wrote this, saying that if you wanted to get it as an adult, it's absolutely fine, but as a child,
I had these reservations. Death threats. - Death threats from-- - The comment boxes.
Like, die, bitch, and that kind of stuff. - From the side of people who are-- - That's a death threat, right? - People who want--
people who want to be more supportive of plastic surgery? - I think they're plastic surgeons, frankly.
[LAUGHTER] I do. I mean, it's a billion dollar industry.
It makes a ton of money. And I'm like-- and I wasn't saying don't do it. I just said, if kids are doing it,
and if parents are saying you need to change, that's a different thing altogether. And I think I was kind of making a legal argument.
Having said that, the thing with plastic surgery is that if you go to South Korea, people don't really think of it as necessarily
moral or immoral. They don't even think that they're trying to be Western. - I they think of it like we think of braces.
- Right. - That is how I experience it. - Exactly. That's exactly what they think of it. - I think that is how they think of it. - They think of it as a competitive advantage.
And I totally understand that. And actually, the US is kind of following Asia. Now, I don't know if you want to know this.
But LinkedIn, you put your photograph up there. It used to be--
I mean, in Korea, right now, if you want to get a job, you had to put a photograph on the folder of your application.
So your looks are absolutely part of the. Application So I think Korean parents are kind
of thinking-- even though I just, right now, kind of indicted them, let me defend them now.
They're kind of saying, well, I want my kids to be competitive. I want to be competitive. Right? So if you are an older man, and you want to keep a job,
and you're being discriminated against for age discrimination, and you want to dye your hair, fair game.
You're trying to pay the mortgage. I get it. Right? So if you're trying to get a job, and you decide,
you know what? They prefer to have bigger eyes, bigger eyes. Let's do it.
It costs, like, $2,000. Let's go. So in that sense, I think they're not thinking,
oh, it's because I want to look like Gwyneth Paltrow. Because that's often the argument
that's given in the US. And I totally understand their argument. But for Koreans that are kind of saying, you know, I would just like to be more competitive,
I would like to get a better looking partner, I would like to get a better job, if better looks is what you want, I'll give it to you.
- So hagwon and then to the plastic surgery, - Sure, yeah. - I think we're going to have a couple--
we have some time for questions. How much time do we have? About 15 minutes. So it would be great if you could walk to the mic
when you have your question? And we'll take you one by one.
- Hi, Min. It's Ani Patel. So I was at Brown University. And they had these mugs in the bookstore
with great first lines of novels. And I thought, "History has failed us, but no matter" belonged on there.
That's such a great first line. - Thank you. - Can you just tell us more about that line and where it came from, and what the bigger meaning of that line
was for you in the context of that novel, how it became the thesis statement, so to speak? - Thank you, Ani.
So each of my works, the first line serves as a thesis statement. So even my American Hagwon, I have my thesis statement.
I may actually make a release right now. But to answer your question, "history has failed us, but no matter," I am
arguing that history has failed almost everybody. Because in order for history to work, in order for historians
to chronicle the lives of people, they need to have primary documents and artifacts. And if they cannot, they cannot record that history.
So it's not that the historians don't care. As a matter of fact, I'm always arguing, because I've interviewed so many historians,
they're among the most enlightened people that you can find in the field. However, they can only work with what they have
because they have to go based on evidence. That said, most of us in the whole wide world,
are not important enough to leave documents or to have our lives recorded in real time. And therefore, how is a historian
supposed to think about us, those of us who are illiterate, those of us who are less powerful,
those of us who don't have powerful connections or money? So I'm saying that history has failed us, all of us,
in that sense. And also for us to be missing that history is a loss for everybody, not just
for those who weren't recorded. So that was my thesis. But I'm also saying, "but no matter."
And I'm saying it as a matter of defiance, because even though people are not recorded, even though the important people don't care
about us, we still persist. We still try to fight for our lives,
and our lives matter intensely. So I'm arguing that. - That's beautiful. - So thank you. - Thank you, Min.
- Hi. My name is [INAUDIBLE] Lee.
I'm at the Graduate School of Education. And-- - I just spoke there. - Oh.
- With Roberto. Roberto, are you here? - This is for the immigration class.
OK, anyways. And I was actually a teacher at [INAUDIBLE].. I was a English native teacher at a public school
in [INAUDIBLE]. And I am so interested that you're now doing this on American hagwons, because I clearly remember--
I was teaching fourth grade-- a girl comes into my class, and she's crying. And I stop her before she enters.
