Multilingualism in Min Jin Lee’s « Pachinko » (2017)

Introduction

In a 2023 interview, author Min Jin Lee, who was born in South Korea and moved to the United States at the age of seven, drew attention to the “polyphonic and polyglot” dimension of both her personal life and her literary work. As an English-language novel, Pachinko (2017) brings the question of multilingualism to the fore from the start. The title of the novel is the transliteration of a Japanese word into the Roman alphabet, which refers to a gambling device and its widespread industry in Japan (Kim and Lee, 2023, 82). From the onset, readers are faced with a foreign language, and those who are familiar with the Japanese pachinko business have their expectations subverted when the novel opens in Yeongdo, Korea. The linguistic triad of Korean, Japanese and English underpins the novel and influenced Lee’s writing process, as she explained in the 2023 interview:

[...] even though English is the language in which I dream and speak and write, when I write, especially about Koreans, the dialogue may be coming through me in Korean or in another language somehow accented by the nation in which the Korean makes her residence. (Lee, 2023)

The Korean and Japanese languages inform the narration and character interactions in Pachinko. As the novel is written in English, readers are sometimes required to infer the language spoken in a scene from contextual clues. The family saga chronicles the life of a Korean family who immigrated to Japan in the 20th century, and the linguistic ambiguity of certain situations points to the nuances of Zainichi identity explored at large in the novel. The Japanese word Zainichi means foreign resident and is used to refer to Koreans in Japan who either were colonial immigrants or are descendants of these immigrants. The term is linguistically and inherently problematic as it encapsulates the tension between foreign and native (Yi, 2018). In Pachinko, Lee enquires into contrasting relations to identity, home and belonging through a wide range of characters.

The tripartite structure of the novel mirrors the experiences and decisions of various migrants over three generations. In the first part, Sunja is shown to be longing for her birthplace and never quite settles in Japan, which was the case for many first-generation Zainichi who believed that their time on the island would be temporary (Huang, 2022, 134). The second generation portrayed in the second part is divided into two Zainichi paths embodied by Sunja’s sons: Noa, who painfully strives to assimilate into Japanese culture, and Mozasu, who renounces the ideal of monolithically belonging to either group: “‘In Seoul, people like me get called Japanese bastards, and in Japan, I’m just another dirty Korean no matter how much money I make or how nice I am. So what the fuck?’” (416-417). For the third generation and final part of the novel, the narratorial structure reverts to a single character. Through Mozasu’s son, named Solomon, Lee further explores the nuances of Zainichi identity as the latter embodies hybridity and pressing questions regarding identity.

During the Japanese colonial era in the first half of the 20th century, Korean was a marginalized language in Japan and its use was restricted by authorities (Hur, 2018, 720). However, it was also a means of uniting and strengthening immigrant communities. Through cultural practices, including language, “[...] the migrated population preserves a sense of self in a foreign land” (Vaishnavi and Senguttuvan, 2024, 395). The linguistic spectrum displayed in Pachinko demonstrates the irreducible experience of Koreans in Japan (Lie, 2008, 12), thus subverting both Japanese and Korean nationalist expectations. The omniscient narration, which follows different characters, makes the novel a polyphonic saga: “[...] the story (or rather, the manifold interlocking stories) of Koreans in Japan cannot easily be contained within a single word, place, time, or narrative space” (Yi, 2018). Nevertheless, multilingualism can both hinder and stimulate communication. As markers and instruments of status and culture, languages are “an inevitable badge of difference” (Lee, 2017, 138) which the characters try to negotiate, in their interactions as well as in their own understanding of their identities.

In Pachinko, the mastery of language emerges as a compass that allows characters to navigate both society and intrapersonal connections. As a social tool, it can lead to either integration or marginalization, especially through (re)naming practices. The variety of these linguistic relationships highlights the complexity of Zainichi’s ties to Korea, which can be examined through and against the return myth. As Zainichi characters maneuver between languages, they also try to define themselves, their multilingualism mirroring their hybrid position in society. Language contact phenomena such as borrowing and code-switching can be examined insofar as they testify to the negotiation of identity and belonging.

