Crying in H Mart
Michelle Zauner’s Crying in H Mart is a luminous, gut-wrenching memoir that transcends the boundaries of personal storytelling to become a profound meditation on grief, cultural identity, and the unspoken language of love. As the lead singer of the indie pop band Japanese Breakfast*, Zauner is no stranger to crafting art that resonates deeply with audiences, but in her literary debut, she unveils a narrative voice that is raw, lyrical, and achingly honest. Published in 2021, this memoir—born from a viral New Yorker piece of the same name—has rightfully earned its place as a New York Times bestseller, captivating readers with its vivid prose, emotional authenticity, and celebration of Korean American heritage. For anyone who has navigated the complexities of family, loss, or identity, this book is a treasure to be cherished and revisited.
At its core, Crying in H Mart is a love letter to Zauner’s mother, Chongmi, whose battle with pancreatic cancer and subsequent death in 2014 serves as the memoir’s emotional anchor. Zauner, who was just 25 at the time of her mother’s diagnosis, chronicles the harrowing journey of caregiving, the fractured yet tender bond between mother and daughter, and the enduring impact of loss. The memoir opens with a poignant scene in an H Mart supermarket, where Zauner finds herself overwhelmed with grief, surrounded by the sights and smells of Korean ingredients that evoke memories of her mother. This setting—H Mart, a chain specializing in Asian groceries—becomes a powerful metaphor for Zauner’s search for connection, as she grapples with the question: “Am I even Korean anymore if there’s no one left to call and ask which brand of seaweed we used to buy?”. This opening sets the tone for a narrative that is both deeply personal and universally relatable, inviting readers into Zauner’s world with unflinching vulnerability.
One of the memoir’s greatest strengths is its exploration of the mother-daughter relationship, which Zauner portrays with unflinching honesty. Chongmi is depicted as a complex figure—strict, exacting, and at times emotionally distant, yet fiercely loving in her own way. Zauner does not shy away from the tensions that defined their relationship, from her rebellious teenage years in Eugene, Oregon, to the cultural clashes that arose from her biracial identity. Growing up as one of the few Asian American kids in her hometown, Zauner often felt caught between worlds, yearning to fit in with her peers while navigating her mother’s high expectations. Yet, it is through food that mother and daughter find common ground, bonding over late-night feasts in Seoul or shared meals of ganjang gejang and soy-sauce eggs. Zauner’s descriptions of these dishes are so vivid and sensory that readers can almost taste the salty richness of raw crab or the comforting warmth of cold radish soup. Food becomes the unspoken language of love, a thread that weaves through the memoir and binds Zauner to her mother’s memory.
The memoir’s structure is another triumph, blending episodic vignettes with a semi-chronological narrative that mirrors the ebb and flow of grief. Zauner seamlessly interweaves memories of her childhood, her artistic coming-of-age, and the devastating progression of her mother’s illness. Each chapter feels like a carefully crafted essay, rich with intimate anecdotes and moments of quiet wisdom. For example, Zauner’s recounting of her mother’s final days is both heartbreaking and transformative, as she navigates the practicalities of caregiving while confronting the inevitability of loss. The memoir does not shy away from the physical realities of cancer—chemo’s toll on Chongmi’s appetite, the clumps of hair in the bathtub—but it also captures the small acts of love that endure, like Chongmi’s gentle coo of “Gwaenchanha, gwaenchanha” (“It’s OK, sweetheart, don’t cry”). These moments are rendered with such tenderness that they linger long after the page is turned.
Zauner’s prose is a revelation, striking a perfect balance between lyrical beauty and plainspoken honesty. Her background as a musician shines through in the rhythm and cadence of her sentences, which often feel like music themselves. Descriptions of Korean food are particularly evocative, transforming dishes like pajeon, jatjuk, and doenjang jjigae into portals of memory and identity. Yet, Zauner’s writing is equally powerful in its simplicity, as when she reflects on the enduring nature of grief: “Every time I remember that my mother is dead, it feels like I’m colliding into a wall that won’t give”. This ability to capture both the visceral and the universal makes Crying in H Mart a masterclass in memoir-writing, appealing to readers who may not share Zauner’s specific experiences but can relate to the emotions at their core.
The memoir also stands out for its nuanced exploration of cultural identity, particularly Zauner’s journey as a Korean American. After her mother’s death, Zauner finds herself untethered from the strongest link to her Korean heritage, prompting a reckoning with what it means to be Korean when the cultural touchstones of language and family are no longer readily accessible. Her visits to H Mart and her efforts to cook Korean dishes become acts of reclamation, a way to “foster” the culture that is “effervescent in my gut and in my genes”. Zauner’s refusal to italicize Korean words or over-explain cultural references is a bold choice, creating a narrative that feels authentic and unapologetically true to her lived experience. This approach not only honors her heritage but also invites readers of all backgrounds to engage with the story on its own terms, fostering a deeper understanding of the Asian American experience.
