Live from New York with Author Min Jin Lee

As Americans, we're constantly grappling with a fundamental question. Do we settle for the world as it is, or do we strive to create the world as it should be? Our answers tend to ebb and flow through the decades. But once, just after a war that nearly tore us apart, we came as close as we've come to answering it. And it's a story worth a closer look. I'm Michelle Obama, and I'm proud to announce Higher Ground's new podcast, Reconstruction, the Unfinished Promise. Guided by best-selling author Malcolm Gladwell, and featuring my husband Barack Obama, this limited series uncovers the untold stories of Reconstruction, what they mean for us today, and how our past can shape the future we choose to build. Reconstruction, the Unfinished Promise, is available now on Audible or wherever you get your podcast. Pushkin. This is Talk Easy. I'm Santa for Girl So. Welcome to the show. Today I'm joined by writer Min Jin Lee, She's the author of two books including Free Food for Millionaires and Pachinko, the latter of which was a finalist for the National Book Award back in 2017. She's also a writer in residence at Amherst College and serves as a trustee for Penn America. At the moment, she's finishing her third novel titled "American Hogwon," which will conclude what she's been calling her Korean diaspora trilogy. A trilogy that, although fictional, is born out of years of tireless research. Lee's approach is informed by both her time as a journalist and an attorney, conducting interviews and collecting evidence in an attempt to map the Korean diasporic experience. If that description sounds more academic than thrilling, please blame me because both of her books while tackling these big ideas around home, assimilation, and power are intoxicating page turners, gliding from one chapter to the next with what the New Yorker calls a quiet intrigue. We talk about those books in this conversation, but we also talk about the life that led to those pieces. Immigrating from Seoul to Queens in the 1970s, the violence her family endured while working in America, her years at Yale, the rejection she fought through as a young writer, and somehow, and probably, Rhonda Santas. We taped this talk a few weeks ago in front of a live audience as part of the on-air festival in Williamsburg, New York. I just want to thank the White Hotel for hosting us. I had not done a live taping of talk easy. I think since the start of the pandemic, I could not have asked for a better on-stage scene partner than Minjin Lee. As you'll hear, she's funny, she's smart, and apparently, my new stepmother, that will all make sense in a little bit, I promise, until then, here is me with writer Minjin Lee, live from New York. [applause] Good afternoon. Welcome to Brooklyn. I'm here. Well, I feel like I have hit a certain milestone in my career because I'm here with Sam Fugosa. Oh, my God. So, thank you. And also, I was so worried that no one would come. But then I thought, no, of course, they're going to come. They're going to come for Sam. I felt the same way, but I knew since you were here that people would show up. We'll be like this the entire afternoon. Do you mind an hour of us just complimenting each other? Is that good? Okay. There's a lot of places to begin, but I want to start with this new book of yours. You're in the process of writing the third entry. Don't worry. It's going to be okay. We're going to get through it. The trilogy is, you call it your Korean diaspora trilogy. The title of which is American hog one. But since the book is not out yet, I want to discuss how. How not? Yeah. I want to talk about how these books come to be. You said once, I think art is important to me because I am troubled by the chaos of life. For me, among other things, art is comprised of order, unity, meaning, memory, feeling, and invention. Hence, my job as an artist is to create my cosmos from that chaos. Okay. So I'm. That's pretty good, right? It's pretty good. I'm curious. Since there's really no chaos in 2023, like where. No. You're writing with this moral purpose, which is what you always talk about. What is it like to write and work in this moment for you? Well, we live in this age of impunity where people are lying a lot. People are deeply unkind. The wise guys are winning. I know. You're looking at me like I. No, no. I find that really hard because also I'm not just a writer. I'm a mother. I'm a wife. I'm a friend. I'm a daughter. And I'm also a professor in college. So I look at these little faces that are beautiful and bright and full of all this energy and talent. And I feel like what have we done in this world in which young people are so deeply cynical? I'm seeing so much cynicism in 19-year-olds. Right? And of course with American Hogwon, which is about education. And I attend at the Harvard trial. I attended the Ricksinger sentencing in Boston, the varsity blues guy. And I'm also right now we're in the middle of a college admissions process. The kids are going to find out pretty soon in April and May. And I hate to say this, but that system is so, so corrupt. And the more I learned, the more I think, oh, this is why the kids are so cynical. So if that is. Happy Friday, everybody. Yeah, there we go. Happy Friday. We're just. I know it's called "Talk Easy" but we're just jumping in. Okay, so this is how it goes. So if that is why you're writing it or at least that's why you're writing this new piece. I want to get into how you write. And to do that, I'm going to quote a passage from James Walden, which I don't. I feel reluctant to do, but I have to because it's a quote you like. He said the responsibility of a writer is to excavate the experience of the people who produced him. And so I thought, why don't we try to do some of that here together? You're born in South Korea, circa 1968. You're the middle of three sisters. Come March 1976. You and your family board a trans-Pacific flight from Seoul to JFK with a layover and anchorage. And on the flight, you're wearing a raincoat. And I could describe the raincoat, but then I just thought, why don't we just take a look for a second? Can you see? No. Is that my little trench coat? Yeah, the yellow trench coat. Oh, good cally. You know, it's funny, but back then and even before when you made that cross-Atlantic travel, everybody came to the airport to say goodbye. Because it wasn't like you're taking a business trip. You were going away and