I've never encountered an Asian woman—especially one in her eighties—who swore with such exuberance and consistency as the late filmmaker Dai Sil Kim Gibson. I can still picture her throwing her head back, a glass raised, laughing heartily as she peppered her speech with F-bombs, her wild hair shaking like kinetic iron spirals. She cooked with the same passion she brought to her filmmaking, producing the best bindaetok (Korean mung bean pancakes) with her secret ingredient: kimchi juice. Her Iowa Fried Chicken, inspired by a dish from her husband's mother, was renowned, with a tang of lemon that made it unforgettable.

Dai Sil was more than just a vibrant cook; she was a dynamic activist, author, and historian. She preferred to be called simply "Dai Sil" by everyone. From her, I learned two essential storytelling lessons that also became life lessons, profoundly influencing both my writing and my personal outlook.

These lessons are rooted in the Korean concept of han, a term often described as a uniquely Korean form of deep, lingering sorrow or anguish that is challenging to translate. In her book Silence Broken, which deals with Korean women sexually enslaved by the Japanese during World War II, Dai Sil defines han as "long sorrow and suffering turned inward," a sorrow that accumulates over generations.

Dai Sil’s work is permeated by han—whether it’s her film Sa-I-Gu about the Los Angeles riots, A Forgotten People about Koreans left behind on the Sakhalin Islands, or the film version of Silence Broken. However, her strength as a storyteller lay in her ability to see beyond the collective trauma to the individuals whose stories she told.

The first crucial lesson I learned from Dai Sil came during my time assisting her and her frequent collaborator, Charles Burnett, on the film version of Silence Broken in Korea. Although I wasn’t present for the early interviews with the "Halmeonis" (a respectful term for the former “comfort women”), Dai Sil shared how she approached these women who had been interviewed countless times before. She asked them to talk about their lives before the camps, a request that often surprised them, as they were accustomed to recounting their traumas. By focusing on their lives beyond their suffering, Dai Sil recognized their full humanity and told their complete stories.

In one poignant instance, Dai Sil gently reassured a skeptical Halmeoni about Charles Burnett, explaining that he, as an African American, could understand han. This connection through shared suffering allowed Burnett to gain the women's trust.

These stories stayed with me as I worked on my book Master Slave Husband Wife, about Ellen and William Craft’s escape from slavery. Dai Sil’s approach reminded me to see the fullness of their lives beyond their dramatic escape. Her concept of han provided a framework for understanding their experiences and the legacy they carried.

Another Korean concept Dai Sil imparted to me is jung, which encompasses love, affection, and attachment, often layered with complexity. Jung can coexist with conflicting emotions, adding depth to human connections.

Both han and jung helped me understand the Crafts’ story: the deep, historical sorrow and the enduring bonds that enabled them to persevere. Although some might argue these concepts are uniquely Korean and difficult to translate fully, Dai Sil’s teachings showed me their universal resonance.

Purists might say that my interpretations are not entirely accurate, much like Dai Sil’s chicken not being "authentically" Iowa. But I believe Dai Sil, with her spirited defiance and love for blending cultures, would have embraced these translations wholeheartedly.