Still via Ypinks
Content warning: queerphobia, suicide
On May 5, 2023, UCLA screened “Coming to You” (한글: “너에게 가는 길”) directed by Gyu-ri Byun (she/her), a groundbreaking Korean documentary about the mothers of queer adults in Korea. The documentary centers on the mothers, Nabi (she/her) and Vivian (she/her), who are members of PFLAG Korea (Parents, Families and Allies of LGBTAIQ+ People in Korea). Both women are cisgender and heterosexual. Prior to their children coming out to them, they held little to no knowledge about the queer community and harbored discriminatory opinions about queerness. Nonetheless, the documentary made no excuses for their past queerphobia and followed their journeys into wholehearted queer activism.
Nabi and Vivian’s initial queerphobia is unfortunately unsurprising considering many older Koreans’ unfavorable opinions about queer individuals. While it’s difficult to generalize Koreans’ stance on queerness, a Gallup poll conducted in 2021 revealed that over 50% of Koreans oppose legalizing same-sex marriage. Furthermore, South Korean law is queerphobic. The National Human Rights Commission Act bans discrimination on the basis of “sexual orientation,” but the act is not widely enforced. For example, queerphobic bullying in schools remains tragically common. Article 92-6 criminalizes consensual same-sex sexual acts between members of the Korean military, which all able-bodied male citizens must serve in, and gay marriage is not yet legal.
Prior to Japanese colonization, Korean society had more flexible ideas about love than it does today. During its twentieth-century colonization of Korea, Japan imported many Western ideas about gender and sexuality to Korea, which negatively impacted these more flexible Korean constructions of gender and sexuality. In the modern period, queerness has only gained national visibility in the past two decades or so. Thus, both the anti-queer movement, composed primarily of conservative Christians, and the queer liberation movement are relatively young.
During the Q&A session accompanying the screening, director Byun said that despite the Korean queer community’s progress in recent years, coming out to one’s parents still poses a challenge. Because of their cultural values surrounding the family, many gay men in Asia never come out to their parents. Earlier in the Q&A, Vivian explained that for the queer Koreans who do come out to their parents, they often come out to their mothers and not their fathers because the chance of being accepted feels higher. A few years ago, mothers greatly outnumbered fathers in PFLAG Korea, so Byun chose to focus on mothers. Thankfully, nowadays, more fathers of queer children are joining PFLAG.
In the film, neither Nabi nor Vivian react positively to their children coming out. Confusion and loss characterizes their reactions. When Nabi’s child, Hankyeol (they/them), came out as transmasculine, Nabi accused Hankyeol of wanting to transition to escape discrimination against women. She said getting top surgery is “not right.”
Likewise, Vivian was devastated when her son, Yejoon (he/him), came out as gay to her and her husband. Because of her work as a flight attendant, she frequently interacted with openly gay couples and didn’t mind them, but she never considered the possibility of her own son being gay. After reading Yejoon’s coming-out letter, she cried for two days straight, and at her first PFLAG meeting, she couldn’t say that Yejoon is gay without dissolving into sobs.
Amid these rocky beginnings, Nabi and Vivian retained the seeds of empathy for their children — the basis of their eventual acceptance of and advocacy for them.
The documentary follows the mothers’ paths to acceptance with unflinching honesty. It does not omit their initial shortcomings, and it demonstrates how understanding their children’s pain laid the foundation for understanding and uplifting queerness.
Yejoon’s coming-out letter relays his struggle to accept he’s gay for seven years before coming out to his parents. Saddened and shaken by Yejoon’s revelation, Vivian contextualized Yejoon, who was joyful and goofy as a little kid, becoming quiet and solemn in middle school. Unable to fully accept her son but cognizant of the trauma he underwent due to his queerness, Vivian pretended to support him for being gay to avoid causing him more pain. While feigning support is far from an ideal response, Vivian sought to shield her son from her own growing process, and after two long years, she genuinely accepted him and his gay identity.
After two years of growth, Vivian didn’t become the perfect ally. When Yejoon introduced his boyfriend to her, she felt uncomfortable watching them kiss. But the interview scene where she shares her discomfort over Yejoon and his boyfriend’s couple photos is hilarious. Lovingly, but also unnecessarily, she describes Yejoon as an attention hog for memorializing his affection for his boyfriend in photos. Watching Vivian’s not-politically-correct but still motherly reactions, I couldn’t help but think of my own mom.
The documentary resonated deeply with me because my mom and I went through a similar trajectory as Nabi and Hankyeol, and Vivian and Yejoon. In particular, watching Hankyeol and Nabi navigate Hankyeol’s transness was startlingly familiar. As far as Christian, Korean parents go, my mom’s reaction to me coming out was tame. She thought I was joking, and despite my adamant declarations of “No, I’m not joking; I’m a trans man, Mom,” she managed to convince herself for the next three years that my transness was a silly, little delusion. I’ll admit that it hurt.
