OOF, I loved this book so much. I mentioned in a previous post that this one might be polarizing. I think it’ll either be you love it or you don’t get it. And if you don’t get it, that’s fine because it probably wasn’t written for you.
It was written for children of immigrants who haven’t seen their homeland and families in decades; who work seven days a week to provide a future for their kids and to fulfill a promise to themselves; who swallow thick foreign words every day just so they can dream peacefully in their native tongue at night, who find themselves split in ways they cannot name—their painful past in one country and their tenuous future in another.
In NUCLEAR FAMILY, Han explores the generational trauma and grief set against the backdrop of colonized land—Hawaii and South Korea (yes, South Korea is an independent nation but with the largest overseas US military base, some would beg to differ). This grief that stems from a country divided by colonizers is brought to life by a literal ghost named Tae Woo, who cannot cross the border to North Korea, where he is from. Spirit in the south, but heart in the north, he is split, incomplete and restless.. His sorrow and rage become a physical manifestation when he possesses Jacob, his grandson, and uses his body to attempt crossing the DMZ. Like his grandfather, Jacob also finds himself divided, disengaged and distanced from his life and family. A perfect vessel for Tae Woo, the possession becomes almost a reprieve for Jacob until it doesn’t. Surrender is always easy in the moment, until you realize that suffering is boundless—as a person and a nation.
The book is brimming with Han’s examination of feeling split, being in-between, divided, absent, longing, yearning to be whole and seen. A queer man who hasn’t come out to his family, running from the traditional Korean expectations of a first-born (heterosexual) son. Korean diaspora living in Hawaii, not really Koreans and not really Americans. Families separated by an invisible line set by foreigners, who turn into ghosts unable to cross even in death. Tae Woo’s chapter at the end of the book provides a beautiful and heartbreaking illustration of the Korean consciousness affected by Western imperialism. It obliterated me. I wept openly and loudly. And I began to wonder…
Why do I, as a gyopo, feel the weight of this division so heavily? It seems even more so than the Koreans living in South Korea, especially now in their current (conservative) political climate. Is it because the Korean diaspora, living outside of our native land, feel displaced? And is that displacement passed on to future generations, leaving behind a yearning to belong? Maybe it’s because a reunified Korea means a reconciliation, an understanding, of our parents’ and grandparents’ pain. Maybe it’s because a reunified Korean could mean the distance and emptiness we feel as disasporic Koreans is reparable, temporary.
I joined @aaww_nyc’s event with the author and his book (highly recommend checking it out). And during the Q&Q, the author was asked about han (한) and intergenerational trauma. His response was that while intergenerational trauma for Koreans is deeply rooted in han, there is also an abundance of love. And that is exactly what I got out of this book. Even as a Korean who was not born in Korea, I felt the love, compassion and fierce affection that is deeply rooted in the Korean people, that is deeply rooted in me.
When I say this book wasn’t written for those that didn’t get it, what I meant to say is.. this book was written for me and for everyone who look like me. There is no pandering to the white gaze here, only black almond eyes staring back at the ugliness of our home divided.