1. Linguistic Obstacles, Linguistic Tools: Marginalization and Connection

In Pachinko, the characters exhibit varied levels of linguistic mastery, which in turn highlight the contrasting fates of Zainichi. In the Japanese colonial era, Japanese was the language of power and its command was an asset. For instance, Koh Hansu’s bilingualism is central to his privileged position; even though he is Korean, his first intervention in the novel is in Japanese: “‘You son of bitches should die,’ he said in perfect Japanese slang” (34). Assumptions derive from the linguistic hierarchy, and other characters initially situate Hansu within a Japanese framework: “The boys looked up, surprised that Hansu spoke Korean so well. They’d thought that the man who’d brought their grandmother might be Japanese, because he was so well dressed and since Tamaguchi-san had treated him with such deference” (232). At the other end of the multilingual spectrum, Sunja faces numerous hurdles in Japan, as she suffers from both geographical and linguistic displacement. Her inability to speak Japanese translates into spatial disorientation: “[...] she had to carry her name and address written in Japanese on a card in case she got lost” (151). She is forcibly reduced to silence in Japanese society, a phenomenon experienced by many first-generation Zainichi and doubled by illiteracy (Lie, 2008, 130). In the last scene of the novel, her linguistic ability is referred to in terms that highlight her non-assimilation: “she said in broken Japanese” (529). The character of Kyunghee provides a contrasting perspective through her effort to learn Japanese, developing a “radio announcer–style Japanese” (139). Her type of multilingualism underscores the social implications of language norms: “Hybridity emerges as a strategy that involves adopting Japanese culture to navigate society and mitigate exclusion [...] albeit at the cost of their identity and internal conflicts” (Susilawati and Wajiran, 2024, 255).

Language directly influences and sometimes distorts identity. Lee thus examines the Japanese colonial practice of renaming Korean individuals through the japanization of their names and the imposition of a tsumei, a Japanese alias. While “Kyunghee had assured her that all these names would become normal soon enough” (139), Sunja struggles to navigate this multiplication of identities, which portends fragmentation. Self-introductions directly convey this destabilized self: “‘My name is Baek Sunja or Sunja Boku.’” (355, emphasis mine). The English language plays a role as well in the disruption of naming conventions. Indeed, in Korean, the surname comes first, a linguistic order followed in most of the novel: “Her mother told her Baek Isak’s intentions” (84). Nevertheless, on some occasions, the name precedes the surname: “Noa Baek was not like the other eight-year-olds” (195), highlighting an estrangement from Korean naming practices. Furthermore, when the characters speak English, their names follow the English order: “Hello, my name is Yumi Baek” (378); “‘Dear

friends of Solomon Baek!’” (447). Through differing linguistic conventions, identity proves to be fluid and adapted, not without challenges to the characters’ self-perception and agency. This is further highlighted by the use of Japanese when characters are introduced or introduce themselves throughout the novel (desu means “this is”): “‘This is Sunja’s mother. Kim Yangjin desu’” (227); “‘Goro desu’ [...] ‘Yumi desu’” (317). To the readers’ minds, the switch to Japanese in the narration inscribes Zainichi identities within a Japanese setting. This is all the more the case with Goro and Yumi who are both Korean but play by the rules of the Japanese environment. Names represent both an opening and a schism, and different social values can be derived from an introduction. Thus, for example, Noa’s self-introduction under his new Japanese identity—“‘Nobuo desu,’ Noa said, smiling. ‘Nobuo Ban desu’” (361)—is followed by a line break before the conversation resumes. The blank space seemingly created represents the rupture between his Korean and Japanese identities, which Noa struggles to connect throughout his life. Renaming is therefore the strategy he chooses to pass as Japanese (Tablizo, 2022, 115). He even achieves tremendous linguistic abilities as he speaks and writes “in beautiful Japanese” (267), better than most natives.