Beyond its personal and cultural resonance, Crying in H Mart is a testament to the transformative power of art. Zauner’s creative journey—from her early days with the band Little Big League to her success as Japanese Breakfast—parallels her emotional growth, as she channels her grief into music and writing. Her first album, Psychopomp, composed in the wake of her mother’s death, is a haunting companion to the memoir, and readers familiar with her music will find echoes of its ethereal, searching quality in the book’s prose. Zauner’s ability to create something beautiful from profound loss is a reminder that art can be a lifeline, a way to honor those we’ve lost while forging a path forward.
Critics and readers alike have lauded Crying in H Mart for its emotional depth and literary craftsmanship, and it’s easy to see why. The memoir has been named a top book of the year by publications like The New York Times, Time, and NPR, and it won the 2021 Goodreads Choice Award for Memoir & Autobiography. Readers on platforms like Goodreads have called it “the perfect book,” praising its “quiet devastation,” “raw emotion,” and “stunning descriptions of food”. For many, the memoir has sparked personal reflection, prompting them to reconnect with their own cultural roots or cherish their loved ones more deeply. As one reviewer noted, “Zauner has written a book you experience with all of your senses: sentences you can taste, paragraphs that sound like music”.
If there is any critique to be made, it might be that some readers yearn for more exploration of certain themes, such as Zauner’s relationship with her father or her processing of grief after her mother’s death. However, this feels less like a flaw and more like a testament to the memoir’s power—Zauner leaves readers hungry for more of her story, eager to follow her journey wherever it leads next. Her announcement of a potential follow-up book about her time in Korea, inspired by her desire to study the language and culture, only heightens this anticipation.
In the end, Crying in H Mart is a masterpiece of memoir, a book that breaks your heart and puts it back together with every turn of the page. It is a celebration of love, a reckoning with loss, and a vibrant homage to the food and culture that shape us. Michelle Zauner has crafted a work that is both deeply personal and profoundly universal, inviting readers to reflect on their own relationships, identities, and memories. Whether you’re drawn to the memoir for its exploration of grief, its mouthwatering food writing, or its insight into the Asian American experience, you’ll find something to cherish in its pages. I cannot recommend Crying in H Mart highly enough—it’s a book that will stay with you, like the taste of a beloved dish, long after you’ve finished it.
You can buy Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner with my Amazon Affiliate link: https://amzn.to/4ei7Akv
At its core, Crying in H Mart is a love letter to Zauner’s mother, Chongmi, whose battle with pancreatic cancer and subsequent death in 2014 serves as the memoir’s emotional anchor. Zauner, who was just 25 at the time of her mother’s diagnosis, chronicles the harrowing journey of caregiving, the fractured yet tender bond between mother and daughter, and the enduring impact of loss. The memoir opens with a poignant scene in an H Mart supermarket, where Zauner finds herself overwhelmed with grief, surrounded by the sights and smells of Korean ingredients that evoke memories of her mother. This setting—H Mart, a chain specializing in Asian groceries—becomes a powerful metaphor for Zauner’s search for connection, as she grapples with the question: “Am I even Korean anymore if there’s no one left to call and ask which brand of seaweed we used to buy?”. This opening sets the tone for a narrative that is both deeply personal and universally relatable, inviting readers into Zauner’s world with unflinching vulnerability.
One of the memoir’s greatest strengths is its exploration of the mother-daughter relationship, which Zauner portrays with unflinching honesty. Chongmi is depicted as a complex figure—strict, exacting, and at times emotionally distant, yet fiercely loving in her own way. Zauner does not shy away from the tensions that defined their relationship, from her rebellious teenage years in Eugene, Oregon, to the cultural clashes that arose from her biracial identity. Growing up as one of the few Asian American kids in her hometown, Zauner often felt caught between worlds, yearning to fit in with her peers while navigating her mother’s high expectations. Yet, it is through food that mother and daughter find common ground, bonding over late-night feasts in Seoul or shared meals of ganjang gejang and soy-sauce eggs. Zauner’s descriptions of these dishes are so vivid and sensory that readers can almost taste the salty richness of raw crab or the comforting warmth of cold radish soup. Food becomes the unspoken language of love, a thread that weaves through the memoir and binds Zauner to her mother’s memory.
