INTRODUCTION Summaries The Korean War
The Korean War (1950–1953) left an indelible mark on the Korean peninsula and
its people. Its impact reverberates even today, sparking a continuous process of
understanding its complexities and often underacknowledged consequences. Korean
American literary texts serve as vital conduits for preserving and transmitting this
knowledge, acting as reservoirs of the war's social and cultural repercussions. Joo Ok
Kim underscores this role, noting “[s]uch narratives, as family stories, compose
subterranean archives of Korean War knowledge that reshape our understanding of the
war's profound, and often underacknowledged, impact” (3). Building upon this tradition,
this dissertation delves deeper into the narratives of marginalized and underrepresented
subjects within the Korean War discourse. My research specifically focuses on military
sex workers, mixed-race children, and mixed Korean adoptees, with a particular
emphasis on the role of interraciality in their experiences. These literary representations
consciously explore interracial encounters, figures, and families, whether in military
camp towns in Korea or domestic spaces in the United States. By analyzing these
narratives, this dissertation aims to illuminate the nuanced dynamics of mixed-race
families and the enduring legacies of war trauma across both countries.
Most scholarly discourse about Korean American literature has centered on
immigration narratives set after the 1965 Immigration Act, delving into the challenges of
assimilation and cultural adjustment faced by Korean immigrants. Because of this later
focus, the direct experiences of Koreans and Korean Americans during the Korean War
has not received much critical attention. While Elaine H. Kim and Hyun Yi Kang's
Echoes upon Echoes: New Korean American Writings introduces a body of writings
within Korean American literature, as Josephine Park points out, Kim and Kang have not
given much attention to “a sustained study of Korean American literature as a field;
instead, they analyze key Korean American literary texts and problematics within broader
frames, whether in minority US or transnational literary and cultural studies” (“Korean
American Literature” 125). However, in Understanding Korean American Literature: The
American Dream, Self-Identity, and Assimilation, Sun Mo Yoo provides a literary
examination of the history of Korean American literature in the 21st century. With
detailed summaries of significant literary milestones and reflections on the Korean
American experience, Yoo offers a detailed map of the Korean American literary
landscape. Yoo emphasizes the significance of America's immigrant heritage and identity
in shaping the Korean American literary tradition, highlighting the importance of cultural
identification and representation. While Yoo's work has given more attention to Korean
American literature itself, most scholarly discussions have followed the reading of
Korean American literature as immigrant literature within the broader framework of
transnational or immigrant Asian American literature, as Kim and Kang do. However,
recent critical conversations surrounding American wars in Asia have given attention to
the argument of reading most Asian American literature as war literature and reading
immigrant literature as a subcategory of war literature. Viet Thanh Nguyen's Nothing
Ever Dies: Vietnam and the Memory of War advocates for a reconsideration of
Vietnamese American literature as war literature rather than sorely as immigrant
literature. Similarly, Josephine Park argues that “Asian America is a wartime construction
through and through,” highlighting how its “racial consciousness” arose as a response to
a history deeply intertwined with “imperial warfare” (“Asian American Exceptionalism”
174). This notion underscores the emergence of the Asian American identity as intricately
tied to the historical backdrop of war and imperialism, and the Cold War.
Focusing on diasporic interracial families, this dissertation advocates for reading
Korean American literature through the lens of war literature rather than solely as
immigrant narratives. This assertion holds particular relevance for Korean American
literature, since the diaspora following the Korean War significantly impacted identity
formation among Korean Americans and literary expression. During and immediately
after the war, encounters between Korean women and American GI solders, prompted
significant waves of Korean migration, frequently involving families seeking refuge in
the United States. These diasporic experiences, including the adoption of Korean war
orphans into American families and the subsequent formation of interracial families, are
represented in Korean American literature. Weaving these experiences into the very fabric
of their narratives, many Korean American literary texts serve as repositories of
memories and emotions shaped by the Korean War. Moving beyond the field's focus on
immigration rather than America's war in Asia, literary explorations of the Korean War
offer valuable insights into the formation of transnational narratives, the evolution of
Asian American identities, and the enduring impact of war on the construction of Asian
American cultural memory. As Tina Y. Chen emphasizes, Asian American literary and
cultural studies are enriched by attentiveness to “the importance of specific historical and
geographic sites in the ongoing formation of Asian American cultures and practices,
along with a focus on discovering and establishing the multiple locations producing and
complicating the imagined geography of Asian America” (886). Thus, delving into
Korean American literature as war literature presents a unique opportunity to untangle
how wars have shaped the very contours of Asian America.
Recently, many researchers have given critical attention to the topic of the Korean
War in Asian American and American studies. Steven Belletto claims that Korean War
literature is divided into two different phases. The first phase occurred during the 50s and
early 60s, which was mostly accounts written by American white men that participated in
the war and detailed their experiences during the war. This first phase strongly
emphasized the United States' desperate actions to prevent the spread of Communism
around the world. The United States felt it was necessary to intervene in the Korean
peninsula, even if it meant there would be many casualties. The subsequent phase of
Korean War literature centers on the wartime and post-wartime experiences and cultural
memories mainly narrated by first- or second-generation Korean American authors.
Richard E. Kim's The Martyred (1964) stands as an example of this trend, and despite its
publication in the 1960s, the book did not garner significant attention until the 1980s and
90s (Belletto 54). In addition, Josephine Park notes that Korean War novels exhibit a
remarkable quality, being “utterly singular and strangely private” (“Korean American
Literature” 114). Park highlights the divergence of more contemporary Korean American
writers from “existential terrain” in Richard E. Kim's The Martyred (1964), a
characteristic prominently present in the initial Korean American war novel. As the
second Korean War novel by a Korean American author, Ty Park's Guilt Payment (1983)
takes a different path from Richard E. Kim's rendering and provides “a deeply personal
and perhaps even obsessive necessity to tell the horrors and contradictions of the
experience of the war.” As Park puts it, the following Korean War novels, such as Susan
Choi's The Foreign Student (1998), do not show shared consistency among Korean War
literary texts by Korean American authors. This divergence complicates the identification
of a clear “literary lineage” among Korean War novels. This distinctiveness stands in
contrast to Japanese American and Vietnamese American literature, which have
established “distinct and identifiable bodies of writing.” When examining the second
phase of Korean American literature, focusing on familial kinship within Korean War
literature provides a crucial lens through which to examine the enduring themes of
identity, memory, and belonging that continue to resonate within this body of work.
Daniel Kim's The Intimacies of Conflict: Cultural Memory and the Korean War
makes a vital contribution to the second phase of this field. Intimacies showcases how
Korean War literature by US minority authors reveals new racial encounters that
transcend ethnic and racial boundaries. Kim contends that the literary texts on the Korean
War consist of “an exemplary literary archive of transnational cultural memory, one that
illuminates the interlocking imperial and racial histories that converged in this conflict
and the domestic and transnational transformations it helped engender” (Intimacy 20).
Intimacies positions the Korean War as a watershed moment in US racial history
(Intimacies 3). Furthermore, by exploring “how [these] texts expose the intimacies, both
loving and violent” between different racial groups, Kim's analysis elucidates emotional
relationships in Korean War literature (23). Additionally, Kim provides analyses of the
different kind of cultural knowledge generated by fictional novels, such as Chang-rae
Lee's The Surrendered, each imbued with its distinct “politics of identity” (175) that
contribute to the construction of “cultural memory” (198) while also interrogating
assertions of “authenticity”—the direct presentation of precise biographical details (176).
While Daniel Kim's work presents a new racial landscape outside of mixed-race
families and identity politics through individual authors' voices, this dissertation
specifically focuses on how Korean War literary texts represent the construction of Asian
America, including interracial family units and the claiming of mixed-race Korean
identity through collective voice to extend cultural memory about the Korean War. The
Korean War literary texts depicts encounters between Korean women and American
soldiers after the U.S. military intervention, which created new mixed-race families and
interracial cultural memories. Analyzing interracial families caused by the Korean War,
this dissertation suggests that Korean American literature represents transnational cultural
memories about dehumanized, traumatized, and racially marginalized characters and
families that were forgotten after the Korean War. Reading Asian American literature as
war literature, this dissertation argues that the literary examination of overlooked
mixedrace families in the aftermath of the Korean War extends beyond immigration
narratives of single-race families, contributing to knowledge of the cultural impact of the
Korean War within the Cold War context. This reading sheds light on their complicated
psychological aspects not only as war refugees, but also as immigrants, and this reading
also constructs Korean War cultural memories within Asian American literature.
In particular, analyzing novel families unveils the complexities of interraciality
portrayed for the first time in Korean American literary scenes by Korean War literature,
challenging the mono-ethnicity that Korean culture has centered around. Within Korean
military camp towns, novel families emerge, including women-centric families composed
of military sex workers and American GI soldiers marrying Korean women. Korean War
literary texts represent interracial marriage and transnational adoption into American
families, leading to an in-depth understanding of the struggles faced by novel interracial
families and their members within the camp town, as well as by Korean subjects who
immigrate and integrate into American families and society. Moreover, this societal
discrimination acts as a catalyst for immigration, as depicted in the novels examined in
this dissertation, thus offering an avenue for transnational literary exploration. Korean
War orphans and refugees are adopted and assimilated into American families through
transnational adoption, further complicating portrayals of identity crisis among Korean
immigrants or mixed-race American characters in Korean American literary texts. The
depiction of interracial relationships in the mono-ethnic and culturally specific context of
Korean War literature highlights how this cultural background influences the upbringing,
identity, and racial and cultural conflicts experienced by Korean American characters in
the United States. This literary exploration of families and dynamics sheds light on the
complexities of interraciality within Korean American literary scenes, enriching
discussions of war, immigration, and familial belonging.
LOCATING KOREAN WAR LITERATURE IN COLD WAR CONTEXT
The interconnected web of wars, ideology, and U.S. interventions in Asia
illuminates the construction of Asian American identities. Before the Cold war, American
wars took place in Asia, including the Philippines, Japan, and during the Cold War, Korea
and Vietnam. As a result of winning the Spanish-American War in 1898, America
acquired the colony of the Philippines through the Treaty of Paris. The
PhilippineAmerican War (1899–1902) was a conflict between the United States and the
First Philippine Republic, which had gained its independence from Spanish colonial rule.
This war led many Filipinos to immigrate to the United States to escape the turmoil of
military conflicts. Due to their colonial status and racial discrimination against Filipinos,
they faced challenges with their identity and experienced discrimination in their daily
lives. For example, most Filipino immigrants initially worked in labor-intensive
agricultural fields such as sugar cane, where they faced discriminatory treatment. When it
comes to Japanese American experiences, after the Japanese military's attack on Pearl
Harbor in 1941, anti-Japanese sentiment spread across the United States, resulting in
discriminatory policies such as the construction of internment camps for Japanese
Americans and the relocation of large populations of American-born Japanese Americans
to designated
areas. In February 1942, a mere two months later, President Roosevelt, acting as the
commander-in-chief, issued Executive Order 9066, which led to the internment of
Japanese Americans. Prior to the Cold War, the intertwined legacies of colonialism and
discriminatory policies significantly shaped the lives and evolving identities of Filipino
and Japanese Americans, contributing to the emergence and ongoing evolution of Asian
America as a vibrant community.
Subsequently, the Cold War significantly molded Asian America, impacting ethnic
groups such as the Chinese, Korean, and Vietnamese through their involvement in US
wars in Asia. During the early Cold War period, Chinese Americans had to confront
numerous discriminatory acts and policies, stemming from the tension between the
United States and China, as well as the prevailing anti-communist sentiment within the
United States. For instance, although the Chinese Exclusion Act (1882) had been passed
earlier, it remained in effect during the Cold War. Chinese Americans, due to their shared
national origin with the communist-aligned Chinese government, faced heightened
scrutiny and profiling. This manifested in various forms, including increased immigration
restrictions, heightened surveillance, and even persecution of individuals and
organizations deemed to harbor communist sympathies. Christina Klein asserts that “the
Cold War made Asia important to the United States” and that “the United States
expanded its political, military, and economic power in the [Asia] region” spanning from
“Korea in the north, down through the Chinese mainland and Taiwan, along the offshore
island chains of Japan, the Philippines, and Indonesia, out into the Pacific, across the
Southeast Asian peninsula, and up into the Indian subcontinent” (5). In line with the
perspective of revisionist historians who view the Cold War as “a chapter in the ongoing
process of globalization,” Klein suggests that U.S.-Asian economic, political, and
military integration served as a defense tactic against the Soviets during the Cold War
(16). These policies shaped the experiences of Asian Americans, especially those
affiliated with the Communist Party, hindering their sense of belonging and integration
into American society.
The Cold War era not only influenced the experiences of various Asian ethnic
groups within America but also continues to resonate in contemporary discourse on race
and belonging, and the formation of Asian American identities. Although both the
Korean War and the Vietnam War hold significant impacts on the construction of Asian
America during the Cold War, the Korean War has received less attention in literary and
historical discourses. As Bruce Cummings describes, the Korean War is referred to as
“the forgotten war” or “the unknown war” because of its smaller scale in comparison to
the global scale of World War II, and the subsequent angst of the Vietnam War—which
occurred after the Korean War:
The Korean War, more than any other war in modern times, is surrounded by
residues and slippages of memory. The Great War's place in indelible “in modern
memory,” its annihilating violence a permanent reminder of war's carnage. World
War II was the good war, an outright victory to be celebrated. Vietnam tore the
United States apart. With Korea there is less a presence than an absence; thus the
default reflexive American name: “the forgotten war.” Its veterans feel neglected
and misunderstood—they are also forgotten. South Koreans experience a knot of
terrible loss, tragedy, bitterness, fate, invisible burdens, an inner negation pushing
them down and bending them inward, which they call han. North Koreans
remember a scourge that claimed, on average, at least one member from every
family. But here is the party of memory—laser-focused, burned-in remembrance
of things past. (Cummings 62–63)
The Korean War (1950–1953) occurred between World War II (1939–1945) and the
Vietnam War (1955–1975). The Korean War have been treated like “an intermediate
event,” considered relatively less important by Americans compared to the other two
major wars: World War II and the Vietnam War. According to Daniel Y. Kim and Viet
Thanh Nguyen, while the Korean War (1950–1953) has been remembered as “the
Forgotten War” by Americans, the Vietnam War (1960-1975) plays critical roles in
“[igniting] the Asian American movement and transformed Asian American culture
through one of its aftereffects, the influx of hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese and
other Southeast Asian refugees in the 1970s” (60). Despite the relatively indifference
towards the Korean War in the United States, the impact of the Korean War was
significant for the Koreans who endured it. This impact subsequently led to a substantial
number of Koreans immigrating to the United State after Immigration and Nationality
Act of 1965 (Kim and Nguyen 61). Despite its significance, the Korean War, a conflict
that inflicted lasting emotional scars upon American soldiers, Koreans, and their families,
has been marginalized within literary and historical discourse.
Rendering the Korean War literary texts within the Cold War context completes
the comprehensive understanding of how the experiences of this war have shaped cultural
memories and Asian American identities including the emergence of new families. This
approach enables readers to discern how literary representations of the Korean War
experiences intricately intertwine with the construction of Asian America, and transcends
the limitations of solely reading them as immigration narratives. Grace M. Cho's
memoir, Tastes Like War: A Memoir, contextualizes the Korean War from a post-colonial
perspective within the Cold War era and portrays the impact on families torn apart:
The end of Japanese colonial rule in 1945 did not mean the end of occupied
Korea, but rather, a change in occupier. … At the end of World War II, when my
mother was four years old, the US drew a line at the 38th parallel, dividing the
country in two and ceding the North to the Soviets. As soon as Japanese
occupation of Korea ended, American and Soviet occupation began, and Korea
became the United States' first “laboratory of communist containment,” the first
“theater of the Cold War,” in which an experiment in mass destruction would play
out. The dead, the wounded, the motherless or fatherless, the homeless, the
families permanently torn apart when the border was closed—each of these
categories numbering in the millions. (Cho 23–24)
Cumings' revisionist perspective on the Korean War presents a more complex narrative,
highlighting its deep intertwining with the broader Cold War dynamics and the
involvement of major powers such as the United States, the Soviet Union, and China. He
contends that the United States' policy of containment, aimed at countering the spread of
communism, played a significant role in escalating tensions on the Korean Peninsula. To
understand the true geopolitical origins of the Korean War, Cumings stresses the
importance of comprehending the historical context and the longstanding issues that
preceded the outbreak of the war, including the Korean division, Japanese colonial rule,
and internal political divisions within both North and South Korea. Tastes Like War: A
Memoir presents a perspective on the intricate transition Korea underwent as Japanese
colonial rule concluded in 1945. Through the phrase “a change in occupier,” Cho
suggests that the termination of Japanese control did not signify liberation for Korea
(23).4 Instead, it marked a shift from Japanese imperialistic power to United States
influence. At the end of World War II, the United States established a demarcation at the
38th parallel, dividing the nation into North and South, with the North falling under the
influence of the Soviet Union. The Cold War earned the moniker of the “ideology war”
due to the oppositional ideologies. As the phrase “laboratory of communist containment”
attests, Korea evolved into the initial testing ground for the United States' strategies of
communist containment, becoming the first arena of Cold War confrontation (24). The
Korean War resulted in widespread devastation, precipitating the fragmentation of
Korean families. Cho emphasizes lesser-known and marginalized losses, encompassing
“the dead, the wounded, the motherless or fatherless, the homeless, the families
permanently torn apart” (24). The repetition of the suffix “-less” signifies the absence of
the people and the disintegration of families in her mother's realities, but her mother's
memories “permanently” and rather vividly exist, tearing apart historical wounds.
Through a comprehensive examination of the Korean War within the Cold War context,
the literary examination of the Korean War complicates the understanding of how diverse
wartime experiences have shaped and continue to shape the multifaceted identity of
Asian America.
4 After defeating Japan in mid-1942, the State Department ordered a partial military occupation of South
Korea to prevent it from being ruled by a Communist country. Franklin Roosevelt devised a plan to remove
Japanese interests in South Korea and establish American interests through a “trusteeship” involving the
United States, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR), Britain, and Nationalist China (Cumings
105).
READING TRAUMATIC MEMORIES IN KOREAN WAR LITERATURE
Literary texts about the Korean War have represented the memories of its
traumatic impact on victims, caused by both imperial military forces and the destructive
nature of the war. Some of these memories are directly related to wartime experiences,
while others are connected to the war's byproducts. The Korean War has led to the
marginalization of various groups, including military prostitutes, mixed-race children,
war orphans, and war adoptees. These groups share two common features. Firstly, they
involve interracial encounters that often result in interracial families. Secondly, they carry
memories that may be difficult for them to express. This characteristic of traumatic
memories aligns well with Judith Lewis Herman's descriptions:
Traumatic events are extraordinary, not because they occur rarely, but rather
because they overwhelm the ordinary human adaptations to life. Unlike
commonplace misfortunes, traumatic events generally involve threats to life or
bodily integrity, or a close personal encounter with violence and death. They
confront human beings with the extremities of helplessness and terror, and evoke
the responses of catastrophe. (Herman 33)
Their traumatic memories persist within their families, stemming from direct severe
experiences such as “threats to life or bodily integrity, close personal encounters with
violence and death,” to indirect experiences transferred intergenerationally (Herman 33).
Korean War literature encapsulates these “forgotten” and marginalized memories within
interracial families, enriching their psychological depth. The interracial aspect of the
families created also consistently raises questions about what a family is to begin with in
Korean War literature.
Examining how Korean America was shaped within the context of the Cold War
unveils overlooked subjects and their associated traumatic memories. This perspective
encourages a consideration of group identities beyond merely viewing their traumatic
past as individual disorders. As C. Fred Alford puts it, trauma should be understood as
“more than an individual clinical disorder,” and trauma is “political on the scale of groups
of individuals, particularly marginalized groups” (4). For example, the traumatic
memories of war orphans were hidden and forgotten due to media coverage focusing on
the United States' “philanthropic” international adoption efforts from South Korea. On
May 25, 1953, the Minneapolis Morning Tribune published an article headlined “100,000
Korean Children Are War Orphans,” highlighting them as byproducts of the Korean War.
Regarding the war orphan issue, the United States appeared to take humanitarian actions.
According to Kim Park Nelson, “the actions of American military personnel as child
rescuers” were emphasized in many media reports on Korean adoption in the post-
Korean
War period (3). Nelson argues that by concentrating on “[the] victims of America's Cold
War ambitions, who would be invisible otherwise, coverage of the suffering children in
postwar South Korea reinforced a narrative of American moral and economic superiority”
(3). Behind the media coverage of the United States' “philanthropic” international
adoption efforts, there also exist adoptees' and their families' traumatic memories, as well
as their struggles in incorporating into new families in the United States. Trauma
narratives representing the experiences of transnational adoptees and their families within
Korean War literature complicate the United States' adoption practices.
Commemorating overlooked traumatic memories is a vital act of historical
preservation. As asserted by Laurie Vickroy, trauma narratives serve as “a locus for
considering various sociocultural aspects of trauma” (4). While some traumatic
experiences may be considered “unspeakable and unrepresentable” due to their severity
or sensitivity, their erasure can be detrimental to the understanding of marginalized
communities (Cvetkovich 7). Expanding the scope of trauma beyond the realm of
individual experience aligns with Ann Cvetkovich's exploration of how “how affect,
including the effects associated with trauma, serves as the foundation for the formation of
public cultures” (10). By employing expressive depictions of trauma in literature, public
engagement with these experiences can be fostered, creating bridges of understanding
and empathy. This necessitates moving beyond solely personal trauma narratives and
constructing representations for collective engagement with historical wounds. Such
modes of representing trauma offer the potential to garner increased public awareness
regarding Asian American communities in the United States, ultimately contributing to a
more inclusive and empathetic national consciousness.
Asian American cultural archives, such as narratives in the Korean War literature,
memorializes historical injustices like exclusion, incarceration, and eviction, offering a
poignant reflection on the collective experiences of the community, as Rachel C. Lee puts
it:
Asian American cultural artifacts [] have long been in the business of
memorializing trauma, of not forgetting specific acts of exclusion, imprisonment,
and dispossession. In fact, Asian Americanists would likely supplement [Rob]
Wilson's observation to highlight the way in which forgetfulness might extend
rather than diminish hierarchical relations within the Pacific that do not
necessarily end with the cold war. In other words, the Asia-Pacific might be
viewed as an imagined community that “tries to forget the trauma, war, and
power inequities of the Cold War” precisely in order to solidify power inequities
established in the cold war. (Lee 253)
Attempts to erase such traumas result in the continuation of hierarchical relationships
within the Pacific region even after the end of the Cold War. As Lee puts it, Asian
Americanists recognizing and admitting pain is crucial to eradicating these power
disparities (253). As Anne Whitehead suggests, the overlapping areas of trauma fictions
and postcolonial fiction by highlighting that both are concerned with “the recovery of
memory and the acknowledgement of the denied, the repressed and the forgotten” (82).
Trauma fictions, as Whitehead puts it, raises general awareness of underrepresented and
traumatized people to our conscious level, prompting a thoughtful consideration of “the
ethics of historical representation” (83).
When it comes to ethical considerations, as Lee Kyungsoon also points out, “the
cultural politics of memory now actively engages with the voices of historically
marginalized and otherized subjects, providing a counter-narrative that recognizes their
significance within the realm of memory” (Lee 72). When it comes to Korean War
literature, this evolution in the cultural politics of memory holds promising implications
for fostering a comprehensive, empathetic, and ethical interpretation of our shared human
narrative. Nguyen, in Nothing Ever Dies: Vietnam and the Memory of War, claims for
ethical awareness of our inhumanity relating to wars. His attempt of reading Asian
American literature as war literature is focus on Vietnamese and Vietnamese American.
Since the Korean War and Vietnam War account for big portion in American War literary
texts, this dissertation's focus on Korean and Korean American will offer well-balanced
reading to the scholarly discourse of the US wars in Asia in literature.
