Pulitzer Prize-Winner Ilyon Woo on Craft Lessons From the Late Filmmaker Dai Sil Kim Gibson ‹ Literary Hub

I’ve by no means heard an Asian lady—definitely not one in her eighties—cuss as exuberantly or frequently because the late filmmaker Dai Sil Kim Gibson. I image her throwing her head again, glass raised, cackling on the sound of her personal F-bombs, her wild hair shaking: kinetic iron spirals. She cooked like she lived and filmed, with feeling. She made the perfect bindaetok, or Korean mung bean pancakes, rushed, sizzling, and crusted. (Her secret ingredient: kimchi juice.)

She was additionally well-known for her Iowa Fried Rooster, primarily based on a dish made by her beloved husband’s mom, solely even higher, by all reviews. (Right here, too, a tang of acid—lemon—made it fly.) From this riotous cook dinner, activist, writer, and keeper of historical past—Dai Sil, as she most popular to be referred to as by all—I realized two important storytelling classes which might be additionally residing classes, which modified my writing and me.

These classes start with the Korean phrase han, which has been referred to as an existentially Korean phenomenon of grief or anguish, one which defies translation—although recently, there was some contestation over the time period and what it means. In her ebook Silence Damaged, about Korean ladies who have been systematically sexually enslaved by the Japanese in the course of the second World Conflict, Dai Sil defines han as: “lengthy sorrow and struggling turned inward.” “Lengthy” is just not confined to a single lifetime. It accrues in layers, grows in knots, individually but additionally probably over generations and handed down.

Dai Sil defines han as: “lengthy sorrow and struggling turned inward.” “Lengthy” is just not confined to a single lifetime. It accrues in layers, grows in knots, individually but additionally probably over generations and handed down.

Han saturates her work—whether or not Sa-I-Gu, her movie concerning the Los Angeles riots; or A Forgotten Folks, about Koreans left behind on the Sakhalin Islands; or the movie model of Silence Damaged. In every of those documentaries, han haunts. And but, Dai Sil’s energy as a storyteller derives from her potential to see the people whose sufferings she tells, past their collective trauma.

My first, important lesson from Dai Sil on this theme got here to me as a narrative. I assisted her—and her pricey pal and frequent filmic collaborator, Charles Burnett—on location in Korea on the movie model of Silence Damaged. However I used to be not current for his or her early interviews of the “Halmeonis,” or grandmothers, as Dai Sil most popular to name the previous “consolation ladies”—a horrible euphemism she purposefully deployed. (I honor her phrase alternative right here, wishing solely that I knew the person names of the ladies, as she had. Names are so typically the primary issues to go when tales are handed down, particularly in translation.)

Dai Sil instructed me of how, when she initially approached the “Halmeonis,” a lot of them had already been interviewed earlier than—repeatedly—and would launch into what had turn out to be a recitation of trauma. Dai Sil discovered this unsettling and remembered asking one specific Halmeoni if she may inform one thing of what she knew and liked and did in her life earlier than the camps.

“You wish to find out about my childhood?” The Halmeoni was at first incredulous. Nobody had expressed such curiosity in who she was earlier than the occasions that got here to outline her, not less than within the public eye. However Dai Sil acknowledged the fullness of who this lady was, and in doing so, acquired and represented the fullness of her story.

The Halmeonis, regardless of a lot of them having repeatedly spoken to the press—could possibly be specific about who they instructed their tales to, who they wished to be within the room. When a younger male manufacturing assistant entered the area, one Halmeoni, Dai Sil recalled, pointed to him and commanded: “Out.” She was certain that he was of Japanese ancestry and was furious at his presence, even when Dai Sil promised her he was of Korean ancestry. One other Halmeoni questioned why Charles Burnett was directing the undertaking. What did this American filmmaker find out about their story? That he was Black didn’t enter into the equation: What they cared about was that he was American, not Korean. That is when Dai Sil mentioned, gently: “His individuals have identified han, Halmeoni.” And with this quiet utterance, a phrase turned a bridge, by which these girls admitted an unknown traveler into their world.

I’ve returned to those tales again and again as I’ve labored alone telling of the story of two people whose experiences and historical past lie far outdoors my very own—Ellen and William Craft—in my newest ebook, Grasp Slave Husband Spouse. Dai Sil’s oral historical past interviews have jogged my memory of the significance of making an attempt to see who the Crafts have been earlier than and after the unforgettable escape from slavery that has come to outline them—the fullness of who they’re. And her phrase—“His individuals have identified han”—gave me a framework for beholding the fullness of their expertise, what got here earlier than them, what they carried, and what they handed on. (By the way, it will be Charles Burnett who would introduce me to a descendant of the Crafts, a great-great-granddaughter, Peggy Trotter Dammond Preacely.)

Then, too, there was one other operative Korean phrase, additionally thought of a translation problem: jung. Approximations embody love or affection or sympathy or attachment, nevertheless it, like han, is seasoned in layers, and it’s advanced. You possibly can hate somebody and really feel jung for them. You possibly can really feel jung regardless of your self. Jung, too, inhabits and haunts.

Each of those ideas, han and jung, guided my understanding of the Crafts and their story: on the one hand, the saturated struggling, unbound by time or lifetime, on the opposite, the jung that introduced the Crafts collectively not solely with one another however with their individuals and their world, making it potential and needed for them to hold on. That is why my authentic title for the ebook learn: Grasp Slave Husband Spouse: An American Love Story. Solely in my head, it was American Jung story.

Purists might say that these expressions are uniquely Korean. Or, that as a Korean American writing in English, I’m not getting them proper, that they’re in translation.

Purists might say that these expressions are uniquely Korean. Or, that as a Korean American writing in English, I’m not getting them proper, that they’re in translation. Only a taste, a mode, a aptitude, like my cooking isn’t “actually” Korean, like Dai Sil’s hen isn’t “actually” Iowa. I’m fairly certain I do know what Dai Sil Ajuma—from whom I realized about one phrase, han, whereas feeling, deeply, the opposite, jung—would say to that, and it’s not printable. However I can freely conjure the gesture, as Daisil, along with her husband Don chuckling beside her, hoots and raises her glass.

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Ilyon Woo’s Grasp Slave Husband Spouse is out there now.