they were thinking we may never see you again, right? And the Korean War had only ended about a little less than 30 years after I left. So people are thinking, shit can go down in any minute. And we were all dressed up because we were thinking we're going to go to a new country and we can't look bad. Because imagine if we look bad to the people there. Right. I think about that actually. Even right now, when I take a trip and you guys look so fabulous in your jogging pants and your berken socks, I look pretty nice when I'm on a plane. You do? I make an effort because I think I represent a lot of people. Even today, I thought I'm going to wear my jeans, but I'm going to wear my nice jacket because it's out of respect for you and my audience. I do think that way because whether I like it or not, I represent a lot of things to people. I want to ask you, when you touched down in JFK and you get off the plane, you're seven years old. Did America look like how you thought it would? No, I thought I was going to be like Cinderella. Because in my mind, in my mind, in Korea, I had read all these fairy tales of the West. I thought America was going to be like 18th century fairy tales. I would come out of the plane and there would be people in ball gowns, little wispy waist, big ball gown dresses. I thought there would be stage coaches. You came here in 1976. It's not like. No, but imagine this. I'm so Korean from Korea that I'm thinking Korea is ahead of the West. Does that make sense? I'm not thinking that. By like 100 years. 200 years. 200 years. I thought it was going to be Cinderella, like some sort of Disney fairy tale. And I would get there and then I get there and everybody looks just like the people in this hole. And then I think this hole in New York is really similar in terms of temperature and weather. And every dress similarly. And when you. And your family moved to Queens. That must have been quite an awake. Well, I was so shocked. And also we had a perfectly decent middle class house, not fancy. We had a middle class house in Queens. And I get here and Uncle John picks up at the airport. And he takes us to his house. And it turned out that he was renting the second floor of a three family house. We were sleeping in the living room. - He was working at IBM. - He was working at IBM, but unlike today's idea of technology and software engineers, he was just a software engineer who had a regular job. And he was having a hard time making ends meet. He had two daughters and a kid. And here we were, like five people in this living room. - He was the person that took you and your sisters to get a library card, is that right? - That's right, that's right. I love Uncle John. I'm gonna start crying if we talk about him. Go ahead. - Okay, so let's talk about him. (laughing) - Oh, and he seems like such a nice young man. (laughing) - Seeing him teasing. - The past tense. - Is that already over? Is that our time? I saw a red light. - Yeah. - Okay. - No, but when he takes you to the library, like you as a seven year old, getting your library cards, did that begin a childhood of living a life, reading from these borrowed books? Was that the start of it? - Oh, so in my family, there's three of us that I'm considered the idiot in the family. - You are? - I am. And if you met my sisters, you'd be like, oh yeah, yeah. (laughing) She's a little slow, but sweet. - Sweet. - That's why I'm gonna be our guest next week. - That's why, that's why. One's up in, what is a Brooklyn Heights right now? - Yeah, it's a series. - At least that's my trilogy, actually. - And the other one's in the hospital right now, but now the joke doesn't work, now I feel bad. - She'll be back. - Okay. - It's a minor thing. But the weird thing is that I apparently taught myself how to read in Korean without explanation. So I was two or three, and I knew how to read in Korea. And then when I came to the US, again, we don't really understand how I learned how to read, because compared to my sisters, I was considered so daft. So at PS 102, which is my local public school, you had three levels of classrooms. So we had advanced regular, and you had snow. (laughing) When I came to America, I was in the slow class for several years, whereas my sisters, off the plane they got put into advance. So then my parents are thinking, well, we have two smart kids. - Yeah. - And two for three is not bad. - Not bad. - That's pretty good. - My father said he always wanted quality five. So we have 10 children, as long as quality in five. - Wow. - We're good. - That's just a lot of work. - They're still married. - They're still married, yeah. (laughing) - This is shocking. - But okay, despite where you started in that school, you do attend the Bronx School of Science. - The best high school in the world. - The school was so good that it was featured in an article in the Smithsonian Magazine. - You found the Smithsonian article. - It doesn't exist online, but I'm crazy and called the editor there to print it out for us. So to get to this school, you had to wake up at four in the morning. You have your blue backpack and toe, two subway transfers. Again, I'm gonna defer to the photo of you on the train. What book are you reading at that? - A Borhes. Jorge Luis Borhes in Spanish. - Did the photographer say like look-pensive in the photo? - No, I was just doing what I do. And if you look at the graffiti, it's really scary. - Yeah. - Because it was very, very scary to be on the train. I mean, right now, at the worst, it's not as scary as when I was going to school because people would get cut up all the time, like box cutters, the other faces and stuff. - I understood that. - Yeah, sorry. - Yeah, I got it. - People don't believe me. And I'm like, look at the trains. - I believe you, so I believe you. So as a junior, this is how you described high school in the magazine. Keep in mind, she's 16 here. So, okay, here's what you said. It sounds sort of elitist, but here you meet better people. (audience laughing) I'm sorry to do this to you. - I'm getting canceled. (laughing) - You thought you came to Brooklyn for fun. And they respect you if you know extra things. I went to a private school in Connecticut last summer where if you knew something, the kids at first would categorize you as a brain. Here you read a book just because you want to. I'd send my kids here. Looking back, does that quote describe the whole picture of your time as a teenager? - I loved