I'm just like, what's wrong? Why are you crying? And she said, I got a 90 on my test.
And I was like, OK, well, you know, are you OK? Are you worried about your parents? Are you worried about your homeroom teacher?
And she goes, no, I'm worried about what my hagwon teacher is going to say. And I'm worried about the consequences
of getting a 90 on my test. And I think seeing the prevalence of the hagwon culture, not only in America, where--
I grew up in Queens as well-- but in Korea, I think it's a powerful thing
to create understanding of why hagwons exist, and why it's so important, and why it's so prevalent.
But I'm wondering how do you balance between understanding the darkness and the unintended consequences
and the negative impact it has on these kids, particularly because the suicide rate is so high?
I'm wondering, how have you seen in your research push for change, a push for change to stay away
and to strive away from the hagwons, while building understanding of why that
exists in the Korean culture? - Well, I'm going to say something really controversial
right now. So if you believe in organized sports, like football--
- Sure. - Like, if you enjoy football, you are witnessing the destruction of young men.
That's what we're doing. I hope all of you guys don't leave right now.
But every time I watch a football game, I literally think, as a parent, how could we do this to children?
Because you know, when they start, like peewee football, they're four or five. So before we start judging other countries,
I think it's really important to really rethink what we think is OK and what's not OK.
So as for hagwons, I saw really great things about them. And I also totally agree with you.
The amount of pressure that these children face is absolutely unacceptable. And I do speak out against that.
However, I think that to throw away this entire concept, to throw away this idea that you could have daycare
for working-class people that's affordable when the state doesn't provide it,
I think that's an elitist argument. I do. So I agree with you that when I see these kids suffer,
it's horrible. But I've also seen kids from many other ethnicities and countries who get upset about the 90.
So it's not just pathological that Asian people have this problem. I've actually seen this in many groups.
So you're an educator. You know. But I love your question. Thank you.
- Hello, my name is [INAUDIBLE]. But I go by JY here. - Jay? - JY. - It's JY. That's good.
I like it. - And then I looked at the hagwon industry, actually, for a newspaper. But I'm in the Divinity School here. So I'm going to ask about that instead.
So Presbyterians are protagonists of Pachinko, right? And I've heard you talk in an interview
that being a Presbyterian is important for you. And I'm wondering-- I'm hoping Presbyterians will be protagonists again in your next book.
I'm guessing probably not. But even then, I want to hear you talk about why Koreans love being Christian, and then
especially a Presbyterian. - Wow, it's JY? So JY's question, for those of you who didn't hear it,
is about my use of Presbyterian characters, and also the fact that, personally, I am a Presbyterian.
And it's true. My grandfather is a Presbyterian minister. He was a headmaster for an orphanage school in Busan.
And he taught orphans who were repatriated from Japan who had lost their parents from Hiroshima
and Nagasaki. These were Korean boys who were sent from Japan and went to Busan.
And my grandfather was the minister. So in my experience, my knowledge of missionaries
is not just of the vantage point of a person of color, being angry at those who want to colonize the savages.
That is a point of view that's absolutely true sometimes. There's a lot of evidence for this.
In my experience, I've also seen missionaries do something really radical, which is to teach women how to read.
The education of Korean women would not have happened without the introduction
of Western missionaries. And I think about that as a very important value.
I also think it's important to recognize that Christians have had a very important civil rights aspect in Korea.
Almost all of the major protests that were conducted in the history of Korea
were started by ministers. So before we start to think of Christians as being jerks--
and some Christians are absolutely jerks. I know. I'm a Christian. So I talk about that.
And I write because the money's so good.
[LAUGHTER] No. I write because I want to.
I have these questions. And I have a lot of questions about God. God vexes me.
Like, I don't understand God a lot of times. That said, I believe God. I believe in the existence of God.
And for all of us who've made the decision that God does not exist, again, we know, all of us who are enlightened--
there are people that are far smarter than me in this room about this issue-- you have to make a decision.
And for me, I've made a decision that there is a God. However, I'm confused.
And sometimes, through drama, I get to figure out some of my questions. And the Bible is a work that is very important to me
as a source material. So I write about that. And we have to discuss Christianity
in American hagwon. It will appear. Because one of the strangest things about going to all these hagwons is
that if you go to most hagwons, they're very Christian-focused.
On the walls, you'll see all these Bible verses everywhere. It doesn't mean that they're Christian, just that there
are Christian influences. Thank you, JY.
- Not made for the vertically challenged. Hi, my name is Leah. I'm originally from Japan.
