Han Kang’s Nobel triumph: What it means for Korean Americans

Jason Lim

Growing old is not great. I mean, in addition to random, unexplained pains, I still don't understand how I can pull a muscle while sleeping. But it does have its advantages. You enjoy the perspective that can only come from living through certain seminal experiences that you can't get by reading about it in a book or watching it reenacted in a film. When the Swedish Academy announced Han Kang as the Nobel Prize laureate in literature, it felt like one of those moments that would stay and reverberate for the rest of my life.

Growing up in the 1980s in New York City meant that Korean culture was invisible. In fact, Korean anything was invisible. Anything Asian was essentially Japanese, from the Walkman and Miatas to the original Shogun TV series. Even Bruce Willis made his bones in Nakatomi Plaza. And the most unimaginable thing was that the only ramen available was the Ichiban brand. Korean ramen? Not a thing.

The first crack in this invisibility was when Hyundai started selling its Pony cars for $4,995. I still remember the TV commercial for the car. Watching it with my friend, I remember being pleased that something so obviously Korean made its debut in the mainstream. The next seminal Korea-related event in majority consciousness was the Olympics in 1988. I remember watching the opening ceremony on a small screen in Bryan Center at Duke University, along with a sad coterie of students who had nothing better to do on a weekend evening.

The next one wasn't about achievement; it was about doubt and dread. It was the 1992 Los Angeles Riots. I was somewhat removed from what was happening due to my distance since I am an East Coaster, but I couldn't help but connect with an underlying sense of disbelief and fear as I saw the situation spiral out of control. This could easily have been my parents, who ran a dry cleaner in a blue-collar neighborhood of Yonkers, New York. Who can forget the scene of Korean shopkeepers defending their stores by firing guns into the darkness marked with smoke and fire?

Maybe that's why I am forever grateful to the two figures that became the focus of Korean American pride in the late 1990s: Park Chan-ho and Pak Se-ri. When just breaking through to the top of their respective leagues was incredible enough, they competed at the top of their game and proved that they could be one of the best. While Park Ji-sung's heroics in Manchester United round out the athletic trifecta of the three, Chan-ho and Se-ri will forever be in the hearts of all Korean Americans who lived in America during that era.

Today, Korean merchandise and pop culture have become a dominant force throughout the globe, even in shaping how we go about in our everyday lives. It's not just BTS, BLACKPINK and "Parasite." It's Hyundai, Samsung, LG, and all the other known or unknown brands that are making their inroads into the consumer radar. In fact, Korean culture is so dominant that it's very difficult to achieve another breakthrough.

Until Han Kang, that is. Though Korean cinema and music have recently gained international visibility, Korean literature has remained somewhat of an underexplored gem in the global literary landscape. While her win engenders obvious pride, it also stirs a more complex conversation about identity within the Korean American community. For those of us who left Korea at a young age or grew up distanced from our cultural roots, the Nobel Prize can feel like a reminder of what has been lost. Many Korean Americans have spent years attempting to integrate into American life, often at the cost of our fluency in the Korean language or understanding of Korean history and traditions. Han Kang's recognition on the world stage may prompt a renewed interest in reconnecting with that part of our identity, but it may also highlight the linguistic and cultural barriers that have emerged over time, further bringing home the fact that Korean Americans are not Korean Koreans.

Though her themes are universally resonant, the full weight of her writing — especially in terms of the cultural and historical references she invokes — may not always land as poignantly with those of us who are less familiar with the intricacies of Korean history and the associated emotional legacies. However, her narratives are not entirely strange or foreign either. They are not just us entirely. It almost feels like I am missing my first crush in elementary school in Seoul, but I know that such a person has never existed since I grew up in New York City. The memory feels powerfully authentic and emotionally touching, but it's not actually my experience. It's fake, but it's also real.

But maybe this is a reminder that the stories of Korean Americans, with our unique intersections of culture, history and resilience, are just as worthy of being told, heard and celebrated. My hope is that this moment encourages even more Korean Americans to embrace our own experiences while forging new paths forward. In celebrating her work, we celebrate ourselves and the multifaceted identity that defines us.

Jason Lim (jasonlim@msn.com) is a Washington-based expert on innovation, leadership and organizational culture. The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not reflect The Korea Times’ editorial stance.