high school. And I think I know why I said better people here. It's because I was bullied so, so brutally. My elementary school and junior high school. I wore hand-me-downs and we didn't have money. Like if you look at my glasses, I had these Coke bottle glasses and people were so mean that the reason why I ended up going to Bronx, 'cause I got into Bronx, I took this stupid test. It's called the Shashats now, but back then it was just the science tests. So I took a test and I got into Syvacen and to Bronx Science and there was a cut-off score and Syvacen's the competitor's school, but it's really inferior. But they have a higher cut-off score. And my older sister went to Bronx Science as well. My parents thought, "Oh, men have to go to school with me, I'm gonna be a shilket killed." So when I met better, I met people that didn't pick on me for being a weird kid. And I was definitely odd. I was really, really odd. So what I think is so funny about being 54 is that I'm odd and that's okay now. But when I was 16 and 12 and eight, it's kind of like the run to the litter. Like you have to go kill that thing because they're so strange. - But you alluded to your parents kind of suggested that there was a threat of violence. And I think to provide context, they ran a wholesale jewelry store 30th and Broadway. I think it was. - That's right. - Often they would be held up at gunpoint, isn't that right? - Yeah, I always held up at gunpoint, like literally the gun to my nose. - So that was like a Saturday morning you have school off. - Right, I'm working at the store. - What happens? - So my mom and my dad worked together at the store in 30th and Broadway and they sold at that time because they stopped selling gold very quickly because we were getting held up too much. And they would put out these little trays of gold from the safe. They would take out these trays of necklaces and bracelets. And they were probably worth, you know, let's say $20,000, $30,000 back then, which is a lot of money. And then as soon as he put them out, the door was closed, these guys rushed right in and they, they we had obviously, you know, what's like, expression, they had cased the joint. So they were really fast. And the guy held the gun to my head. My father handed them everything, all the trays of gold and all the cash in the register. And the whole time, I kept on looking at the gun thinking, I wonder if that's a real gun because I had never seen a real gun before, like literally here. And all I could think of, I'm not kidding you, is like, Beretta and Kojak. I kept on thinking of television because I thought it wasn't really happening but my father was so calm. And then after they ran out, one of them had dropped a necklace, like a, and I remember he gave it to me and he said you can have that. And then we went home, we closed a store and then we went home. I mean, we called the police and they did nothing. When you go home, what's that conversation like between you and your father? It was horrible. I was trying to figure, well, how do we make this better? And I was very young. So I remember it was summertime. And I said to my father, oh, maybe we should get watermelon because my mother loves watermelon. And I was trying to figure, like, how do I make this better? And my father got so angry and he's like, what are you talking about? Because, you know, he's having the right response because we don't have insurance. Like there's no insurance for these small business owners if you get held up. He just has to take the loss and he can't replace it. It's not like he's got extra 30,000 loss to replace all the gold that was stolen. And that was a number of these kinds of things that I had witnessed and I was with my dad because often on Saturdays is less business. But you felt like you had to take it upon yourself to make it better even though you had also just been held up at gunpoint? Well, you know, thank you for saying that because no one has ever said that to me. No one has ever even remotely addressed the fact that I was a victim of a crime because the gun was to my face. But I have been thinking so much about how, throughout my entire life, I keep thinking, this is a really shitty situation. I have to fix it. Like, how do I fix this? Someone recently asked me why equipping a lawyer. And I said, well, I'm really good at making other people look good, which means that every partner wanted me to be their bitch, which is what I was. Right. And I was really good. I could be such a great assistant. Like, you have no idea. Like, you would promote me the next state and give me a bonus. We are hiring actually. I know you're overqualified. No, I'm not really. And I don't mind. Actually-- Just a couple of New York times best sellers. But yeah, it's my other skill. But I really love that whole organization and making other people look good. I want to get to how you land law school and then become a lawyer. Because you go to Yale. When you land there, you major in history. But it's in 1987 as a sophomore in school that you take a formative class taught by the late Bell Hooks. And similar to the Kasi-Hon character in Free Food Familiar Ners, you've spoken about feeling alienated from Yale and your classmates. But I'm wondering in that class that was led by such a wonderful, beautiful writer, did you feel like you belonged? I did more so than any other class at Yale. I found Yale really difficult. Not that the kids were fine and even the most wicked children then they didn't know anything. Like, especially now that I'm old. Now that I'm old, I really-- they were just repeating what they had been told. When they say dumb stuff, they were just saying what their parents had said or their teachers had said or whatever television had said. So now I realize a singing remark that I might have heard. Like I remember one of my roommates had said, "Oh, well you didn't have a debut." And I was like, "No, I didn't have a debut. What is a debut?" And they weren't talking novels. - But what is a debut? - Like to be a debut-taunt. - Oh, right. I didn't do that. So like, do you get mad at that person for saying that? - I'm from Chicago, I don't know what you're talking about. - Or people would want to touch my hair. Or I remember I went to a party once with this guy and an older non-Asian person said to me, "I heard Korean girls are really good in bed." Like that's the kind of stuff that you hear and you're at these schools. And I mean, I