Reimagining the Legacy of Dai Sil Kim Gibson: Lessons from a Spirited Storyteller
Rarely have I encountered an Asian woman, let alone one in her eighties, who could match the exuberant and continuous stream of profanity unleashed by the late filmmaker Dai Sil Kim Gibson. I envision her, head thrown back, glass raised, cackling at the resounding echoes of her own F-bombs, her untamed locks swirling like kinetic iron spirals. Just as she lived and filmed with unbridled passion, so too did she cook, infusing her creations with palpable emotion. Her bindaetok, Korean mung bean pancakes, were unparalleled—rushed, piping hot, and delicately crusted, with a secret ingredient: kimchi juice.
But it was her Iowa Fried Chicken that truly captured hearts, a dish inspired by her beloved husband’s mother's recipe, but elevated to new heights, as attested by all who tasted it. A hint of acidity—lemon—set it apart, making it soar. From this vibrant figure—a whirlwind of cooking, activism, literature, and historical preservation—I gleaned two invaluable storytelling lessons that transcended mere narrative technique to become profound life lessons, altering both my writing and my very being.
These lessons find their genesis in the Korean concept of han, a term often described as an ineffable sense of sorrow or anguish deeply rooted in the Korean psyche—a sentiment resistant to easy translation, though subject to ongoing debate. In her seminal work, Silence Broken, which chronicles the plight of Korean women subjected to systematic sexual slavery by the Japanese during World War II, Dai Sil eloquently defines han as "long sorrow and suffering turned inward." This anguish is not bound by the confines of a single lifetime; rather, it accumulates in layers, intertwining into intricate knots, capable of spanning generations and perpetuating through familial lines.
Han saturates Dai Sil's work, whether in Sa-I-Gu, her poignant portrayal of the Los Angeles riots; A Forgotten People, shedding light on Koreans stranded on the Sakhalin Islands; or the film adaptation of Silence Broken. In each of these documentaries, the specter of han looms large. And yet, Dai Sil's prowess as a storyteller lies in her remarkable ability to transcend the collective trauma, to illuminate the individuals behind the shared suffering.
My introduction to this profound lesson from Dai Sil unfolded as a narrative itself. I had the privilege of assisting her—and her cherished friend and frequent cinematic collaborator, Charles Burnett—during the filming of Silence Broken in Korea. Regrettably, I missed the initial interviews with the "Halmeonis," or grandmothers, as Dai Sil affectionately referred to the former "comfort women"—a euphemism she deliberately employed, underscoring the grotesque inadequacy of the term. (Here, I pay homage to her choice of words, lamenting only my own ignorance of the individual names of these women, which she held in reverence. Names all too often vanish as stories are transmitted, particularly in translation.)