{"id":15096,"date":"2018-12-01T00:40:54","date_gmt":"2018-12-01T06:40:54","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/?p=15096"},"modified":"2018-12-01T09:33:07","modified_gmt":"2018-12-01T15:33:07","slug":"review-a-cruelty-special-to-our-species-by-emily-jungmin-yoon","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/archives\/15096","title":{"rendered":"Review: A Cruelty Special to our Species by Emily Jungmin Yoon"},"content":{"rendered":"

A Cruelty Special to Our Species\u00a0\u00a0<\/em>(HarperCollins, September 2018)
\nReviewed by Carlina Duan<\/p>\n

\u201cThe trouble with trees is that their bodies and limbs are too capable, capable of burning, of living, capable of leaves, of leaving, charcoal, ash, and we think we have power.\u201d So opens the poem \u201cOrdinary Misfortune [The trouble\u2026]\u201d in Emily Jungmin Yoon\u2019s <\/span>A Cruelty Special to Our Species <\/span><\/i>(Ecco – HarperCollins, 2018)<\/span>, <\/span><\/i>a searing, brilliant debut collection that renders historical accounts of violence and erasure\u2014and reconsiders the consequences of survival and lineage, body and tongue, capability and incapability, offering us moving and brutal portraits of how to inherit, to pass on, to endure, to remember and trouble. <\/span><\/p>\n

A Cruelty Special to Our Species <\/span><\/i>documents contemporary and historical narratives, focusing, in part, on narratives of sexual violence against so-called \u201ccomfort women,\u201d (primarily) Korean women living during World War II, who were forced into sexual labor in order to serve Japanese soldiers. The book also meditates on the aftermath of natural disasters, the power dynamics involved in speaking multiple tongues, the contemporary injustices of women enduring a long line of exoticizing and patriarchal violences, among other piercing subjects. <\/span><\/p>\n

In reading this collection, I was most struck by the Testimonies, the second section of the book, which draws upon documentary materials from transcribed and translated transcriptions of former comfort women. Told from these womens\u2019 perspectives, each poem in this section gives testimony to their experiences, yet readers would be ill-advised to think that the Testimonies poems are simply vehicles for historicized speech. Rather, there is an attentive, disciplined work on the part of the author to focus on lifting narratives, rather than substituting or inventing voices: \u201cI\u2019d like my poetry to serve to amplify and speak these women\u2019s stories, not speak <\/span>for<\/span><\/i> them,\u201d Yoon clarifies in an Author\u2019s Note. And, indeed, there are firm narrative bricks laid within the Testimonies poems that offer each poem\u2019s voice as \u201cspeaking from within, not for, a community,\u201d as Yoon notes. The Testimonies inhabit speakers such as Kim Yoon-shim, who states:<\/span><\/p>\n

Such was our life
\n<\/span>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0look at my fingers
\nwhen I ran away the police smashed my hands
\nweaving a stiff pen between my fingers
\n<\/span>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 like this.<\/p>\n

In presenting narrative through interlacing enjambments and, at times, harsh diction, Yoon requests the reader to look, to <\/span>really<\/span><\/i> look. These narrative images, while arguably lyrical in nature, are born of true fact, and this transforms Yoon\u2019s work into a startling and stark reminder of how art, in the face of political and historical violence, can force us to re-see, to confront, to listen. Poems are further stitched with emotionally potent repetitions, such as in the testimony of Kim Sang-hi: \u201cI should forget and forgive \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0but I cannot \/ When my head turns toward Japan\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I curse her \/ I want to find solace\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 but I cannot \/ When I wake up every morning I cannot.\u201d <\/span>I cannot, I cannot, I cannot\u2014<\/span><\/i>a brutal yet urgent mantra, begging us to pay attention, and bringing us back to the question of capability. What is the capability of humanity, or even of a reader, that it should encounter \u201cat a stream a hand \/ of a sick girl \/ who had been buried alive,\u201d and turn away?<\/span><\/p>\n

