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A review by brice_mo
I'm Laughing Because I'm Crying: A Memoir by Youngmi Mayer
5.0
Thanks to NetGalley & Little, Brown, and Company for the ARC!
Youngmi Mayer’s I’m Laughing Because I’m Crying is an absolute tour de force—a brilliant memoir from an author who couldn’t care less about whether or not you think she’s smart.
That might sound like an odd thing to lead with, but Mayer herself does so. She opens the book by opining that there have been countless, pointless books from countless, pointless white men, so she shouldn’t need a reason for a memoir. She almost invites readers to dismiss her confidence as unearned, but that’s the point—she doesn’t need to earn confidence.
It’s her right.
This mindset allows her to write one of the most incisive and thoughtful memoirs in recent memory because she doesn’t need it to adhere to any genre tropes. There’s no impulse to retrofit history to her current image or depict herself as some sort of demigod moving through crazy, memorable events. She has a clear awareness of her unique positionality as an Asian-American who didn’t grow up in the United States, but that distinctive doesn’t lend itself to self-promotion. Instead, it creates an opportunity to throw Korean and American culture into stark juxtaposition, but never in that sickly sweet way where a narrator seemingly exists to share lessons with a white audience. Mayer has no interest in offering herself to white readers for the feelgood catharsis of feeling bad. In fact, this is a memoir that is selective about when it reveals its author because it has bigger things on its mind.
It’s such a refreshing subversion of the genre. I tire of books that condemn white patriarchal publishing norms while seeming desperate to conform to them—stories that follow the same tired arc. Mayer—again—just does not care about the book’s palatability, and there’s something energizing and freeing every time an anecdote is included even when it “doesn’t make sense.” It doesn’t need to.
Truth doesn’t always make sense.
This is a structural and tonal masterpiece as well. As the focus often shifts away from the author, the book spirals inward, moving recursively through memories, Korean history, and myth, all while never spinning its wheels. Mayer has so much control over every rhetorical move, but she refuses to entertain a writerly ego; she’s too busy with more important matters. She writes with a crassness that might grate against some people, but it serves a purpose—to remind readers that the book isn’t about them or their tastes. The author has lived a lot of life, but she’s intentional about the information she shares and withholds. There are moments of pain where lesser writers would dramatically self-flagellate, but Mayer pulls back—they belong to her, not the reader.
I think the book’s biggest success, however, is Mayer’s mesmerizing ability to pivot from flippancy to razor sharp analysis within the space of a few words. As a few notable examples, she contrasts the harsh reality of her family selling Kool-Aid to survive with how wealthy children cosplay poverty through lemonade stands. She writes about how the thrill of stand-up is that it’s pathetic, even when you’re good at it. She explores how poverty is moralized as a mark of original sin. It’s all just so smart at every turn, but it’s written with the understanding that even such reflection can easily become its own kind of self-indulgence.
I could go on, but I think it’s best to let the book speak for herself. I really hope I’m Laughing Because I’m Crying gets the attention it deserves, and I hope it means that we’ll get to see more of Youngmi Mayer’s exciting work as an author.
Youngmi Mayer’s I’m Laughing Because I’m Crying is an absolute tour de force—a brilliant memoir from an author who couldn’t care less about whether or not you think she’s smart.
That might sound like an odd thing to lead with, but Mayer herself does so. She opens the book by opining that there have been countless, pointless books from countless, pointless white men, so she shouldn’t need a reason for a memoir. She almost invites readers to dismiss her confidence as unearned, but that’s the point—she doesn’t need to earn confidence.
It’s her right.
This mindset allows her to write one of the most incisive and thoughtful memoirs in recent memory because she doesn’t need it to adhere to any genre tropes. There’s no impulse to retrofit history to her current image or depict herself as some sort of demigod moving through crazy, memorable events. She has a clear awareness of her unique positionality as an Asian-American who didn’t grow up in the United States, but that distinctive doesn’t lend itself to self-promotion. Instead, it creates an opportunity to throw Korean and American culture into stark juxtaposition, but never in that sickly sweet way where a narrator seemingly exists to share lessons with a white audience. Mayer has no interest in offering herself to white readers for the feelgood catharsis of feeling bad. In fact, this is a memoir that is selective about when it reveals its author because it has bigger things on its mind.
It’s such a refreshing subversion of the genre. I tire of books that condemn white patriarchal publishing norms while seeming desperate to conform to them—stories that follow the same tired arc. Mayer—again—just does not care about the book’s palatability, and there’s something energizing and freeing every time an anecdote is included even when it “doesn’t make sense.” It doesn’t need to.
Truth doesn’t always make sense.
This is a structural and tonal masterpiece as well. As the focus often shifts away from the author, the book spirals inward, moving recursively through memories, Korean history, and myth, all while never spinning its wheels. Mayer has so much control over every rhetorical move, but she refuses to entertain a writerly ego; she’s too busy with more important matters. She writes with a crassness that might grate against some people, but it serves a purpose—to remind readers that the book isn’t about them or their tastes. The author has lived a lot of life, but she’s intentional about the information she shares and withholds. There are moments of pain where lesser writers would dramatically self-flagellate, but Mayer pulls back—they belong to her, not the reader.
I think the book’s biggest success, however, is Mayer’s mesmerizing ability to pivot from flippancy to razor sharp analysis within the space of a few words. As a few notable examples, she contrasts the harsh reality of her family selling Kool-Aid to survive with how wealthy children cosplay poverty through lemonade stands. She writes about how the thrill of stand-up is that it’s pathetic, even when you’re good at it. She explores how poverty is moralized as a mark of original sin. It’s all just so smart at every turn, but it’s written with the understanding that even such reflection can easily become its own kind of self-indulgence.
I could go on, but I think it’s best to let the book speak for herself. I really hope I’m Laughing Because I’m Crying gets the attention it deserves, and I hope it means that we’ll get to see more of Youngmi Mayer’s exciting work as an author.