Was born and raised in Tokyo. My father is a Colombian immigrant who grew up in Queens.
And my mother is a second generation Zainichi Korean. So when I started reading your book-- admittedly,
I'm only about a third of the way through Pachinko-- - Colombia appears in that book. - I'm sorry?
- Colombia appears in the book. - I'm excited to get to that part. I'm sorry I haven't gotten there yet. - I'm excited for you.
- So one of the first things I thought about three pages in was, like, the people who need to read this are Japanese people.
This should be one of the main audiences who don't see Koreans as human.
I feel like them being able to kind of experience this book and relate to characters that they may not
see as someone that's relatable to them, I think that's really important. So I looked for a Japanese copy because I
wanted my mother to read it. And I found that there is not a Japanese copy. There's not a Japanese translation of Pachinko.
- Not yet. - Not yet. - So it's been purchased by 27 territories, I think, now.
So it's going to come out by Bungeishunju. And apparently, it's in the works. - Interesting. OK, so that was one of my first questions was,
was that in the works, and can I help you make that happen. - But most Zainichi Koreans have been reading it in Korean, and that's already out.
And that's by a publisher called Munhak [KOREAN].. - So I think--
yeah, so my original question was, was that in the works. It's great to know that it is. But what do you think is the main message
that Japanese, non-Zainichi Koreans, but Japanese folks, what message should they be getting from your lectures,
your works of writing? How can we bridge that gap between Japanese and Zainichi
Koreans through fictional writing? - Oh, Leah.
[LAUGHS] I like your question. I think it's an important question because I believe
in reconciliation and reunion. With all my heart, I do. And I believe that the only way we can really think about other people is through empathy,
and that's hard to do. And one of the things that I really hasten all of us against is to tell people what to do.
I encourage. I try to create drama. I hope that you find yourself in the story.
I sort of joke that my agenda in life is to make all of you Korean. [LAUGHTER] Because I think that if I can make all of you
Korean that you would see that all of us are connected. But I think that being didactic doesn't seem to work.
And I think that forgiveness is a difficult, difficult thing. It's difficult for everybody, especially
for those of us who've been injured and for those of us who injure. So again, I'm saying something that's very "Christian."
Whether or not people like that, I don't know. You know what I mean? Because I'm really angry about a lot of things.
So sometimes I'm not in a position to forgive. I'm still mad.
But I tend to work it out through my drama. But in terms of a message, I don't think I have a message about the Japanese.
I do think that what I have tried to do is to be honest about the history. And that's the reason why I do so much homework.
I do a lot of homework because, even though I may start out with a position of an argument, I often
find that my argument is wrong in the face of evidence, in the face of reality. And this goes back to the question of reality corrects
preconception. There are many Japanese people who are suffering in Japan today because Japan
has a myth of being a monolithic nation, which it is not. As you know.
- I am proof of that. - And you're proof of that. My husband is half Japanese. My son is a quarter Japanese.
So clearly, I think it would be preposterous for us to think that Japanese people are evil.
It's almost like saying that anybody is evil if they've had any kind of colonial history. And that's silly.
But what I do think is evil-- because I believe in the existence of evil-- is dishonesty about one's history.
So I think that if we are honest about history, then we can begin to consider reconciliation.
- Thank you for your work. I look forward to reading it in Japanese too. - Thank you. - Hi, I'm Jen.
Hi, Professor Gersen. - Hi. - Isn't she the greatest? - Yeah.
I had a couple of questions. The first one is, if you have watched Sky Castle yet? - Yes.
- OK. I felt like-- - It's a K-drama. - Yeah. - You would have liked it.
And my other question is, who do you think you're speaking for? Because your past two novels have
been about Korean immigrants and Korean-Americans. And the issues you just spoke of now during this talk
are, you know, plastic surgery and hagwons, which are very Korean Korean things.
So I was wondering, do you have an internal, I guess, perspective?
Or have you drawn a line about whether you're speaking about Korean-Americans or Koreans, the people who
live in Korea? - It's Jen? - Mm-hmm. - So I don't think I speak for anybody.
I don't. And I wouldn't take that on. That said, I think people think I speak for a lot of people.
And all people of color, all women, tend to have the burden of representation, which I think is kind of heavy.
I find it to be a kind of a drag. And I was just sort of kidding earlier, but I work on speculation.
So I work on spec. And that means, literally, that I don't have a contract. So when I write fiction, I write it.
And if the publisher wants it, they buy it. If they don't want to buy it-- and I know very well--
they say, no, thank you. I've had a lot of no thank yous. So I write it for me.
