I don't think I'm in the target audience for this, so please disregard anything I say.

I found it painfully neurotic. Not that I'm not neurotic too; just that each essay is a study in different neuroses, and there is little to no intersection between hers and mine. I could not relate, nor could I engage with her language which was at times conversational and other times abstrusely academic. The whole thing felt disjointed both at a macro and micro level: each essay was completely unrelated to the last, costing energy to get into; and within each essay there were deeply gripping pages followed by tedious ones.

But again: I'm not the target audience. Maybe it's targeted toward other Asian Americans, as catharsis or perhaps recognition of their experience? I learned of this book from [a:Mira Jacob|7273922|Mira Jacob|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1391461840p2/7273922.jpg]'s Instagram feed. (Jacob writes in a way which I think reaches a broad audience.) I did learn from and relate to some portions of the book, enough to round up from 3.5 stars. But I just feel really sorry for Hong. Perhaps her suffering is what makes her a great poet/writer/artist; and perhaps her work will make the world a better place. I hope so.