Am I Really Jealous of Someone Whose Mom Just Died? (Michelle Zauner - Crying in H Mart)
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Two Michelles Walk Into a Free People
From ages 18–21, I worked at the popular (and ethically questionable) women’s retailer, Free People.
Free People is every twenty-year-old white girl’s bohemian bliss. From its trademark patchwork fitting room curtains to its turquoise stacking rings, Free People is quintessential to every girl who un-ironically uses the word “groovy” and spends a painful $78 on a plain t-shirt with holes literally manufactured into it.
This girl is also bringing back bell bottoms, has a macrame purse, and whenever she’s feeling particularly nostalgic, will drive with the windows down and is almost undoubtedly listening to Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams”.
Your typical Free People store. You get the point.
Now, if you’re the head honcho of Free People, how would you curate a playlist for this girl? The CEO thinks to himself: “What should our shopper be listening to as she glides over our perfectly finger-spaced clothes hangers? This is a groovy girl who bops her head at a beach party. She likes synth-pop, flea markets, jade rollers, and waits at a NYC bus stop with a baguette and floral tendrils sticking out of a tote bag. Well, she already knows ‘Dreams’ by Fleetwood Mac… Hmm…”
And then it hits him.
Enter Japanese Breakfast’s “Road Head”.
I have probably listened to “Road Head” a thousand times over my shifts at Free People. At the time, though, I had no idea who Japanese Breakfast was, or what the title of the song even was. I didn’t know that their lead vocalist was a half-Korean Oregon-native whose name was Michelle Zauner. I didn’t even know there was a Michelle Zauner.
I just knew that I liked the song whenever it played in the store. Other customers did, too.
“What’s the name of this song?” they’d sometimes ask me.
“Oh, uh, I’m not sure actually. It’s just the playlist that Corporate makes,” I’d answer.
I couldn’t really take a guess, either. It didn’t sound like anything or anyone I’d really heard before.
Miley Cyrus? No…
Ariana Grande? Definitely not.
The vocals were nasally, haunting, and foreign to my ears. The song followed a strange rhythm and beat that was unlike the other songs being played in the store or on the radio. Whenever it played in the rotation, I actually stayed on the sales floor and would just enjoy listening. It was like listening to ghosts just sort of vibing with each other. It was just this mystery singer and mystery song.
Cut to two and a half-ish years later.
I no longer work for Free People and I haven’t heard the song since. It’s a random ass day, and I’m doing my regular mindless scroll through my Instagram explore page.
That’s where I spot it.
I see this new book title announcement; it’s a bright red cover with a pair of chop sticks holding cartoon noodles. I click on the picture, read the title, and my jaw literally drops. I let out a silent holyyyy shittt at one of the best book titles I’ve ever come across.
The exact post that caught my eye in my explore page.
“Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner…,” I say to myself. “Wow.”
I instantly start doing some digging on the author and the book.
Okay. So Crying in H Mart is a memoir about this “Michelle Zauner.” It chronicles her life growing up Korean-American, her angst-filled teenage years, navigating the loss of her mother, and finding her sense of identity once again through the food that connects her to home. Sold. So so sold. I needed to know when it was available and I had to learn more about the person who came up with the greatest book title. I wanted to know who this was, and how this person could’ve thought of a title that quite literally penetrated my soul in ways that were surprising even to me.
I tapped on the Instagram picture to discover the tagged author: “@jbrekkie”
Oh, she’s half Korean!
Oh, she’s mainly a musician.
Okay, let’s listen to some of her music.
Sure. Why not?
“Road Head.” Weird name for a song.
Fuck it. Play.
…
Oh. My. God. Wait. I… I know this song!
It’s her!!!!
It’s fucking Japanese Breakfast.
Be Sweet to Her, Baby
Here’s why I felt super stoked: I finally discovered the title of a song I really liked and thought was lost forever. Andddd it turned out that Japanese Breakfast is just an artist/band whose entire discography I genuinely enjoy. So, new music!
But after that initial excitement wore off, here’s why I felt a little afflicted: it happened again—another famous person lands a book deal and releases something I wish I could’ve written myself.
Upon learning that Crying in H Mart was not written by some no-name, “traditional” hard-working writer who finally made it after years and years of rejection, but by Michelle Zauner (AKA Japanese Breakfast AKA someone at an advantageous position with built-in marketing power and clout), that original joy and fascination I had for this mystery author was compromised.
Instead, I was reminded of the massive chip on my shoulder. This chip looks like a famous person who writes a book and gets published like it’s nothing.
Chip aside, I had two choices in front of me. I could either:
Deprive myself by not reading it, and thus, not give her the sale.