taught Sunday school. Like I'm such a square. I've never smoked a cigarette. And then you hear these things. I don't even have that ready like red part tail. Like now I'm, I would just, you know, punch them in the nose. But then I would just-- - Let's hand her right hand. - Either. You know, just keep swinging. You just keep swinging. But-- - You're that skilled. - No, I'm not. But I want, in my mind, I am. In my mind, I'm a prize boxer. My inter-pugialist. So I found he all difficult. At the same time, I had some professors and clergy people who were so kind to me that I graduated in four years. And with a very serious illness, and I don't know how that happened. And I think I did have a lot of people along the way kind of going like, you need help. I'm gonna help you. So I did get a lot of that. - When you checked into the Yale New Haven Hospital, what was it for? - So when I was in high school, my friend was doing a blood drive with a red cross as like a service requirement. And they needed bodies and blood. So I gave blood. And then I got a letter from the red cross. - This is the root of the letter. It's like please don't ever give blood again because you have chronic hepatitis B and you're a carrier, which means that you're a diseased person who could kill somebody else. So then it didn't mean anything to me, except that I knew that if I had sex with somebody that I had the duty to tell that person, oh, by the way, I could give you this thing. So if we're gonna have sex, you have to get two or three tests, like shots and stuff. Which is kind of like a lot if you think about it as a young person. - Yeah. - Right? But the reason why I'm talking about it is because I want to make this not a big deal. Like if people have a sexually transmitted disease or a sexually transmittable disease, transmissible, transmissible disease, I think-- - You're the writer, I don't know. - I know, me neither. So I think we should just talk about it. And then it wouldn't be fine because my illness was dormant. Like it didn't do anything to me. I just knew that I couldn't give blood. So I thought, oh, this is not a big deal at all. It just I have to have this hard conversation. But and this is pretender. Like I wasn't having sex. So I was, and I go to college, I get super sick. And we don't know what this is. And then it turned out that it went from dormant to active. So I had hepatitis. And then I go to this really famous doctor who was a hepatologist at New Haven Hospital. And Dr. Rubin says, well, you're gonna get cancer in your 20s and 30s. And because you're the kind of liver carrier, chronic carrier, who would get the sick. And I went to the hospital by myself. My parents were working at a little stupid store. Like they weren't gonna take me to the doctor in New Haven. That would have required them taking the day off or closing the store and coming to the thing. And then later on when I had a follow up, Dean Baker came with me because she said, oh, that's a kind of a serious conversation. So Joyce Baker went with me. And again, another example of, did I love college? But did I get kind people along the way? Yes. When the doctor gives you such a sort of firm fate that he's predicting like-- You know, 19. How do you hold that? I thought that meant that my life would be cut short. And by the way, I'm totally well now. I'm totally well now because of interfere on being in science. I don't want to-- I don't want to milk this for suspense. That seems really wrong. [LAUGHTER] I know. [LAUGHTER] I'm sorry. Do you think I would do that? No, no, you wouldn't. But I could see people in less ethical hands doing it. But-- [LAUGHTER] But also, I don't want you to feel scared. Because I'm such an anxious person that if you told me that you were sick or you were sick, I would be like, are you OK now? So I go to Dr. Rubin. He says this thing. And from then on, I think, oh, well, I'm never going to drink. And I still don't drink at all, like not a drop of wine. And I don't do drugs. I mean, I have a very clean life. And the other thing is, I realize, well, if I'm going to die, then I want to have a life that matters. I really care about that. And even now, even though I'm totally well, I think that every second matters. I do. I believe it. I think that the fact that you emerge from the hospital and really, I think, begin to commit yourself to writing. You win two different awards at Yale, writing awards. You're not even an English major. You win two different awards. Thank you. Thank you for saying that. But it seemed people were impressed by your work, except there was one history professor that seemed to question your abilities in English. Two history professors. Two of them. OK. Yeah. In my major, what was that? Well, one professor-- I took a class on Jane Adams's whole house. It was about reformers in New York. So it's a topic that I care about, because I'm from here, right? And I know very well about how people suffer in New York. And I wrote this paper, and he told me that I need to go to a remedial English class. He said, I think you need to help, because obviously, this is an ESL situation. After you had won two writing awards. I won the two top writing awards in fiction and nonfiction in English. In blind submission. So it's one thing to say, I disagree with your thesis. And you clearly don't understand whole house. It's another thing to say. You need remedial English. And I thought that was a racist assumption, because my name is Minjain Lee. And he didn't know that I was a history major. So that was very upsetting. So that was one. You said to him, it's not that I don't know how to write. It's that you don't know how to read. I did say that, didn't I? Wow. I'm so sassy. And I think it's because I was so hurt. I was really hurt. And-- Sometimes we're our most clever when we're hurt. That kind of comes like that. Sometimes, right? Not all the time. If you're lucky. Sometimes you get home and you're like, God, I should've said that. Damn it. But I did say it. And I think I even-- yeah. I've talked about it before. And I've tweeted it, I think. And then the other time was when I was in college, Korean was not taught at Yale. It was the last Ivy League school to not teach the Korean language at Yale. And I thought that was wrong. So I did what I always do. I organized. I'm a big believer in organization. So my two friends and I was a thing that I decided to do. But I didn't want to do it by myself