OUTLINE OF THE DISSERTATION
To uncover the memories of marginalized subjects within interracial families, this
dissertation analyzes contemporary works of literature by Korean American writers,
including novels by Nora Okja Keller, Heinz Insu Fenkl, and Chang-rae Lee. It also
examines chapters from Mixed Korean: Our Stories edited by Cerrissa Kim et al., that
portray bi-racial Korean Americans' experiences as transnational adoptees after the
Korean War in memoirs. In analyzing interracial families, this dissertation offers an
understanding of how family affects traumatized individuals' identity and how the
integration of American soldiers into Korean families impacted Korean diasporic
subjects' cultural memory.
The opening chapter of this dissertation delves into the portrayal of womencentric
families influenced by the presence of American GIs and prostitution in Nora Okja
Keller's Fox Girl (2002). The narrative unfolds against the backdrop of Korean society's
prejudice and discrimination, with women taking the lead in their families' struggles for
survival amidst challenging circumstances. These challenges stem from their roles as sex
workers catering to American GIs or as mixed-race individuals facing discrimination due
to societal norms regarding virginity and ethnicity. Keller's narrative not only exposes the
harsh realities faced by female sex workers but also interweaves various adaptations of
the Korean fox legend as sub-narratives. By reimagining the fox legend, female
characters reclaim agency and challenge deterministic norms that cast them as “the
other,” thereby asserting their voices in a society that marginalizes them. Through their
storytelling, they actively confront dominant narratives, offering alternative perspectives
that empower women-centric families to navigate hostile realities. This chapter argues
that Keller's use of adaptive narratives not only sheds light on societal perceptions of sex
workers but also provides a platform for female figures to support their families in
escaping traumatic circumstances. Additionally, the chapter explores how these retellings
facilitate the integration of women-centric families into Korean American diasporic
communities, reflecting broader themes of identity and belonging within postwar South
Korean nation-building and diasporic contexts.
In Chapter 2, the exploration begins with Heinz Insu Fenkl's Memories of My
Ghost Brother (1996) that delves into the complexities of interracial families forged
amidst the tumult of the Korean War through the lens of the mixed-race protagonist Insu.
Unlike the conclusion of Fox Girl, where secrets shroud the origins of characters like
Myu Myu, Memories embarks on a relentless journey to unearth erased family histories.
Fenkl's autobiographical fiction allows the interracial protagonist agency in uncovering
the truth, employing alternating narratives between young Insu and adult Insu to
showcase maturing perspectives. Initially, Memories portrays mother figures as agents of
destruction and mixed-race children as victims, reflecting on the racism, sexism, and
militarism pervasive in their community. This introspective journey serves as a platform
to navigate the complexities of interracial family dynamics within the broader context of
the imbalanced military relationship between the U.S. and Korea, as elucidated by JiYeon
Yuh in Beyond the Shadow of Camptown. Yuh's scholarship contextualizes how the
dominance of American culture intersects with the personal dynamics of interracial
families, shedding light on the enduring repercussions of destructive motherhood and the
struggles faced by Asian women and their biracial children. Memories, imbued with
ghostly imagery, becomes a vehicle for Insu's quest for belonging within his interracial
family, amplifying empathy towards vanished and haunting kinship ties within
transnational Asian American narratives. Moreover, situating Memories within the Cold
War framework, as suggested by Jodi Kim, unveils the ongoing epistemological project
of knowledge on the Cold War, offering insights into the complexities of Korean War
literature and the dynamics of Korean, American, and Korean American identities. Thus,
Memories emerges not just as a fictional narrative but as a product of intricate historical
and political forces, inviting readers to reconsider notions of family, identity, and
belonging amidst the backdrop of the Cold War era.
Chapter 2 of the dissertation delves into the haunting imagery within Heinz Insu
Fenkl's Memories, elucidating its pivotal role in catalyzing Insu's quest to uncover erased
familial connections and shedding light on the gendered trauma experienced by mothers.
This thematic exploration sets the stage for a deeper dive into Chang-rae Lee's The
Surrendered in Chapter 3. Unlike Memories, which primarily unfolds within a Korean
camp town, The Surrendered traverses a diasporic journey, following June's transition
from a Korean orphanage to the United States. The novel portrays how the diasporic han,
encapsulating unresolved grief and anger, permeates through generations and transmits
within Korean American family dynamics. The narrative intricately traces June's
traumatic experiences during the Korean War, her paper marriage to Hector, and the
subsequent birth of their son amidst diasporic struggles. June's eccentric behaviors in the
face of her unresolved hunger and longing for familial connection serve as poignant
manifestations of evolving han, shaping the postmemory of her son, Nicholas. Drawing
from Marianne Hirsch's concept of postmemory, the chapter examines how June's
diasporic journey embodies a transition from a war refugee to an Asian working single
mother in the United States, contributing to the construction of postmemory within the
transnational Korean American narrative. By unpacking these themes, the dissertation
provides a comprehensive analytical framework to examine the intricate dynamics of
trauma, diaspora, and family within Korean American literature.
While the dissertation delves into the literary representation of interracial families
in previous chapters through individual authors' voices, Chapter 4 transitions to the
construction of collective voices and memories in Mixed Korean: Our Stories (2018).
Chapter 4 examines the collective voices and memories of mixed-race Korean adoptees.
Unlike previous chapters focusing on individual authors’ novels, this chapter explores
how the anthology forms a collective voice to claim a Korean American identity. Through
firsthand narratives, the anthology delves into the complexities faced by mixedrace
Korean adoptees, including immigration challenges, racism, and cultural identity crises.
The chapter highlights the anthology's role in advocating for mixed-race Korean identity
and building communities. In addition, it discusses how mixed-race Koreans seek to
reconnect with their biological families through DNA testing and participate in
organizations such as 325 Karma and Korean American Story. By revisiting and sharing
individual memories, the anthology fosters a cohesive collective narrative, amplifying
previously unheard voices and challenging marginalization within transnational Asian
American narratives. The editorial board's acknowledgment of Mixed Korean as a
manifestation of collective effort underscores the transformative power of communal
action, illustrating that each individual voice contributes to a broader chorus that
resonates across cultural and physical boundaries. Through the diverse voices of
contributors, the anthology constructs a communal sense of identity, confronts inherent
traumas, and demands recognition for the lived experiences of mixed-race Korean
adoptees within both South Korean and American contexts.
CHAPTER 1
BEYOND PATRIARCHY AND SOCIETAL PREJUDICE:
RESISTING TRAUMA AND RECLAIMING FAMILY
IN NORA OKJA KELLER'S FOX GIRL
INTRODUCTION
The first chapter of this dissertation focuses on the women-centric families that
prostitution caused when American GIs patronized Korean sex workers in Nora Okja
Keller's Fox Girl (2002). The narrative of the novel depicts women at the head of their
families who are trying to survive in a Korean society full of prejudice and
discrimination. Their difficulties are caused by the fact that they work as sex workers to
serve American GIs or that they are mixed-race Koreans born to Korean mothers and
American GI fathers, especially Black American GIs. Mixed-race Korean women who
were subject to discrimination because mono racial Koreans valorized a woman's
virginity prior to marriage and ethnic Koreanness. Along with portrayals of horrible
realities that the female sex workers encounter, Fox Girl provides various adaptive
versions of the Korean fox legend as sub narratives. On the one hand, some adaptive
narratives of the fox legend dehumanize and demonize the sex workers to dramatize their
sad realities and to represent how others in Korean society perceive them. On the other
hand, through the perspective of female sex workers like Duk Hee, some modifications of
the narrative of the nine-tailed fox story challenge the prevailing oral tradition of fox
stories, which often depicts foxes and women in a negative light and perpetuate biases
against their existence. As Myung-hyun Lee puts it, the nine-tailed fox has often been
portrayed as “an object of anxiety and fear, an entity outside the boundaries that contrasts
with humans, in other words, as ‘the other,’” although very rarely, there are a few stories
that represent positive relationships between the fox and humans (12–13). Through the
adaptation of the Korean fox legend, female characters in Fox Girl challenge the
prevailing deterministic norm that portrays the fox spirit as “the other,” thereby
reclaiming their voices in the face of oppression within Korean society. The female
characters in the novel become storytellers who modify the legend to reflect their
proactive roles and correct any distorted ideas about them. Their modification is
important because serving as storytellers gives them opportunities to challenge the
Nevertheless, the narrative unfolds with the fox's expulsion orchestrated by an enigmatic individual
possessing the perceptiveness to discern the fox's authentic nature. Alternatively, the fox's true identity is
unveiled, or it is forcibly removed from its assumed human role by a character, such as a salt seller who
happened upon the moment of the fox's transformation. This transformation serves as a potent allegory,
expressing underlying societal anxieties and fears (Myung-hyun Lee 15–16). As another example of
depicting the fox spirit as an evil presence, in the narrative “Fox Beads,” the nine-tailed fox adopts the
guise of an enchanting woman, employing her allure to seduce unsuspecting men. She also uses the beads
as tools to drain the life force from her victims. The narrative unfolds as the male protagonist, aided by a
discerning helper, begins to harbor suspicions concerning the true identity of the beguiling woman. The
man ingests the fox beads as a preemptive measure to forestall further energy depletion. Subsequently, as
the beads are seized from him, the true nature of the nine-tailed fox is revealed, culminating in her
withdrawal from the human realm (Myung-hyun Lee 16). In the meanwhile, within the narrative “Fox
Beads,” the fox beads associated with the nine-tailed fox exhibit a multifaceted and dualistic character.
These fox beads function not only as conduits through which the nine-tailed fox drain the vitality of men
but also as enigmatic artifacts with transformative potential. Specifically, they possess the remarkable
capacity to elevate an ordinary individual to the status of a scholar, a proficient practitioner of geomancy,
and an adept healer in the realm of medicine (Myung-hyun Lee 17).
dominant but offensive narrative rather than passively accepting it. This chapter argues
that Keller's Fox Girl employs adaptive narratives of the fox legend to represent societal
perceptions of sex workers, as well as to provide a space for heads of women-centric
families, especially mother figures, to assist female family members in escaping from
traumatic realities. This chapter will analyze how specific versions of fox stories
represent the sex workers of the camp town within the context of bio politics in postwar
South Korean nation building. It will also explore how the women's retelling of the fox
girl story allows them to challenge dominant narratives that “other” them and empower
women-centric families for them to escape from the hostile realities. Furthermore, by
internalizing the fox spirit, women in women-centric families integrate into Korean
American diasporic communities.
“YANGGONGJU,” KOREAN GOVERNMENT, AND WESTERN SERVICEMEN
Fox Girl attempts to recover the voices of female Korean sex workers, and to do
so, it uses poignant stories of two outcast teenaged girls, Hyun Jin and Sookie, who are
forced into prostitution in a camp town to serve American GIs after the Korean War.
Hyun Jin's father disowns her because of a conflict with her stepmother, and Sookie is a
“fatherless daughter of a local hard-going prostitute [Duk Hee]” (“A Powerful though
Gently Paced Story”). Major characters in Fox Girl work as sex workers known as
“yanggongju” in a camp town following the Korean War, and the term yanggongju
represents how people in Korean society perceive sex workers. Yanggongju represents
the relationship between Western servicemen and Korean sex workers in South Korea in
an offensive way. To be specific, the term yanggongju refers to Korean sex workers who
service foreign soldiers stationed in South Korea. This word combines the prefix “yang,”
meaning Western, with the noun “gongju” referring to a princess, and this term was
pejoratively used with others such as “Yankee whore,” “Yankee wife,” or “UN lady” to
describe the Korean sex workers. While yanggongju and the other phrases are blatantly
pejorative, Koreans also used the typically-positive word, gonggju, ironically when
speaking to or about the sex workers. Korean women who married American GIs were
also included in this category after the Korean War, and Korean people negatively
referred to them as “GI Brides.” Fox Girl depicts the societal hatred towards any sexual
encounters between Korean female sex workers and Western soldiers. This aversion
results in the alienation of these women's families from Korean society. As Hyun Sook
Kim points out, the term GI Brides was synonymous with yanggongju (178). When
phrases like GI bride and Yankee wife are used interchangeably with Yankee whore, it
signifies that interracial families, consisting of a Western GI soldier and a Korean
the Korean Diaspora: Shame, Secrecy, and the Forgotten War resurfaces “pieces of some willfully
forgotten story and to render the forgotten visible” (90). In Cho's exploration of the evolving
representations of yanggongju since 1945, argues that the visibility of these women has fluctuated
depending on U.S.-Korea relations and political circumstances: “She is simultaneously an erased figure of
national development and an overexposed figure of national loss” (90). In the post-Korean War period,
many women found it necessary to engage in prostitution with American GI soldiers to support their
families. These women, compensated with tangible goods like cigarettes and food in exchange for their
sexual services. Prostitution, while considered a necessary evil, was also acknowledged as such by the
Korean government. Recognizing the pivotal role played by yanggongju in the nation's economic wellbeing
and in maintaining the United States' interest, the government appreciated their contribution by stating that
yanggongju “served her country by increasing Korea's foreign exchange earnings from the dollars spent by
the men and contributing to security by providing comfort to them” (Cho 107).
woman, as well as secluded and women-centric families, including sex workers, are
targets for the hostile attitudes and societal prejudice of South Koreans.
The novel's portrayal of the South Korean government's control over the lives and
bodies of sex worker women evokes Michel Foucault's thesis on biopolitics and
biopower. Contemporary state politics entail not only the regulation and management of
life but also the administration of death. Although the sex worker women in Fox Girl
exist outside the biopolitical framework applied to normative citizens, it highlights the
oppressive control and regulations imposed on certain segments of the population in the
postwar South Korean nation building. This sheds light on the extent of the South Korean
government's efforts to define and shape its citizens. In The History of Sexuality, Volume
1: An introduction (1980), Foucault explains the change of modern politics, contending
that modern politics becomes biopolitics. According to Foucault, the ancient Greeks
thought that zoe indicates the simple fact of being alive common to all living beings such
as men and animals, but that bios expresses the way or form of living politically valuable
to an individual and a group. Unlike the ancient Greeks' clear distinction between zoe,
biological life, and bios, political community life, Foucault argues that in the modern
society the distinction is often blurred, and zoe has become an object of political power:
“For millennia, man remained what he was for Aristotle: a living animal with the
additional capacity for a political existence; modern man is an animal whose politics
places his existence as a living being in question” (143). After 1977, in his course at the
Collège de France, Foucault began to focus on the transition from the “territorial state” to
the “state of population” and on the increasing importance of biological life as a problem
of sovereign power. The camp towns in Fox Girl represent the South Korean government
exerting biopower on the camp town women as “zoe[s]” within the context of the United
States' neocolonialism.
In the context of postwar South Korean nation-building, the camp town named
“America Town” serves as a means to uphold the imbalanced relationship between the
U.S. and South Korea (5). To be specific, in the camp town, the South Korean
government controls the bodies and sexuality of Korean sex worker women as a means to
maintain its military relationship with the United States. The South Korean government
in the novel does not seem to take care of the women; rather, it merely strives to control
their bodies to prevent them from spreading any potential sexually transmitted diseases.
The government controls the very private medical records of the sex workers, such as
“[their] shot dates, [their] menstrual cycles, [their] visit to the Monkey House” (189).
This government's intervention exacerbates the trauma by humiliating them and making
their private health information more public. To protect American GIs from Sexually
Transmitted Infections (STIs), the Korean government has the sex workers tested for
STIs and pregnancy. The sex workers in camp town have to be tested for STIs at “Dr.
Pak's Love Clinic” on Thursdays (15). Under the Korean government's control, the clinics
in America Town reiterate the sex workers' undervalued and dehumanized lives by
referring to them as numbers instead of using their names, such as “One-one-seven!”
(60–61). When Hyun Jin and Sookie ask about Duk Hee, Dr. Pak tells them that he
cannot remember his patient's name, saying, “I see so many women a day, I can't
remember the woman behind the numbers” (45–46). This moment is significant because
Dr. Pak's failure to identify Duk Hee demonstrates the dehumanized status of sex
workers. If they tested positive for an STI, the women would quarantine in a designated
facility called “the Monkey House” (46). Quarantining Duk Hee without informing her
family member is another harsh treatment against sex workers that causes family
dissolution. Duk Hee's absence puts the other family member like her teenaged daughter
Sookie in a vulnerable situation, and Sookie begins to follow in Duk Hee footsteps by
turning to prostitution to survive, which disturbs the women-centered family consisting
of sex workers in Fox Girl. The South Korean government's control and surveillance in
the novel destruct women-centric families, especially those comprising Korean military
sex worker women.
The “Monkey House” dramatizes the government's oppressive control and
regulations on the sex worker women, making them the object of its biopolitics (46).
Since the word “House” is modified by “Monkey,” this gives the impression that
“Monkey House” is a place for animals in the zoo, not for humans in the community. The
Korean government holds sex workers, including Duk Hee, captive because of their
diseases, which are detrimental to American soldiers. Rachel C. Lee defines
“zoeification” as “the process whereby the human is reduced to the insect, rodent, bird, or
microbe” (The Exquisite Corpse of Asian America 48). Sex workers in the novel becomes
zoe-ified as another living organism like an animal in the zoo for offering sexual service.
Animals are kept in captivity, where they are easily controlled and used for the
entertainment of others with a small amount of admission fee. This sentiment is similarly
applied to the sex workers who are controlled for the entertainment and gratification of
men of both the United States' and South Korean governments. The dehumanizing
treatment of sex workers as if they were animals underscores the heightened vulnerability
of their existential status, as well as that of their families, which has in turn their children
to engage in prostitution as a means of survival.
Furthermore, Fox Girl represents how the relationship between the South Korean
government and sex workers affects that between American GI soldiers and sex workers
due to the government's control over the sex workers' sexuality. The song that circulates
among American GI soldiers, including Lobetto's father, dramatizes the lives of Korean
sex workers as worse than death:
Like soldiers heading home on leave, we shouted out:
“This is my weapon, this is my gun.
One is for shooting, one is for fun!” and:
“I found a whore by the side of the road.
Knew right away she was dead as a toad.
Her skin was all gone from her tummy to her head.
But I fucked her, I fucked her even though she was dead!
I know it's a sin,
But I'd fuck her again!” (80–81)
The pronouns “I” and “my” are used often in the song to showcase the imbalanced power
dynamic between the U.S. army and their sex workers, similar to that between the U.S.
and South Korean government (80). The U.S. army occupies a subjective position where
they can use their two weapons according to their own purposes. The possessive pronoun
“my” symbolizes the sex workers' lives which are possessed by and dependent on the
Korean government and the U.S. army. They are viewed as tangible objects that can be
easily possessed and usable, just like a toy that belongs to someone and is used for
entertainment purposes. The difference between a “gun” and a penis, especially in light
of the interracial relationships between Korean sex workers and American GI soldiers,
lies in the fact that the penis ejaculates sperm, potentially leading to the birth of
mixedrace children. When the soldier found a corpse, he instantly labeled her a “whore,”
although “[h]er skin was all gone from her tummy to her head.” This instance represents
the state of being experienced by military sex workers who are not protected but only
exploited because they exist outside the politics of South Korean government unlike
normative Korean citizens. Moreover, the repeated phrase “she was dead” indicates that
American soldiers do not care about whether she is alive because she is just an object for
them to realize their sexual desire on. This also arouses necrophilia among American GI
soldiers. The soldier's abnormal sexual desire is caused by the South Korean
government's treatment of Korean sex worker women as military supplies. It is apparent
that the woman needs to be “dead,” more metaphorically, for there to be no offspring.
The denial of potential children resulting from sex is only possible when it is certain that
the woman cannot bear children due to her death. The denial is also the only way to
escape from being the object of the South Korean government's biopolitics.
Despite the government's control, surveillance, and objectification against them,
the sex worker characters in Keller's novel are far from passive victims. As Hyun Sook
Kim observes, leftist nationalists tended to portray the sex workers as passive victims,
and many leftist nationalists are “reinscribing and reconstituting elitist and patriarchal
views of working-class Korean women of Kijich'on [referring to camp towns surrounding
military bases of the United States Forces in Korea] as “Yanggongju”—vulgar, low, dirty,
and shameful social objects” (180). The nationalist group generalized sex workers in this
way, claiming their passiveness is a product of oppression. However, as Kim puts it, the
sex workers fend for themselves and resist the militarism and neocolonialism of the US
soldiers (180). As a familial unit within their female community, the female characters,
such as Duk Hee and Sookie, who work as sex workers, share different versions of fox
imagery to represent how they feel and react in their discriminative and hostile society.
By doing so, they challenge the victimhood of Korean working-class women who worked
as sex workers during and after the Korean War. Much like the nonfictional sex workers
of the Korean War, the female characters in the novel have not surrendered to external
factors, including the South Korean government's control and surveillance imposed on
their lives and sexualities, the objectification by American GI soldiers, and the hostility of
the camp town community. Instead, they have rewritten their own history through
variations of the fox legend to express and defend themselves.
THE FOX STORY AS REPRESENTATION OF CAMP TOWN SEX WORKER
Fox Girl employs various literary devices to represent military sex workers within
the camp town, both from their own perspective and from the viewpoint of others. These
devices include the incorporation of the fox legend, makeup imagery, skin color, and
blood metaphor. Makeup imagery serves as a form of self-presentation for camp town sex
workers, offering a means to protect their sense of personhood from the hostility and
social stigmatization they face. Conversely, skin color and blood metaphors act as social
identifiers among non-military Korean sex workers, leading to the exclusion of Korean
sex workers and their women-centric families from society due to their interracial
relationships. Other Koreans utilize skin color and blood metaphors as criteria for
excluding individuals and families that do not conform to notions of sexual chastity and
ethnic Koreanness identity. The fox legend holds potential for self-presentation and
overcoming social identification against them.
The sex worker characters in Fox Girl identify with the fox in the narratives of the
Korean fox legend, and the fox story is used to represent their miserable psychology and
the separation of their women-centric families from the Korean society. The sex worker
characters and the fox employ their ability to alter their physical appearance; the former
through makeup, and the latter through transformation skills. Both makeup and
transformation skills serve as means to make them invisible and conceal their true selves.
While teaching Sookie and Hyun Jin how to wear makeup, Duk Hee identifies herself
with the fox spirit and says, “Somehow, in real life, we have to become like the fox girl”
(25). The fox “wraps herself in the skin of a dead girl,” and the female characters wear
makeup to make themselves pale (25). This image of the fox wrapping itself in the skin of
a dead girl is evocative because, given Duk Hee's identification with the fox spirit, the
association with death represents military sex workers' desire to mitigate being
objectified and ostracized by others. Like the fox spirit, through the makeup, sex workers
metaphorically and temporarily make themselves unnoticeable to find a safe place from
the hostile societal norm and perspectives (25). The fox spirit's action concealing her fox
appearance mirrors the actions of sex workers concealing their physical appearance in
Korean society. In addition, wearing makeup serves to conceal their true selves for sex
labor. Sex workers with makeup can hide their age and unfavorable traits on their face.
Under pale and thick white makeup, they can hide themselves for work, and like the nine
tailed fox, they can take advantage of American GIs for their interests. Both sex worker
characters and the fox need invisibility to survive in the hostile society.
Sookie's reinterpretation of the fox story represents the deprived psychology of
sex workers in the hostile Korean society against them, and she employs a modification
of the ending of the fox story as a survival strategy:
When I was little girl, my mama tell me one fox story. This fox had good life in—
what you call it? Plenty trees, grass, wild animals—we call sup. But this little fox
not happy. She jealous—jealous of the humans in the village. She all the time cry:
‘I want warm house and clothes and shoes on feet.’ … Little Fox decide she will
turn herself human. So she make like a human girl and sat in road until somebody find
her. One farmer, he find and take her home and love her like daughter. The fox girl try to
live like people, but she have secret: animal hunger. … One night, she cannot stand it.
