In the opening of the 2021 film, Minari, a young Korean immigrant family is uprooted from California to Arkansas to follow their aspirations of land ownership. As they drive up to a lonely trailer, their new home, they are welcomed by an open field outlined by towering trees and a harmony of buzzing insects. Like a blank canvas, the new surroundings hold exciting possibilities, and yet, their faces are tense with doubt and fear, given the uncertain future.
Their story resonated with memories of my childhood, which began thousands of miles over the Pacific Ocean. I was six when my parents crammed all our livelihood into extra large wheeled duffel bags to dream in a foreign land.
I leaned toward the television screen, and I eagerly watched each scene to find my story weaved into theirs. As much as I anticipated feeling seen and known, I also dreaded disappointment. I swung between vulnerability, “Will they tell my story too?” and self-protection, “I’m expecting too much; it’s just a movie.”
Because of my fraught relationship with my grandmother, I naturally looked to David, a 7-year-old living with his grandmother, to be my spokesperson. As I watched the elderly and the young navigate the clashing tides of generational and cultural differences, I waited for relief and comfort to blanket me. It didn’t come. Instead, I gasped in surprise.
The moment was subtle and easy to miss and yet, it screamed at me. Anna, David’s sister, opened the bedroom door and discovered that David’s disapproving, judgmental rejection of his grandmother had softened. Grandmother and grandson’s affection had blossomed and was now mutual. David, who had shared his room with his grandmother with protest, now felt comforted by her presence. Anna had played the dutiful older sister who remained neutral amid their conflicting dynamic. But her sibling’s newly formed bond with her grandmother pushed Anna further to the sidelines. She was the proverbial fly on the wall, and not because she wished for it.
I knew all too well that being female in my Korean American home meant not being chosen. The unspoken but implied understanding was that men are like heaven or the sky and women the earth or the ground. This principle persisted, neither challenged or questioned.
Growing up in this cultural framework of gender, I learned self-reliance and self-sufficiency were necessary survival skills. Reading a room and responding only after I had observed thoroughly was a must, lest my longing to be chosen were exposed. My adaptability was reinforced by adults saying things to me like, “We don’t have to worry about you; you’ll figure it out.”
Over the years, I’ve had opportunities to reflect on my story and invite trusted, wise, and curious listeners to speak truth and kindness into formidable moments including those that left an ill impression. This process has created more room to echo Joseph’s words when he is at last, face-to-face with past harm, “You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good” (Gen 5:20 ESV).
Being able to bless our pain is not merely the result of time healing all wounds or keeping physical distance to avoid triggers. It requires intentional labor—grieving pain; naming its impact minus excuses; surrendering as Jesus did in his vulnerable state (“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!” Lk. 23:46 ESV); forgiving; and reclaiming the glory that was lost and marred.
It’s remembering that Jesus’ scars do not display his humanness, but they also mark his resurrected form. His wounds bear witness to his sacrificial, lavish, costly, healing love—“…he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed.” (Is. 53:5 NIV) And it’s embracing our scars for they tell of God’s redeeming goodness.
Moreover, the fruit of revisiting and retreading our story is discovering our desires are birthed from our past. Our redeemed stories reveal our passions and the good we are called to. This is the redemptive work of the gospel! We are not the sum of our painful experiences; they do not define us. Nor are we doomed to futility and hopelessly stuck in the myriad of haunting failures and traumas. They are not our final verdict. They, however, become the burdens and concerns that compel us. They are the battles we are willing to fight.
The referenced scene in Minari still makes my stomach sink. And confronting gender views that neglect how male and female bear God’s image is weighty. But gospel stories like Hagar, who ran away from home and into the wilderness and encountered God (Gen. 16), and the unnamed woman who suffered from chronic bleeding for 12 years and was crowned with the intimate title of daughter (Mk. 5:25-34; Matt. 9:20-22; Lk. 8:43-48), renew my heart with hope and courage.
These stories, while sandwiched in a larger context and easily overlooked, are not assigned to the footnotes section of the Bible, but are given prime real estate. Furthermore, their lives are far from hidden. Instead, they are seen, chosen, pursued, esteemed, restored and in their own voice, they tell of redemption.
This fall, I’m hosting a fair trade party to join other women in retelling their stories. All purchased items will support artisans locally and abroad so they can receive a fair wage. That wage will empower them to care for themselves and their families, as well as restore dignity and pride to their work.
Many of the artisans are women living in extreme poverty. They have been prey to the false promises and enticing lures of human trafficking or are highly vulnerable to it. They are single moms striving to raise their children themselves rather than to give their children up for adoption in hopes of a more secure, thriving future.
One party can feel like one drop in an ocean of complex societal problems. It feels naive to think a party can make a difference. And yet, a single droplet creates ripple effects and has the potential to reach far beyond its initial impact. One party matters because it acknowledges the human journey and grieves that tragedies and heartaches are not the way it’s supposed to be. Moreover, it honors the price of resiliency. It restores agency and voice and celebrates hopes and desires.
Our redeemed stories testify of a God who graciously and mercifully bestows “a beautiful headdress instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit; that [we] may be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he may be glorified.” (Is. 61:3 ESV)
Editor’s Note: This blog was originally published on the blog at Emmaus Counseling & Consulting Services. It has been revised and republished here with the permission of the author.
See how other SOLA contributors were impacted by Minari.
- Is Anyone Else Afraid To Watch “Minari?” by Young W. Yi
- When Life is Not A Blockbuster: Reflections from “Minari” by Heidi Tai
- When Representation Becomes More: A Reflection on the Film “Minari” by Rachel Seo