because I was scared. So I said, OK, Harry and Jan, we're going to create this thing called the Korean Studies Task Force. Isn't that cute? I was 19 or 20. It was adorable. And then so I wrote a letter in English saying, Koreans should be taught at Yale. And I thought, OK, I asked a friend of mine who at the Divinity School could translate into Korean. And this is before email. This is before everything when you had to make copies at King Go's. So I wrote it in English. We had to translate into Korean the other side. And then I literally purchased stamps and envelopes with my own little bit of money. And we had, I think, 200 letters. And we called the meeting. And I passed out the letters and said, can you send this to your parents and have them sign it. It was addressed to the president and the provost. And guess what happened? Some parent thought it was so cute that we cared enough to do this, a Korean parent. And they donated, I think, half a million dollars. And that's how Korean is taught at Yale. So-- [APPLAUSE] Honestly, you don't even need me. I think this is good for all of them. It's really funny to me, though, because before them, there were other activists who had tried. So it isn't like I did it, and I'm the first one. There was a long history of student activism. It's just that because of that letter and the petition, some rich parents and Korean thought, why don't we just do this? It's not a big deal, then Yale matched it. And the Korea Studies Program was created. Now, this is the curveball. A Japanese historian decided to teach Korean history at Yale the next year. He was oversubscribed, and I would be sitting there where you guys are seated. And I would ask all these questions, because I was like, I really wanted to know Korean history. And remember, I'm odd. No, they remember that. Yeah, they do remember that. And also, I couldn't read the room, because I was stupid. And I probably asked too many questions. You stopped calling yourself stupid. Well, OK, I'm sorry. We've read your books. Yeah, it's not possible. But I wish I had had more social awareness when I was younger, because now I think, OK, you know what? I could do this, but I didn't know. I took the midterm. I took the Korean history midterm, and he gave me an F. And he gave all these Korean kids Fs. So I raised my hand. And I said, how many Koreans in Asian Americans did you fail in this midterm? Because I was like, fuck it. I don't care. I spent money buying stamps and envelopes to get this class taught. And you're going to fail me, motherfucker. I was like, no. So he was so upset. He was so upset. It turned out, and then he said in front of the entire class, and this is documented, well, most Asians in this class are group four majors, which is science and maths. And I thought that was racist. You thought you thought right. But you know what? At the time, not everybody agreed with me. People thought it was OK to assume that I was a math and science major, because I was Asian. And as a matter of fact, some Korean Americans wrote letters supporting the professor. Why do I say this? Because I'm writing name recognition, my memoir. And I repressed it, because it was so hurtful, because I lost so many friends that year. Because I wrote a whole letter in the Yale Herald. And then in the Yale Observer, there was all the documentation about all the people that he had failed. I appealed the decision with the president, blah, blah, blah. And I was called a PC terrorist by one editorial written by somebody else. So I'm saying this really, really long story, but I fought really hard for the study of Korean when I was in college, because I think I thought, if I'm here, I should do something that helps people. And I did think I was helping people. I think you have-- and you did. And I'm pathetic to even bring it up. I always think it's embarrassing to talk about it. How is pathetic about it? It sounds like I want credit. And maybe I do. Guys applaud, please. [APPLAUSE] We'll be right back with writer Min Jin Lee. There are certain errands that some have to stand to do list for months and months. For a while, I kept telling myself I should get a pair of new blue light glasses. But like a lot of small tasks, I kept putting it off because buying glasses, especially blue light glasses, always feels like more of a production than it should be. 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(soft music) - Let's talk about one experience at Yale that was positive. - Sure. - You enrolled your first writing workshop, which took place in a Gothic tower. And part of that seminar included like peer review where classmates gave notes on other kids' work. - Yeah. - That was something you didn't really like to do, but one day you raised your hand and decide you're going to participate. And if you don't mind, I thought we'd read a passage from this piece in the New Yorker called Stonehenge where you describe that day. What happened here? - In the next class, one of the students compared something to Stonehenge. I raised my hand, quote, "Maybe the writer should define Stonehenge," and quote, I said, quote, "I don't know what it is." It can't be true that the whole class had light colored eyes, but as I remember it, a dozen pairs of lovely blue, green and hazel eyes looked at me with surprise and pity. Because I hadn't heard of the prehistoric stone configuration. They didn't mean to be unkind. I'm sure of that. But in their attractive polished faces, I saw that Stonehenge was as familiar to them as having a gun held to my face was to me. I did not withdraw from the class. I stayed because a professor was very good. Each week, as I sat in that tower in Connecticut, I thought of my parents at the store in New York. I could hear the vibrating hum of the space heater near my mother's cold ankles as she stood at the counter. I recall the sober look on my father's face as he carefully drew a stack of dirty 20s from the cash register and handed it to the gunman. When the semester ended, I decided to apply to law school. Thank you. Thanks a lot. [APPLAUSE] It's so embarrassing when you cry. A friend of mine made fun of me. He's like, "You're moved by your own words." It makes you sound like such a shit. I said, "No, no asshole. I'm not moving my own words." I remember that feeling because writing that essay was so hard. I'm so surprised that it came out that way. I remember how afraid and you were so kind when you said, "I was trying