She eat the farmer's pig and chickens and still she hungry. She eat his goat. Still she
hungry. She have to eat the farmer. ‘But I love you,’ cried the farmer. The fox, she cry,
too, and say, ‘But I'm hungry.’ (277–278) The repetition of words such as “hungry” and
“cry” in this story depicts the fox's loneliness and alienation. These words reflect Hyun
Jin's feelings, since she was raised by a hostile mother who lacked affection for her. Then
Hyun Jin discovers that Duk Hee is her biological mother, but she does not receive proper
love or attention from her, either.
Her lack of a mother figure throughout her childhood led her to have insatiable thirst and
hunger like the fox's “animal hunger” in the story. The fox keeps eating and eating but is
unable to satisfy the hunger she feels for the necessities other humans have. Her crying is
also an expression of her unresolved grief and the anger she has against her life and
society.
Although Sookie projects the aspects of the fox onto Hyun Jin, the fox's
characteristics apply to Sookie as well. Sookie is treated as if she were an animal,
discarded and dehumanized in South Korean society. Though her basic needs are met to
an extent through her role as a sex worker, she yearns to be thought of as an equal and
envies those she perceives to be treated better than her. While Sookie projects the image
of the fox girl onto Hyun Jin, she sees herself as prey, consumed greedily by Hyun Jin,
and she says, “I'm changing the ending before I get eaten” (278). From Sookie's choice of
words, such as “get eaten,” it appears that she harbors a fear of being attacked or killed,
which suggests a potentially unstable psychological state. At the same time, Sookie's
statement, “I'm changing the ending before I get eaten,” reveals her determination to alter
the course of her relationships to protect herself from harm. The act of “changing the
ending” signifies her need to regain control and agency in the fox story. Sookie
victimizes herself and describes Hyun Jin as a fox with an insatiable desire for more,
even when she already has many things. Sookie's projection of relentless greed onto
Hyun Jin is driven by jealousy toward her, as Hyun Jin was raised in a family accepted by
South Korean society. In contrast, Sookie was raised by a single mother who worked as a
sex worker, and her mother had several relationships with American GIs, which is
considered unacceptable in South Korean society. Sookie's lack of emotional support
from her family has led to her feelings of jealousy.
The language used by Koreans who are not involved in interracial encounters in
the novel reflects their ideology, which emphasizes virginity prior to marriage and ethnic
Koreanness. The public views the sex workers who sell their bodies and interact with
American GI (Government Issue or General Issue) soldiers as societal waste and
ostracizes them. In Fox Girl, a nurse who works in a clinic for sexual illness testing
mockingly refers to sex workers as “patriots of the Republic of Korea” (43). This remark
serves to underscore a prevailing sentiment against the job that Korean sex workers do.
As depicted in the novel, Korea was a more conservative society when it came to
women's sexuality, as the Confucian culture emphasized women's chastity. Once a
woman became a sex worker, she would be stigmatized as a whore by other Koreans, and
their children would also be stigmatized and forced to work as sex workers. More
importantly, this social stigmatization that combined with racism worsened in Keller's
book. Fox Girl represents how Korean ideology of purity in terms of sexuality and
ethnicity extends to interracial families, including mixed-race children, in the camp town.
Fox Girl illustrates how mixed-race characters experience isolation and societal
non-acceptance. Fox Girl employs trash and waste imagery against the interracial
character Sookie who is the daughter of a sex worker and a sex worker herself. When
Grape Auntie refers to Sookie “Tweggi,” a derogatory term for mixed-race Koreans, and
“trash animal” are used (35). As Kang Jingu puts it, tweggi refers to an offspring born of
two different species of animals, and the term like tweggi is employed to distinguish
individuals of mixed race from Koreans, emphasizing a sense of separation (7). Koreans
like Grape Auntie denigrate the status of mixed-race characters and sex workers by
combining the words “animal” and “trash,” relegating them to filthy and useless
existences, just like animals that interbreed. Just as waste is excreted from our body,
prostitutes are excreted from society and are viewed as waste, which is also why they are
referred to as “trash animal[s].” Sookie's pain and hurt is represented through the way her
actions are described: “Sookie looked down, cowered, and tried to back away. Her
backward shuffling made me bristle” (35). When animals sense danger, they become
scared, and they try to back away to escape the situation. Like a fearful animal, Sookie
attempts to shyly back away from potential danger, especially when people confront her
and call her derogatory terms. The use of trash and waste imagery in Fox Girl establishes
the social standing of sex workers and their children based on the perspective of society.
This outrageous treatment against Sookie is related to her interracial family
background, and Keller's Fox Girl shows how the dark skin tone is used as a sign to
exclude interracial people and family. Sookie's father is unidentified but presumed to be
Black American, and now her mother is a single mother working as a sex worker. The
characters in interracial families lose value and become useless in the eyes of their
culture, which is incapable of accepting racial diversity. Based on their noticeable
differences in appearance, mixed-race children like Sookie were bound to be stigmatized
by Korean society. She knows that she will never fully be accepted by single-race
Koreans even though she has Korean blood. Hyun Jin's and Sookie's ugliness caused by
their darkish skin tone is a magnet for Korean racism.
Hyun Jin's friends make assumptions about her based on her darker skin tone,
even though she is not an interracial person. Their friends seem to have a rationale to
discriminate against the girls by saying “we're pure Korean, not like you, half-half” and
“Your father must be a U.S. darkie” (4). The diminishing language of “half-half” suggests
that, in the eyes of her friends, Sookie is a contaminated and incomplete human being
rather than a complete one. They also denigrate the girls' dark color, by using derogatory
language. The children refer to them as “Gundong-hi,” a transliteration of a Korean word
that disparagingly equates darker-skinned mixed-race children with a black dog (3). The
children are aware that ugliness is related to blackness in this society. Sookie's and Hyun
Jin's ugliness that the Korean society constructs exacerbates their experiences in society,
as these physical traits are used to distinguish Sookie and Hyun Jin from other single-race
Koreans. According to Hyun Jin, Sookie's ugliness is “what
[Hyun Jin] loved most about her,” as it allows Hyun Jin to conceal her “stained side”
where her birthmark resides (3). Hyun Jin refers to her birthmark-free side as her “good
side,” which implies that her ugliness with the birthmark badly affects her psychology
and life (4). Their ugliness can symbolize the ugly reality of other Korean people's
prejudice and discrimination against sex workers. At the same time, it can emphasize the
degree of hardship that Sookie and Hyun Jin need to endure in South Korea.
More significantly, Fox Girl's use of the metaphor of blood as inheritance shows
how racism and social stigma against mixed-race Koreans extend to their entire family. In
Fox Girl, Korean society assumes that the children of sex workers will inevitably follow
the similar path as their mothers. Repetitions of the comment “Blood will tell” by Hyun
Jin's parents accentuate the Korean society's fixed mindset based on pure blood ideology
(125). The mother who raised Hyun Jin, not her biological mother, keeps trying to
connect Hyun Jin's current behavior with the circumstances of her birth. Hyun Jin's father
and his wife could not have a baby because she is infertile. Hyun Jin's father wanted to
have his own child, so he paid Duk Hee to carry his child instead. She cannot genuinely
accept Hyun Jin as a daughter because she believes Hyun Jin will be tethered to her
biological origin. Hyun Jin's father also failed to defend Hyun Jin and her father's
betrayal made her come to terms with the fact that the person she once knew will no
longer exist and will no longer be a part of her identity once she leaves the house and,
“everything, everything that had once belonged to my old life, old self—the daughter of
these parents—fell into the street” (125). When Hyun Jin says to her father, “You are
dead to me, too,” not only is she saying that her relationship with her father does not have
any significance to her anymore, but neither does the life and identity she once knew that
was created and influenced by him (125). What Hyun Jin's non-biological mother says,
along with her fixed mindset regarding sex workers, their children, and individuals with a
background in sex work like Hyun Jin, continuously circulates like the flow of blood.
Many characters in the society of the novel, including Hyun Jin's parents, believe that
people of mixed blood are inferior or dirty, and they view people of mixed blood as well
as their entire family as filthy waste that needs to be expelled in order for the “body” of
Korean society to remain pure. The blood of sex workers has negative connotations
because of society's disregard for these women or even the other character's disgust, and
the characters in the novel seem to consider the blood of the sex workers to be different
from theirs. Therefore, they consider Hyun Jin not to have pure blood like them, but
rather, they denigrate Hyun Jin as a mixed-race existence in their pure blood world.
However, by contrasting the attitudes of Sookie and Hyun Jin toward Sookie's
biological daughter, Myu Myu, Fox Girl makes a significant gesture for interracial sex
worker characters from single-mother families, attempting to break the vicious circle
constructed by Korean society. Despite giving birth to Myu Myu, Sookie does not feel
any responsibility or love toward her daughter. When it comes to naming her daughter,
she simply says, “Name it whatever you [Hyun Jin] want. It doesn't matter to me” (199).
By delegating the naming of her daughter to Hyun Jin, she shows a lack of belongingness
to Myu Myu. Furthermore, by calling Myu Myu a “trash-baby,” she sees her daughter as
an obstacle preventing her from working (205). To make matters worse, Sookie attempts
to kill her own daughter by drowning Myu Myu in the sink. Sookie cannot experience
genuine motherhood because she feels like she lacked a mother figure in her own life. In
contrast to Sookie, Hyun Jin makes efforts to construct her motherhood through her
relationship with Myu Myu, despite being rejected by her biological mother and
experiencing a miscarriage. Hyun Jin does not want Myu Myu to grow up without a
mother figure, as she did, and constructs her motherhood to prevent Myu Myu from
experiencing similar trauma. In other words, her creation of motherhood toward Myu
Myu is seen as breaking the generational transmission of trauma. In a later chapter, to
Hyun Jin who is pondering the connections between Myu Myu, and Lobetto, Sookie, Duk
Hee, and even her father, as well as the meaning of “blood,” Myu Myu responds abruptly
with short yet meaningful remarks such as “No, silly” and “I'm clean” (289). Myu Myu's
remarks are symbolic because they highlight the absurdity of the assumption that one's
birth origin determines their identity and being of mixed blood is impure. Despite the
hostile and discriminatory treatment toward the female characters, by adapting the fox
legend, they develop their own narrative within their women-centric family unit to
navigate their difficult circumstances.
ADAPTATION OF THE FOX STORY AND CHANGED AWARENESS
Despite the psychological exhaustion and helplessness caused by the antagonistic
perspectives, characters including Duk Hee recreate the fox legend to reinvigorates the
female characters and promotes solidarity among them in the military camp towns. In
spite of the prejudice and animosity that exist in society, the female characters in Fox Girl
adopt proactive stances to represent themselves to Koreans who are not sex workers
rather than adopting the society's prejudiced views through existing fox imagery. I argue
that by sharing the plot and themes of the new version of the legend, the female
characters forge familial bonds that transcend geographical and generational boundaries.
Duk Hee demonstrates to Hyun Jin that being a female modifier of an already-existing
story in their society is a proactive approach for women to empower themselves and
challenge patriarchy, but she also acknowledges that their adaption has some limitations
in their real life.
The female characters in the novel project themselves onto the fox story to create
a new self-image for challenging a masculine interpretation of the fox story. The fox in
Duk Hee's version is a model for how the adapted story can affect the perception of sex
workers for other female characters in their female community. The female characters'
fox stories are different from the only male character's, Hyun Jin's father, and their stories
mirror the awareness about women in their society. Her father depicts the fox as an evil
and aggressive existence. According to her father's reading, a fox can take “the shape of a
beautiful young woman” (25). To transform into a human, the fox needs to take one
hundred boys' lives. So, the fox spirit comes to the school and takes boys' lives by kissing
them:
Through the window, the boy sees the snout of a fox, but as it crawls through the
window, it takes the shape of a beautiful young woman. The boy thinks he must
be dreaming and rubs his eyes. He strains to see in the darkness and notices: the
dirt from a newly dug grave lodged under her nails; the blood like lipstick
staining her mouth; the glittering of a hunter's eyes in the night. The boy crawls
away, hiding in a far corner of the room. He watches the fox girl count the
students with a kiss that steals their breaths. With each kiss, a boy stops breathing
and dies in middream. (25)
This metamorphosis of the fox blurs the boundaries between the natural and supernatural,
prompting the boy to question the authenticity of the boy's experience. The passage
above employs sensory details to heighten the atmosphere, revealing the dark undertones
of the scene. The woman's unearthly beauty is juxtaposed with unsettling elements, such
as dirt beneath her nails from a freshly dug grave and blood-stained lips resembling
lipstick. The mention of “glittering hunter's eyes” adds an ominous layer, intensifying the
air of foreboding. As the tension builds, the boy's reaction becomes palpable; he rubs his
eyes in disbelief, attempting to reconcile the bizarre imagery before him. The boy weaves
together elements of the fantastical and the macabre, culminating in a chilling climax
where the fox girl's kisses become a harbinger of death. Her father's misogynistic version
of the fox story to make the fox demonized is scary to Hyun Jin.
By informing Hyun Jin that the story might be prejudiced against women
depending on who the storyteller is, Duk Hee tries to change Hyun Jin's awareness about
the fox spirit and attempts to create the rationale of the existence and behaviors of the fox
spirit. Being affected by her father's fox story, Hyun Jin tells Duk Hee that she does not
want to be a fox girl since they are evil. Responding that “it depends on who tells the
story,” Duk Hee subverts the ending of the fox story by Hyun Jin's father (26): The fox
was once the keeper of the jewel of knowledge. She kept it safe, hidden under her tongue.
One day, a young scholar hunted her down, begging her to teach him a little of the world.
He seemed a nice boy, sincere and eager. … The fox allowed him to kiss her, so he could
have a taste of knowledge. But he became greedy and swallowed the jewel, planning to
look up at the sky, then down at the ground before it could dissolve, knowing that if he
did so he would possess all the wisdom of heaven and earth. … But the fox pulled at his
chin to try to get her jewel back, and he was forced to look only at the earth. That's why
men only know about things on earth. And that's why the fox borrows a human form,
forever searching each man for that lost jewel. (26–27)
In Duk Hee's fox story, the fox becomes the “the keeper of the jewel of knowledge.”
Keeping the jewel under her tongue, a symbol of expression and power, holds more
linguistic significance than the young scholar's act of swallowing the jewel. The tongue is
closely associated with the ability to speak and can serve as a symbol of power, capable
of controlling narratives. Attaching “the jewel of knowledge” to the tongue can be
interpreted as a way of enhancing her story, endowing it with greater wisdom and utility
for overcoming her harsh lives. Duk Hee's modification of the fox story, wherein the fox
spirit is portrayed as the custodian of wisdom, refrains from attributing blame to the
female fox spirit. Instead, it directs criticism towards the male scholar for his act of
swallowing the beads out of avarice for knowledge. The young scholar's act of
swallowing may be interpreted as a fleeting pleasure driven by his greed and the
misconception that he could permanently possess and control knowledge and wisdom.
The jewel he swallowed may remain within his body or be excreted, but either way, due
to the physical separation from the tongue, the jewel cannot impart the same potent
wisdom for storytelling as when placed under the tongue. By presenting a different
ending from the male character's fox story, Duk Hee enlightens Hyun Jin's new
awareness. Her attempt to subvert her father's fox story builds a new narrative about the
sex workers within their community.
Listening to the different perspectives gives other characters a renewed
understanding of the sex workers within their communities as a family unit. Each
character's adaptation reflects their perception of the sex workers. For example, Hyun Jin
has a negative image of the fox spirit as an evil and aggressive entity based on her father's
misogynistic perspective from his story, but Hyun Jin changes her perspective on the
legend of the fox after hearing Duk Hee's version of the story. As Sung-Ae Lee puts it,
this reinterpretation of the fox legend is seen as an attempt to challenge “the inherited
cultural and literary tradition” of portraying women as passive victims in an extremely
patriarchal society (142). In the novel, when Hyun Jin hears Duk Hee's modified version
of the fox legend, she expresses surprises, saying, “I never heard that ending before” (27).
Lee notes that the changed ending of the legend foreshadows the transformation that
occurs at the level of framing narrative in the novel's conclusion (142–3).
At the end of the novel, Hyun Jin shows her changed perspective, and she says,
“like the fox spirit—the hunter and guardian of knowledge—this child [Myu Myu]
possesses the gift of transformation” (289). Hyun Jin's new awareness of the fox spirit as
the “guardian of knowledge” is affected by Duk Hee's story, and she interprets the shape
shifting ability of the fox spirit in a positive way. Hyun Jin's final vision of the fox girl
story does appear to fulfill what Sookie wanted—“changing the ending before I get
eaten”—in a way that avoids violence (no one gets devoured) and blurs the divisive
boundaries between animals and humans (278). This promotes more harmonious and
inclusive survival tactics in a hostile society, especially for sex workers. In particular,
referring to “transformation” as a “gift” that one “possesses” implies a sense of control
over the ability to transform their appearance proactively, allowing them to survive rather
than being subjected to uncontrollable changes (289). Hyun Jin's vision of the fox story
attributes “the gift of transformation” to Myu Myu, even though she is not yet aware of
her own complex origin and escape story. This represents Hyun Jin's wish for Myu Myu
to possess this survival tactic. Instead of emphasizing the aggressiveness and
malevolence often associated with the fox spirit's transformative skill, Hyun Jin attributes
this ability to Myu Myu, driven by her wish for Myu Myu to adapt to and overcome
challenging circumstances. Although it might be challenging to pinpoint one single
narrative of the story, presenting different versions of the fox spirit helps characters to
challenge male dominant biased fox stories.
CONCLUSION
The interpretation of the fox story as a subversive response to existing hostile
perspectives aligns with Hyun Jin's decision to move to Hawaii at the end of Fox Girl.
Both the interpretation and her decision to relocate aim to escape from hostile realities.
Hyun Jin's decision helps her escape from prostitution and the hostile and discriminative
society. Her destination in Fox Girl is Hawaii because she wishes that her uncle there
could rescue her from the site of her trauma as a former sex worker. However, at the
address that her father gave her, Hyun Jin cannot meet up with her uncle but instead
meets an American woman named Gerry. When Gerry told her that the person who Hyun
Jin was trying to find left for California a couple years ago, she feels depressed because
she knew there was nowhere she and Myu Myu could go. In her desperation, Hyun Jin
says that she heard “the panting of the fox” in her veins. That means that she might go
back to the lives of fox girls as a sex worker who cannot protect herself and Myu Myu.
Fortunately, Hyun Jin and Myu Myu seem to find a new family in the United States:
“Though Gerry says she's made us family, hanai-ing Myu as her granddaughter, I still
worry that she might turn on us, throwing us out of this apartment she constructed at the
back of hothouse number three” (288). In Hawaiian, Hānai means adoption, so
“hanaiing” can be interpreted as the process of becoming one unit as a family. Her
proactive decision is led to a new version of women-centric interracial and international
family unit to safely take Hyun Jin and Myu Myu from the painful traumatic location.
However, Hyun Jin's constant fear in the ending of the novel complicates the
possible happy ending about making the hopeful interracial and international
communities real. Hyun Jin keeps worrying about what might happen if Gerry were to
turn on Hyun Jin and Myu Myu. This instability and anxiety represent the lasting effects
of her trauma, suggesting that the trauma Hyun Jin has endured makes it difficult for her
to trust in the stability of a new interracial family. Although each of the strong women,
like Duk Hee, does their best to survive and protect their families in Korean society, only
one women-centric family actually seems to succeed in rescuing and empowering in
Hawaii. Still, Hyun Jin is not fully free from her traumatic past, but the diasporic form of
storytelling caused by her decision to move to Hawaii suggests a glimpse of hope and
possibility about a new and safe women-centric community.
Keller's Fox Girl reminds readers of a family that is centered on sex workers,
which has fallen out of public consciousness. While the cease-fire of the Korean War was
declared in 1953, the effects of the war did not end there, and its consequences are felt
even in the modern day. Focusing on the modifications of the fox story not only
highlights the emotional bonds between Korean sex workers but also helps them regain
their voices. Viet Thanh Nguyen claims there should be “ethical considerations for
storytellers who speak of the dead and ghosts” of minorities, instead of merely using
them as artistic representations (197). In the context of reading Fox Girl, “the ethical
consideration for storytellers” can involve efforts to understand their psychological state
through their descriptions of the fox spirit. This is because, as discussed, the fox spirit
mirrors the sex workers. The modifications to the fox legend ghosts do not portray the
fox spirit solely as a victim; this stems from the desire of sex workers not to be
victimized. In Fox Girl, they have been physically or metaphorically ostracized by the
people from the major society, but they make attempts to raise awareness about once
powerless and alienated females who recover their voice. The modification of the fox
legend by the female characters is the act of advocating for marginalized and voiceless
women. By receiving power to modify the established fox legend, female characters
change from powerless victims to proactive storytellers in a socially and racially
exclusive society. Women-centric family and their storyteller roles bring up the new
awareness of the female characters in Korean War fiction. Through this solidarity, they
could make their own sanctuary, and rather than perceiving them as victimized, passive
existences with silent voices.
CHAPTER 2
BEYOUND SINGLE-RACE FAMILIES: UNVEILING QUEST FOR
ERASED KINSHIP AND GENDERED TRAUMA IN HEINZ INSU
FENKL'S MEMORIES OF MY GHOST BROTHER
INTRODUCTION
Heinz Insu Fenkl's Memories of My Ghost Brother (1996) takes a step forward in
further understanding the interracial families the war created through the interracial
protagonist Insu. In Fox Girl, Hyun Jin refuses to divulge the true origins of Myu Myu at
the end of novel. Hyun Jin's seemingly content closing assumption, that Myu Myu
embodies “the best of Sookie, of Duk Hee, of Lobetto, of me—everything we could have
hoped for and wished to be,” hinges on the delicate balance of secrecy, leaving readers
pondering the profound impact of untold family history (Keller 290). In contrast, Insu
continues his determined quest to uncover the full story of his ghostly half-brother, erased
family members.13 When compared with Fox Girl as fiction, Memories as
autobiographical fiction enables the interracial main character to take an initiative to
unveil the secret of his interracial family. Furthermore, through alternative narration
between young Insu and adult Fenkl, Memories showcases the main character's changing
perspectives. At first, through the lens of young Insu, Memories describes mother figures
as destructive and portrays GI-fathered mixed-race children as victims. To be specific,
from young Insu's perspective, Korean mothers in Memories seem to direct their female
aggression at their children to the extent that they can abandon their maternal instincts to
improve their own social opportunities. Insu's exposure to Korean mothers' destructive
actions and his bringing up their traumatic memories allows him to delve into the hidden
layer of his interracial family history. Insu's exposure to Korean mother's choices towards
their children and his imaginary relationship with his older brother, who haunts Insu's
dreams, makes him explore interracial families. While young Insu might see his and other
mothers as monstrous existences, adult Insu is able to contextualize what happens with
mothers and children in relation to the racism, sexism, and militarism of their community.
In Beyond the Shadow of Camptown: Korean Military Brides in America, Ji-Yeon
Yuh establishes “the linkages []—between the imperialist nature of Korea-U.S. relations
and husband-wife dynamics, between pressures to Americanize and Orientalist images of
Asian women and family relations” (7). These linkages signify the ostensibly public and
imbalanced political relationships that impact the most personal relationships, such as
interracial family dynamics (7). Specifically, by situating war brides' interracial families
within the imbalanced military relationship between the U.S. and Korea, Beyond the
Shadow of Camptown argues that “American cultural dominance is introduced to South
Koreans through this relationship” (4). Yuh's historical scholarship provides a solid
foundation for reading Korean War literature within Cold War contexts and
understanding how interracial relationships are rooted in their families. While Beyond the
Shadow of Camptown focuses on the perspectives and narratives of Korean war bride
women as agents of their own lives, this chapter navigates the perspectives of mixed-race
Amerasian child and adult, Insu as agents to read Korean mothers' trauma. The literary
examination of Fenkl's Memories in this chapter offers insight into how the imbalanced
power dynamic between GI soldiers and Korean women, like the political relationship
between the US and Korea, affects their interracial families and leads to racially unfair
international adoptions.