And I write it-- actually, my sister is here. My sister Sang is here. And people often ask, who do you think of as your ideal reader?
And I always say Sang because Sang thinks I'm great. [LAUGHTER]
It's really helpful to have somebody in your life who thinks you're great. And she likes my work.
My older sister, she always reads everything I write. Very helpful. So I don't think I even speak for my sisters.
Does that make sense? But I do think of an ideal reader who loves me and thinks that my thoughts might have some value.
Because Jen, you know, you know that the world isn't waiting for women of color to start talking.
So we have to decide, maybe we'll say something, maybe they'll hear us, maybe they'll come on a snowy day.
I can't believe it. But they did. So I encourage you to speak.
And I wouldn't say that you're speaking for me. But I would say that when you do speak, it gives me courage.
- Hello, my name is Sun. And I'm from South Korea. And I love to dance, so you were right.
[LAUGHTER] - I didn't hear that. - I said, I'm from South Korea, and I love to dance as well.
- Oh. [CLAPS] - So you were correct. - By the way, I actually asked my son.
I said, OK, I think I should do some sort of, like, dance gesture. What should I do? And he's like-- he looked really embarrassed for me.
He goes, you could do a shoulder roll. [LAUGHTER] So that was my best shoulder role.
- So I resonate with your story in some ways because I also came when I was young to the United States,
at 16 years old. And I stayed here since and studying.
And now, I'm at grad school and thinking more about my career. And I do see myself going back to Korea at some point and--
- Have you done [KOREAN]? - For a career.
But maybe for [KOREAn] as well. - OK. It means military service, sorry. - Did you ask if I have gone?
- Yeah, have you gone? - I haven't, no. - How old are you? - 22. - 22. That's adorable. [LAUGHTER]
And so as I'm thinking more about possibility
of me going back, and as a social scientist, thinking about, I will study about the Korean policies
and Korean society. And you are precise-- and I always have that this sense of vulnerability
and that because I am Korean, but I don't know much about Korean society
because I've been in the US. You know? And I was wondering if you also share that component
of vulnerability in your story? Because you are precisely doing that. You live in US for the majority of your time,
but you're writing about Korea and Korean society. So I was wondering if you had that sense of vulnerability
in your work and how you have navigated that, if you have.
- I am very vulnerable. You could hurt my feelings. That's one of my problems is that I'm constantly worried,
and anxious, and insecure. I have actually used the verb several times today of how I'm afraid.
And actually, that's actually an adjective. But I fear. I worry.
And part of it's because sometimes people try to make me feel inauthentic because my Korean language
skills are actually quite poor. And I used to feel really bad about it. And now, I don't feel bad about it
anymore, like, not even a little bit. Like, if you just try to do that to me, I'll just be like, whatever.
And the reason why I'm saying this is because-- and I'm being a little flip. But I'm being a little flip because I want you to have courage for whatever people try to make
you feel inauthentic about. Because when people try to make you feel ashamed, because they may have expertise and you do not,
you have to wonder, why are they doing that. That's not encouraging anybody. And it's certainly not an educational idea.
Pedagogically, it's stupid. So one of the things I want to encourage you to think about
is that it's impossible at the age of 22, or even at the age of 50, to be an expert about everything.
But I have figured out this. There are people in this room right now who know a shit ton more about Korea than I do.
That's awesome. But the thing that I feel like I can do better than most people
is that I could feel more and use that feeling more
with my craft of fiction. And that's my little field. And I can try to do that as well as I can.
I don't know what your field is. But I feel like when you do find your field,
initially, you're going to be stumbling, but that's normal. So my son is 21 years old.
And very often, when he feels like something is not going well, I think, well, is it because it's difficult
or if it's because it's unfamiliar to you. It's a very different thing.
When you start something, it's unfamiliar, but it doesn't mean that you're bad at it. It just unfamiliar.
But I really encourage you to find your field. And if people try to make you feel ashamed, I want you to know that it's their shame, not yours.
- Thank you. - Hi, I'm Albert again.
- Albert, what's up? - Good to see you. - [LAUGHS] - So I'm a second semester senior and a lot of my thoughts
recently have been about my family and my parents. And my mother, as we spoke, she owned a hagwon.
And she spent-- I don't know-- a lot of time raising me, educating me, She spent hundreds of thousands of dollars
on me, when we didn't have enough for anything else.
