The Model Novelist Myth: Asian Americans in Literature
by Penelope Pyo
Image source: “18 OF THE BEST ASIAN AMERICAN BOOKS TO READ THIS YEAR” by Patricia Thang.
When I tell relatives and peers that I want to write books in the future, many of them tell me I should write about my struggles as a Korean American. A deep, moving memoir that will rocket to the top of the New York Times Bestsellers List and be lauded by college professors and prestigious authors across the country. I don’t know how to break it to them that sometimes, all I want to write is a story about a group of teenagers using magic paint brushes; or discovering ancient magical artifacts; or being amateur paranormal detectives.
Growing up, despite having the privilege and opportunity to attend my K-8 school’s Korean Immersion Program, the general depiction of Korea in the media pressed down on my neck everywhere I went. I’d perk up when the word “Korea” came up in people’s conversation, then slump back down when they went on to talk about North Korea. Much of the Korean history I learned was taught through the lenses of occupation and war. I read about brutal oppression, tragedy after tragedy, crimes against humanity committed, families torn apart, and reparations that were never made. Like a shadow, the bone-deep sorrow of Korean history followed me everywhere.
Struggling to make sense of this information, I took to the library. I needed books for concrete logic to ground myself in the confusing world, but also to escape into magical realms brimming with possibility. When I scoured the nonfiction shelves of my local libraries, I would always be disappointed when the shelves offered no books on Korea. Perhaps I’d find a nice footnote or two when skimming world history textbooks. Occasionally when perusing the fiction section, I would find a Korean historical fiction book that was too tragic for a third grader, or even middle schooler, to read. I found myself yearning for Korean stories as colorful as the hanbok I donned on Seollal and as cheerful as the songs about butterflies, rabbits, and magpies I sang with my sisters. I wanted proof that someone who looked like me could have a happily ever after.
Now that I am older and more mature than my elementary school days, I understand the importance of learning about and reckoning with the darker parts of Korea’s history. Confronting the past is crucial to the process of healing. Yet, as a child, I wondered if all my Korean identity would ever be was war, suffering, and trauma– if that was all my future would ever be. Eventually, a question bubbled to the surface: Is Korean joy not a topic worth writing about?
I cannot emphasize enough how important it is to learn stories of war, occupation, and oppression. Especially when they are at increased risk of being suppressed and forgotten with each passing day, it is now more imperative than ever that survivors are given platforms to share their stories. Literature in particular helps to give voice to the survivors. It is integral to understanding both Korean history as a whole, and one’s individual Korean diaspora identity.
Whether my younger self wanted to admit it or not, Korean history is sewn into the very fabric of my identity. However, it is also embroidered with hundreds of joyous moments and memories. My sisters and I singing along to K-pop songs in the car, flip-flops slapping against tile as we raced shopping carts through the Korean market, and devouring the frosty cubes of watermelon our Halmeoni sliced for us on a scalding summer day. Suffering and joy, grief and hilarity, and struggle and triumph are so intertwined. We need stories of both. Just as it is necessary to learn and grapple with the darkness of our history, it is equally as important to celebrate the beauty of our culture and take pride in it.
In her book The Dark Fantastic: Race and the Imagination from Harry Potter to the Hunger Games, author Ebony Elizabeth Thomas writes, “In the realm of the fantastic, I found meaning, safety, catharsis– and hope. Though it eluded me, I needed magic.” While Thomas is referring specifically to her experience as a Black woman, her words apply to many people of marginalized groups who read for escapism. It is absolutely necessary for there to be a wide range of authors in every genre. Asian Americans should be allowed to write both stories about trauma and oppression, and novels in traditionally white-dominated genres like romance and fantasy. Asian Americans belong in superhero and sci-fi worlds, second-hand-embarrassment-inducing coming of age stories, cheesy rom-coms, and the magic-wielding realms of high fantasy.
I want to leave readers with an excerpt from author Joanna Ho and illustrator Dung Ho’s picture book Eyes that Kiss in the Corners, which follows a Taiwanese American girl’s journey to self love and empowerment. Ho writes, “My eyes crinkle into crescent moons and sparkle like the stars. Gold flecks dance and twirl while stories whirl in their oolong pools, carrying tales of the past and hope for the future.” Happy, lighthearted stories are not childish or unrealistic– they are their own forms of protest. In a world that so often denies us peace, joy, and justice, these kinds of stories have the audacity to declare that we are deserving of happy endings too.
Image source: Eyes that Kiss in the Corners. Written by Joanna Ho. Illustrated by Dung Ho.