Get over it, be sweet to and happily support a fellow Asian-American artist, and read a book I knew I would fall in love with.
I chose Option #2. (Sure, I always get a little sad when a celebrity or even slightly-famous person drops a book, but I’m actually not at all that resentful or naive so as to deprive myself of good art.)
So okay, let’s do this. Add to cart. Check out. Give me everything you have, Michelle. I’m ready.
Crying Over Crying in H Mart
I was not fucking ready. Not for any of it.
I was a few pages in, and then the most peculiar thing happened. I noticed that almost all of my resentment was just gone. Usually, when I’m reading a celebrity’s book, I have my guard up and I’m kind of waiting for their work to prove itself to me. This wasn’t the case when I was reading Crying in H Mart. I found myself legitimately just so swept up in her voice and story so early on. In just a couple of pages, Michelle had already broken through all of my defenses (or offenses).
Here’s how my walls came crashing down and how I came to just straight up enjoy: her heart is so clear and on display within the first few pages, it’s absolutely impossible to have any guards up with her. You want to invite her in, and you want to be let in. Michelle’s voice is so earnest, pure, and delicate. I could never keep myself away from a voice so compelling and honest. This is the first line of the book:
“Ever since my mom died, I cry in H Mart.”
That’s really all it took for me. From this very first sentence, I understood that for Michelle, writing this book and getting published didn’t just happen “like it was nothing.”
In fact, navigating and writing through the grief of your mother’s death is quite literally the opposite of “like it was nothing.”
I also remembered how exactly I’ve come to know Michelle. She had a song that would play at a random Free People. Nobody knew the name of the band. Nobody knew the name of the song. Michelle, just like another no-name, “traditional” hard-working author, has faced tons and tons of rejection (probably) in her own music career. She was another no-name “traditional” hard-working musician who worked and worked until she finally earned her “yes”.
From there, reading her story was so easy. So enjoyable, in a cry-your-heart-out kind of way.
As a Korean-American woman myself, I found her tales so relatable. From denying my Korean heritage at a young age, marrying a white guy, and even sneaking out of the house to drink cheap liquor in the dark somewhere, Crying in H Mart truly felt like home to me. I understood the names of foods and what they represented, and although I’ve been fortunate enough not to have lost my mom to cancer, I was able empathize and feel the pain through Michelle’s beautiful and heartbreaking writing.
Now, I’m not much of a cryer, but I wept when Michelle described the moment her mother passed away. By the time I was done reading her memoir, I felt like I knew Michelle much better. And even though I’ve never met her, it makes me smile to know that we spent all that time at Free People together.
When I once desperately wanted this Michelle Zauner to be No One, she became Someone very important to me. I felt like someone had written a book just for me. And, call it strange, but Crying in H Mart truly became a friend of mine.
And I was right not to have been foolish and deprive myself; it is one of my favorite books of all time.
Looking at Michelle
Japanese Breakfast AKA Michelle Zauner AKA the author of Crying in H Mart
In retro- and introspect, I wonder why I was even concerning myself with her right to write. Why the hell did it matter who she was? Her social clout and level of fame? Everyone is entitled to creating art. Who the fuck am I to gatekeep that?
The truth was, I was just bitter that it wasn’t me.
I was bitter that she had an hour-long call with my musical hero, Ben Gibbard, talking about the amazing book she wrote.
I was bitter that she was both musically talented and an amazing writer who became a NY Times Best Seller.
I was bitter that her memoir was being adapted into a film.
I was bitter that it was her, and not me.
When someone who looks like you, but isn’t you is living out your dream, you’re poised to feel a bit that way. I thought, here’s a Korean girl who has my eyes, my taste in music, my appetite!
But here’s the thing… I don’t have her story. And you know what? I’m very fortunate that I don’t. Why in God’s name was I envious of a woman who had lost her mother to cancer? I think if I were to have told her I was jealous of her, she’d smack me silly and call me “bah-bo!” (Korean for “dumbie”) in that way unnies (Korean for “sisters”) do.
So, no. I didn’t come up with the title “Crying in H Mart”. I didn’t speak to Ben Gibbard about my artistry. I didn’t have a song play in Free People. I didn’t lose my Umma to cancer.
And I’m grateful.
I think if there’s one thing Michelle Zauner might want that I have, it’s that: Umma.
I’m not comparing our piles. I’ve come to just truly appreciate. Accept. Love. Show compassion for her. For me. For my dreams. For her story. For my Umma. For hers.
Until I can tell a story of my own and gain that kind of literary success, I know what book I’ll be rereading for inspiration.
What song I’ll be listening to.