Multilingualism also influences family dynamics. As the circle of Sunja’s family broadens throughout the novel, linguistic flows increasingly complexify. When Solomon and his Korean-American girlfriend Phoebe visit, the family’s home becomes the locus of linguistic multiplicity:

‘You’re here!’ he said to Phoebe in Korean. When she spent time with Solomon’s family, the group spoke three languages. Phoebe spoke Korean with the elders and English with Solomon, while Solomon spoke mostly in Japanese to the elders and English to Phoebe; with everyone translating in bits, they made it work somehow. (495-496)

None of the characters present can speak all three languages fluently; as a result, their interactions are indirect, mediated and fragmentary. However, this does not impede the connection between them: “everyone seemed closer, as if each member were organically attached to one seamless body” (496). The three languages constitute different threads that vary in textures, starting points and destinations, but end up underpinning a sense of community.

2. Language as Home: the Return Myth

For Zainichi, the Korean language is intrinsically tied to the homeland and one of the pillars on which the return myth rests (Huang, 2022, 135). However, the successive generations in Pachinko differ in their relationship to Korean, which can be the language of home or an uncomfortable source of

pressure. For the first generation of Korean immigrants, Korean was a lingua franca that strengthened both their ties to their home country and their sense of community (Lie, 2008, 119). The characters of Sunja, Yoseb and Kyunghee emphasize the importance of the Korean language as an educative priority: “Yoseb had been telling Sunja that the boys had to go to a Korean school in the neighborhood because the family had to be ready to go back. The boys had to learn Korean” (259). The modal verb had expresses the strength of the return myth; older family members believe the children should be going back to Korea. Nonetheless, Noa and Mozasu experience discrepancies in linguistic competences which are typical of multilingual children (Romaine, 1995, 211). While they understand and speak Korean fluently, reading and writing prove more challenging. These differences come to the fore in Noa’s parting letter to his family: “Noa had written his brief message in simple Japanese rather than Korean, a language he had never written well” (348). Thus, in his final opportunity to speak Korean, as he severs his ties to his family, Noa chooses Japanese as his preferred mode of expression. As such, he disproves the return myth that his family held dear. For him, “[...] the so- called native language hardly provides the virtual security of home” (Kim and Lee, 2023, 76); he prioritizes the expression of his own feelings, albeit at the cost of his mother’s ability to understand all nuances.

Solomon, for his part, has weak command of the Korean language: “his Korean was pathetic at best” (483). This estrangement from his family’s native language is inscribed in the choice of his name. His father Mozasu recounts that Solomon’s mother had wanted to name him Sejong: “He paused. ‘Sejong was a king in Korea. He invented the Korean alphabet.’” (449). However, since children are traditionally named by the head of the family on the father’s side, a Christian name was chosen to honor his grandfather Isak, a Christian minister. From the onset, ties to the Korean language were severed, as Solomon did not receive a name so strongly tied to Korean linguistic identity. Instead of being named after the figure regarded as the source of the Korean language, he only gathers bits and pieces of the language: “At school, he spoke English and at home, Japanese. Sunja spoke to him in Korean, and he answered in Japanese sprinkled with a few words in Korean” (382). This situation is typical of children growing up in a multilingual environment, who may be able to understand a language but not to produce complete linguistic utterances themselves (Romaine 240). In addition, the connotations of the verb “sprinkled” place Korean as a byproduct of Solomon’s use of language, as opposed to the dominant position assumed by King Sejong’s.

During Mozasu and Solomon’s travel to South Korea, language crystallizes their sense of inadequacy and displacement:

He had visited South Korea with his father several times, and everyone there always treated them like they were Japanese. It was no homecoming; however, it was great to visit. After a while, it had been easier just to play along as Japanese tourists who had come to enjoy the good barbecue rather than to try to explain to the chest-beating, self-righteous Koreans why their first language was Japanese. (483)