The memoir’s structure is another triumph, blending episodic vignettes with a semi-chronological narrative that mirrors the ebb and flow of grief. Zauner seamlessly interweaves memories of her childhood, her artistic coming-of-age, and the devastating progression of her mother’s illness. Each chapter feels like a carefully crafted essay, rich with intimate anecdotes and moments of quiet wisdom. For example, Zauner’s recounting of her mother’s final days is both heartbreaking and transformative, as she navigates the practicalities of caregiving while confronting the inevitability of loss. The memoir does not shy away from the physical realities of cancer—chemo’s toll on Chongmi’s appetite, the clumps of hair in the bathtub—but it also captures the small acts of love that endure, like Chongmi’s gentle coo of “Gwaenchanha, gwaenchanha” (“It’s OK, sweetheart, don’t cry”). These moments are rendered with such tenderness that they linger long after the page is turned.
Zauner’s prose is a revelation, striking a perfect balance between lyrical beauty and plainspoken honesty. Her background as a musician shines through in the rhythm and cadence of her sentences, which often feel like music themselves. Descriptions of Korean food are particularly evocative, transforming dishes like pajeon, jatjuk, and doenjang jjigae into portals of memory and identity. Yet, Zauner’s writing is equally powerful in its simplicity, as when she reflects on the enduring nature of grief: “Every time I remember that my mother is dead, it feels like I’m colliding into a wall that won’t give”. This ability to capture both the visceral and the universal makes Crying in H Mart a masterclass in memoir-writing, appealing to readers who may not share Zauner’s specific experiences but can relate to the emotions at their core.
The memoir also stands out for its nuanced exploration of cultural identity, particularly Zauner’s journey as a Korean American. After her mother’s death, Zauner finds herself untethered from the strongest link to her Korean heritage, prompting a reckoning with what it means to be Korean when the cultural touchstones of language and family are no longer readily accessible. Her visits to H Mart and her efforts to cook Korean dishes become acts of reclamation, a way to “foster” the culture that is “effervescent in my gut and in my genes”. Zauner’s refusal to italicize Korean words or over-explain cultural references is a bold choice, creating a narrative that feels authentic and unapologetically true to her lived experience. This approach not only honors her heritage but also invites readers of all backgrounds to engage with the story on its own terms, fostering a deeper understanding of the Asian American experience.
Beyond its personal and cultural resonance, Crying in H Mart is a testament to the transformative power of art. Zauner’s creative journey—from her early days with the band Little Big League to her success as Japanese Breakfast—parallels her emotional growth, as she channels her grief into music and writing. Her first album, Psychopomp, composed in the wake of her mother’s death, is a haunting companion to the memoir, and readers familiar with her music will find echoes of its ethereal, searching quality in the book’s prose. Zauner’s ability to create something beautiful from profound loss is a reminder that art can be a lifeline, a way to honor those we’ve lost while forging a path forward.
Critics and readers alike have lauded Crying in H Mart for its emotional depth and literary craftsmanship, and it’s easy to see why. The memoir has been named a top book of the year by publications like The New York Times, Time, and NPR, and it won the 2021 Goodreads Choice Award for Memoir & Autobiography. Readers on platforms like Goodreads have called it “the perfect book,” praising its “quiet devastation,” “raw emotion,” and “stunning descriptions of food”. For many, the memoir has sparked personal reflection, prompting them to reconnect with their own cultural roots or cherish their loved ones more deeply. As one reviewer noted, “Zauner has written a book you experience with all of your senses: sentences you can taste, paragraphs that sound like music”.
If there is any critique to be made, it might be that some readers yearn for more exploration of certain themes, such as Zauner’s relationship with her father or her processing of grief after her mother’s death. However, this feels less like a flaw and more like a testament to the memoir’s power—Zauner leaves readers hungry for more of her story, eager to follow her journey wherever it leads next. Her announcement of a potential follow-up book about her time in Korea, inspired by her desire to study the language and culture, only heightens this anticipation.
In the end, Crying in H Mart is a masterpiece of memoir, a book that breaks your heart and puts it back together with every turn of the page. It is a celebration of love, a reckoning with loss, and a vibrant homage to the food and culture that shape us. Michelle Zauner has crafted a work that is both deeply personal and profoundly universal, inviting readers to reflect on their own relationships, identities, and memories. Whether you’re drawn to the memoir for its exploration of grief, its mouthwatering food writing, or its insight into the Asian American experience, you’ll find something to cherish in its pages. I cannot recommend Crying in H Mart highly enough—it’s a book that will stay with you, like the taste of a beloved dish, long after you’ve finished it.
You can buy Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner with my Amazon Affiliate link: https://amzn.to/4ei7Akv
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