Thus, Yoon focuses on the unavoidable fact of history as it intersects in <\/span>all<\/span><\/i> of our individual worlds. \u201cI\u2019d like my poetry to remind readers that even if a part of history may not seem to be relevant to their lives, it is\u2014it is their reality too,\u201d she writes. In doing so, Yoon empowers readers to reckon with\u2014and confront\u2014these particular voices in history. If we\u2019re flinching while reading, if we\u2019re shivering or swallowing on dry throats or desiring to look past, that is, in fact, the point. Moreover, we are unable to look away. In fact, it is our responsibility <\/span>to<\/span><\/i> look, <\/span>to <\/span><\/i>hear, and as the author notes, it is the duty of historical narratives\u2014including cruel or violent or ill narratives\u2014to be passed down, in order to be complicated and un-erased, bound into our present and considered as a part of the legacy of remaining alive. As Yoon writes, \u201cIt is crucial to know, listen, tell, and retell various stories, so we may better theorize and understand our existence.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Yoon\u2019s work thus links this historical trauma into the present, offering portraits of contemporary women who are made to suffer, confront, grieve daily violences\u2014and survive them. In \u201cAn Ordinary Misfortune [She offered him\u2026],\u201d the speaker writes: \u201cShe offered him head because he wanted her whole. <\/span>You could at least blow me, <\/span><\/i>he offered. She didn\u2019t want to offend. He was taking his pants off. <\/span>Are we on? <\/span><\/i>he said. She was in love.\u201d Yoon criticizes\u2014through a voice flushed with irony\u2014the blame that men put on women within sexual contexts, the ways that women are made to feel as failures, or faulted, fearful to offend, yet still expected to \u201callure,\u201d to perform. In \u201cAn Ordinary Misfortune [What is pressing\u2026],\u201d Yoon writes: \u201cWhat is a body in a stolen country. Or whose. [\u2026] War hasn\u2019t left Korea. I have. I fold. I give up, myself, to you. Which one of you said <\/span>Let\u2019s have raunchy Korean sex <\/span><\/i>to me. Which one of you didn\u2019t. Do you represent America to me. Did those soldiers to her.\u201d There are nine Ordinary Misfortune poems spread throughout the book, all of which share the same title. Each poem is a prose poem, and each gazes at a moment where a speaker confronts an \u201cordinary\u201d injustice. Yoon thus troubles the title itself: What does it mean for a misfortune to be \u201cordinary\u201d? What are the implications of tracing these misfortunes throughout history, and into our present time? How have we culturally numbed ourselves to the \u201cordinary\u201d injustices of ourselves; of our friends, sisters; of all people?<\/span><\/p>\n

Meanwhile, Yoon writes, too, of the exoticization placed upon bodies of color (specifically, Asian bodies), and adopts a confessional voice, set with instances of gorgeous, hauntingly rich images and unflinching honesty. In the poem \u201cHair,\u201d the speaker observes: \u201cHow peculiar is it that these girls \/ would stroke my long dark hair and told it how so smooth & \/ lovely it is. Festishization I welcomed for long.\u201d Later, the speaker recounts: \u201cAutumn morning. Leaves begin to split and crimp in the cold, \/ & holding the dryer, I still do this slow meandering.\u201d Reading lines like this, one cannot help but conjure fierce awe for how Yoon employs such precise stitch-work of language, balancing assonances with syntactically simple statements in order to create images that pierce and glow.<\/span><\/p>\n

