At a whopping 600-plus pages, the "poverty" theme felt like constant hammerblows, which was just tiresome (for a contrast as to how "poverty" can be rendered thematically in narrative that will touch you to the bone, check out Dorothy Allison's Bastard Out of Carolina).
Casey the protagonist, as complex as she is, seems to veer between two extremes: being unhappy and whiny about not having any money and being unhappy and whiny when she's being offered help with money. She's unhappy and whiny even when she's enjoying the finer things in life (e.g. at her last farewell dinner with her colleagues from the i-bank, she's presented with a set of fabulous golf clubs, and she complains and bitches about that). At times, one felt like giving her a good hard shake: you have a Princeton degree, a law school offer to Columbia, a job at one of the most prestigious bulge-bracket investment bank, and if she had been able to keep at it, an NYU Stern business school degree. It's more than what 95% of "poor people" in America have. Add to that a wardrobe full of designer clothes, hats galore, and poor as she is, she's given presents like Rolex watches and Hermes scarves. Really, why is she bitching all the time?
That's not the only annoying thing. The mother feels like a stereotypical, cartoonish Korean submissive-demure first generation Asian -- to the point that although she'd lived in America for the better part of her adult years, she was unable to fight off her choir director's sexual assault, and later, unable to recognize it as "date-rape" and even worse, did not realize she was pregnant. Is this woman for real? On which cloud-lala does she live? There's a limit to which the non-awakened "Asian submissiveness" can be pushed to.
The other characters in this book are no less stereotypical: cookie cutter types that fail to break through their molds and worse, they fail to enliven the set pieces and situations into which the writer has thrown them. Ted, for example, is your stereotypical asshole Korean machismo -- a lying, traitorous investment banker, ambitious and voracious and crass. Ella, his wife, again the demure, submissive type, religious to a fault, the perfect angel through to the end.
In Casey's love-interest -- Unu -- lies the sole glimmer of redemption for this story and yet, although a dark horse with his gambling obsession, he comes across as bland and uninteresting, ultimately. He is an anti-hero, he rescues Casey from her poverty, but fails to rescue himself.
The plot also skips choice-scenes that might have hurtled this story over and above the cross-cultural confrontations that cloud its pages: e.g. the reconciliation scene with the father at the hospital could have been more drawn out; the choice of "no" dialogue" seems strange for the mouthy Casey while too much space in that same sequence was devoted towards a bland, uninformative conversation between Tina (Casey's sister) and the father. Again, the scene when Casey goes on her first date with Unu could have been developed and shown -- it might have given us a clue as to the future dynamic of this couple. I'd have liked that intervening scene when Casey takes back her cheating boyfriend. She leaves him with her stuff in garbage bags and next thing we know, they're living together and engaged to be married. This story is rife with ripe plotpoint potentials like these that remain unexplored and unmined.
It's de rigeur nowadays in "high-brow" literature to end with the door closed-window open effect, and here, the door-closing, I suppose, is Casey's decision to drop B-school, turn down the Kearn Davis investment banker offer, and make hats for a living. The unresolved "window-open" effect is whether she and Unu will get back together. And yet, I find myself completely unsatisfied at the end of this labor of narrative -- forcing myself to finish by sheer will and time-investment. What about the father-daughter relationship? What about the mother? How will she face the rest of her life?
Lastly, the prose is flat and monotonous to the point of driving me stir-crazy. Every sentence in a progression of paragraphs would begin "Sabine did this", "Casey did this,""Unu did this", "Tina did this".
After reading two pages of praise for this book from America's finest reviewers, I'm left wondering: are the standards for writing good literature different for minorities? Am I supposed to laud the writer's effort here because she's a "sister"? By selling a minority writer short, are we not ultimately selling ourselves short?