Crying in H Mart

As the plane descends in the dark into Hong Kong, I greedily finished the final few pages of Michelle Zauner's Crying in H Mart. (It may also interest you to know that the seat belt sign switched off during the second post-credit scene of Eternals on my out-bound flight... serendipity?) “Heartbreaking” “Fascinating” were adjectives printed on the cover but I found myself not entirely clearing the bars despite trying hard to.

Of course, the visceral moments of grief were indeed gut-wrenching. But when blended with the difficulties of navigating a third-cultured identity, almost seemed too stereotypical — perhaps even spoiled.

On one hand it was a beautiful, raw encounter that would resonate with a lot of halpus or overseas-educated Asians. On the other hand, perhaps it was heartbreaking for some other reason — to witness the facets of filial piety and generational trauma manifesting as “too little too late” in Asian kids.

My favourite thing about the read: it totally made me fall in love with Korean food again, the same way watching David Chang cook with his umma did.

PS one thing that really bugged me was that Myeongdong Kyoja was described two times — but only one mentioned the name. Why?

Edit: read other 1-star reviews to sooth my chicken-self and would also agree that it was kinda boring and her husband seemed like a bit of a convenient tool for her (unless a lot of other things have gone unmentioned). Yes memoirs are not really for other's judgement but I can't really see why it's so highly rated.