Memories specifically sheds light on an Amerasian boy's mental growth in
neocolonial Korea, revealing the far-reaching consequences of destructive motherhood. It
complicates people's thoughts on interracial families and children, with generational and
communal repercussions. As Kun Jong Lee points out, Memories revitalizes “the native
voice silenced by colonial discourse and highlights the dilemma of Asian women and
their biracial children” to problematize “troubling legacy of the US military presence in
Korea” (320). Expanding on Lee's focus on the suffering of Asian women and their
biracial children within the twentieth-century Cold War context, this chapter argues that
Memories employs ghost imagery to ignite Insu's quest for erased kinship within
interracial families and to enlighten Korean mothers' gendered trauma. This is important
because this reading creates space for empathy towards disappearing and haunting family
members within interracial families in transnational Asian American narratives,
expanding beyond the immigrant narratives after the 1965 Immigration Act. More
importantly, reading Memories within the ideological framework of the Cold War offers a
better understanding of interracial family formations and their dynamics. For example,
without considering the presence of GI soldiers as a byproduct of the Cold War in
Memories, it is almost impossible to understand Korean mothers' destructive choices and
adult Insu's realization about the intricate relationship between Korean mothers and their
GI-fathered mixed-race children. In addition, as Jodi Kim puts it, the Korean War is an
embodiment of a “Cold War epistemology in the making,” and it is an ongoing
“epistemological project generating a certain Cold War knowledge” (282). In this aspect,
Memories is not only a work of fiction but also a product of complex and dynamic
historical and political forces. Contextualizing Memories within the Cold War framework
draws attention to ongoing knowledge instead of past-ending events and provides a new
reading of Koreans, Americans, and Korean Americans within the context of Korean War
literature.
ENCOUNTERS WITH DEATHS: SPARKING INSU'S QUEST
At the beginning of the novel, Insu's observation about Korean mothers in the
camp town is summarized as follows: “All the women cried, especially Gannan,” and all
the mothers are in similar situations from Insu's perspective (22). They are all in the
shadow of the military camp town and do not seem free from the influence of American
GI soldiers due to their economic precarity. Gannan, Insu's family friend's daughter, turns
to sex work to support her struggling family, and her discovery of her pregnancy by an
unknown GI soldier leads to her committing suicide. Insu also recollects a memory about
a woman with a red scarf who dropped her baby into the community well and jumped
into the well. The reason for this death is not explicitly stated, but it can be inferred that
the death might be caused by the difficulties endured by a single mother in the camp
town. Furthermore, Insu delves into the relationship between his blasian friend James's
death and his mother, as well as that of his blasian half-ghostly brother and his mother.
Insu, as an agent of trauma for interracial characters and their mothers, reveals the power
dynamic within interracial families, akin to the U.S. and Korean relations, intertwined
with sexism, racism, and militarism in the postwar Korean camp town.
Insu's witnessing of Gannan's tragic suicide serves as a spark for his awareness of
the lives of the women in the camp town within interracial families. Her very name,
Gannan, carries a symbolic weight that mirrors her life's hardships and adversity. In
Korean, her name, pronounced the same way as the word 간간 [gannan], consists of two
Chinese character-derived syllables, 간[gan] and 간[nan], both signifying difficulties and
hardship, which implies the compounding of her struggles, the relentless hardship upon
hardship that she endures. Amid her life as a sex worker, Gannan discovers her pregnancy
and tragically takes her own life. It is Insu who first witnesses to this haunting moment:
“I heard a gentle creaking sound, and in the moonlight, I saw Gannan, dressed in white,
waving to me from under the branches of the chestnut tree. I smiled and fell, unafraid,
into a deep sleep. Shortly after dawn, Emo's loud wailing woke everyone but
Gannan” (24). Gannan worked as a prostitute, and she became pregnant by an unknown
GI. Given the cultural emphasis on women's chastity, Gannan likely grappled with
feelings of shame and fear of social ostracization, and she ended up deciding to end her
life. The immediate reaction of Insu, marked by his eerie smile and peaceful slumber,
suggests a nuanced understanding of Gannan's release from her overwhelming suffering.
It is as though, in her last moments, Gannan found a measure of serenity. Notably, the
choice of a chestnut tree as the site of Gannan's passing carries a complex symbolism,
often associated with longevity, abundance, and sweet memories due to the sweetness
and abundance of chestnuts. The symbolism of Gannan's early death, occurring while the
fetus is still inside her, intensifies Korean women's agonies within the interracial family.
This death prompts Insu to delve deeper into his understanding of the challenges inherent
in the life of a woman facing the agony of having an interracial baby and the
complexities involved in the construction of interracial families.
Encounters with death and death imagery serve as a trigger for Insu to delve into
how interracial families fail to form and endure in Korean society after the Korean War.
In fourth grade, he sees a crowd of people gathered around a village well. A mother had
placed her baby in the well, which was an ironic act since the well typically served as a
source of support for people in the community, rather than being used for such a tragic
purpose. The mother used the well to end both her child's and her own life. Insu
encounters the woman wearing a red scarf emitting the scent of incense known as hyang
in Korean, and he ponders the meaning of the smell:
The wind changed. I smelled the hyang again and I wondered if the woman had
heard the drowned baby's ghost calling to her. Why had she smelled so strongly
of hyang? I looked down for a second and sniffed. The smell came from my
clothes and maybe even from the handlebars of my bike. I leaned forward to sniff
again, but my glance turned and I saw the blank-faced man standing right behind
me now, looking at me, not moving, not blinking. I smashed my foot down on the
pedal, but I was leaning so far forward I slipped and stomped on the ground. And
just as I tried to get my balance back, the man bent forward, opening his mouth
full of crooked teeth, and reached out a pale hand. The dirt under his fingernails
looked horribly black. (188)
The scent of incense evokes death imagery because it is traditionally used in
Korean funerals. The use of hyang and the olfactory sense serves as foreshadowing for
the impending demise, and the shift in the wind brings forth the scent of hyang, a Korean
incense, a sensory trigger that sparks introspection and curiosity in Insu. The scent of
hyang becomes a metaphorical bridge between the physical world and the realm of the
supernatural, as Insu contemplates whether the woman's strong connection to this scent is
related to the ghostly presence of a drowned baby. This sensory exploration mirrors Insu's
journey of self-discovery and curiosity about the boundaries between the tangible and the
metaphysical. In addition, serving as a physical manifestation of Korean death messenger,
the abrupt appearance of the “blank-faced man” represents a disconcerting intrusion into
Insu's contemplation (188). In Korean folklore and mythology, there is a death messenger
called 간간간간 [Jeoseung Saja], which in the English language, is commonly interpreted as
the Grim Reaper or the Angel of Death. This mythical entity is entrusted with the solemn
duty of shepherding departed souls to their eternal resting place in the afterlife. The
unreadability of the messenger “black face” symbolizes the inscrutable aspect of the idea
of death. The presence of death and death imagery prompts Insu to become increasingly
aware of the often overlooked yet poignant aspects of interracial family dynamics in the
camp town.
Along with the olfactory sense of incense, the red scarf wore by the woman
intricately foreshadows her death, igniting Insu's reflections on erased members in the
camp town. The multiple metaphors related to the red scarf lead Insu to delve into
thoughts about death. The red color of the scarf can symbolize blood and death, and the
scarf can also represent the social stigma imposed on women who work as sex workers or
come from interracial families. More importantly, the scarf symbolizes the woman's
enduring motherly love for her child. After dropping her baby onto the wall, the mother
searched for a scarf to keep the baby warm. The ironic contrast between dropping the
baby onto the wall and finding a scarf to keep the baby warm dramatizes the undying and
eternal motherly instinct. After contemplating the women and their deaths repeatedly,
Insu is haunted by the spirit of the woman:
Instead, only the sounds grew louder moment by moment—my breath, my pulse,
and the strange wet noises that followed the echoes in the well. The bodies were
still inside, under the cold, black water—the maid with her red scarf and the
horribly bloated child. But they had taken the scarf, and now, with the wet
dripping sounds, the maid would be climbing out to find it. “Where's my scarf?
Who took my scarf?” Her cold, water-soaked fingers clawed in the cracks of the
well stones. She Crawled up, bit by bit, dripping water from her soaked dress. She
reached the top and pushed up at the pale wooden lid. “Did you take the scarf? It's
you. (195)
Insu's sense about the women and her child become increasingly intense. Insu's thoughts
and feelings about the woman and her child intensify over time. At first his sense is
extended to tactile imagery like “my [Insu] pulse” and then to synesthetic imagery like
“the strange wet noises” and “the wet dripping sounds” (195). In particular, the
synesthesia which is from tactile to auditory imagery makes effects as if Insu
communicates with non-human spiritual existences. The sensory and auditory imagery
create an eerie and suspenseful atmosphere, and the synesthetic transition, from tactile to
auditory experiences, creates an effect as if Insu is communicating with non-human
spiritual entities. The silence that envelops the well is juxtaposed with the increasing
intensity of sounds that serve to intensify the sense of foreboding. As Insu listens to the
growing sounds of his own breathing and heartbeat, a macabre symphony unfolds,
punctuated by the chilling “wet noises” emanating from the well's depths. The passage
resonates with a sense of impending dread as they witness the unfolding supernatural
events. The deaths of the woman with a red scarf and Gannan ignite Insu's journey to
explore the fate of Korean women with fatherless kids, affected by the stigma and sexism
prevailing in the camp town, ultimately leading to their and their kids' death.
BEYOND IDENTITY CRISIS: UNVEILING THE GHOST BROTHER'S TRAUMA
The title of the novel, Memories of My Ghost Brother, appears to assert the ghost
brother as the protagonist, creating an apparent incongruence with the novel's identity as
Insu's bildungsroman narrative. However, it is clear that the novel is narrated from Insu's
perspective and revolves around his memories of his ghost brother. In other words, the
agent of memories about his ghost brother is Insu, and he serves as an agent to shed light
on his half-ghostly brother's memory on behalf of him. Before Insu becomes deeply
aware of erased family members and the gendered trauma experienced by Korean
mothers, the narrative depicts Insu's struggle with his identity crisis as an interracial
child. Insu is a young Amerasian child, born to a German-American GI with blond hair
and his Korean spouse. He is conflicted about which language and culture to adopt from
his home. Insu speaks two different languages (Korean and English) and has ties to two
different cultures (Korean and American). As Rocío G. Davis puts it, Insu struggles to
choose one clear way about how to behave between “the binary oppositions” which are
made between “the ‘home’ language and the ‘white school's’ language” (168). Moreover,
he is addressed differently by both of his parents: “Insu” by his Korean mother and
“Heinz” by his German American father, which reflects “[his] cultural heritage or [his]
bicultural [position]” (Davis 175). This naming dichotomy signifies their expectations
and, in their own way, attempts to guide Insu's choice, though he remains torn between
“the binary oppositions” of languages and cultures, trying to find his own path amid these
complex influences. Due to his biracial and bicultural background, rendering him
incapable of being fully accepted by either side, Insu endures significant internal conflict
during his childhood, which hinders his ability to resolve issues pertaining to his identity.
More importantly, his agony is caused by the power dynamic between his white
American father and Korean mother, both demanding their respective cultural heritages
from Insu. This seemingly fair but imbalanced power dynamic, mirroring the U.S. and
Korean relations, provides a hint to understand their family secret about his half-ghostly
brother.
The initial section of Fenkl's Memories follows the narrative of Insu whose
recollections are fraught with struggles stemming from his biracial identity. For instance,
Insu's father did not show any signs of affection or excitement when he first saw his son.
Insu can vividly recall the moment his father first saw him in the military base: “[H]e had
held me [Insu] like a piece of wood, a rifle stock at present arms. He had held his son and
turned bright red from the shame of having a mixed-blood child (63). Fenkl's word
choice highlights his father's perception of Insu as something other than his own child,
instead being likened to an ordinary tangible object. Furthermore, the comparison of Insu
to a rifle stock, which is a part of a rifle that provides structural support, known as a
shoulder stock signifies that Insu was a means to uphold his parents' marriage. Insu is
portrayed as an inanimate object, used solely to support his father's shoulder. His father's
animosity represents a perspective where Insu's biracial identity is seen as a source of
shame. Prior to the encounters with his ghost brother, Kuristo, Insu's primary attention
had been fixated on his own distressing recollections of growing up as a biracial child
within his family and community.
While Memories deepens the comprehension of Insu's identity struggles as a
biracial child in the Korean camp town, an imaginative encounter with his ghost brother
serves as a gateway to a more profound exploration of broader contexts within interracial
families beyond his identity crisis. Alongside Gannan's suicide and the shocking death of
the red scarf woman and her baby, the encounter with his ghost brother provides a pivotal
moment beyond his identity crisis issues. Insu's imaginary encounter with his ghost
brother occurs in his dream, and after their first encounter in Insu's dream, Insu has an
enigmatic feeling, which serves as an impetus for him to be interested in his ghost
brother:
He was wearing that same white outfit and holding a pillow in his hands, looking
up at the camera, and the light glinted in his dark eyes. He looked like me, but he
was not me. His was the face I often saw in my dreams, the face that always
frightened me with its mysterious familiarity. (208)
Memories do not disclose all pieces of information about his ghost brother but keep
offering hints to figure out who his ghost brother is, step by step. This slow pace to
disclose the existence of the ghost brother is akin to unearthing deeply buried relics, so
deeply buried that they are forgotten in the consciousness. The novel does not show how
the ghost brother looks, but the phrase “mysterious familiarity,” emphasizing the
similarity between Insu and his ghost brother, suggests that Insu's ghost brother might be
a biracial child. This narrative, akin to a series of enigma, sparks Insu's quest to unveil the
secret behind his ghost brother and their interracial family.
The ghost brother's enigmatic name explains the symbolic meaning that he holds
in terms of interracial family in the camp town. Insu gets to know his ghost brother more
in the following imaginary encounters: “this time I knew his name—Kuristo” (246).
Kuristo, Insu's ghost brother, protects his family from a monstrous old woman,
symbolizing aggression from evil spirits towards Insu's interracial family. The name
Kuristo is similar to the Korean word 그그그그 [Keuriseuto] which means Jesus Christ.
Along with the similarity in their names, Kuristo evokes symbols of Jesus Christ, such as
sacrifice. While Jesus Christ chose to sacrifice himself to save humanity, Kuristo is
sacrificed like a scapegoat to protect his family and ensure their survival as an interracial
family in the camp town. In the context of interracial families, which face unique
challenges and societal pressures, presenting Kuristo as a reconciled and protective entity
symbolizes a form of spiritual support for the family's unity. The presence of Kuristo
marks a pivotal moment for Insu, prompting him to investigate what happened to those
individuals and their families, similar to his ghost brother.
The shift in Insu's tone from doubting the reality of his ghost brother to assurance
that the ghost brother exists can be seen as a premonition of Insu's journey to find
Kuristo. Insu believes that Kuristo has various relationships with his family after
observing his father's peculiar response to his inquiries about Kuristo, such as getting
mad at Insu to deflect the memory of the actual lost son. This belief fuels Insu's growing
interest in his ghost brother. Insu reflects on his memories after his skepticism turns into
assurance, especially after witnessing his father's response. Insu maintains assertive tones
when discussing Kuristo in his family's album by omitting any modal verbs and utilizing
the be-verb, which can convey a degree of confidence. He speaks as though his opinions
are true. He claims that there are things about his father's strange response that he
“doesn't want me to know” (263). Insu employs the be-verb “are,” but he does not use
any modal verbs, which could reduce the degree of certainty. He also employs an
assertive form of the verb, such as “is” or “are,” when describing who the “Ring Boy” in
the family album is: “[t]he Ring Boy is him, isn't it? And those other pictures I thought
were me—they're him, too.” He needs to remember when he was younger, yet he is still
extremely assertive. The confusion of Insu with Kuristo in the photos emphasizes his
interconnectedness with Kuristo. The choice of medium, family photos, adds another
layer of symbolism. Family photos often serve as tangible reminders of shared history,
memories, and connections. Although they were not together when the photo was taken,
this symbolic interconnectedness offers a glimpse of hope for the cohesion of the
interracial family. Insu's transition from doubts towards his ghost brother's existence to a
firm belief in it can be interpreted as a precursor to his pursuit of locating Kuristo.
The behind-the-scenes story about Kuristo's adoption enables Insu to unveil
Kuristo's trauma in the context of their interracial family dynamics. Haesuni, Insu's
cousin, tells Insu that his mother had to put Kuristo up for adoption in order to marry
Insu's father: “Daeri wouldn't marry Mahmi until she gave him up for adoption” (263).
Although Haesuni simplifies the reason for Mahmi's choice, the factors, including racism,
sexism, and dire economic situations, prompt her decision. Not telling about Kuristo's
Black GI father symbolizes his invisible status in interracial family scenes in the camp
town. Haesuni tells Insu that Kuristo and Insu did not share a father, and Kuristo was
weak because of his chest. Kuristo was placed for adoption to some American doctors,
but they only sent two photos to his biological mother after Kuristo arrived in the United
States. The illness in Kuristo's chest symbolizes his agony because he was abandoned
twice, first by his biological father and then by his biological mother. There is a widely
used idiomatic Korean phrase to represent his agony. 간간가 간간 간간간[kaseumae hani
mechida] can be directly translated as “having han in the chest,” which refers to the sense
of uncontrollable heaviness that develops in the heart as a result of disappointment or
anger from a particular circumstance and a heaviness that persists there since the
emotions cannot be resolved. By narrating Kuristo's adoption story within their interracial
family, Kuristo's han extends beyond individual experiences to encompass a communal
han shaped by the shared loss of a family member.
The severance between Kuristo and other interracial family members, evident
even on the last page of the novel, dramatizes Kuristo's trauma. Through words
associated with separation, adult Insu is able to learn that Kuristo is in a different
existential status:
And in the end, just before our departure, when I stood beneath the belly of that
giant serpent, I would look back to see Kuristo waving a sad-eyed good-bye. He is
turning away from me when I see him, and he is always in white, a pure white that
seems to throw off more light than the sun, and the air around him is bluish and
darker than the rest of the world, like the air in a tunnel, like the air at night
between the treetops and the moon, like the air between our two worlds. (270)
When Insu and his family move to the United States, Insu envisions “Kuristo waving a
sad-eyed good-bye” at the airport (270). Insu's vision of Kuristo remaining in Korea
showcases Kuristo's enduring trauma resulting from the separation from their cultural
roots and familial bonds. Even though the real Kuristo is already in the United States, he
appears at a Korean airport with a sad expression, which symbolizes that his trauma is
unresolved and continues to haunt him between the two countries and within his Korean
family. The repetition of the phrase “like the air” represents Kuristo's haunting status
between his world and the world of other family members. The adjectives to characterize
him, such as “more light than the sun,” connote a certain unapproachability that renders
Kuristo elusive to Insu. The ethereal descriptions like “pure white” and “bluish and
darker” further reinforce the notion that Kuristo occupies a realm apart from that of Insu
(270). The white imagery on Kuristo suggests the influence of Insu's white father figure,
which leads to the adoption of Kuristo to erase his presence. Insu's white father exerts
power over Insu's family, perpetuating imbalanced power dynamics within interracial
families. His presence solidifies white-centered interracial families in the camp town.
Insu's liminal existence as mixed race child between two different worlds resembles that
of the ghost brother, allowing him to better understand Kuristo, even if his
comprehension remains liminal. The imagery of separation intensifies Kuristo's trauma
and leads to Insu's empathy toward his ghost brother.
The time difference, represented by different tenses, showcases a missed
opportunity to create solidarity between a mixed-race Korean and Korean American
within interracial families. In a single paragraph, past and conditional tenses are used for
Insu, while present progressive tense is employed for Kuristo. This temporal distinction is
interpreted as a symbol of severance between them. The conditional statement “I [Insu]
would look back” conveys regret caused by the missed opportunity to build solidarity.
Kuristo's actions of “turning away” and “walking away” from Insu and his family deepen
his traumatic memories from their separation. Specifically, the use of present progressive
tense phrases “turning away” and “walking away” emphasizes that this issue remains an
ongoing, daily struggle, haunting individuals throughout different periods in their lives.
The time difference conveyed through tenses suggests that the complexities surrounding
erased family members like Kuristo and their severed relationships within interracial
families will persist.
The adult Insu's contemplation regarding the plane bound for America represents
an enhanced understanding of the trauma experienced by Korean-American mixed-race
children as erased members fighting ongoing battles in the United States. Insu perceives
the airplane as “the giant serpent, the scorpion-tailed dragon,” thereby overlapping two
distinct images onto the plane (270). In the perspective of the adult Insu, the plane is
depicted as a formidable and intimidating entity, characterized by its menacing attributes
and colossal scale, as exemplified by the metaphorical reference to a “giant serpent”
(270). Drawing from his American experiences, the adult Insu associates a somewhat
negative implication to the plane bound for the United States, in relation to the
experiences of erased interracial family member like Kuristo. On the other hand, the
monstrous image of the “scorpion-tailed dragon” symbolizes the harsh reality confronted
by mixed-race Korean adoptees like Kuristo. The dragon has “its red, spiked tail,” which
also signifies the hostile environment towards mixed-race Korean adoptees in Insu's
imagination. Particularly, the color red symbolizes bloodshed due to the challenges they
face. In the meanwhile, Insu's perception of the plane as a “serpent” also alludes to the
biblical story of Adam and Eve, where the serpent tempts Eve to commit a sin. In this
context, Insu may associate the plane with the serpent in the biblical story, tempting his
mother to send her son to the United States for adoption. Memories follows Insu's
navigation through interracial families and his ghost brother's trauma, not delving much
into the details of adoption and how interracial adoptees have experienced it. This
reserved narrative suggests how much their stories have been overlooked.
EXPLORING GENDERED TRAUMA WITHIN INTERRACIAL FAMILIES
Through the delayed appearance of Kuristo, Memories dramatizes Korean
mothers' unwillingness and difficulties to bring up their own trauma. The delayed
appearance of Kuristo is attributed to the psychological distress experienced by Insu's
mother. She was compelled to send him for adoption in a Korean society that does not
readily accept interracial children and families. Although Insu starts to learn more about
Kuristo and his life, Kuristo's story seems belated considering that the title of the novel
includes the phrase “my ghost brother.” The reason the ghost brother is introduced so late
parallels the unwillingness of Insu's mother to bring up her own traumatic memories
relating to her first son. This belatedness dramatizes his mother's psychological wounds
caused by sending her son to the United States for her to marry a new GI husband who
can protect and support her and her family. After the adoption of Kuristo by an American
family, the psychological soreness was located at the deepest place in her heart. The
belated introduction of Kuristo mirrors his mother's unwillingness resulting from hostile
conditions in which women struggle to provide for their families independently and face
societal prejudice due to their involvement in interracial relationships and families.
