[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, 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. 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. 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 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. 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. 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. 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. 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, 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-- 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? 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. 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] 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? - 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 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 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-- 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]