In my freshman year of college, I came out to her again. When the knowledge of my transness finally sunk in, her learning curve about queerness was very, very steep. I’m not sure exactly when she stopped believing gay people go to Hell, but considering this was her starting point, her belief system experienced a drastic overhaul in order to reach queer acceptance. The process was messy and emotional. She struggled with getting my pronouns right. She struggled to understand why I didn’t want to be part of a church that believed marriage was solely between a man and a woman and saw trans people as an unwanted aberration. I struggled to keep my cool. I was angry a lot.
At first, Nabi didn’t understand Hankyeol being trans at all. Even now, she still doesn’t fully comprehend Hankyeol’s colorful array of identities. But she, like Vivian, chose to open herself up to her child’s hurt instead of turning away.
In 2018, when Hankyeol pursued a legal gender change, Korean law still required a letter of parental consent, regardless of whether or not the individual in question was a legal adult. The documentary depicts Nabi composing her letter to the Court’s judge. In the letter, she speaks about her initial distress and sadness over Hankyeol’s identity but how she became more aware of the suffering Hankyeol endured daily for years. Her tears, she says, were selfish, so from the day of her realization on, she decided to never cry in front of them again.
Because Hankyeol did not get bottom surgery, the Court denied their legal gender change in 2019. Though they were able to legally change their gender in a local court later that year, their mental health did not stabilize. Life as a trans person in Korea is difficult. For instance, in 2020, a trans woman was accepted into a major Korean university, but the bullying and harrassment she faced led her to withdraw her enrollment. After hearing this story, Hankyeol spiraled.
In her following interview scene, Nabi references how Switzerland legalized assisted suicide for unselfish reasons and allowed a man to die by lethal injection. She wants her child to live, but if life becomes too painful, she cannot stop them from dying. In this worst-case scenario, she promised she would fly with them to Switzerland because she doesn’t want them to die alone.
Nabi’s overwhelming, steadfast love for Hankyeol moved the audience to tears at the screening. A silent black screen followed her interview scene, and in those few seconds of quiet, the sniffles of the audience united us in a mostly silent understanding. Nabi validated and understood Hankyeol’s pain. Without centering herself or her devastating inability to single-handedly save her child from a world set against them, she determined to love them to the end to the best of her ability.
On a much more uplifting note, Nabi shared afterwards that Hankyeol is doing much better after the documentary’s release. They have been buoyed by the support from audiences like us.
The documentary breaks up these emotionally devastating scenes of motherly love with sweet, funny scenes of mother-child bonding. In one such scene, Nabi and Hankyeol lounge on the couch together, chatting, while Nabi feeds fruit to their little white dog. They cook and eat together. In another scene, they game-plan what they’ll say to the judge during the legal gender change process. Hankyeol complains about having to say they only like women to meet the Court’s heteronormative expectations, and Nabi announces she’ll curse the judge out if they deny Hankyeol’s request. Their back-and-forths overflow with a comfortable love, which feels all the more fulfilling because of how arduous the path to understanding was.
It was beautiful to see my relationship with my mom mirrored onscreen. Despite the obstacles we’ve faced, we’ve reached a similar point as Nabi and Hankyeol. Today, my mom rarely gets my pronouns wrong. She’s enthusiastic about the queer community and always seeking to learn more. She listens, and though sometimes it takes her longer to understand, I can trust she’ll always be on my side.
In its understated yet revealing way, the documentary shows the closeness between a mother and her queer child. It models how empathy, when cultivated, generates understanding and allyship. It provides hope that one’s parents will do the work to unlearn their misconceptions and love you in a way that uplifts instead of hurts you.
While it is incredibly important to acknowledge the rampant queerphobia within ethnic communities and how coming out to your parents is not an option for everyone and should not be expected of anyone, especially queer trans people of color, it can still be lovely and life-changing to see parents of color who love and support their queer children. The film itself closes with the parents of PFLAG proudly declaring themselves as a queer person’s mother or father. At least for me, after growing up around queerphobic, Korean Christians, seeing middle-aged Korean moms and dads supporting queerness was so healing.
In the present, Nabi and Vivian are queer activists fighting for implementing an anti-discrimination law and legalizing gay marriage. They boldly raise awareness about queer people’s experiences and advocate for understanding. As Nabi said to the queer people in the audience, I echo her words to you: “I just want you to live.”
As for the director, Byun will be releasing a documentary about a Korean trans woman in about a year.
I encourage queer people, parents of queer people, and anyone else with even an inkling of interest to watch this touching film. It grapples with the hard but rewarding undertaking of understanding someone else and illuminates how the simple act of empathy allows love to flourish and motivates us to fight for change.
Credits:
Author: Rainer Lee (He/Him)
Copy Editors: Bellze (They/Xey), Bella (She/They)