- But you're here. - I'm here. So this is my question. As I graduate, and from your experience as a mother,
a daughter, ethnographer, a writer, how do I say thank you to my mom--
[AUDIENCE AWS] --and tell her I appreciate what she's done?
- I'm going to cry. [LAUGHTER] Albert, oh!
- That's so beautiful.
She must be very proud of you.
I think you did that. I think you should go tell her. All of your education was so frickin' great
that you made an author cry. [LAUGHTER] [APPLAUSE]
[INAUDIBLE]
- Hi, Min Jin. My name is Charlie. - Charlie? - Yeah. - What's up? - What's up?
So I grew up in New Jersey. I immigrated from Korea in fourth grade, grew up in New Jersey as my family came--
- Where in Jersey? - Bergen County. - That's the promised land. - That's-- that's-- - No, I mean, if you're a good Korean,
you go to Bergen County. - Yeah. - No, my parents, we were all in Queens. And then they made enough money, and they went to Bergen County.
- Yeah. Yeah, so I actually grew up in hagwons. And yeah, I had a ton of fun.
I was one of those kids who just-- so they wouldn't let you leave until you, like, memorized 200 vocab words a day.
- Yeah. - But it was pretty fun because I had my first-- - I have a quiz if you want. [LAUGHTER]
- So my question is, I realize you're a person filled. I guess, you have a surplus of jeong.
And how do you explain that to non-Koreans or Americans?
Because sometimes I feel like I also have a lot of jeong. A lot of people, I can't really express what
that jeong is to other people. So how do you kind of explain that concept to others?
- Tell them you love them. That's really what it is, right?
It's a kind of love. It's a very complicated and beautiful kind of love that you have through hardship and through experience.
And it's a bond. Because it's not just affection. It's also a bond and a covenant. One of the things that I think is happening in America
right now is that we have so many broken covenants. Right? We have so many social contracts that are being violated.
And when people are so upset, they focus on the fact that somebody broke a covenant. But they forget the existence of a covenant.
I expect something from you. You expect something from me. And then we have an exchange. But we also have a relationship.
It's also happening right now in South Korea. Because you have-- for example, I mentioned the elderly poverty.
The expectation of so many parents is that if I spend all this money
on this child for her education or his education, then somehow, this child will take care of me.
But of course, right now, in South Korea, you have greater, greater delay of employment.
Because after they've finished going to university, the number one preoccupation of most young Koreans
is actually to become a civil servant. I don't know if you knew that. And to be a civil servant, you have to take more exams.
And these exams take a lot of time, a lot of money, and a lot of delay. And if you get one, your income is actually
inadequate to protect your family. So the child tries, right?
But then the child cannot take care of his elders. And then so you have half of the elderly in South Korea
live below the poverty line, half. And I talked to an economist and a fund manager
when I was in South Korea recently as part of my fieldwork. So I said, well, so John, why?
Why is there so much elderly poverty? He said, hagwons.
If you take that money of $300 a month, starting at the age of four, you start putting it into, let's say, Fidelity, Vanguard,
some no load mutual fund, then you might actually
have an enormous amount of money by the time the child finishes college. And his proposition was actually to not pay for hagwons,
to take that money, and give exactly half in cash to your kid.
And I thought, that kind of makes sense. - Good idea. - Right? - Yeah.
Thank you. Thank you for your time. - Thank you.
- And thank you Min Jin and to Jeannie for that wonderful exchange and that wonderful lecture.
Thank you. [APPLAUSE]
====
민진 리(Min Jin Lee) 작가의 강연 <Are Human? Koreans> 중 하이라이트된 본 발표 내용에 대한 요약과 평론입니다.
<요약>
1. 개인적 배경과 유년 시절의 기억
민진 리 작가는 1976년 7.5세의 나이에 가족과 함께 미국으로 이주했다. 아버지는 6·25 전쟁 당시 16세에 가족을 모두 잃고 남하한 피난민 출신이며, 어머니는 피아노 교사였다.
한국에서의 어린 시절, 주의가 산만하고 학교 적응에 어려움을 겪었던 기억과 더불어 1학년 때 교사로부터 매를 맞았던 경험, 그리고 어머니가 이를 탓하지 않고 따뜻하게 감싸주었던 추억을 회상한다. 작가에게 기억은 수학자에게 논리와도 같은 본질적인 자산이다.
2. 한국인에 대한 일반화와 그 너머의 진실
유럽 기자로부터 "한국인은 어떤 사람들인가?"라는 질문을 받고, "한국인은 춤추는 것을 좋아한다"라고 답했던 에피소드를 소개한다.
