When Someone Tells You How It Feels to Be Them, Believe It
Min Jin Lee looked over the crowd of us gathered to hear her speak at R.J. Julia Booksellers in Madison, Connecticut, last night. She grinned, joked, told stories, read from her excellent novel Pachinko.
Lee was effusive, frank, wide-open laughing, powerful, and serious, as present with strangers as any speaker I have ever seen. She was brutally frank about her speech issues when she was a young child landed in the United States at seven, knowing only Korean and in a country so loud, boisterous, and different from anything she’d ever known.
A quiet, different child, she was nurtured and supported by librarians and teachers who guided her to books and to stories that engaged, enchanted, taught, books that she reveled in the sheer pleasure of words so elegantly and intelligently written, reading the sentences of Willa Cather and classics of the 1800s again and again. Ultimately, her goal was to write clear, elegant, pure as the masters, but with an American sensibility, current and clear, straightforward prose.
I have not yet read her book. I will, though, very soon. More than three random people have told me that it’s a great book. Three is the turning point for her in deciding what to read next; she exulted that three was the number of recommendations she used to figure out what book to pick up next.
Plus, Min Jin Lee signed my book. We connected over the paperback, my telling her the story of my name — she collects names and stories about names as she travels the world. She told me that I looked familiar — I have that kind of face, a kind and laughing one that is safe to tell secrets, to confide, to share your joys and sorrows.
The woman standing in line behind me was loud. This reader declared that Lee was not shy as she’d stated several times during her talk. Look at what you did here, look at how you’re traveling and talking with all of us! You’re not shy.
I didn’t say anything — I was too taken aback by the brash declaration in someone’s face that her experience of herself in the world is wrong.
Lee is shy. She said so. It’s her story and her life and she knows it better than anyone else. Thirty minutes in a packed room does not give anyone the insight nor the right to pronounce judgment with triumphant authority.
Lee is on book tour. Her book was a finalist for the National Book awards. Presenting your story, showing up and talking to crowds of strangers is what writers do when they are tremendously successful and people are clamoring to buy and read their book, when the book has been translated and is being sold around the world. The publisher suggests, insists, makes something happen and off you go, doing your best to make it comfortable, supportive and interesting for yourself. Hence, Lee asks for names.
All the markers and indicators for a shy person were presented, the background, the difference in ability to speak, the social differences, the preference for books and studies and determined work on a story that grabbed you decades ago and did not let go until you typed THE END and gave it to your agent.
Lee says she’s shy. Believe her.
She may be so much more than that, more than what you think a shy person is and does, but she is shy. Shy is a part of her, an essential part of who she is in the world, in how it feels to be her, writing incredible stories for a receptive audience.
Listen to her, read her book, respect her being. Rejoice that she is also a smart, kind, courteous person who does the book tour, makes the speeches, wonders out loud, makes jokes, and makes you glad to have braved a grim, cold night in January to share in her warmth.