Yet what I love most of all about Yoon\u2019s work is her ability to stretch and re-fashion fine bolts of language, and her simultaneous devotion to thinking about the origins of language\u2014probing contexts, challenging etymologies, delving into sonic presence, and reconsidering common usage. Throughout the entire collection, Yoon meditates on the intermixing of tongues, the inheritance of dual or multiple languages. There is always a hyper-consciousness of the wall of English language, as it interacts with Korean, Japanese, and the subtle, unspoken languages of touch and sight throughout the book. Language trespasses, it recedes, it moves, it incites, it heals, it breaks.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBell Theory\u201d features a speaker who reflects on her earlier experiences trying to master English language. Yoon effectively captures the pain and shame over producing \u201cthe right\u201d linguistic sounds with such effectiveness and strange, humbling beauty: \u00a0\u201c(I touched the globe moving in my throat, a hemisphere sinking.),\u201d the speaker writes; later, \u201cI wanted to run and be loved at the same time\u201d; and even later, \u201cThe bell in our throat that rings with laughter is called uvula. From <\/span>uva: <\/span><\/i>grape. \/ A theory: special to our species, this grape-bell has nothing to do with speech.\u201d In \u201cNews,\u201d which pays tribute to the tragic sinking of the <\/span>MV Sewol <\/span><\/i>ship in Korea in 2014, Yoon writes: \u201cBut I am eating a pear and thinking \/ <\/span>pear<\/span><\/i> in Korean is a homonym for <\/span>ship <\/span><\/i>or <\/span>boat <\/span><\/i>\/ and <\/span>stomach, <\/span><\/i>how <\/span>MV Sewol <\/span><\/i>sank, how <\/span>sewol \/ <\/span><\/i>means <\/span>beyond the world <\/span><\/i>and homonymous with \/ <\/span>the passing time or life.<\/span><\/i>\u201d She writes, later, \u201cA homonym for <\/span>apple <\/span><\/i>is <\/span>apology.<\/span><\/i>\u201d In both \u201cBell Theory\u201d and \u201cNews,\u201d images recycle, language sonically unfolds and refolds, repeats, conjures rich and moving shapes out the mouth, and, by doing so, the author showcases a deep command and awareness of the intricate power dynamics at play when asked to speak. This is a poet who respects speech production, as much as she immerses herself in the social, political, and cultural powers involved in employing\u2014and interacting with\u2014a language.<\/span><\/p>\n

It would be an oversight to say that this is a poet who does not also pay attention to joy; rather, Yoon exhibits love and honor and yes, a lush sort of joy at committing to and honoring her own histories, as they intersect with the histories of us, the readers, and the broader histories of the world. Yoon\u2019s poem \u201cMy Grandmother Reminisces with Peaches\u201d retells the story of the speaker\u2019s grandmother\u2019s relationship with her husband. \u201cHe wasn\u2019t a romantic, you know. \/ But he always left a basket of peaches \/ at my feet in the summer,\u201d the speaker fondly remembers, adding, later, in reference to her garden balsam, \u201cWith my ear resting on his chest, I could imagine its blossom. \/\/ My cheek dreamt well on his heart.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

In short, <\/span>A Cruelty Special to Our Species <\/span><\/i>is rich with moments of admirable reckoning and witness, offering a study of how historical narratives might follow a speaker into shaping her own fierce, sharp lineage. Yoon\u2019s is absolutely a collection I will cherish and re-visit, time and time again.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Carlina Duan lives in Nashville. She is the author of I Wore My Blackest Hair (Little A, 2017), and is currently an MFA student at Vanderbilt University. She serves as the co-Editor in Chief of Nashville Review.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A Cruelty Special to Our Species\u00a0\u00a0(HarperCollins, September 2018) Reviewed by Carlina Duan \u201cThe trouble with trees is that their bodies and limbs are too capable, capable of burning, of living, capable of leaves, of leaving, charcoal, ash, and we think we have power.\u201d So opens the poem \u201cOrdinary Misfortune [The trouble\u2026]\u201d in Emily Jungmin Yoon\u2019s […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1704,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[54],"tags":[55],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-3Vu","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15096"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1704"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=15096"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15096\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15112,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15096\/revisions\/15112"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15096"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15096"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15096"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}