to make my father feel better and try to remember my mother's favorite fruit." Also, it's affordable. I always think about watermelon. I think, "Oh, it's so affordable. My mother wants this thing." We could afford it even after we got robbed. You had said something kind about how I experienced the injury as well as a child. When I think about all the kindness and you think, "Oh, I'll be able to go on because I can focus on the terrible thing or I can focus on Professor Strebe being such a good person and not laughing at me or not looking at me with pity." I'm like, "Well, why would you know what's so inhenges?" This is before Google Images. [LAUGHTER] When you were reading that, I was thinking, I was struck by the sequencing of the images. You're sitting in this weird gothic tower class and you're brought back to the shop that your parents ran where your parents would split that deli-egg sandwich to save money with a heater hum down below. You're brought back to that just by simply sitting there. The circularity of that feels so unique to the immigrant experience in that no matter how hard you try to chart your own course, you are inextricably linked to the past. The decisions and the sacrifices made that put you in that seat at that seminar. You can't totally get away from that. And I'm wondering that circularity is a 21-year-old about to enter law school. And now as a teacher of students the same age, what you make of that. Well, there's that e.e. coming's poem. I carry you in my heart. I carry you with me, my dear. It's all about how I carry you. And I think wherever I go, I feel like I'm carrying these people that I love. Even people who were like when I think about, let's say, my ex-boyfriends or my former best friends or people who loved me and betrayed me, I think I still carry you with me. So wherever I am, I think I still think about you, my dear. And I think when you're writing, you could literally resuscitate people. And you could have every single moment and feeling and smell and sound. And part of what I'm trying to do is as I carry them with me in my heart, I'm trying to bring you with me into my heart. And maybe that takes care of all of my awkwardness and loneliness and feeling like I don't belong. Because I think that what's given me community is actually my work. Like in a genuine way. And I'm very lucky because I have readers. I mean, I never thought I would have readers. I didn't have- agents, I didn't have contracts and I can't believe this is happening. Yeah, thank you for coming today. Before you did have readers, there was a decade out in the world where you leave your job as a lawyer and you're trying and trying and trying. There's so much rejection and false starts that eventually brings you to your first book, Free Food Familiar Nairs. It was a quote you have, "between 1995 and 2006, I felt every year more and more like it made a really big mistake." And if I really think about the evolution of my writing, it's really about my inability to understand what it means to be an artist. What did you not understand about being an artist? Well, you know, whether we like it or not being an artist is a self-accrediting process. So other people could say, "They can give you the imprimiter. You are an artist because you're going to have a show, you're going to have a publisher, you're going to have a platform," whatever that means. But at the same time, before you get the laurels and the flowers, you have to face the work that you're making and say, "I am an artist." Am I an artist? And I think for people like me, it isn't like all these people wanted to see my work. When I was growing up, no one was saying, "Then what do you think about the elections?" Tell me. What do you think about the geopolitical situation in North Korea? I mean, strangely, people ask me that now and I have to come up with answers. It is my next question. Okay. So, I think the idea that you could make something starts with a little slicker of audacity that self-accreditation saying, "I think what I have to say make see is worth looking at and worth sharing because that's different than diary writing. It's different than doing something and keeping it in your software." Even part of this evolution seems tied to being vulnerable on the page, which is something that you felt early on that you weren't willing to do. When did that shift happen? Oh, I think I had to get rejected so much before I realized that what's the point of all this wish for accreditation and what's the wish for respectability? Like it was so embarrassing when people would ask, "So you could be a lawyer to be a writer. Can I buy your book at the bookstore?" No. Do you have a publisher? No. Do you have an agent? No. So, you want to be a writer and you could see the smirk and like you foolish idiot. And these are your friends. These are my friends. And then I would meet people who are very successful in their media fields and they would say things like, "Well, you know all the good books have already been written. We don't need to write any more books." And just the other day. I mean, that was a guy who said that, right? No. It was a woman. Really? It was a woman in the arts. It just sounds like a guy. But maybe that's why she was very successful. And I want to say that very clearly, sometimes the things that have happened I think, it shouldn't have been that because we have this idea that we have this demonic white man and he's going to like, he's the enemy. And I have to say like, I have an in situations where a person exactly from my tribe and queens totally try to kill me and then some strange white guy was incredibly nice to me. So I kind of think you can't make these generalizations, especially in New York City because you never know who's around the corner. It's strange like that. But and also you're young enough to be my son. What's your son's name? Sam? Oh, jeez. Yeah. So I have transferred all of my love. He's such a cute kid. You'd like him. I can't wait to meet him. Your brother. You know, maybe when I'm trying to ask you, I'm kind of tap dancing around it. At some point you decide, maybe it's because of the rejection, but I wonder, did having that specter of liver cancer, did that make you rethink how much you wanted to leave on the page? How much you wanted to leave of yourself for future generations? It makes me think about it right the second, like I don't want to waste your time ever because my time is limited. So