Rejected by Koreans whose linguistic standards they do not meet, they play the part of Japanese tourists. However, by acknowledging that they “play along”, father and son refuse to self-identify as such. Instead, they come face to face with their inherent hybridity. To Mozasu, fluidity is inevitable: “‘We have no motherland. Life is full of things he cannot control so he must adapt’” (437). The novel concludes on a return for Solomon, but not to his ancestors’ country. Instead, he firmly decides to stay in Japan and continue Mozasu’s pachinko parlor business. After studying in the United States and travelling to South Korea, he chooses Japan, both his birth and home country, while standing by his Korean heritage by working in pachinko. He opposes his father’s desire to see him use his education and multilingualism to climb up the social ladder and become an “international man of the world” (446). Instead, Solomon embraces a hybrid Zainichi status, choosing “to return again, to a family and language and history and heritage that bind him and bolster him in ways not reducible to his legal status” (Yi, 2018). Thus, in Pachinko, origins and national identities are shown to be multifaceted and fragmented, rather than being based on a monolithic, mythical portrayal of a home country.

3. Linguistic Hybridity: Borrowing and Code-switching

In the novel, the characters display several instances of borrowing and code-switching. The Japanese interjection nee, which could be translated as “right”, appears on numerous occasions; in fact, discourse markers are highly likely to be borrowed (Poplack, 2001, 2063). As children, Noa and Mozasu exhibit this linguistic fluidity: “‘The water is so hot, but you get used to it, nee’” (233); “‘Koh-san wanted us to come by to congratulate me. Nee?’” (294). As it punctuates the characters’ speech, it acts as a linguistic reminder of their multilingualism within an English-language novel. The linguistic triad is complexified by the use of discourse markers. Indeed, while nee is recurrent, Korean discourse markers are hidden by the English language. However, they are discernible, as in this utterance by Kyunghee: “‘Of course, it isn’t clear when we can return now, but the boys need to learn how to read and write. Don’t you think?’” (260; emphasis mine). Here, the discourse marker is used by the speaker to elicit agreement, like nee. By reading between the lines and languages, readers can discern Korean as the novel’s linguistic backdrop. With English as the vehicle of the linguistic triad, Lee uses narrative strategies to point to multilingualism. She also does so throughout linguistically ambiguous scenes, such as the conversations between Mozasu and his boss Goro. Both are Korean and fluent in Japanese; in their interactions, several Japanese words appear in italics:

‘Ohayo. The car is waiting. I’m taking you to Totoyama-san’s for new clothes. Let’s go,’ Goro said. ‘Maji? Why? I have enough suits for this year and next. I’m the best-dressed foreman in Osaka,’ Mozasu said, laughing. (311)

While this could mark the difference between Korean and Japanese in a bilingual conversation, it could also emphasize discourse markers in a monolingual Japanese interaction. Hence, the indeterminacy underlines the constitutive multilingualism of Zainichi society, forcing readers to reflect on the use of language.

Lee also depicts instances of code-switching, which is “the mixing, by bilinguals (or multilinguals), of two or more languages in discourse, often with no change of interlocutor or topic” (Poplack, 2001, 2062). This is directly addressed in the novel, as in an interaction between Solomon and Etsuko: “‘Arigato very much,’ he said. They often mixed up words in different languages as a joke” (434). The omniscient narration reveals a certain degree of linguistic self-awareness from the characters and Solomon in particular embodies fluidity in his linguistic and social practices (Kim and Lee, 2023, 72). In other instances, the switch to another language has emotional triggers. For example, when Sunja finds Noa after his disappearance, he switches back to Korean after sixteen years of only speaking Japanese with perhaps the most intimate address: ‘“Noa!’ she cried, and rushed toward him. He turned around and stared at his mother, who stood not ten paces from him. ‘Umma,’ he murmured” (422). While Noa had erased all instances of Korean in his life, the emotional shock brings forth this language as that of interpersonal connection. For Noa, Korean is not about a homeland he does not identify with, but about his family members. However, family connections do not always converge to Korean, proving the diversity of Zainichi experience, as in this intimate conversation after Yumi’s funeral: “‘You’re a good son,’ Mozasu said to him in Japanese. ‘You are a good papa.’” (378). It appears that no single language emerges as a natural, immediate one for the expression of emotions, as the question cannot be resolved in the plural, multilingual Zainichi society.

