The morning before I watched Minari, I caught up with one of the most thoughtful young people I know to chat with her about food and Asian American identity for her senior thesis. We talked about racial identity, comfort food, embracing our cultures, and the tightly woven connection between culture, family, and food. I told her about my fraught relationship with the question of “what’s your comfort food,” my journey to understanding myself as Asian American and biracial, and my unexpected grief over never learning the particular dumpling fold my grandmother could do (the 小耗子, or little rat) before she passed. This was of course a very sensible thing to do ahead of this movie, and created a very stable foundation from which to watch a film about the Asian American experience, family, and food (it didn’t).
While I think it goes without saying, I’ll add my voice to the chorus: go see Minari. It’s beautiful and heartbreaking, funny and comforting, harrowing and joyful. It reflects on masculinity, utility, duty, the American Dream, new starts, and family. It made me cry six times, and I thought maybe those were the most appropriate moments for me to write about. Spoilers ahead.
“Mom. You’re finally here.” … “You’re crying again? Because of anchovies?”
I see my mom and myself. I see the unspoken love in food and the meaning and power behind food as a gift, or as a gesture. I see my mom’s misty eyes as she hugs me hello or goodbye. I also see her at a surprise party after my husband proposed; I see her handing me an old framed photo of the myself, my mom, and my grandmother, who would have loved to see me today; I see us collapsing into each other’s arms as we realize I’m wearing the same dress my mom is wearing in the photo. I see myself stopped in my tracks in an Asian grocery store in Manhattan, holding a box of Choco-Pies. I remember my grandfather buying them in bulk for me to take home to the US after every China trip. I see my eyes go misty, just like my mother’s.
“Grandma won’t let you die. Who? Who dares to scare my grandson like this? Don’t worry. Grandma won’t let you die.”
I see my grandmother. I see her fiery spirit inside her small body. I hear her letting me call her 奶奶 for all my life, the word for paternal grandmother, even though I should have been calling her the word for maternal grandmother, 姥姥 (I learned by copying my cousin, for whom she was her paternal grandmother). I see her sitting in her armchair and laughing, cracking jokes. I see her meandering her way through the local market, haggling over fresh produce and chestnuts. I see the fierce love she embodied, her toughness, the quiet but determined way she walked. I see my own fear of death that I developed at an early age, one that sent me crawling into my parent’s bed as a child. I see the same brown, pungent, mystery medicinal tea served to me that Soonja serves to David, sloshing in a shallow bowl and lifted by my grandmother’s small hands. I see myself turn up my nose at it until stern coaxing from my mom. I see the message hidden at the bottom of the cup: I will protect you.
Monica and Soonja are in the hospital. Monica rubs Soonja’s legs and arranges the covers over her, while Soonja lays quietly in the bed.
I see my mom in China, tending to her aging parents. I see her caring for them even as they forgot her. I see her holding their hands: my grandmother’s hand at home, my grandfather’s hand in the hospital. I see her pulled between two countries, juggling two impossibly gigantic duties: one to me, her only child in the US, and one to her parents in Beijing. I see her quiet resolve, her duty as the eldest child, her unspoken but deeply felt love for my grandparents. I see her buying plane tickets and checking her phone in airports as she shuttled back and forth on a 6 month cadence. I see her gazing silently at each of my grandparents, thinking and remembering but not speaking. I see the love spoken through her eyes and her hands. I see her love reciprocated, even when she isn’t sure. Especially when she isn’t sure.
“Grandma had a stroke. She needs to rest.” “Why did it happen?” “It’s my fault. This happened because I was selfish.”
I see my mom again, being crushed under the weight of responsibility. I see her guilt and shame as she remembers moments with her parents that weren’t perfect, that could have been better. I see her looking for an answer that offers some modicum of control, one that isn’t simply life or randomness or luck of the draw. I see her stroking my hair. I see her backlit by the morning sun, looking out her bedroom window as I, still a child, watch from the doorway. She’s strong, tired, resolute. I see us embracing as she quietly sobs into my teenage shoulders. She wants to protect everyone. I see my own heart shift slightly as I commit myself to protecting her. I think this might be our family legacy.
Monica and Jacob are crawling away from the vegetable shed, collapsing into each other. Jacob holds her as she sobs, and they both watch flames engulf the shed.
I see the fear and danger of the American Dream. I see the precarious position so many of us find ourselves in, only one emergency away from zero. I see grief. I see the spinning wheels of planning, mentally scrambling to decide what must happen next. I see survival mode. I see my grandparents living in a tiny multi-family home, I see them eating rice for all three meals, I see them hiding my uncle. I hear my grandfather call my mom away from the window as the army opened fire in Tiananmen Square nearby. I also see my grandfather celebrating outside the US Embassy after my mom’s visa was approved. I see a crowd of people gathered around to hear her experience. I see fear and grief, but trust and resolve as well. I see community care.
David is running after Soonja.
I see perseverance. I see bravery. I see family. I see love.
You can watch Minari in the A24 Virtual Screening Room or on various streaming platforms. 待会儿见。