This piece is a part of a series of reviews and reflections on Asian literature.
Trigger warnings: eating disorders and suicide
I have read several memoirs by Asian-American writers in the past year, but none have been nearly as haunting as much The Magical Language of Others (2020) by Korean-American author E.J. Koh. When she was fifteen, her parents returned to South Korea for her father’s work, leaving her alone with her brother and mental illness as her only companions. Through a series of translated letters from her mother, Koh explores the histories of the women in her family — her mother and her grandmothers — and how they shape her own experiences. Despite growing up feeling stifled, Koh begins to heal the relationships -- characterized by her mother’s physical absence and her own lack of response -- with herself and with her mother through words. Poetry and translation fill the gaps, reaching both inside to her buried emotions and outward to others, creating a memoir that at times feels uncomfortable and raw.
Koh’s voice is incredibly heartbreaking, her poetic talent obvious through her simple yet lyrical prose. However, much of Koh’s life is conveyed subtly by what is not said — the gaps in translation, the inability to express such complicated emotions, the lack of explicit thoughts on her mother’s absence. The memoir also lacks a clear ending in the sense that Koh does not directly outline what she has learned or fully reconciled with her mother. Her story and relationship with her mother are unfinished, still evolving.
The memoir’s theme of intergenerational trauma catalyzed an examination of my own relationship with my mother and her past experiences. For so long, my view of my mother was filtered by her family duties: driving me around, cooking, and cleaning the house. She’d remind me that she wasn’t my maid before bringing me a plate of sliced fruit.
Only after crossing into my teen years did I begin to see her as a complex being with a past, capable of experiencing a full range of emotions. I learned she was adopted. I didn’t believe her at first, not understanding how she’d kept such an important detail of her life from me. Suddenly, I was bombarded with new relatives and stories: how her adoptive father carried her home on a crowded cross-province train, how she’d only found out about her own adoption as a young adult, how her biological sister had found her just a few years ago.
I saw my mother cry for the first time during the Chinese coming-of-age film Youth (2017). Voice dripping with nostalgia, she told me she was reminded of her own college graduation. At her reunion parties, I started to notice how she radiated charisma. She commanded the attention of the room, sparking laughter among her ex-classmates.
In “Pasts to Remember,” a reading from my History of the Pacific World class last semester, anthropologist Epeli Hau’ofa contrasts the Fijian and Tongan concepts of circular time with the Western notion of time as linear. Whereas the West labels the past as behind us, the Fijian and Tongan languages describe the past as “front” or “ahead,” which is a “conception of time that helps us retain our memories and be aware of its presence.” Similarly, the Mandarin phrase for the past is 以前, the second character 前 meaning “before,” “forward,” or “ahead.”
Intergenerational trauma and the ghosts of family history reflect this circular notion of time. As Koh writes, “the present is a revenge of the past.” During the pandemic, every walk with my parents is a chance to uncover their history. I’ve begun to learn the origins of their parenting habits that have shaped my growth. For instance, my grandmother — a teacher — was barred from college by the Chinese Communist Party but held high academic expectations for my mother and would hit her as punishment. Though my own relationship with my mother lacks this violence, it inherited the academic pressure — the unspoken agreement I’d receive nothing less than straight A’s.
Living in D.C. this semester, I’ve spent the most time away from home. Others would yearn for this refreshing taste of freedom, but I find myself still tethered to my mother, bearing the new weight of homesickness along with the ever-present academic pressure. As Koh discovered, distance is unable to sever the knots that entangle mother and daughter.
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I wrote to E.J. Koh a few months ago and this is an excerpt from her reply:
I’m thrilled to hear you are reading so many Asian American authors. Reading, also citing who we read, is a part of activism. I always post books that I’m reading — many already posted on intergenerational trauma & trauma. Have you read my poetry collection A Lesser Love? Maybe it might be something to hold close.
I love The Future of Silence translated by Bruce & Ju-Chan Fulton. It’s a collection of short stories translated from Korean. A collection of vital Korean women writers. As a Korean American woman, I hold dearly onto my relationships & dialogue with Korean women & their work. How do histories connect across the world? How do traumas connect or intersect with one another? I believe the answer leads to a deeper understanding of how to secure a sense of peace & love.