한국은 '한강의 기적', 세계적인 IT·제조업 경쟁력, 높은 교육열과 같은 놀라운 성취를 이룬 동시에, 높은 자살률, 성형 수술 비율, 노인 빈곤율, 그리고 북한의 인권 및 현대적 노예제 문제 등 극단적인 양극단의 지표를 가지고 있다.
그러나 단순한 통계나 일반화(한, 눈치, 정 등의 개념)를 넘어, 작가가 경험한 한국인은 매우 로맨틱하고 사랑과 열정이 넘치며 표현이 솔직하고 풍부한 존재들이다.
3. 디아스포라 3부작과 '교육'이라는 가치
첫 소설 <백만장자를 위한 공짜 음식>(Free Food for Millionaires)은 미국 내 계급과 금전의 문제를, 두 번째 소설 <파친코>(Pachinko)는 재일코리안의 역사를 다루었다.
3부작의 완결작인 <아메리칸 학원>(American Hagwon)을 준비하며 작가는 전 세계 한국인들에게 가장 핵심적인 가치인 '교육'에 주목한다.
신라 시대 국선부터 시작된 역사적 전통과 modern 자본주의 사회 속에서, 교육은 계층 이동과 존재 가치 증명의 주요 수단이 되었다. 오늘날 한국의 치열한 입시 경쟁(SKY 대학, 수능, 학원 문화, 기러기 아빠, 고시텔 등)은 단순한 출세욕을 넘어 자녀에게 더 나은 삶을 주고자 하는 부모들의 절박한 생존 전략이다.
4. "한국인은 인간인가?" — 춤과 인간성의 본질
기자의 질문에 담긴 본질적인 의문("한국인도 나와 같은 인간인가?")에 대해 작가는 한국인이 춤을 좋아하는 이유를 설명한다.
춤은 언어로 다 표현할 수 없는 마음의 이야기를 몸으로 풀어내는 행위다. 정형화된 K-pop 안무가 아니라, 어깨를 으쓱이며 춤추는 시골 할머니의 모습처럼, 춤은 억압과 고난 속에서도 자유와 욕망, 의지를 표현하는 인간적 본능이다.
작가는 교육이나 디아스포라, 한국인이라는 특정 범주를 넘어, 결국 불안하고 취약하지만 표현하고자 갈망하는 '인간' 그 자체를 쓰고 있음을 강조한다.
<평론>
1. 타자화(Othering)에 대한 서사적 반격
민진 리 작가는 미디어와 서구 중심적 시각이 한국인을 바라볼 때 흔히 빠지는 두 가지 함정, 즉 'K-pop/경제 성장으로 대표되는 스펙터클'이나 '북한 핵 문제/과도한 입시 경쟁이라는 기괴함'이라는 극단적 타자화를 경계한다. "한국인은 어떤 사람들인가?"라는 무겁고도 위험한 질문에 "춤을 좋아한다"라는 지극히 인간적이고 몸짓 중심적인 답변을 제시함으로써, 거대 담론에 갇힌 한국인의 얼굴에 생생한 혈육과 온기를 부여한다.
2. 통계와 철학을 엮어내는 치밀한 취재와 공감의 힘
법학도이자 사학도 출신다운 작가의 면모는 치밀한 현장 조사(고시텔, 학원, 기러기 아빠 인터뷰 등)에서 잘 드러난다. 그러나 작가는 수집한 데이터에 머무르지 않고, 이를 "왜 부모는 자녀를 위해 모든 것을 바치는가?", "지혜롭고 가치 있는 삶이란 무엇인가?"라는 형이상학적 질문으로 확장한다. 한국의 과열된 교육열을 비난하거나 칭송하는 이분법을 넘어, 힘없는 개인이 세상과 맞서 싸우기 위해 선택한 슬프고도 숭고한 생존법으로 재해석하는 시선이 돋보인다.
3. 디아스포라 문학이 도달한 보편적 인간애
발표의 기저에 흐르는 핵심 메시지는 특정 민족의 고유성을 설명하는 데 있지 않고, 그 고유성을 통해 '보편적 인간성'을 증명하는 데 있다. 억압받고 소외된 자들, 엘리트의 언어를 갖지 못한 이들이 온몸으로 써 내려가는 춤이야말로 인간이 가질 수 있는 가장 순수한 표현의 의지이다. 작가는 한국인이라는 특수한 디아스포라 서사를 통해 전 세계 모든 인간의 취약함과 열망, 그리고 존엄성을 웅변하고 있다.
