Angela Hur’s harrowing debut novel explores the fragile chaos of adolescence from the perspective of 26-year-old Cora Moon, an Orange County native who suddenly finds herself in the unfamiliar territory of New York City’s bustling K-town. Hur, a contributor to KoreAm, was pushed by her agent to write a more commercial novel, but instead found herself crafting this dark, experimental story of loss and longing.

 

You’re from L.A. Why set the story in New York’s K-town?

I started this novel in New York a couple summers ago. N.Y.’s K-town, like the rest of the city, is vertical and compressed compared to the sprawl of L.A. Because there is so little personal space, there is also hostility as people stake their claim to a scene/corner/alleyway. All these factors made it the perfect setting, especially for the teenage characters. Adolescence is intense, compressed, and the intimacy is often forced, false, or sometimes simply too much. 

Can you talk about the dual narratives we get from Cora?

The dual narratives evoke the difference in emotional engagement. The bulk of the novel is set in the past when Cora is 16. This is told in the first person, and it’s emotional and confessional. Through her, the reader gets a lens of naiveté, curiosity, longing and loneliness. Cora is 26 in the present day storyline. This part is told in the third-person, which is removed, authorial. I put these stories side by side, but really, it’s all one story that is lived simultaneously.

Why did you make suicide one of the major themes of the novel?

Young Asian American women suffer from high rates of depression and suicide. Some say that beyond the immigration and generational divide, there is also a gender-based pressure for girls to succeed while also being “good, happy Asian girls.” It’s the model minority myth exacerbated by cultural gender expectations. The resulting tension between “what is felt” and “what is shown” can be destructive.

How does Queens of K-town fit into the Korean American experience?

There’s a certain kind of “immigrant novel” that the mainstream publishers seem to love. In a way, it’s a safe and familiar kind of exoticism. My book is doing something different. There are immediate assumptions about a novel written by a Korean American woman. However, my book is not Joy Luck Club; it’s not about “I really wish I could fit in with white people, but wait — I love my culture!”