However, the mental growth of child Insu to understand his ghost brother's trauma
leads to resentment toward mother figures in interracial families. He harbors hostile
emotions towards mother figures who display aggressive and destructive behaviors, such
as committing murders and sending their children for adoption. However, after reflecting
on a series of events within interracial families, Insu begins to develop more balanced
perspectives, moving away from distorted and aggressive ideas towards Korean mothers
in the camp town. Hyongbu who is Insu's uncle uses derogatory language, such as
“dungwhores” and “devious cunning,” which can make distorted perception of Korean
mothers within interracial families and Korean military prostitutes, but Insu does not
accept Hyuongu's ideas (230). While “dung” is a term that refers to animal or human
excrements, it is used here as an adjective to modify the noun “whores” (230). Both
words are considered derogatory, and this combination of two derogatory terms
highlights the negative and contemptuous attitudes of Koreans towards military
prostitutes. In addition, Hyongbu uses the word “devious conniving” to modify Korean
mothers and military prostitutes in the camp town (230). This phrase is typically
employed in a pejorative manner to suggest that the individual is not to be trusted and
may engage in morally questionable or unethical behavior. In reference to James,
Hyongbu alludes to the violent actions that his mother has taken towards James,
including killing her son in a “sewer creek” (229):
Think about it, he said. You're a dungwhore and you catch yourself a GI by
getting pregnant with his brat, but then he goes off to Vietnam and gets himself
killed. That leaves you with benefits from the great Emperor of America, but now
you have a Black brat to feed, and it's not enough money. So now you want
another GI husband to start things over—maybe a white guy with a higher rank,
ungh?—but who would marry a whore with a Black kid? (229)
Hyongbu carelessly generalizes about why and how black GI children are abandoned by
their mothers. He goes on to label all Korean women who have any relationship with
American GIs as “whores,” including those who are not military prostitutes. Reflecting
on Insu's thoughts while listening to Hyongbu, it becomes evident that Insu develops a
heightened sense of conscience: “I wanted to lift my head and say something back to
Hyongbu, but I was tired and full of shame, and I sat there helplessly, listening to him go
on about dungwhores and Black GIs, children of mixed blood, the devious conniving of
Korean women” (229–230). The fact that Insu wants to argue with Hyungbu but is
restrained by his own “shame” suggests that Insu has reached a point where he can
recognize the immaturity of Hyongbu's comments. While Hyungbu is the only character
to articulate thoughts on why interracial family dynamics intervene in Insu's world, Insu's
mental growth transcends the perspective that portrays the mothers as simply destructive
villains.
By combining a young boy's perspective with an adult version of Insu, Memories
represents Insu's evolving maturity and his understanding of gendered trauma in
interracial families. By contrasting what he felt in South Korea as a young boy and what
he feels now, adult Insu accentuates his changing feelings about some Korean mothers'
destructive motherhood like what James's mother did:
To say I hated James' mother would be inadequate. Somewhere, running through
my tangled emotions there might have been a single thread of hate, but my
feelings were too incoherent and too frayed for me to examine so concisely.
Looking back—or even now—it would be easier for me to feel vengeful, to wish
her ill, and be done with it; but what I felt in my heart then, and what I feel now, is
a great blank emptiness. It is a profound sadness, a fatalism, a knowledge that the
world is the way it is, and that the path of raindrops in a storm. I could have
blamed James' mother, but that would have been too simple to do her justice. In
the end there is no blame, only endurance. (232)
Insu gains a complex racial and socio-economic perspective on a Blasian interracial
family within Korean society and develops a more nuanced understanding of James's
mother and her Blasian son, James. This passage above illustrates a profound shift in
Insu's perspective and emotions regarding James's mother, reflecting an evolution from
anger and hatred to a deeper understanding of the hardships she endured. Insu
acknowledges that his initial feelings of hatred are insufficient to capture the complexity
of his emotions, which he describes as “incoherent” and “frayed” (232). Insu's growing
empathy for James's mother comes to the forefront as he recognizes that simple blame
cannot do her justice. His final assertion that there is no blame, only endurance,
underlines his journey from anger to compassion. Insu's experience of “profound sadness,
a fatalism” (232) evokes han, signifying Insu's shift from solely associating han with
Kuristo to a more expansive exploration of the diverse forms that han assumes within the
diasporic identity of Korean Americans in interracial families.
By combining a young boy's perspective with an adult version of Insu, Memories
represents Insu's evolving maturity and his understanding of gendered trauma in
interracial families. Adult Insu admits his earlier blindness to the significance of James's
racial identity, being Black: “Even a decade later, I could not look back and see that
James' tragedy was in the fact that his father was black” (232). Additionally, Insu's use of
the word “balance sheet” in the following passage suggests that economic status can be a
factor which affects his evolving perspective on destructive motherhood. The economic
precarity of the community living in the shadow of the GI base has been a primary factor
contributing to James's tragic fate at the hands of his mother. It is possible that James's
mother made a tragic choice, sacrificing her son's life for a new life with her GI husband,
driven by the possible harsh realities faced by Blasian boy James. With her second
relationship, she became pregnant with a daughter, but the GI soldier left her as well.
Unlike James, her daughter did not suffer the same fate; she can at least survive by
working for clubs for GI soldiers in the camp town, despite the racism, sexism, and
hatred she will encounter. Insu's more sophisticated and fair perspective unveils the
absence of GI fathers, the destructive decisions made by Korean mothers, and their
gendered trauma within interracial families in the camp town.
Insu's growing empathy for Korean mothers encourages his own mother to
courageously divulge the story of his half-ghost brother and show her willingness to
challenge racism and the influence of her white GI husband. Insu's determined quest for
the erased family member, Kuristo within his interracial family helps his mother summon
the courage to reveal her own buried secret. While viewing a black-and-white Polaroid
photo of themselves taken when his mother was twenty-eight years old and Insu was four,
she comments, “I never took pictures like that with him” (265). The ambiguity
surrounding the pronoun “him” leaves Insu confused about the person's identity being
referred to (265). Initially believing her words, “I never took pictures like that with him,”
to be an inadvertent speech mistake, “a slip of the tongue,” Insu recognizes that her
remark is not a mistake but an intentional expression to disclose her secret (265). Insu
grasps her regret about her decision regarding Kuristo, and he understands that she has
now reached a point where she is willing to discuss him openly. The fact that the ghost
brother's story does not get told until the end of the novel, spoken by his mother,
symbolizes the difficulty with which she brings up her interracial family secret, deeply
buried in her heart.
Mahmi's courage and willingness leads to an imaginary perspective about
America as a dream land to achieve the reunion of her interracial family. In a
conversation with Insu, Mahmi displays unwavering determination to find Kuristo in
America:
“Mahmi, do you really want to go to America?” “I've dreamed of it since I was a
little girl during the War,” my mother said without hesitating. “That's where all
the wonderful things come from, and that's where he is.” She turned in the photo
album to where Kuristo's pictures had been, but now the page was empty and
black, only the scalloped corner mounts indicating what had been there.
“Someday I will find him,” said Mahmi. “That's why I'll go to America. I know
that someday your father will be gone and I can look for him. And then I can
finally tell this secret to your sister, too.” (267)
The sight of her family photo album, with “empty and black” where Kuristo's pictures
once resided, serves as a trigger for her traumatic memories (267). While Mahmi
acknowledges that the search for Kuristo can only take place when “someday [Insu's]
father will be gone,” she finds solace in envisioning a future journey to America as a
means to assuage her pain. Her iterative use of the future tense “will” such as “I'll” and “I
will find him” reflects her remorse over her regrettable decision to send Kuristo to
America (267). However, her willpower to find Kuristo offers a glimmer of hope for a
reunion of their interracial family.
By utilizing repetitions of the word “dream,” the adult version of Insu adeptly
highlights Insu's contemplation of his mother's psychology in the past and in the present:
Kuristo, my ghost brother, gone already into the Westward Land. Kuristo, a family dream
from a time before my golden-haired GI father. This was the dream that had affixed itself
in my mind, and I would wonder—could my mother have known that she would be
standing with me and my sister looking up at the belly of a giant white serpent with scaly
wings of silver? The heat and the dampness of summer would be rippling behind its
wings; its scarlet tail, with its scorpion spike pointing westward, its blind eyes, its black
dog nose, its shrill whining—is that what would become of her portentous dream? As I
stand there, looking up at the
jagged stairs that will lead us up into the dragon's belly, I remember—yes, I
remembered, I will remember—I was born from a dream, and now I will fly into
the heavens, to the West, into another dream; and if I am awake now, perhaps I
shall sleep and wake again to dream this new dream with my mother and my
sister. (271)
The word “dream” assumes a dual connotation; it can denote a sequence of thoughts,
emotions, and images experienced during sleep, as well as a yearning to possess, become,
or achieve something that appears improbable. Both Insu and Kuristo were emblematic
of “a family dream,” which entailed marrying American soldiers to escape their
impoverished and wretched existence in South Korea after the Korean War, thereby
paving the way for the family to relocate to the United States. This represents a simplistic
understanding of Korean women marrying American soldiers, including Insu's mother,
and it plays into the stereotype of the “American Dream” in the context of immigration.
Insu, for his part, fixated on his mother's aspirations in the past. His comprehension of his
mother's dream evolved, culminating in a new desire to locate Kuristo in the United
States, despite the fact that his mother's dream could be viewed as an ominous harbinger
of an unfavorable result based on the adjective “portentous” to describe her dream.
Memories grapples with endorsing and challenging this perception of America,
contrasting Mahmi's hope with the complex and ambivalent attitudes toward the country,
notably reflected in Insu's struggle with leaving and the conflicting perceptions of
America. Ultimately, they depart for the United States to realize the “new dream” of
reuniting their interracial yet fragmented family. Fenkl remembered all the time that
numerous interracial babies were born of their family's preposterous aspirations to escape
their dire financial straits or flee South Korea by marrying American G.Is. He
demonstrates his newfound understating and compassion by varying his use of tense from
“remember” in the present to “remembered” in the past and “will remember” in the future.
Fenkl's strategic repetition of the word “dream” effectively conveys Insu's nuanced
exploration of his mother's psyche, both as it existed in the past and as it continues to
affect him in the present.
CONCLUSION
Memories chronicles Insu's quest for self-awareness and empathy, highlighting
how systemic forces such as racism, sexism, and militarism intersect with personal
experiences to shape his identities and relationships. Ultimately, Insu's journey towards
greater self-awareness and empathy, sparked by his imaginary encounter with his ghost
brother, not only helps him comprehend his mother's traumatic experiences but also sheds
light on the struggles of other biracial children who were similarly affected by the social
and cultural realities of their time. Insu's journey toward empathy and understanding
extends not only to his mother's experiences but also to wider societal issues affecting
women in the camp towns. The adult version of Insu's comparison of himself to Korean
prisoners marching to their execution under Japanese Annexation can be interpreted as
his awareness of ethical responsibility about overlooked people in interracial families
after the Korean War. For example, “hopeless purpose” suggests that “Korean prisoners”
are fighting for a cause that they should keep, but they know they cannot fight and win
(269). Similar to the “Korean prisoners,” the adult Insu describes himself as a “dutiful
son” who name and commemorates the unjust and untimely deaths to help release the
biracial children's or the mothers' trauma, but because all the identities of the dead no
longer exist in the world, his effort would be considered a “hopeless purpose” (269). He
emphasizes the weight of ethical responsibility to herald the tragedy experienced by
overlooked subjects during and after the Korean War. The adult Insu in the following
passage reflects his childhood impressions of America and his mixed emotions about
leaving it behind as he approaches his departure day:
As long as I could remember, I had wondered about America—that clean and
oddly bright world of the Dick & Jane books I had read in elementary school. But
I had also seen the grim America of urban ghettos in movies and the oddly flat
America of TV shows, and in the end, as the secret day of our departure
approached, I knew that I did not want to leave. I knew, even without seeing that
the streets were not gold, without turning a faucet and feeling water—and not
milk—on my hand, that I would long to return to the place of my birth and the
language of my mother. (269)
He had two ambivalent perceptions of what the United States would be like, either a
“clean and oddly bright world” or “the grim America of urban ghettos” (269). Despite his
curiosity of the United States and the freedoms he would have in the United States, he
would still have a strong desire for “the place of my birth and the language of my
mother” (269). He expresses ambivalence about the United States, both admiring its
perceived cleanliness and brightness, and fearing its urban ghettos. While Insu is curious
about the freedoms he might enjoy in the United States, he maintains a strong attachment
to “the place of my birth and the language of my mother,” demonstrating his
acknowledgment and empathy for the suffering of Korean mothers as a facet of their
communal trauma. This ambivalence underscores the complexity of personal identity and
his commitment to commemorating communal trauma within interracial families after the
Korean War.
With America only entering as a setting in the final pages, Memories and Fox
Girl, the first two novels in this dissertation project, are primarily set in Korea. These two
novels provide narratives in the camp town, which endures due to U.S. dominance in
Korea, demonstrating how U.S. neocolonial acts infiltrate even the most personal and
private spheres of interracial families. In the following chapter, Chang-rae Lee's The
Surrendered begins in the Korean setting, such as battlefields and an orphanage, and the
protagonist arrives in the United States as a war bride with her husband through a paper
marriage. The Surrendered puts an interesting spin on the illusion that going to America
will rescue the family, more explicitly than Insu does at the end of his book. Regarding
the imaginary representation of America as a haven, the following chapter provides
insights into the life of the difficult, puzzling female character who has a biracial
American child as a single mother in the United States.
CHAPTER 3
BEYOND ECCENTRICITY: UNPAKING JUNE'S DIASPORIC HAN
AND POSTMEMORY IN CHANG-RAE LEE'S THE SURRENDERED
INTRODUCTION
Chapter 2 illuminates the haunting imagery in Memories, exploring its role in
initiating Insu's quest for erased kinship and highlighting the gendered trauma
experienced by mothers. Building upon these themes, Chapter 3 delves into Chang-rae
Lee's The Surrendered (2011), examining how June Han's evolving diasporic journey, but
deepens the understanding of fragmented interracial families and gendered trauma
beyond South Korea and the Korean camp town. While Memories primarily unfolds in a
Korean camp town, The Surrendered showcases a transition from a Korean orphanage for
war orphans to the United States. By focusing on the United States' contexts, The
Surrendered depicts how the experiences of a war refugee affects a working single
mother family and represent the enduring effects of diasporic han. Han encapsulates the
unresolved grief and anger experienced by both individuals and communal groups who
share a collective sense of suffering. While individuals can be profoundly affected by
han, it emanates from a shared, collective trauma within the community. The
Surrendered complicates the understanding of han through the diaspora of war refugees
to the United States, as Korean war orphans immigrate to this new land. Their han, such
as experiences as mixed-race war orphans and refugees in camp towns, subsequently
transfer and disseminate within the United States. The exploration of how their han that
takes place in Lee's novel is transmitted and disseminated provides insights into Korean
American family dynamics within post-World War II transnational Korean American
literature.
This chapter delves into how diasporic and evolving han is passed on to June's
child within their interracial family, resulting in tragic outcomes. The experiences June
has during the Korean War have a tremendous impact on her psychological state and the
development of her traumatic memories, which lead to her eccentric behaviors in The
Surrendered. June loses her entire family in the Korean War, while Hector Brennan, a
youthful GI, sought refuge from the adversities of his hometown by enlisting in military
service. Their paths converge at a Korean orphanage following the end of the war. In the
orphanage, they have a complicated relationship with Sylvie Tanner, the captivating yet
troubled missionary spouse. June and Hector share memories of Sylvie Tanner, whom
they fell in love with, and they seemed to compete with each other for her attention and
love. Ironically, their paper marriage with Hector, June manages to move to the United
States through, leading to the birth of their son, but they eventually become separated.
June attempts to find her son with Hector three decades later, even though she is dying of
stomach cancer which is linked to the hunger she endured in the Korean War. While the
novel does not medically affirm this correlation between June's past hunger and her
present illness, it symbolically implies a connection between the two. Suffering from
various illnesses such as cancer and PTSD, the main parental figure, June demonstrates
many eccentric behaviors within her family. Her eccentricities are attempts to compensate
for the unresolved hunger she feels for both food and the unfulfilled love she desires.
This chapter specifically delves into how June's eccentricities are related to an unresolved
and evolving han, driven by her desire for family and how her anger and grief manifest in
Nicolas, her son, as postmemory. Marianne Hirsch's concept of postmemory refers to the
transmission of traumatic memories from one generation to the next, specifically
describing how the second generation inherits and grapples with the traumatic
experiences of their predecessors. This transmission involves the transfer of memories
from those who directly experienced the trauma to their descendants, profoundly
impacting the latter even if they did not directly encounter the events themselves. This
chapter argues that The Surrendered employs June's eccentricities to embody her
diasporic and evolving han, transitioning from a war refugee in Korea to an Asian
working single mother in the Unites States, which contributes to the transmission of
postmemory to her son, Nicholas. This reading offers an understanding of the inseparable
and contagious nature of han, caused by her insatiable desperation for love and intimacies
within her family, in the context of the transnational post-war Korean
American narrative.
EXPLORING HAN AND POSTMEMORY IN KOREAN AMERICAN LITERATURE
While the concept of han lacks a precise definition, the Korean concept primarily
arises from unjust violence against its people, holding a distinct significance in
“understanding Korean literature psychologically and philosophically,” as emphasized by
Richard E. Kim (“Plenary Lecture” 25). As Sandra So Hee Chi Kim puts han
encompasses “deep-rooted grief, bitterness, and longings that Koreans experience as the
result of a long history of oppression and injustice,” as well as “the pain that Koreans
experience from their individual life circumstances” (255). Nancy Abelmann also notes
that han encapsulates “both the collective and individual genealogical sense of the
hardship of historical experience,” representing an unresolved grievance that intertwines
individuals with their groups (37). Han pertains uniquely to Korea's historical trauma.
This distinctiveness defines han as a concept deeply rooted in Korean cultural and
historical experiences, emphasizing its relevance within the discourse of post-World War
II transnational Korean American literature. For example, the title The Surrendered has a
dual connotation. It references both those defeated in wartime, evoking the Korean
legacy of colonialism and invasion. Additionally, it alludes to the act of surrendering,
akin to someone being given up by their original caretaker. This dual connotation
underscores the complex legacy of communal han, which impacts individuals and
families. This multifaceted portrayal explains Lee's deliberate choice to present June's
character without sentimentalization as a war victim, challenging the aestheticization of
han's effects and asserting the raw reality of its impact on individuals.
The Surrendered broadens the concept of han to more universal experiences,
making it potentially more relatable to a wider audience. Unlike The Surrendered,
Theresa Hak Kyung Cha's Dictee places an emphasis on han within specific Korean
cultural contexts. Dictee presents the difference of the extent of understanding of han
about Korea's past trauma between Korea and European nations to dramatize Korea's
genealogical and communal trauma called han. The subtitle “Suppression of Foreign
Criticism” in Dictee signifies that Korea wants to suppress criticism from other foreign
nations, because they did not endure the same trauma that Korea endured. If they did not
experience the same trauma, then they cannot provide insightful criticism, therefore their
criticism should be restrained. “Other nations,” including European nations, cannot
understand the true effects of oppression and colonization because “the suffering” was
“institutionalized” as a norm in Korean culture by Japan (32). These “other nations” may
be familiar with words such as “enemy, atrocities, conquest, betrayal, invasion,
destruction” on a superficial level but those words do not arouse the same emotions as
they do for Koreans (32). These “other nations” have not felt the full effect of oppression
and colonization, because they did not experience it physically and did not feel it in their
core (32). The word choices such as “passively” and “[n]eutralized” are used for
describing other countries' response to historical accounts of Korea's tragic circumstances
(33). In addition, the repetition of the word “distant” emphasizes other countries' inability
to fully understand the colonized Koreans (33). However, unlike other nations, these
genealogical and shared emotions “do[] not cease to continue” in Koreans (32). Koreans
have han that will live on in their genealogy, because of the everlasting traumatic effects
Japan has inflicted on to the nation of Korea. Cha's Dictee connects the dots between
different generations of Korean Americans by reminding Korea's historical wounds
through recombining “each fragment by each fragment from the word from the image”
from historical documents or newspapers (33). It reveals a depth of emotional trauma that
is challenging for others to fully grasp.
While han is usually theorized as uniquely Korean, The Surrendered appears to
explore connections between this concept and other forms of war trauma, albeit not
explicitly applying the term beyond Korean contexts. For example, the universality of
war's trauma affecting characters like Hector and Sylvie, who do not share Korean
heritage, complicates the traditional understanding of han solely as a cultural experience
tied to Korean history. Their inclusion in the narrative highlights the broader,
transnational impact of wartime trauma, suggesting that han transcends cultural
boundaries and affects individuals irrespective of their ethnic background. In addition,
this exploration serves as a potential bridge to discussing the relevance of applying
postmemory, a term initially coined for Holocaust survivors' offspring, to the children of
Korean War survivors within the Korean American community. While Marianne Hirsch's
concept of postmemory originates as a concept for the children of Holocaust survivors,
applying postmemory to the children of Korean War survivors enhances the
understanding the intergenerational transmission of Korean han. This sheds light on how
trauma resonates universally across diverse cultural contexts. This comparison allows for
a nuanced exploration of how traumatic legacies persist and shape subsequent
generations, despite the differing origins of these experiences. Hirsch's postmemory is
defined as traumatic memories that are passed down to second generations from the
generation that came before them through various mediums such as literature, art,
photography, or storytelling. This memory is a “very particular form of memory precisely
because its connection to its object or source is mediated not through recollection but
through an imaginative investment and creation” (Hirsch, Family Frames 22). As Hirsch
suggests, post memory can be applicable to “other second-generation memories of
cultural or collective traumatic events and experiences” (Family Frames 22). Even
though these memories cannot be regenerated or completely comprehended, it allows the
second generation to have more empathy for the trauma that the previous generation
endured. Applying Hirsch's postmemory the children of Korean War survivors in The
Surrendered sheds light on understanding the dynamics between family members within
interracial families in Korean American literary works following the Korean War.
It is also noteworthy that in their essay “American Immigrant Groups: Ethnic
Identification and the Problem of Generations (1965),” Vladimir C. Nahirny and Joshua
A. Fishman present a perspective that seems contradictory to the concept of postmemory
(271-272). Nahirny and Fishman argue that the second-generation of European American
immigrants do not feel belongingness to their parents' experiences due to “a break in the
actual life patterns of generations” (272). There are significant differences between
generations, making it complicated for the second-generations to fully comprehend the
traumas that the previous generations experienced. In addition, even if the parents
actively try to push these memories of their ethnic background onto their children, it still
would not be attainable to the second-generation because of the influence by “the
dominant de-ethnicized [American] society” (Nahirny and Fishman 272). Due to
many children of immigrants wanting to assimilate to the American culture and lifestyle,
they feel indifferent to their parent's traumatic memories, which cause them to cleanse the
traumatic memories of the previous generation.
Building on more recent research than that of Nahirny and Fishman regarding
postmemory, Gary Weissman in Fantasies of Witnessing (2004) argues against Hirsch's
concept of postmemory. He contends that trauma cannot be transferred from one
generation to another, stating that the memories passed on cannot truly exist within
someone else's memory. Weisman asserts that “no degree of power or monumentality can
transfer one person's lived memories into another's” (17). For example, when Weissman
mentions the children of Holocaust survivors, he mentions that they cannot experience
trauma from something that they have never experienced. Furthermore, Ernst van Alphen
in Art in Mind: How Contemporary Images Shape Thought (2005) further supports his
argument by touching on Helen Epstein's novel Children of the Holocaust, where she
mentions how children of Holocaust survivors are overwhelmed by a past that they have
not endured firsthand. While going against the term “memory” from a semiotic
perspective, Alphen also argues that one generation cannot transfer their trauma to
another generation: “There is continuity between the event and its memory. This
continuity has an unambiguous direction: the event is the beginning, the memory is the
result. … In the case of the children of survivors, the indexical relationship has never
existed” (485-486). Weissman and Alphen counter with arguments against
intergenerational trauma transfer. In doing so, they cast doubt on the continuity and
indexical relationship between subsequent memories and events.
However, analyzing their han and postmemory can be a key in revealing new
aspects of interracial families in The Surrendered. The portrayal of June's eccentricities
effectively represents the raw and unvarnished reality of her experiences and the effects
of communal han on her and her family, who are affected by historical wounds. This
portrayal reveals the true depth and complexity of the impact of trauma without glossing
over its difficult or painful aspects. In addition, June serves as a multifaceted lens through
which the evolution of diasporic han becomes palpable. June's trajectory, transitioning
from a war-stricken refugee in Korea to an Asian single working mother in the culturally
diverse landscape of the United States, intricately maps out the contours of her
experiences. Her eccentricities mirror the nuanced layers of her evolving han. These
layers act as conduits for the construction of postmemory, a bridge that transmits the
legacy of trauma to her son, Nicholas. Through an examination of June's eccentricities,
this chapter seeks to illuminate how these unresolved emotions influence Nicholas,
shaping his psychology and behaviors, ultimately manifesting as postmemory within
interracial families in the United States.