even though my liver issue is clear and my liver is now gorgeous, just stunning. It could be the cover of a magazine. We actually have that photo. I just put that there. You don't mind. I thought you were down there before this. No, no, no, no. Dr. McGon's like, yes, here he is. I do think about death. I think about it all the time. And it's like that Mary Oliver poem, The Wild Geese. It's, you know, you want to live with vitality. You want to live with open arms and that, and the other one, what is it, the poem, when death comes, that you're aware of what it means and that you welcome the life that's coming because we know we're going to die. I don't know. Like people are always saying, oh gosh, like I'm getting older. I'm this. I'm that. I'm thinking, I get to be 50 fucking four. Yeah. You know, because I thought I wasn't going to make it after 30. And I know that sounds awfully polyanna, but you know what? I'm not sorry. Like I don't see people who are cynical and eye rolling and hard. I don't see them creating beautiful work. So I kind of think that, you know what, if I'm vulnerable and if I sound corny about my life, then so be it. It's on the like, the potential of death that diagnosis. And some ways it seems like it actually freed you up to start living. And I want to believe that this moment matters, that it wasn't wasted, that somehow we're supposed to be a Williamsburg together in this room. And somehow a single one of us shifted the molecules and the air would be different. And that's why it's so important that we hold our breath and go, maybe this means something. I love that idea for me. I think I love it for all of us. And so if we're going to end on the present, let's go back to this new book you're writing. We started this conversation talking about education, mostly yours, but it's my understanding that education is the focus of the new book. So what are the surface questions and then the metaphysical questions that you're trying to answer in this new book? My first question was, what is the theme that unites all Koreans around the world? It was like, why not? It's a hard question. But I thought if I'm going to call the trilogy the Koreans, I might as well figure out, well, what is that thing? And then I've met now thousands and thousands of Koreans around the planet, like Koreans and Peru, Koreans and Venezuela, you know? And the thing that came up over and over again was education. So I was like, oh, I know. I'm going to write about education because it's so interesting. And then I started to think, oh, no. What I really care about at age 54 and having faced death or then we're all facing death is, well, what's wisdom? How do I live a wise life? And then now that I've started to really, really research and have these deep conversations and like study all the things that are out there in scholarship about trying to improve one's education, sadly, education has become all about status. So what does status mean? And it's a question that's almost embarrassing to ask in polite company because no one wants to admit that we're endlessly status hierarchy competing. And it's a sickness because if you're a child, that should never be part of the equation, right? So I'll ask a child, well, why do you want to go to this college? And this one child said to me, well, I don't want to go to a school that I'll be embarrassed by. And I thought, wait a second, but you could receive an education that's extraordinary at school X versus school Y. And then they're like, well, no, but it'll be embarrassing to go. Where my friends will make fun of me. And I think, well, is education a transaction or is it transformational? Because if education is transactional, then we have really missed the point of education. Because when I think about all the things that my education was in college, it wasn't what Yale gave to me. It was actually what I gave to Yale. And I can say that. And if Yale has a problem with it, they could call me. They'll give them the show's email address. Yeah, I'm going to get canceled again there, but that's fine. But I think this whole idea of transactionalism, it's really, really troubling. Because average kids now are thinking that it's not about college as a transformational experience about personal liberation here. What does that have another crazy word? Liberation. Rather, they care about the accreditation. And it's not their fault. Like, I'll never, ever, ever blame a 20-year-old for thinking something because he, she, or they learned it from somewhere else. It's funny because in the beginning of all your books, the first sentence is always the thesis of the book. In free food, for millionaires, the line is competence can be a curse. And the book ultimately is about understanding class and race and power in America. The second book, "Pachenko," the opening line is, "History has failed us, but no matter." And dives into what is home and what is belonging and not belonging. And so I have to ask you, have you figured out the first line of this new book? The rules of engagement have changed already. Beautiful. Don't repeat that. But, and I really, it's troubling. It's a very upsetting thesis because the rules of engagement have changed already. It's not that they've changed. They've changed already, which means we've missed it. very often we're trying to figure out what are the the roles of engagement, right? Like, what are the roles of engagement for a podcast at this hotel? But they've already been changed. And we're, we're thinking like, Oh, I missed it. And that anxiety is what fuels people to get so obsessed with the status, I think. >> Mm. If they've changed already, what is your aim in writing about it? Is it to understand what has changed? >> I would love it if we could be out of our suffering of this status obsession with education. Is it if we allowed ourselves to learn? And even just to be an auto-died act, most of everything I've ever accomplished in my life, I've learned for free or from books or from listening or asking questions. All the things that I truly value did not come from an institution saying, You are now this thing and you are good. As a matter of fact, I find that to be useful for other things is because very often people still think I don't speak English. I've gone to events where people say, Oh, we didn't know you spoke English. I know. And people have said, Oh, we didn't know that you'd have a sense of humor. We've got to get you