JUNE'S HAN FROM A WAR REFUGEE IN KOREA
June embodies a profound symbolic significance that resonates throughout the
novel. Her first name, “June,” subtly links to the month when the Korean War erupted,
setting the stage for a pivotal event in the narrative. The opening chapter unfolds in Korea
in 1950, amidst the tumultuous Korean War, which serves as a focal point within the
story. The lingering trauma and historical wounds stemming from this war profoundly
affect key characters, notably June and Nicholas. Her family surname “Han,” also carries
significant weight in the novel as it embodies an intricate Korean concept han. June's
surname, “Han” alludes to this significant thematic point that runs throughout the novel,
symbolizing the pervasive impact of han on the characters and their experiences. It
underscores the deep-seated emotional wounds and unresolved issues that linger in the
aftermath of war, reflecting the complexity and multifaceted nature of han as a cultural
and psychological concept in Korean society. Furthermore, June's han spreads
transnationally within the new setting of both new families and the new country, the
United States.
The memories of family deaths, combined with sensory experiences of sound and
light, intensify June's han. June's sister Hee-Sung was caught by soldiers and raped in the
back of a truck. The traumatic event was further compounded by the sudden appearance
of “two silvery jet planes flashing,” which drowned out Hee-Sung's cries with their
overwhelming noise (23). Hee-Sung's death combined with the piercing sounds and
blinding lights is inscribed in June's memory. In addition, the amputation of legs of June's
sister, Hee-Soo, and brother, Ji-Young symbolizes the destruction of her family and not
being able to move past her traumatic memories. The repetition of the phrase “stillwarm”
highlights June's feelings of guilt, stemming from her belief that she failed to protect her
siblings and the subsequent trauma she experienced (30). These memories of death make
her han inseparable from her due to the sensory reminders of the tragic events.
Furthermore, The Surrendered represents the complexity of han through imagery
that associates hunger with contradictory qualities, such as abundance:
They were constantly famished, the hunger risen in them like well water during
the spring rains, accruing to them each day until the feeling, oddly enough, was
like an unbearable plentitude, this pressing flood of hollowness that would not
recede. In the beginning, in those first days on the march, when they still had
some money, they might buy rice and dried cabbage from others, her mother
making a simple soup or gruel in a small tin pot a former neighbor had kindly
given them. Because they'd had no time to gather what they'd packed they had
much less than most of the other refugees. At first they did not dwell on the
circumstances, for they were surely only temporary, for everyone was quickly
moving southward toward the rumored refugee camps set up well behind the
front, where people said there was plenty of food, and tents. (17)
The plight of war refugees, including June's family, is marked by perpetual suffering from
extreme hunger. The depiction of “unbearable plenitude” within the context of profound
hunger conveys a poignant irony. It complicates the experience of han for refugees by
associating hunger that is caused by the absence of sustenance with a state of abundance.
Similarly, the juxtaposition of flood imagery of “hollowness” with dried-out food further
emphasizes this paradoxical duality, highlighting the stark contrast between
overwhelming yet unfulfilling abundance and the scarcity of essential sustenance. The
juxtaposition of the terms “unbearable” and “plentitude” in an ironic combination
underscores the paradoxical nature of the wartime situation that abruptly altered the lives
of the refugees. Similarly, the use of “flood” in conjunction with contrasting concepts
such as emptiness or “hollowness” serves to highlight the inexplicable and dire
circumstances faced by the refugees. Consequently, the refugees are compelled to
constantly search for sustenance, moving from place to place in their quest for food. The
contrasting juxtaposition between imagery of hunger and abundance dramatizes the
ineffable quality of han.
Relating to her hunger, the circumstances of both past and present June exemplify
the Korean concept of han, and the use of contrasting words between past and present
serves to highlight the presence of han:
Only her belly couldn't rest, unceasing now as always, ever grinding about the
original tumor in its futile attempt to consume it. But of course she was the one
being consumed, from the inside out, being transformed into something else
entirely. It was almost laughably ironic, that the cancer should be in her stomach.
That she would die with her belly full. Hadn't she made that very pact a hundred
times, a thousand times, when she was marching on the dismal road? Let me eat
until I can't, let me fill this infinite cave, and I'll die right here. I'll surrender. And
thus here she was, never to feel anything like hunger again. But she might take it
on now, in trade for her life, that clenching weight of famishment. There was no
more perverse fancy June could have. (56)
The contrasting situations and words used to describe past and current circumstances are
at opposite ends of the spectrum. In South Korea during the Korean War, June
experienced extreme hunger, her belly shrinking from lack of food. In contrast, in the
United States, she does not experience hunger, but her belly is now full with a tumor.
Both situations share the commonality of posing a risk to her life. This irony is evident as
her belly is now full but she remains at risk of death. Her belly “couldn't rest, unceasing
now as always,” effectively illustrating the embodiment of han. Han is not born out of
temporary injustices or brief hardships, but rather from ceaseless, enduring, and longterm
suffering and anguish. Despite experiencing an abundance of nourishment in the United
States, June's body produces only pathology, such as cancer. The symbolic significance of
her “I'll surrender” plea dramatizes her lingering agony caused by unfulfilling emotional
and physical hunger. Likewise, the phrase “the infinite cave” within her serves as a
poignant portrayal of how unresolved emotional wounds consume her, reflecting the
depth of her internal struggle. The Surrendered challenges the notion that the United
States is idealized and suggests that geographical relocation alone cannot remedy the
deeply rooted han within them.
The repeated appearance of June's hunger serves as a metaphor representing her
recurring han and deep longing for intimacy within her family:
THE HUNGER. It had come for June again. Yet this time, unlike on the road,
when she was marching with her mother and her siblings and with the twins and
then finally alone, it was not a lurking angel of oblivion. An angel of death. None
of them had succumbed to hunger itself but it had driven them to exhaustion and
carelessness and ultimately to peril and she always believed it would do thusly to
her. Push her to the precipice. But this time, she wasn't hiding or running from it;
she was inviting it along in a kind of dance, as a partner, a companion that would
mark her every move. She knew that hunger would clarify her mind, strip away
all extraneous thought, and leave her with the focus of pure, unswerving will.
(418)
The stylistic choice of using all-caps for “HUNGER,” typographically swelling to fill the
entire space, serves to vividly magnify the consuming and pervasive nature of the hunger
depicted within the narrative. By visually accentuating this phrase, it emphasizes the
profound emotional and physical impact on June. The hunger has become a recurring
presence in June's life, not as an abstract concept, but as a force that has driven her and
her loved ones to the edge of their endurance. Previously, hunger was portrayed as an
ominous, lurking entity, an angel of death that threatened to consume them. The phrase
“it was not a lurking angel of oblivion” suggests that the hunger June experiences is not
merely a physical sensation or an abstract concept (418). Instead, it is personified as an
“angel” that lurks in the shadows, representing the looming presence of hunger that
threatens to consume her and her loved ones (418). The term “oblivion” indicates a state
of forgetfulness or nonexistence, implying that hunger has the potential to erase their
existence or bring about their demise (418). Furthermore, the subsequent phrase “An
angel of death” intensifies the metaphorical imagery, emphasizing that hunger for
emotional intimacies and family is not just a benign force, but rather a powerful and
potentially deadly one (418). The use of the term “angel of death” invokes biblical and
mythological associations with a harbinger of doom and destruction (418). This phrase
suggests that hunger has the power to drive people to fatigue, recklessness, and danger,
potentially pushing them to the brink of their physical and emotional limits. However,
this time, June's perspective shifts. Rather than hiding from hunger, she embraces it,
viewing it as “a partner, a companion” that will shadow her every move (418). In her
mind, hunger becomes a catalyst for clarity and focus, stripping away distractions and
leaving only her unwavering determination. In its symbolic portrayal of June's persistent
hunger, the motif serves as a metaphor encapsulating her enduring han and unfulfilled
yearning for intimacy within her familial relationships.
For war refugees like June, the orphanage setting offers a glimmer of optimism
for a new family. However, instead of alleviating their han, this environment exacerbates
their pain due to the repeated failures in being incorporated into a family. The orphanage
is a crucial setting in The Surrendered because this place gives orphans a new family in
South Korea and opportunities to be integrated into American families. The orphanage
provides a gathering spot for individuals like June and Hector as well as a short-term
dwelling, appropriately dubbed “New Hope,” inside its gates (111). The children's dual
aspirations—to be adopted by an American family and to find relief from the ongoing
problem of chronic hunger that plagued them during the war—are captured in the name
itself. The orphanage stands out as an oasis among the chapters of the book that clearly
show the harrowing experiences of war refugees seeking sanctuary. Notably, it takes care
of the urgent issue of hunger, guaranteeing that the children do not face any more
suffering from the deprivation they have already experienced. June is depicted as a young
girl who has experienced the suffering of famine firsthand. Despite the hopeful belief in
the orphanage as a haven, the reality consistently disappoints, perpetuating a cycle of
shattered expectations for these orphans.
The “New Hope” orphanage establishes an interracial community that alleviates
han of war orphans and provides them with a sense of belonging akin to a new familial
haven. When Min accidentally injures his foot while trying to use an ax, Hector assumes
a paternal role and attends to him with care:
Soon Min was awake again and moaning and crying softly, and to his own
surprise Hector began singing the chorus of a song that his mother often sang to
try to put him to sleep, an Irish famine-era ballad called “The Fields of Athenry”:
Low lie the fields of Athenry,
Where once we watched the small free birds fly.
Our love was on the wing.
We had dreams and songs to sing.
It's so lonely round the fields of Athenry. (114)
In an effort to soothe Min's distress, Hector initiated singing the lullaby titled “The Fields
of Athenry,” a melody reminiscent of the one Hector's mother used to sing during his own
struggles with falling asleep. “The Fields of Athenry” is an Irish folk ballad reflecting the
sorrow and loneliness of a person sentenced for stealing food for their family and
separated from their loved ones during the Irish Famine. The lullaby evokes a wave of
recollections from Hector's past, particularly his interactions with his mother. In the
lullaby, a stark juxtaposition emerges between their own destitute circumstances and the
experiences of “the small free birds” (114). Symbolically, the song serves as a poignant
representation of desperate situations characterized by a lack of love and dreams, denoted
by the past tense indicating a former state that has ceased to exist. Although the lullaby's
historical context differs from the post-Korean War era in which this event transpired,
both periods were marked by challenging circumstances that affected people deeply.
Following the lullaby, Min softly joined in the singing, establishing an emotional
connection between them. The phrase “as though they were a young father and son on a
Sunday hike” metaphorically portrays the creation of a novel non-biological and
interracial family (114). This moment of cross-cultural affinity happens between Hector
and Min, not between Hector and June, which foreshadows that June would not receive
enough emotional support from others to alleviate her emotional distress.
Although Sylvie serves as a maternal figure at the “New Hope” orphanage, The
Surrendered showcases the portrayal of Sylvie, primarily focusing on her failure to
adequately support the orphans under her care. The connection between Sylvie's struggles
and her war trauma sheds light on how past experiences continue to influence and shape
the present lives of individuals like Sylvie. The portrayal of Sylvie embodies the
complexity and difficulty of the trait of han. At the “New Hope” orphanage, Sylvie
assumes a maternal role for the Korean War orphans, but she fails to serve as a caregiver.
She struggles with drug addiction and engages in infidelity with Hector, a fellow member
of the orphanage staff. In addition, the incongruity between her name and her situation is
apparent. Sylvie, a female name of French origin, meaning “forest,” does not align with
her current circumstances. Forests, as symbolic representations, embody the cyclical
nature of life, encompassing the growth of spring, the abundance of summer, the decay of
autumn, and the barrenness of winter. They serve as spaces where life, death, and rebirth
are intricately intertwined. Despite these symbolic representations, she faces the
challenge of infertility, leading to a symbolic psychological wound alongside her
shortcomings in caretaking. In Sylvie's multifaceted portrayal at the “New Hope”
orphanage, her failures in caregiving and the psychological burden of infertility challenge
the romanticization of the refugees' struggles represented as han, and the perception of
white American saviors.
June's connection with Sylvie intensifies her yearning and desperation, driving her
desires to reckless and fervent extremes. While June's internal dialogue portrays a deep
longing for refuge and a sense of belonging within a family, particularly Reverend
Tanner's, it also reflects her underlying conflict:
June kept telling herself that she [June] could be the remedy. She told herself to
keep disciplined, to stay the course she had laid out, to remake herself along the
lines of an entirely different girl: someone who was not an orphan at all, had not
lost anyone in her life, much less witnessed any horrors or degradation. She was a
normal child who would soon have a normal life. (382)
The phrase “kept telling herself” not only highlights June's relentless determination to
create a better future within Reverend Tanner's family but also implies a subtle doubt
(382). Despite her efforts to convince herself of this path, the use of this language hints at
an underlying uncertainty and lack of complete belief in the truth she's trying to uphold.
It suggests a discrepancy between her outward determination and an inner doubt she may
be experiencing. June shows a defense mechanism to prevent June from experiencing
solitude once more. This is observed in her self-dialogue, where she expresses sentiments
such as “had not lost anyone in her life” (382). The recurrent use of the similar phrase
“she told herself” accentuates her self-reassurance, conscientious endeavor, and a subtle
doubt to maintain discipline in her pursuit of familial belonging (382). The juxtaposition
between her present reality and the normalcy she envisions underscores her own concept
of what a normal family looks like, where family members and emotional intimacies
exist. Lack of them causes June to feel insatiable hunger.
Embodying her han as a war refugee from a shattered family, June's intense
attraction towards Sylvie prompts a discussion around queer eroticism. June is unable to
bear even a short period of separation from Sylvie, and the use of the prefix “over-” in the
phrase “overeager” suggests how hard and strong June's feelings are toward Sylvie (391).
June identifies herself with Sylvie because they share two common characteristics:
resistant traits and war trauma. Unlike other orphans, June's hope is not just to be
adopted, but to become a part of Sylvie's family. June rejects opportunities to be adopted,
indicating that she desires more than just a family. She is active rather than passive, not
seeking to be adopted by just anyone but choosing what she wants. Particularly, her queer
desire complicates victim narratives by showing her assertiveness in pursuing her desires
despite the societal norms of the 1950s when queer love was not acceptable. Her
willingness to express her desires challenges the conventional narrative of orphanages as
places that promise happy homes for children as reparation for war violence. In addition,
Sylvie who is responsible for caring for war orphans thwarts traditional expectations of a
missionary's wife by engaging in adultery and drug addiction. Sylvie herself experienced
war trauma during Japanese imperial militarism in northern China, a shared experience
with June. Sylvie is considered a mother figure in the orphanage. Due to these reasons,
June identifies herself with Sylvie and sees Sylvie's family as the only place to heal her
trauma and psychological wounds. She tries to care for Sylvie because, in her concept,
they are identified as twins. Their relationship complicates traditional caregiver and
caretaker roles.
The failed relationship between June and Sylvie complicates the more
conventional narrative about the orphanage as a safe home where war orphans are
integrated into new families. June's erotic feelings for Sylvie lead to sexual intercourse
between them, and she overhears Hector and Sylvie engaging in sexual intercourse.
June's love does not result in a resolution for June's insatiable hunger for emotional
intimacies within a family. Instead, it leads to the destruction of her hopes, triggered by
the fire at the orphanage and Sylvie's death, which also dismantles the romanticized
image of White American saviors. June's intricate emotions, entailing a profound
yearning to belong to Sylvie's family, and her deep fixations on Sylvie encapsulate the
embodiment of her han as a war refugee. They portray a narrative of longing, attachment,
and the quest for a sense of belonging within Sylvie's familial sphere, deeply influenced
by the scars of her refugee past and unattainable and insatiable hunger for family and
emotional intimacies within it. June harbored erotic and queer feelings towards Sylvie,
adding layers of complexity to her emotions. June finds herself needing to escape from
the complicated feelings, with the United States being the only feasible option for her
through a paper marriage with Hector. To overcome her conflicted emotions towards
Sylvie, which include guilt and lingering love, June decides to move to the United States.
Her experience in the U.S. adds a diasporic element to her han, which is then transferred
to her family, establishing a generational transference of Korean affect. The fact that
America is the only possible escape for June is significant as it dispels false hopes about
American adoptive or immigrant families, by highlighting the struggles faced by June
and her son Nicholas in the United States.
JUNE'S DIASPORIC HAN AND ITS EFFECT ON HER FAMILY
The superficial union between June and Hector, combined with June's failure to
integrate as a family member within Sylvie's family, extends June's sense of han from
South Korea to the United States. Hector married June when she was only nineteen years
old, after which they never met again. Using parentheses providing additional
clarification, the sentence “they had lived together (if not as husband and wife) for five
months” foreshadows complicated interracial family dynamics, indicating an absence of
romantic love and emotional intimacy within this family. The expression “neither of them
much caring” apparently shows there is no emotional attachment or love for one another.
The use of the phrase “not heard a word of her” also emphasizes the complete absence of
communication and suggests a potential estrangement between June and Hector. Despite
the absence of love in their marriage, they give birth to a son, Nicholas. This fragmented
family adds another layer of han in the United States, instead of offering June a safe
escape from South Korea. The absence of contact between Hector and Nicholas, and
Nicholas living away from June after he graduated from school, represent the
impossibleto-resolve nature of June's longing for familial intimacy and han. As this
marriage places June in another isolated situation within the United States, it becomes a
catalyst for the manifestation of June's han in the country.
June's diasporic han has a profound impact on her family, resulting in fractured
relationships, particularly with her son, Nicholas, contributing to the construction of his
postmemory. After graduating from high school, Nicholas embarked on a long journey,
which he referred to as his “grand tour,” in search of something missing in his life and
family (41). The term “grand tour” may reflect his hopeful anticipation of gaining
insights into his family dynamics and uncovering the truth about his absent father. June's
migration to the United States differs from Nicholas' travel, but they are interconnected.
June moves to the United States to escape from places that remind her of traumatic
family events and deaths, while Nicholas' journey to find his absent father is an attempt
for him to connect with his familial roots and overcome his own trauma. The parodic
element arises from the contrast between the historical concept of the grand tour—a
luxurious and leisurely exploration for the privileged elite—and Nicholas' personal
journey, which lacks the opulence and leisure associated with the traditional grand tour.
The parodic use highlights the divergence from traditional expectations and the depth of
Nicholas's emotional and familial quest. The strained relationship between June and
Nicholas can be traced back to the emotional wounds caused by her past unresolved
memories in South Korea. Although she has never explicitly talked about her experiences
and feelings in South Korea to Nicholas, her down emotions affect him, and his curiosity
about his father's existence is growing. The emotional distance between them is evident
in the way Nicholas communicates with his mother through notes, further highlighting
the strained nature of their relationship:
Over the years of his travels, the postcards he sent to the shop grew briefer in
their messages, the ones he wrote out in pen somehow as cold as typescript, and
then even more impersonal in nature, given the messages:
Doing fine. N.
Okay here. N.
Still kicking. N. (49)
The word “typescript” is typically associated with formal and business-like
communication, rather than the intimate and emotional exchanges that one would expect
among family members (49). The idiomatic expression “still kicking” is often used in
English to indicate resilience or endurance in the face of challenges, emphasizing that
something remains active, alive, or successful despite obstacles (49). The use of the word
“kicking” implies that Nicholas' ongoing pursuit of uncovering secrets about his family is
an ongoing process.
The Surrendered juxtaposes June and Nicholas, including their habitual theft and
psychological status to dramatize the unceasing nature of han and familial transference as
a form of postmemory. Although she has not explicitly taught her son such behavior, he
unconsciously replicates her habitual theft rooted in her experiences. June's distorted
desire to establish a familial connection with Nicholas is evident in her peculiar tolerance
towards his habitual shoplifting. Both June and Nicholas share the common trait of
engaging in theft. Nicholas's behavior is described as “loot” (242), a term typically
associated with stealing in the context of war or civil unrest. While Nicholas's stealing
does not directly relate to such extreme circumstances, the choice of this word establishes
a subtle connection between June and Nicholas. In her youth, June developed a habit of
stealing as a means of survival during the war (246). Remarkably, this behavior persists
even after June gains access to an orphanage with an abundance of food, which is similar
to Nicholas' shoplifting, not as a strategy for survival. Rather than responding as one
would expect from a mother, who would rebuke their children for stealing, June
experiences a mixture of conflicting emotions, including a sense of “half-hoping” and
“dreadful curiosity” (243). She desires to establish a strong emotional connection with
Nicholas through their shared habit of theft, yet she acknowledges that it is not an ideal
means. Consequently, she finds herself compelled to maintain a state of “half-hoping.”
June's curiosity about Nicholas' latest theft and her accompanying wishes coexists with
concerns and worries regarding his habit. Furthermore, June exhibits a degree of
admiration towards Nicholas's skill, describing it as “his self-mastery” (244). Despite not
having taught Nicholas this skill, he has achieved a mastery level, similar to June's own
experiences during wartime. Additionally, June experienced a lack of emotional
connection between family members during the Korean War, and she sought to find
emotional connection with Sylvie, who had similar war trauma experiences. Although
Nicholas does not have war experiences, he may have been influenced by his mother's
lack of emotional intimacy and her longing to establish such connections. As a result,
Nicholas seeks to find his father, even outside of the United States, in his quest for
emotional intimacy. Nicholas thwarts the expectation that June's Korean War trauma is
directly transferred to him. Instead of being victimized, he demonstrates assertive and
active actions in his pursuit of finding his family and rebuilding emotional intimacies
within his family.
The symbolism of stealing resonates deeply within the narrative, possibly
signifying an admission of June's inability to possess what they yearn for. It can reflect a
sentiment of displacement and a feeling that their desires or aspirations are unattainable
or even illicit in their new environment. This notion echoes the sense of loss, a feeling of
not truly belonging in a foreign land, and perhaps even the struggle of the immigrant
experience where one's aspirations and hopes might feel constantly “stolen” or out of
reach. In illustrating the interplay between June and Nicholas and highlighting their
shared experiences, The Surrendered underscores the communal and enduring essence of
han within their interracial family, showcasing the resonance of familial transference and
postmemory.
Furthermore, in Lee's novel repeats characters' leg injuries that lead to June losing
her close family members are repeated, and this symbolic connection between deaths
caused by leg injuries continues to remind readers of her recurring han. Leg injuries serve
as symbols of individuals' inability to resist unfortunate circumstances, ultimately leading
to the destruction of their family and the dysfunctional nature of their family. Despite
June's awareness of Nicholas' passing caused by his leg injury, she succumbs to
selfdeception, clinging to the illusion of his ongoing existence as a means of resisting her
own fate. Similar to her younger siblings, Nicholas also met his untimely demise due to a
leg injury. As the fundamental support structure of the human body, legs are
indispensable for mobility. In The Surrendered, legs assume a symbolic role, representing
the foundation of June's family. Nicholas' fatal leg injury resulted in his passing,
consequently leaving June bereft and isolated in the world. For both Nicholas and June,
legs epitomize a symbolic representation of their surrender to the harrowing
circumstances they face. Furthermore, the utterance by Nick who a close friend of
Nicholas and has been impersonating the dead son to obtain money from June, “fucking
fell off a horse,” holds significant implications regarding June's family (372). The
incident of falling from the horse becomes a symbolic representation of the tragic
downfall experienced by June's family. Through the recurring reminders portrayed via
these leg injuries, The Surrendered represents the enduring nature of han within June's
life and her family, affecting Nicholas as a form of post-memory.