some new crowds. I mean, this is, no, but is it, no, but it's not, it's not. I think people mean well, it's just that their knowledge of Asians and Asian Americans and Koreans are so, so limited and it's not their fault. Like to blame people for saying foolish things, like you kind of wonder, Well, what is your culture? America and the West essentially erases the significance and cultural citizenship of Asians and Asian Americans. And unless we go out there and become cultural citizens, it's not going to happen. And so many people from my background are like, you know, if you're a nice girl, you don't talk about yourself. You don't tell stories about people, you know, giving teacher sass. So with that, my last question for you, I talked about in the beginning, how you write with a sense of moral purpose in the time that feels so deeply a moral. And I have to ask it genuinely now does working and living in 2023 in a country where we have seen more mass shootings this year than days. Yeah. In a country still reeling, like most places from the fallout of the pandemic, does it ever discourage you or does this moment somehow fortify your desire to fight to continue writing? You know, I think for me, I have to be frank. I get discouraged and I get depressed. And sometimes I feel like the light gets dimmer. Definitely. And yet, I also think that that would be a violation of whatever time I've been given. So let's say if I drop dead tomorrow, like two of my college roommates have died before age 50 and they didn't have a diagnosis when I was friends with them in college. So I know that this happens. I think, well, if I get to live, then I want to make my time count. But I'm also deeply aware that every time I hear of another mass shooting, I think if I become inured to the pain and the grief of this, I will be a significantly worse artist. Because part of our jobs as creators is to keep feeling, but that feeling your right has a cost. And I was recently asked in Korea, how is Gen Z in millennials? Like it's called generation MZ in Korea. They actually put them together. It's they call MZ. So then how is MZ different in Korea than versus the United States and I said, mass shootings? The kids in Korea, you guys lack opportunities despite education. The rate of unemployment for college grads in Korea is just absolutely astonishing. It's the same problem also in Europe. But in the United States, children who are MZ or now adults have only known mass shootings. And then you have to wonder because all these boomers and Gen X people are like, oh, all these kids are millennials and Gen Z. Like they want to feel safe. And don't they know that the world is unsafe? And I'm like, you know, bitch, like sit down because you didn't grow up with mass shootings. And if they want to feel safe, it makes sense to me that they want to feel safe because they are unsafe. And all the lawmakers are saying it's okay to have open carry. Look what happened in Florida and the Santa's like wants to open carry. And by the way, that motherfucker was history major at Yale. He taught. He taught high school history. So you know what? I'm taking it up with him. Like that is not okay. He and I got the same technical education of our majors, most likely they didn't tell him to take remedial English. Most likely he didn't get a language taught at Yale. But here he is trying to cancel literally the curriculum of AP exams in African American history, including works by Bell Hooks, who I studied with. So am I offended? Yeah, I'm really offended. I think the answer to the question is you want to keep fighting? You're very sweet. But I think all of my awkwardness comes out as Rans now. Look, however it comes out, whether it's Rans here in Brooklyn or the beautiful books you have written that are right here in front of us. Thank you. I thank you for not having your heart calcified for not. My son has moved. He's moved me. My son Sam. Your mother must be so proud of you. No, but she is right. Today, maybe. Yeah. Well, tell her I said hi. Mention Lee. Thank you for sending my name. (boundary chord) (bass-like music) And that's our show. (bass-like music) If you enjoyed today's episode, be sure to give us five stars on Spotify, Apple, wherever you do your listening. I want to give a special thanks to Andy Dodd at Grand Central Publishing, the team at Odd Air Fest, and of course, Min Jin Lee. To learn more about her work and all the pieces of writing mentioned in this episode, visit our show notes at talkeasypod.com. For more conversations, I'd recommend our talks with Margaret Atwood, Ocean Wong, George Saunders, Jumbalahiri, Joyce Carol Oates, Elizabeth Gilbert, and Jennifer Eakin. To hear those and more Pushkin podcasts, listen on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you like to listen. You could also follow us on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, @talkeasypod, as always, the show would not be possible without our incredible team. Talkeasy is produced by Caroline Reebok. Our executive producer is Janik Sabravo. Our associate producer is Caitlin Dryden. Today's talk was edited by Clarice Guevara and mixed by Andrew Vastola. It was taped at the White Hotel in Brooklyn, New York. Our assistant editor is Lindsay Ellis, music by Dylan Peck, illustrations by Chris Shenoe. Photographs today are by Emma Mead, video and graphics by Ian Chang. Derek Gabbersack, Ian Jones, Ethan Seneca, and Layla Rattister. Special thanks to Eric Lures, Paulina Suarez, and Caitlin Ung. I'd also like to thank our team at Pushkin Industries. Justin Richmond, Julia Barton, John Starrers, Carrie Brody, David Glover, Heather Fein, Eric Sandler, Nicole Morano, Morgan Ratner, Jordan McMillan, Isabella Navarez, Maya Canig, Carly Migliori, Jason Gambrow, Malcolm Gladwell, and Jacob Weisberg. I'm Sam Fregoso. Thank you for listening to Talkeasy. I'll see you back here next week with Bob Odin Kirk. Until then, stay safe and so long. (upbeat music) - I'm Dan Heath. On what it's like to be, I interview people about their jobs. Here's a married couple that drives a long haul truck together. We backed up and they loaded fresh dead rats. - I mean, how many rats would you guess were back there? - There were 32,000 pounds of them. - 32,000 pounds of frozen dead rats. - That would be a hell of a picture of that. - Find out what it's like to be a long haul trucker, a couple's therapists or an FBI agent, all on the podcast, what it's like to be.