As a manifestation of postmemory, June's persistent pursuit of familial intimacies
is connected to Nicholas' longing for family, his father. Both June and Nicholas embark
on separate journeys seeking family—June for her son and Nicholas for his father. At
times, June was with Nicholas, and she's also with Hector, but the three of them have
never been together at the same time. The Surrendered portrays this situation akin to a
game of phone tag, illustrating the tragic and poignant sense of han within the interracial
family. June's unwavering refusal to accept Nicholas' death, rooted in the tragic horse
incident, symbolizes her deep yearning for a sense of belonging within the context of
family dynamics. June's act of giving Nick a check reflects her deep longing for a
cohesive family unit, embodying her strong desire to fill the void left by the loss of her
son, Nicholas. Despite being aware of the circumstances surrounding Nicholas' demise,
as revealed through her correspondence with Nick, June appears to be in denial, refusing
to acknowledge the tragic accident involving her son and instead embracing the belief
that Nick is, in fact, Nicholas. The inclusion of June's signature on the traveler's check
she gave to Nick symbolizes the shattered state of their familial ties (352). The use of the
term “traveler's” to modify the check implies there is the lack of stability and permanence
in their familial relationships, mirroring the transient nature of travelers whose
relationships oscillate without security or a fixed location (352). The fact that the result of
Nicholas's journey for his father is his death embodies the communal and diasporic han
within the interracial family in the United States.
CONCLUSION
June's decision to seek help from Hector for the trip to find Nicholas represents
the irresistible and intimidating power of han. June initially tries to avoid contacting
Hector when Nicholas was young. This avoidance stems from Sylvie's death to bring up
the destructive energy of han. Hector serves as a reminder to June of traumatic memories
associated with Sylvie, causing her to resist him despite knowing Nicholas's desire to
know his biological father. June resists to transfer any traumatic memories or han to
Nicholas, which acts as the burden it would place on him as a form of postmemory.
However, her terminal cancer ultimately forces her to surrender and make contact with
Hector because June is reluctant to subject Nicholas to the same sense of orphanhood she
experienced, where he would lack protection and companionship. Being a war orphan
also results in traumatic memories, which she is determined not to pass on to him. The
indelible impact of her Korean War experiences, where June endured the heart-wrenching
pain of losing her loved ones, continues to haunt her, leaving her with a pervasive sense
of isolation and solitude. Her longing to forge a genuine connection between Hector and
Nicholas is conveyed through what can be regarded as her “final, sentimental gesture”
(300). The reference to nostalgia suggests that her pursuit could be a constructed
narrative shaped by sentimental longing for a past even before the Korean War that might
not have existed as imagined. “[S]entimental” implies that she knows it is not grounded
in realistic thinking or that it is fictional (300). It is through this pursuit that June seeks
solace, striving to create a meaningful bond between Hector and Nicholas as she yearns
to bestow upon them the gift of shared experiences and cherished moments that she holds
dear. Since Nicholas is already deceased, the journey becomes impossible to complete. In
any case, June is forced to surrender to her destiny. She attempts to prevent the evolution
and transfer of her han, but ultimately succumbs. Through this impossible situation, Lee's
The Surrendered demonstrates the intimidating nature of han and its transference as
postmemory.
June's desire for a family and haunting experience of being separated from her
family during the Korean War intensifies the impossible nature of han to overcome:
NOT YET.
She was running for the train. The very last car. It was moving away from her, it
seemed, at an insurmountable speed. Voices were calling for her to run. Run. Not
to give up. She had no shoes on her feet—when had they fallen off?—and the
ground beside the tracks was gravelly and sharp. Laced with burrs and prickly
weeds. But she had no mind for the pain that had taken her over now. Her legs
were working, straining, madly pumping beneath her like pistons, pushing her to
make this brief sprint she had been running the whole of her life. She could not
look back. She loved them all but she knew if she looked back she was done. She
would come to a stop. And she did not want to stop, not just yet. Not now. To
crave anything, alas, is to crave time. She was simply hungry for more. The
wheels of the last car squealed and flashed; it was accelerating, about to pull
away. In defiance she learned forward and cried out, suspending her breath, and
reached for the dark edge of the door. The world fell away. Someone had pulled
her up. Borne her in. She was off her feet, alive. (469)
The repetition of the word “run” within the last passage serves as a symbol of the
tremendous burden she carries in two distinct locations: South Korea and United States
(469). The final paragraph of the novel, marked by the emphatic phrase “NOT YET,”
establishes a connection to a memory from June's past when she boarded a train with her
injured twin siblings, their legs rendered immobile (469). During the war, survival
necessitated her relentless running, yet she found herself unable to care for her siblings
due to their incapacitating injuries. This harrowing experience resulted in lasting
traumatic memories as she tragically lost her last remaining family members. Following
her relocation to the United States, June forms a new family unit comprised of herself,
Hector, and Nicholas. However, the subsequent departure of both Hector and Nicholas
leaves June bereft once again. Despite being afflicted with cancer, June desperately seeks
out Nicholas, unwilling to accept his demise. Her unwavering desire to resist transferring
han and to create a family fuels her plea for Hector's assistance in locating Nicholas in
Italy. Even as she nears her own mortality, June tenaciously clings to life, driven by her
fight against han and her yearning for the fulfillment of a unified family existence. The
imagery of June's “sprint” towards the departing train underscores her resolute pursuit of
life and her unwillingness to succumb to despair (469). June has been running from the
horrors of war, the traumas of her past, and the shattered familial bonds. The briefness of
the sprint suggests that her pursuit of happiness, fulfillment, and a complete family has
been ongoing but elusive. June's eccentricities, which are hard to understand in The
Surrendered, dramatize the impossible nature of han in relation to the Korean War and
family, resulting in her surrender.
The examination of postmemory han within the experiences of a child from an
interracial immigrant family serves as a precursor to the subsequent chapter's discussion,
focused on real accounts from mixed Korean American adoptees within American
adoptive families. By exploring the nuances of postmemory han exhibited by Nicholas,
the following chapter aims to delve deeper into the authentic narratives and lived
experiences of mixed Korean American adoptees in American families. This shift in focus
aims to illuminate the multifaceted aspects of identity, belonging, and the enduring
impact of intergenerational war trauma within the context of adoption and cultural
heritage.
CHAPTER 4
BEYOND INDIVIDUAL NARRATIVES: DNA TESTING AND THE
CONSTRUCTION OF MIXED-RACE IDENTITY—FORGING A
COLLECTIVE VOICE IN MIXED KOREAN: OUT STORIES
INTRODUCTION
Incorporating diverse memories and voices is crucial to enhance Korean War
cultural knowledge. This chapter transitions from the singular voices of individual
authors in novels to the collective voices and memories shared by many mixed-race
Korean adoptees in Mixed Korean: Our Stories (2018), enriching cultural knowledge
about the Korean War, including the understanding of America within the context of
interracial families. The transition is particularly critical when examining real-world
analogies through the perspectives of mixed-race characters, such as Sookie, Lobetto, and
Myu Myu in Fox Girl. Initially, America, specifically Hawaii, appears as a haven for
family security. Engaging with the anthology's various firsthand accounts of mixed
Koreans within American families suggests to readers the potential realities that Myu
Myu faces as she matures and grapples with her origins. Similarly, while Heinz Insu
Fenkl's Memories of My Ghost Brother offers insights into the life of a mixed-race
Korean individual like Insu, the anthology delves into the diverse experiences of mixed
Korean adoptees like Kuristo within American families. This juxtaposition enriches
cultural knowledge about the Korean War, probing comprehensive questions about what
Kuristo's life looks like in America and how the “American dream,” as pursued by Insu,
might appear both alluring and ultimately inadequate. Furthermore, The Surrendered
presents portrayals of America as a potential refuge but Mixed Korean's incorporating the
voices and memories of mixed-race Koreans in the cultural knowledge complicates the
understanding of America. Along with the voices and memories of Mixed Korea, the
experiences of military bride and Asian single mother June, and her mixed-race Korean
son Nicholas within an interracial family show the prism of enduring anguish and
complex psychology. In terms of content, the first three chapters focus on stories about
mixed-race families consisting of American GI soldiers, Korean women, and their
mixedrace children. However, Mixed Korean mainly focuses on mixed Koreans'
integration into American families. Through abundant accounts of the Korean War from
the essays, Mixed Korean dismantles sanitized narratives about mixed-race Korean
American adoptees' experiences, offering various perspectives on the same historical
event. Ultimately, transitioning between these two distinct genres—individual-authored
fiction and an anthology of autobiographies by mixed-race Koreans—enables readers to
navigate and delve into diverse voices and memories as part of the cultural knowledge of
the Korean War regarding the portrayal of interracial America.
Furthermore, while the previous chapters focus on novels by individual authors,
which do not achieve a collective voice to claim a Korean American identity, Chapter 4
examines how Mixed Korean forms collective voices and memories as mixed-race
Korean adoptees. Mixed Korean, a collection of firsthand narratives, provides insights
into the complexities of “immigration and isolation, racism, and violence” faced by these
individuals. The anthology delves into the multifaceted identity crises experienced by
mixed-race Korean adoptees as they navigate their racial and familial landscapes. These
narratives shed light on the challenges of reconciling cultural differences, assimilating
into American society while holding onto their Korean heritage, and confronting the
traumatic realities of racism and discrimination in both post-war South Korea and the
United States. Mixed Korean is a collective work by editors, essay contributors, and other
contributors who aided such as funding and cover art. Three editors also serve as essay
contributors, which indicates their strong aspiration for building a collective voice to
advocate for mixed-race Korean identity. All the people contributing to Mixed Korean
share commonalities as mixed-race Koreans and have a mission to build communities and
advocate for mixed-race identity. Alongside their storytelling projects, such as this
anthology, this chapter also examines on how mixed-race Koreans exert efforts to find
their biological families through DNA testing, which expands their connections with their
kinship and overlooked narratives. Moreover, the chapter delves into mixed-race
Koreans' activities in their organizations, such as 325 Karma and Korean American Story.
In this respect, this chapter argues that building upon the singular authors' narratives in
the previous chapters for Korean War cultural knowledge, Mixed Korean: Our Stories
serves as a catalyst to forge a collective voice and build a community for mixed-race
identity through DNA testing, as well as actively operating organizations for mixed-race
individuals. By articulating and revisiting their shared history of pain and displacement,
the authors create a space for healing and understanding, potentially offering pathways
towards overcoming the trauma rooted in identity conflicts and cultural alienation. These
aspects, often overlooked and forgotten in the memories of both Koreans and Americans,
contribute to the cultural archives about the Korean War, including the experiences of
mixed-race Korean American subjects.
Embracing the theme of communal resilience explored throughout the chapter, the
editorial board's acknowledgement of Mixed Korean underscores the Korean proverb,
“그그그그 그그그 그그 [Baek-ji-jang-do mat-deul-myeon nat-da]”
(“Acknowledgements” ix). This proverb aptly conveys the anthology's mission: to
amplify the collective voices of mixed-race Koreans and reclaim their often-marginalized
narratives in both South Korea and the United States. Rooted in Korean agricultural
traditions, pumasi embodies the principle of collective effort for shared benefit. As a
practice of communal labor, it nurtured unity and mutual support, evident from “the
harvest of rice” to village women's “annual preparation of kimchi”
(“Acknowledgements” ix). This tradition exemplifies the transformative power of
collective action, demonstrating that even small contributions, when combined, can yield
significant results. Drawing an insightful analogy, editors including Cerrissa Kim,
Katherine Kim, Sora Kim-Russell, and Mary-Kim Arnold describe the anthology as the
“collective good,” aptly characterizing the anthology's impact. The label underscores the
profound truth that while each individual voice within the book is unique and significant,
their collective narrative forms a powerful, unified chorus, resonating across cultural and
physical boundaries.
While the editors' specific selection criteria might not be explicitly stated, the
curated narratives within Mixed Korean suggests the need to read the anthology as a
whole to form a collective “we” identity. The anthology strives to construct a communal
sense of identity for mixed-race Korean adoptees, simultaneously navigating issues of
trauma and belonging within both South Korean and American contexts, as Sue-Je Lee
Gage articulates in the “Foreword”:
The stories in this book [Mixed Korean: Our Stories] and the many still unheard
carry the weight and value of our humanity and our collective history. … They
embody courage, resourcefulness, imagination, strength, and most of all the
memories we hold on to that shape who we are. The significance of these stories
is profound. One important contribution they make is to provide a certain sense of
home in the knowledge that we are not alone. (“Foreword” xiii)
Although each memory belongs to individual authors in the anthology, and many of them
have never met each other, the “Foreword” emphasizes their collective “we” identity to
construct who they are. Through the diverse voices of contributors, Mixed Korean fosters
the creation of collective memories shared. Each individual narrative contributes to a
broader tapestry, establishing an understanding of the mixed-race Korean experience and
confronting its inherent traumas. These stories actively challenge the marginalization and
invisibility often faced by this specific demographic, demanding recognition and
amplifying previously unheard voices. Importantly, the anthology showcases personal
essays by adoptees born around the Korean War who navigated interracial complexities
in both nations. By revisiting and sharing their individual memories, the editors weave
the memories into a cohesive collective memories and narratives, strengthening their own
identity and forging a shared understanding of their lived experiences. The collectivity
represented by Mixed Korean is crucial for cultural knowledge about the Korean War
because this anthology, as a collective identity and voice, reveals elusive and overlooked
experiences of mixed-race Korean adoptees within American families.
BEGINNING OF THEIR MEMORY: TRANSNATIONAL ADOPTION
From poignant childhood memories to lingering questions about their origins,
Mixed Korean presents the stories of Korean War orphans adopted by American families,
interweaving themes of idealism, cultural tension, and a persistent quest for identity. In
the aftermath of the Korean War, the distressing recollections of war orphans and their
parents were obscured and disregarded, overshadowed by media coverage that
emphasized the United States' international adoption efforts in South Korea. An article
published on February 1, 2023, in The Korea Herald under the subtitle “In 1957, first
chartered plane took off for US carrying Korean War Orphans, opening doors for massive
‘baby exports.’ Now adoptees demand answers, truth” suggests the presence of
unanswered inquiries and undisclosed realities (Min-kyung Jung “War Orphans”). The
use of the term “baby exports” in the discourse of international adoption raises significant
ethical concerns. By framing children as commodities and adoption as a commercial
transaction, this language devalues the personal and cultural implications for both babies
and families. Following the Korean War, international adoptions were initiated by a
couple named Harry and Bertha Holt from the United States, who adopted eight war
orphans from Korea in 1955 and played a significant role in the development of
international adoption from foreign families. The establishment of a humanitarian agency
based in the United States resulted in the extensive adoption of Korean war orphans,
particularly those of mixed race who faced marginalization within Korean society. This
trend received prominent coverage on the front page of The Korea Herald, then known as
The Korean Republic, in its October 31, 1957 edition. The article titled “Holt, 80 orphans
off to US” at the time reflected the optimistic outlook, describing the adoption project as
providing “a new life 80 Korean-American children.” However, this optimism and
idealized representation coexisted with collective indifference among Koreans towards
mixed race Korean adoptees. As these adoptees have reached adulthood, they seek
answers by questioning the adoption process: “Adoptees claim their adoption process—
handled by Holt International and other adoption agencies—were riddled with mistakes,
misinformation and fabrications” (Jung “War Orphans”). Holt International, for instance,
faced accusations of falsifying documents to expedite the process, while the non-profit
nature of these agencies raised concerns about the transparency regarding the usage of
donated funds. Despite the desire of some adult adoptees to reconnect with their Korean
roots and ascertain their identity, the scarcity of records from the time they departed
South Korea for the United States makes this task arduous.
The influx of mixed-race “GI babies” adopted from South Korea following the
Korean War (1950-1953) dramatically challenged prevailing racial paradigms in the
United States, forcing new mixed-race families. Prior to 1952, stringent anti-Asian
immigration policies left children born to American servicemen and Korean mothers in
limbo, ostracized by both nations due to citizenship laws and racial prejudice. As Cold
War anxieties intensified, American Christian groups, motivated by a complex blend of
missionary zeal and Cold War liberalism, embraced international adoption as a strategy to
promote both domestic racial liberalism and global influence. The passage of the
Immigration and Nationality Act of 1961, legalizing and streamlining international
adoption, was significantly influenced by the efforts of these Christian groups, their
“Christian Americanism” ideology fusing notions of familial duty and cultural
assimilation. While media narratives portrayed a heartwarming tale of humanitarianism,
Christian American families who stepped forward as adopters were driven by a mix of
motivations, some undoubtedly selfless, but others intertwined with societal anxieties and
cultural biases towards mixed-race Korean adoptees. As Arissa Oh argues, this ideology,
encompassing “Christian Americanism,” facilitated a wave of adoptions by white
middleclass families, driven by a genuine desire to help but also perpetuating a color-
blind perspective through narratives of racial democracy (Oh 162–163). While the
“Christian
Americanism” discourse surrounding Korean War adoptions suggests a softening of racial
barriers towards Asians within the United States, a closer examination reveals significant
limitations. First, the overwhelming placement of adoptees within white middle-class
families fostered a heightened awareness of their cultural distance from their adoptive
parents. Additionally, despite the altruistic intentions driving adoption efforts, the number
of children adopted compared to the broader Asian American population remained
relatively small. This limited impact, coupled with the unique historical experiences of
Asians as a minority group within the United States, suggests that Korean
War-orphaned Asian Americans grappled with a distinct form of “melancholic trauma.”
The racialized and minoritized context of Asian American adoptees shaped their
trajectory of loss, assimilation, and identity formation. It is crucial to move beyond
superficial narratives of racial integration and engage with the nuances of this specific
group's experiences within the broader landscape of post-war American society.
The narrative surrounding post-Korean War adoptions of mixed race Korean
orphans, as constructed by media coverage, presents a complex entanglement of
humanitarianism, political expediency, and the silencing of individual lived experiences.
As Kim Park Nelson argues, media portrayals often emphasized “the actions of American
military personnel as child rescuers,” foregrounding the plight of orphans as victims in
need of American intervention (3). This framing, Nelson contends, served to bolster “a
narrative of American moral and economic superiority,” potentially obscuring the
traumatic experiences of both the children and their Korean families (3). Beyond the
simplistic hero-victim binary, the war itself generated the conditions that orphaned these
children, while the subsequent adoption process, driven by international political agendas
and Cold War anxieties, often marginalized their individual voices and histories. The
preoccupation with global narratives of humanitarianism often overlooked the individual
subjects grappling with the physical and psychological scars of war, effectively rendering
their experiences invisible within official accounts. Consequently, reclaiming the
multifaceted narratives of international adoptees becomes a crucial act of historical
redress. By centering their voices and experiences, both in their pre-adoption lives in
Korea and their subsequent journeys within adoptive families in the United States, we can
begin to dismantle the sanitized narratives and move towards a more nuanced
understanding of this complex episode.
BUILDING COLLECTIVE MEMORIES
Before embarking on the investigation of collective memory construction within
Mixed Korean, it is necessary to establish a robust theoretical framework. Memory
studies, as a multifaceted field, presents two fundamental strands: one driven by the
pursuit of historical accuracy in recollected experiences, the other focusing on the
instrumentalization of past memories for navigating personal and collective identity.
Within the cognitive sciences and psychology, the dominant paradigm centers on
achieving fidelity in representation. Daniel L. Schacter, a prominent psychologist and
neuroscientist, highlights the inherent subjectivity of memory, noting that “our sense of
ourselves depends crucially on the subjective experience of remembering our pasts” (34).
Notably, this emphasis on accuracy often translates into concerns about distortion and
fallibility in memory reconstruction. Alternatively, disciplines like history, anthropology,
and sociology delve deeper into the role of memory in shaping and reshaping
selfunderstanding. John R. Gillis, within this purview, contends that “[t]he core meaning
of any individual or group identity, namely, a sense of sameness over time and space, is
sustained by remembering” (3). Here, the focus shifts towards the active selection and
interpretation of past memories to negotiate and solidify present conceptions of identity.
Recognizing the inherent tension between these perspectives, James V. Wertsch proposes
the concept of “functional dualism” (33). He argues that both accurate representation and
the identity-work performed through memories are integral to their formation and
meaning-making potential, for individuals and collectives alike. However, the relative
weight ascribed to each facet might fluctuate over time and across contexts, necessitating
flexible approaches to memory analysis. Despite the seminal work of Maurice Halbwachs
and the subsequent century of scholarship, a singular, definitive theory of collective
memory remains elusive. Alon Confino, in their exploration of “Collective Memory
Cultural History,” aptly expresses this ongoing challenge, noting that the term
“[collective] memory, more practiced than theorized, has been used to denote very
different things” (1386). These observations highlight the persistent need for refined
conceptual frameworks and robust methodologies tailored to the complexities of
collective memory formation and transmission.
While a singular, unified theoretical framework for collective memory studies
remains elusive, James V. Wertsch's work offers a valuable heuristic for navigating this
complex terrain (35). He delineates three distinct approaches to conceptualizing
collective memory, each illuminating different facets of this multifaceted phenomenon.
The first approach, often employed by individual memory researchers, leans on the
evocative “amnesia” metaphor. Terms like “collective amnesia,” famously used by Iris
Chang in her historical investigation, describe situations where a group or nation appears
to exhibit a pronounced forgetting of significant historical events or narratives. While this
approach highlights the potential for distortion and suppression within collective
memory, it risks oversimplification. Its reliance on the framework of individual memory,
heavily informed by psychology, cognitive science, and neuroscience, overlooks the
broader social and cultural processes that shape collective remembering. Wertsch
proposes two alternative approaches that foster a more nuanced understanding of the
interplay between individual and collective memory. The first explores how individual
memory processes themselves may emerge and evolve through social interaction,
emphasizing the interconnectedness of personal and collective narratives. The second
delves into the dynamic relationship between autobiographical and collective memory,
recognizing how individual memories might both draw from and contribute to larger
shared memory constructs. Notably, Wertsch's concept of “functional dualism”
discourages rigid compartmentalization of these domains (33). Instead, he advocates for a
flexible approach that acknowledges the intricate interplay and reciprocal influence
between individual and collective memory. This perspective holds significant promise for
advancing our understanding of how personal experiences and shared legacies become
intertwined in the construction of individual and group identities. This chapter
investigates this very connection, specifically focusing on the complex interplay between
the collective memories of mixed race Korean adoptees and their individual
autobiographical narratives. By examining how adoptees engage with both sets of
memories, this chapter aims to illuminate the nuanced processes of identity formation and
negotiation within this unique community.
Mixed Korean illuminates the unique experiences and identity formation of
mixed-race Korean adoptees. In these powerful testimonies, personal memory transcends
individual reflection to weave a rich tapestry of collective belonging. As Wertsch argues,
autobiographical memory holds “the privileged position in our understanding of the
past,” serving as a lens through which to both interpret individual experiences and
reframe collective narratives (39). This anthology exemplifies this phenomenon,
leveraging personal stories to construct a collective identity rooted in shared histories and
ongoing struggles. The analysis of autobiographical narratives illuminates the connection
between individual and collective memory. According to Peter Novick, autobiographical
writing concentrates on a “single, committed perspective” (4). Within Mixed Korean,
authors grapple with a complex tapestry of identity markers. Raised in American families,
they often navigate racial marginalization both in the United States and, upon returning to
their birth country, in South Korea. This sense of “otherness” within multiple social
contexts is further compounded by the potential absence of a strong biological connection
with their adoptive families. These multifaceted challenges are the fertile ground from
which a distinct collective identity emerges, forged through shared experiences of
displacement, loss, and the persistent quest for belonging. Mixed Korean provides a
nuanced and multifaceted portrait of this collective identity. The act of publishing this
mosaic of stories involves entering it into public consciousness, incorporating their pre-
adoption lives in Korea, their journeys within American families, and the ongoing process
of self-discovery as adults. Each individual author contributes to the collective memory
by allowing their stories to be published. Each story adds a unique thread to the collective
memories, offering a glimpse into the diverse experiences and emotions that bind these
individuals together. By sharing their personal memories, the authors of Mixed Korean
not only reclaim their individual voices but also construct a powerful collective
testimony, asserting their distinct place within the broader societal landscape.
THE CHALLENGING JOURNEY FROM SOUTH KOREA TO THE UNITED
STATES
Paul Howe's essay “The Long Road” constructs a microcosm of societal prejudice
and personal vulnerability as his personal memory, ultimately contributing to the
collective memory of mixed-race Koreans' complex negotiation of identity in the United
States. Paul Howe is a mixed Korean adoptee with an African American father and a
Korean mother. Upon reaching the age of nine, he immigrated to the United States and
established residence in Rochester, New York, where he resided with his adoptive family.
Within the mixed-race Korean adoptee narratives, Howe's essay stands out for its
poignant portrayal of pre-immigration experiences in South Korea. A couple of short
sentences in italics (“What a crazy memory. Even now, I am filled with disbelief and
sadness. Hard to believe that I had a mother”) represents Howe's childhood in South
Korea (“The Long Road” 34). Howe's personal memories are marked by trauma,
including experiences of “disbelief” towards others (“The Long Road” 34). In the desert
of traumatic memories, his mother's existence is likened to an oasis. However, the
mismatch between these traumatic experiences and the love of his mother creates a
profound disbelief within him about the existence of his mother. This incompatibility
leads him to use the intense adjective “crazy” to characterize his memories, which
interwoven between the motherly love and the struggle he faced (“The Long Road” 34).
Howe describes his mother's love as a “saving grace,” a term often associated with
Christianity in a spiritual sense (“The Long Road” 33). In a world where interraciality is
perceived like an original sin, his mother becomes a figure akin to Jesus—forgiving sins
and bestowing grace, offering a semblance of eternal life in heavenly realms. By recalling
the pernicious aspect of Christianity's role in the transnational adoption process framed
earlier in this chapter, the interpretation of Christianity as a “saving grace” interrogates
ideas of “Christian Americanism” and explores how Cold War liberalism impacts
mixedrace Korean adoptees in American families. By making his story published and
telling it
“over and over again to various people,” he transforms his personal narrative as a
mixedrace Korean adoptee in pre-immigration status into a more public and collective
memory
(“The Long Road” 33).
In addition, Howe's portrayal of a fragmented family constructs a collective
memory that reflects the intricate nature of mixed-Korean experiences prior to
immigration in Korea. His absent father and at times emotionally distant mother, despite
her love, highlight the underlying challenges of displacement in South Korea. Howe's
portrayal of his father paints a picture of paternal estrangement within the family unit.
The sentence “He wasn't around much, as one can imagine,” speaks volumes about his
father's infrequency in the household (“The Long Road” 34). The phrase “as one can
imagine” suggests that the absence of young GI fathers is not particularly unique. This
phrase appeals to a collective sense of what can be imagined (“The Long Road” 34). The
concise yet poignant phrase “not an ideal family” succinctly captures the essence of
Howe's family dynamics, hinting at the absence of a conventional family (“The Long
Road” 34). The words such as “screamed,” “cried,” and “yelled” serves as symbolic
representation, highlighting the profound anguish and distress caused by a sense of
abandonment (“The Long Road” 34). A sentence—“single mothers were not accepted”—
provide a glimpse into the challenging circumstances faced by both the author and his
mother in South Korea (“The Long Road” 34). Significantly, the paragraph concludes
with the poignant phrase “mixed bastard son,” encapsulating the complex identity and the
societal prejudices he confronted during his formative years (“The Long Road” 34). The
lack of consistent paternal presence and the experience of abandonment, despite his
mother's love, shed light on the challenges faced by many mixed-Korean adoptees,
highlighting the emotional impact of displacement and disrupted family ties.
Parallel to Howe's experiences within his interracial family, his life beyond
familial boundaries in South Korea also poses significant challenges and contributes to a
collective memory integral to the experiences of mixed-race Koreans. In “The Long
Road,” vivid and intense language, such as “alien” and “animal,” portrays the
objectification Howe endured at the hands of other Korean children as a mixed-race
individual post-Korean War in South Korea (“The Long Load” 36). Despite the passage
of time, these haunting memories remain indelible for Howe. The severity of his
ostracization is further amplified by Howe's own internalized language. He describes
himself as “a gigantic Afro which could not be hidden,” revealing the burden of
constantly being marked as different. This self-identification as an “other” underscores
the emotional toll of ostracism and highlights the pervasive influence of societal
prejudice on self-perception (“The Long Load” 36). He recalls his past in South Korea,
stating: “Next to my peers, I looked more like an animal that had escaped from the local
zoo” (“The Long Load” 36). The “zoo” image symbolizes the dehumanized lives of
mixed-race Koreans, such as Howe (“The Long Load” 36). The “zoo” image reflects
Howe's feelings, as Korean people view them as beings from an “exotic” planet, treating
them differently like nonnative individuals (“The Long Load” 36). Similar to the
portrayal of military sexual works in the Monkey House, mixed-race Koreans in South
Korea are also subject to being zoe-ified and marginalized. The image also signifies their
psychological space in South Korea. Discrimination and hatred make them feel confined
to a very limited and cramped space, akin to zoo animals, because of their distinctiveness
and the attention they attract from other Koreans. The self-reflective language
underscores the internalization of dehumanizing perceptions. Howe's poignant narrative
constructs collective memories that mixed-race Koreans can experience in South Korea,
but which are often overlooked, lying dormant beneath the surface.
IDENTITY CRISIS WITHIN AMERICAN FAMILIES
Through his firsthand recollections of both his biological and adoptive mothers,
Joel Peterson's “Mom's Love in a Breakfast Bowl” contributes to the collective memories
within the compilation Mixed Korean. “Mom's Love in a Breakfast Bowl” intricately
examines Peterson's personal journey and emotional landscape, articulating his private
experiences, resonating with the collective memories of mixed-race Korean adoptees
(“Mom's Love in a Breakfast Bowl” 3). Constructing collective memories through the
illustration of his diasporic journey from Korea to the United States, the phrase “two
mothers” encapsulates his identity crisis stemming from two different cultural heritages
(“Mom's Love in a Breakfast Bowl” 3). With clear memories in Korea, Peterson was
adopted into his American mother's family. Noting Peterson's age as “nearly seven years
old” signifies a pivotal developmental milestone, a formative period that continues to
significantly shape his identity and narrative (“Mom's Love in a Breakfast Bowl” 3). The
phrase “all the heartbreak that I experienced as an international adoptee from Korea”
poignantly reveals Peterson's encounters with loss, shedding light on the profound
emotional toll associated with adoption and its enduring impact on his life (“Mom's Love
in a Breakfast Bowl” 3). His early adoption into an American family evoked a profound
sense of “heartbreak” during his youth (“Mom's Love in a Breakfast Bowl” 3). Moreover,
the phrase “the angst I endured being mixed raced” delves into the internal struggle and
societal challenges faced by individuals navigating diverse racial identities (“Mom's Love
in a Breakfast Bowl” 3). His description of his emotional status as a mixed-race Korean
adoptee contributes to a collective understanding of the intricate complexities associated
with mixed-race identities. Additionally, it adds emotional depth to cultural knowledge
about the Korean War. As a result, Peterson's narrative extends beyond a mere individual
account, offering valuable insights into the shared experiences and challenges
encountered by mixed-race Korean adoptees.
In “Mom's Love in a Breakfast Bowl,” the portrayal of Peterson's challenges in
establishing a sense of belonging within his new American family, stemming from
cultural norms and differences, is a compelling editorial selection. The stark disparities in
eating habits, language, and societal norms between two distinct countries become
evident. Peterson recounts his experience of being accustomed to consuming rice, while
his American mother, in an effort to foster a sense of belonging, insists on serving him
“cold cereal with milk” instead. She deems adherence to Korean dining customs
potentially alienating him (“Mom's Love in a Breakfast Bowl” 3). Typically, Korean
home-cooked meals feature hot white rice accompanied by warm soup or stew,
representing a stark difference from the typical American breakfast his mother serves.
The term “cold” not only describes the physical temperature of the breakfast but also
symbolizes the distance he feels from his new family and culture because he does not feel
he belongs to them (“Mom's Love in a Breakfast Bowl” 3). Peterson's recollection of
being of an age where he had already internalized Korean customs and manners results in
him feeling like a “guest” in his new family (“Mom's Love in a Breakfast Bowl” 3). The
phrase “a guest in their house” effectively captures his perception of himself within this
unfamiliar environment (“Mom's Love in a Breakfast Bowl” 3). The influence of his
Korean socialization further impedes his sense of belonging within the new American
family, creating a sense of detachment and highlighting the challenges he faced in
assimilating into a different cultural framework.
While yearning for the familiar comfort of Korean flavors in his American
breakfast, Peterson's memories of South Korea simultaneously challenged his
assimilation within his new family, contributing a unique voice to the collective narrative
of cultural negotiation and belonging. Drawing upon vivid childhood memories, Peterson
paints a poignant portrait of the enduring impact of his Korean upbringing on his
relationship with food. Having known near-starvation in his early years, Peterson reflects
on the factors that led to his adoption. His biological mother, navigating the dual burdens
of single parenthood and societal stigma towards mixed-race children, struggled to secure
sufficient income and support. Poverty thrust them onto the streets, forcing the
heartwrenching decision to relinquish him to Korea Social Services. In this act of
sacrifice, she prioritized his future well-being over the immediate hardship of separation.
This constant proximity to scarcity indelibly shaped Peterson's relationship with food,
fostering an unwavering resolve to never refuse a meal, regardless of its origins. This
behavior, born as a survival mechanism, stands as a testament to the enduring influence
of early formative experiences. Peterson's compelling narrative thus illuminates the
profound intersection of socioeconomic hardship, parental sacrifice, and the complex
motivations behind international adoption. It further underscores how race, identity, and
economic disadvantage intertwine to shape individual trajectories, offering a powerful
contribution to our understanding of these interconnected realities.
THE ARDUOUS QUEST FOR THEIR ORIGINS
Jan Kim's “Umma's Dreams Fulfilled” not only illuminates the ongoing quest for
diasporic mixed-race Korean adoptees to form a shared identity and collective memory,
but also reveals how DNA testing facilitates connections with biological family and
fellow adoptees. While their biological kin may not be their default family, it is natural
for mixed Korean adoptees to seek connection and explore their heritage. Delving into
their biological history is crucial to address the identity crisis stemming from their
distinct appearance compared to their family members or other Asian Americans. By
discovering another family heritage, they can gain a more balanced and comprehensive
understanding of themselves. Exploring the search for their biological kin not only helps
them unravel their past but also fosters a profound understanding of self. In this aspect,
the DNA testing offers both concrete answers and a sense of belonging, even as they
grapple with identity struggles and unresolved trauma. Jan Kim, a South Korean native,
spent her early years under the care of her mother until she was adopted at the age of
seven. Throughout her childhood, she remained unaware of her father's identity, as he
served as a Marine during the Korean War in 1952. However, through the aid of DNA
testing, she was able to locate and establish connections with two out of three biological
siblings from her father's lineage. Despite lacking any personal recollections of her father,
Kim demonstrates unwavering dedication in her pursuit to unearth her paternal lineage,
even resorting to the utilization of DNA testing. Jan Kim's revelation that her biological
father was not British, but American holds profound implications for her collective
diasporic identity. Kim's active efforts play a pivotal role in constructing a collective
diasporic identity. The agencies overseeing adoptions might have sought to avoid
conflicts or encounters between adoptees' biological and adoptive parents. Placing mixed
Korean adoptees in American families without connections to their biological roots or
previous cultural heritage might have been perceived as an optimal approach. However,
through the proactive initiatives of mixed Korean adoptees utilizing DNA testing, they
uncover their identities and foster shared collective memories. Kim's simple declaration
“one of them” transcended mere membership – it was a bridge to understanding, a
passport to shared identity and narrative, and a key unlocking a haven of belonging they
had unknowingly yearned for (“Umma's Dreams Fulfilled” 53). This resolution signifies
a response to the anxieties and uncertainties encountered during her journey of self-
discovery and identity formation within the context of adoption and mixed cultural
heritage.
The incessant quest for biological roots among mixed-race Korean adoptees
transcends individual yearnings, fueling a vibrant collective memory that reshapes
understandings of adoption, cultural identity, and belonging. Recent advancements in
DNA testing have ignited this pursuit, offering a revolutionary tool for piecing together
fragmented histories. The potential for genealogical reconstruction promises both
individual solace and a collective platform for amplifying marginalized voices. Through
the lens of personal narratives, adoptees contribute to a nuanced understanding of the
intricate psychological tapestry woven from separation, loss, and the resilience of cultural
rediscovery. Sarah Savidakis, aged 55, hailing from South Korea, found herself adopted
into a Connecticut family at the tender age of nine. Presently, she oversees 325Kamra,
Inc., a non-profit organization founded in November, dedicated to employing DNA
testing to facilitate connections between adoptees and their biological relatives in Korea.
Mixed Korean has made significant efforts to shape and convey their collective voices
through the form of donations. The back cover flap note of Mixed Korean states, “All
proceeds from the anthology will be donated to 325Kamra.org and
KoreanAmericanStory.org.” Savidakis, shaped by her personal journey and the hurdles
stemming from early childhood trauma, grapples with recollecting memories of her life in
Korea, particularly those related to her birth mother. In an interview with NBC News, she
revealed, “I have some flashbacks here and there,” adding, “to this day, my mother is
[like] a ghost or a silhouette.” The term “ghost” evokes a haunting quality, while the use
of “silhouette” emphasizes the shadowy and indistinct nature of her memories. The ghost
imagery serves to remind and complicate Kuristo's sentiments regarding his mother in
Fenkl's Memories of My Ghost Brother. Similar to the haunting presence, Kuristo
perceives his mother as elusive and difficult to envision, despite his efforts to
contemplate her. “To this day” further accentuates the enduring impact, highlighting how
the emotions and memories associated with her mother continue to shape her present
experiences. This, in turn, illustrates the complex consciousness of mixed- race Korean
adoptees, grappling with fragmented identities and lingering emotions from their past.
Through the mechanisms of DNA testing, she fortuitously discovered a first cousin, once
removed, who acted as a conduit to her half-brother and half-sister. This discovery
ultimately revealed the unfortunate passing of her father, affiliated with Scottish and Irish
lineage, in 2014 (Young Jin Kim “Mixed-Race Korean Adoptees Use DNA”). This
narrative underscores the intricate and emotionally charged journey of self-discovery
intertwined with the trials of identity reclamation that many adoptees navigate, which
contributes to the construction of collective memories.
In her autobiographical essay, “Thursday's Child,” Katherine Kim presents her
motive and initiative in employing DNA technology to aid adoptees in reconnecting with
their biological families. This contribution significantly enriches the collective memory
among individuals who, like her, have navigated the complexities of being mixed-race
adoptees. Specifically, her confusion regarding her racial identities, stemming from her
youth experiences, motivates her to seek resolution:
I grew up in cities and states where the divide was black and white. There were
few or no Asians, and certainly no half Asians. I always saw myself as white
because that was the space I occupied with my white Protestant father and my
white, ex-Catholic mother. There were constant reminders, however, that I wasn't
white. “Where are you from?” “No, I mean where are you really from?” My
adoption narrative was a story I could recite with ease, though I came to detest the
prying questions from people I didn't know. I hated that everyone asked me for
“my story” and had no qualms about it. (“Thursday's Child” 217–218) Kim's
upbringing in a racially divided environment prompts her to reconsider her racial identity,
a significant contribution to the collective memories of mixed-race Korean adoptees.
Despite her physical appearance not aligning with that of a white person, Kim identified
herself as white due to her upbringing within a family unit consisting of a white
Protestant father and a white ex-Catholic mother. The anxiety stemming from these
“constant reminders” serves as a driving force for her pursuit of her original roots,
contributing to the collective memories shared by mixed-race Korean adoptees, leading
to her fundamental questions about her root identity resurfacing repeatedly (“Thursday's
Child” 218). The recurring inquiries of “Where are you from?” followed by the insistence
of “Where are you really from?” also serves as incessant reminders of Kim's racial
difference (“Thursday's Child” 218). Her narrative resonates with adoptees who navigate
the intricacies of racial identity in a society divided along racial lines, fostering a sense of
belonging and collective understanding within the adoptee community.
Kim's narrative in “Thursday's Child” highlights how the use of DNA testing to
reconnect with biological families unveils intricate yet unheard narratives. These details,
including insights into how her Korean mother communicated with her American
biological father, significantly contribute to the collective memories constructed among
mixed-race Korean adoptees. They provide a platform for exploring and understanding
their shared experiences:
Fast forward nearly fifty years, and my mother's questions about my biology can
now be partly answered. Through DNA testing, I found my biological father's
family. I learned he'd had seven siblings and had grown up in a Queens, New
York tenement, a real cold-water flat. … I was told that my paternal grandmother
had even corresponded with my biological mother. I am guessing that any letters written
by my umma would have been transcribed by a professional letter writer. So many
women who corresponded with GIs had to do this because they couldn't speak or write
English, at least not well. (“Thursday's Child” 218) Through the DNA testing, Kim
successfully traced her biological father's family, revealing intricate details about his
upbringing. She also discovered that her biological father's family had knowledge of her
existence, evidenced by the hand-me-downs they sent to her mother in Korea. Moreover,
it is revealed that her paternal grandmother even engaged in correspondence with her
biological mother, possibly facilitated by a professional letter writer due to language
barriers. The shift from referring to her mother as “my mother” to using the Korean term
“umma” underscores the emotional shift experienced upon discovering their family
stories and her biological roots (“Thursday's
Child” 218). The exploration facilitated by the DNA test goes beyond the search for her
root identity and connections to both her father and mother's families. Moreover, this
quest enriches the narratives and adds depth to their stories, including portraying the
relationships between GIs and Korean women as more than fleeting or temporary
pleasures, contributing to the collective memories of mixed Korean adoptees.
Furthermore, this pursuit of discovering one's root identity serves as a proactive endeavor
to establish a distinct sense of self, extending beyond the notion of a traumatized
existence solely attributed to being mixed-race Korean adoptees in the United States.
ESCAPING FROM TRAUMATIC MEMORIES THROUGH SHARING STORIES
It is important to acknowledge that mixed race Korean adoptees are not passive
victims resigned to their circumstances, as evidenced by their active articulation of their
voices through the publication of Mixed Korean. The writing itself serves as a resilient
strategy to navigate the challenges they faced while simultaneously seeking to uncover
their roots and forge their identities. Mixed Korean provides a platform for mixed race
Korean adoptees to escape from their traumatic past to some extent by sharing their
experiences through their own narratives. Writing about their traumatic past can serve as
a channel to release feelings that they may find difficult to express to anyone else. As
Cathy Caruth introduces in her edited volume, Trauma: Explorations in Memory,
posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is defined:
a response, sometimes delayed, to an overwhelming event or set of events, which
takes the form of repeated, intrusive hallucinations, dreams, thoughts or behaviors
stemming from the event, along with numbing that may have begun during or
after the experience, and possibility also increased arousal to (and avoidance of)
stimuli recalling the event. (Caruth 4)
The definition of PTSD and her subsequent arguments suggest that trauma cannot be
accurately represented or articulated. While partially agreeing with Caruth's theory, E.
Ann Kaplan argues that “telling stories about trauma, even though the story can never
actually repeat or represent what happened, may partly achieve a certain ‘working
through’ for the victim” (37). Kaplan emphasizes that articulating traumatic experiences
provides “a kind of empathic ‘sharing’” that offers a means for traumatized individuals to
progress forward (37). In other words, sharing traumatic stories can help individuals who
have experienced traumatic events to acknowledge their past trauma, allowing their
stories to be heard and arousing a sense of empathy. As Wertsch points out,
autobiographical narratives might not be emotionally neutral—“In most cases, these
resources are not neutral cognitive instruments that simply assist us in our efforts to
remember. Instead, we are often committed to believing, or not believing them,
sometimes in deeply emotional ways having to do with fundamental issues of identity”
(9). Mixed race Koreans' autobiographical narratives including their traumatic pasts
might not always function as “neutral cognitive instruments” (Wertsch 9). However,
through articulating their past memories, their narratives can help them to understand
their complicated emotions in the past and build their group identity as mixed Korean
adoptees.
Kim Einhorn's “The Yellow Bus” illustrates how mixed-race Korean adoptees,
like herself, navigate past traumatic memories to embark on a new chapter in their
present and future lives, and it achieves this by confronting her trauma through the act of
writing her own stories and by embracing connections with her biological families: Kayla
and Luke [Kim Einhorn's children] will accompany me to the airport, running to the
arrival gate together, they know the routine by heart. They will sandwich their
grandmother in between them, squeezing her with a group hug. My mother will have
tears in her eyes as she smiles joyously. I'll be right there too, smiling with tears in my
eyes too, not caring if anyone else standing near us sees our emotions. Memories from
the past will be temporarily shelved, and we will have forgotten all the horrors and
traumas, as we eagerly embrace the present. My bus rides will truly feel like a thing of
the past because being together is the sweetest joy. (“The Yellow Bus” 236)
Kim Einhorn's narrative captures a poignant moment of familial reunion, evoking a sense
of emotional healing and resilience in the face of past traumas experienced as a
mixedrace Korean adoptee. Kim Einhorn's depression, resulting from being teased by a
busload of students, was not fully understood by her mother due to her mother's extreme
trauma during the war. Despite the untranslatability of their trauma, Kim Einhorn decides
to move beyond the pain to cherish the joyous moments when her entire family is
together. Through the use of the future tense, Kim Einhorn creates a self-fulfilling
prophecy to overcome her traumatic past and continues to envision a happier future with
her family. The reunion at the airport encapsulates a pivotal moment of overcoming the
weight of trauma and forging connections rooted in love and kinship. In particular, the
use of the first-person plural pronoun “we” holds significance (“The Yellow Bus” 236).
“We” refer not only to Kim herself and her biological families but also show an enhanced
understanding of her and her biological families' situations. As the pronoun suggests,
“we” extend to mixed-race Korean adoptees and their families through sharing this their
stories in this anthology, constructing not just their collective memories but also
providing the power to escape from their traumatic and lonely pasts. This intimate
moment represented in the clause “being together is the sweetest joy” becomes a
testament to communal resilience, highlighting the power of familial bonds to transcend
the scars of the past and provide a sanctuary of love and belonging for those who have
navigated the complexities of mixed-race adoptee experiences.
Sharing the experiences of mixed-race Koreans, Mixed Korea: Our Stories
pursues a broader and more inclusive “we” identity beyond their own ethnic group on the
preface:
For our mixed brothers and sisters.
May these stories shine a light of understanding
on the present, and serve as a foundation of
compassion for the future. Just as the earth of
our ancestral homelands lives within our bones,
let us use the wisdom of our experience to
create a world where all mixed people are
embraced and celebrated.
Including the title of the book and the preface, this book uses the first-person plural
pronoun to invite “all mixed people.” Mixed Korea also makes an attempt to bring the
mixed people community closer, treating them like families by referring to other mixed
people as “brothers and sisters.” Through this emotional intimacy, Mixed Korea
considerately asks other mixed people to share their stories for the construction of
collective memories, making their unheard narratives heard: “It takes bravery to divulge
our narratives to the world. We hope in the telling of our stories, that we will empower
others with the courage to share their own” (“Acknowledgments” x). While the novels by
individual authors examined in the previous chapters are unable to form communities,
Mixed Korean raises awareness of a “We” identity and takes a step forward in building a
community for their collective voice. This collectivity comes into existence through
individual mixed-race Koreans' search for community through DNA testing, as well as
through meet-ups and organizations including Karma 325. Their efforts to broaden their
communities extend from those among mixed-race Koreans to include their scattered
biological families, and further to other Koreans, both those who are their biological
families residing in South Korea and those who are not biologically related with them, as
a form of transnational solidarity for empathetic communities.