While the Korean language represents a starting point and Japanese a secondary step in the family’s history (Wu, 2023, 137), English plays yet a different role, as a language that is acquired through education. For Yumi and Mozasu, speaking fluent English is a goal that would allow them to be free from harmful stereotypes. When Mozasu switches to English, his ideas are pared down to the simplest expression of his beliefs, the grammatical errors reinforcing a sense of honesty: “‘We will marry. You

see,’ Mozasu said calmly in English, ‘I have plan.’ [...] ‘You and I love each other. Soo nee, Yumi- chan?’” (330). The English teacher Reverend John Maryman promotes the English language as a third way in a paradoxical new othering process: “John loved the sound of English words, the sounds of Americans talking. He wanted to give this to the poor Koreans in Osaka. He wanted them to have another language that wasn’t Japanese” (328). For Solomon, English is a flexible, transactional language. For Noa, English becomes even more, as it is intrinsically tied to his sense of self: “The only thing he continued to do from before was to read his English-language novels [...] and he remembered who he was inside” (396). To a certain extent, English can represent a safe “third space” as conceptualized by Homi Bhabha, insofar as it is free from the constraints of both Korean and Japanese society.

Apart from the family members, several characters embody diverse linguistic paths. Solomon’s boss exemplifies a globalized identity that produces startling contrasts between conflicting social standards: “His boss, Kazu, was a Japanese national who was educated in California and Texas, and despite his bespoke suits and elegant Tokyo dialect, his English speech pattern was pure American frat boy” (484). Mozasu and Yumi’s English teacher, Reverend John Maryman, personifies a reverse mixed identity, as he was born in Korea and raised by his adoptive American parents. Consequently, he exhibits original linguistic patterns: “English was his first language. [...] Though he spoke Japanese and Korean proficiently, he spoke both languages with an American accent” (326). His teaching position makes him aware of the prevalent sense of displacement in Korean communities, to which he pessimistically answers, revealing his ideological premises: “There was always talk of Koreans going back home, but in a way, all of them had lost the home in their minds for good” (328). Therefore, language, identity and home conflate in the intricate self-reflective awareness of the characters.

Commented Excerpt

As the family struggles to make ends meet, Sunja decides to sell kimchi at the market to earn money. She struggles to attract clients when she speaks Korean and only sells some to the butcher opposite her stand, who congratulates her: “‘Oishi! Oishi nee! Honto oishi’” (177). After Kyunghee and Mozasu leave, she changes strategies:

This is the first situation in which Sunja speaks Japanese. She transitions from monolingual Korean sentences to a mixed clause, combining a Japanese adjective (“oishi”) with a Korean noun (“kimchi”) in an attempt to bridge the gap between herself and Japanese passersby. She borrows words she has just heard from the butcher, thus earning his proud smile; language creates a reassuring connection. In the first stages of her bilingualism, Sunja is limited to two words; the repetition highlights her determination nonetheless. Sunja not only combines two languages but also uses linguistic strategies, that of the market’s ajummas, the middle-aged women who sold their products and goods at the market in her hometown. She uses catchphrases and familiar intonations. Her own voice becomes a tool which she modulates. She begins to grasp and combine linguistic codes, showing resourcefulness and adaptability. Paradoxically, in this foreign land, with this foreign language, she integrates a certain community and reaffirms her ties to this “chorus”, to her homeland.

Significantly, she switches to Japanese once Kyunghee has left. As she enters a bilingual space, she leaves the reassurance of her native language. Linguistic and spatial realms conflate in the phrase “out of earshot.” Sunja’s uneasiness in speaking Japanese pushes her to play this part away from the Korean community at first. She manipulates Japanese as a tool for the first time, out of necessity. This insertion into Japanese society is representative of many Zanichi’s experiences, as they resorted to businesses like peddling and pachinko. While multilingualism has practical effects, it also creates a shift in Sunja’s perception of herself and the role she plays in society. The mix of shame, unease, tentativeness and resolve underlines the difficult long-term process of identity formation and the quest for belonging.

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Lison Brault, Multilingualism in Min Jin Lee’s Pachinko (2017), La Clé des Langues [en ligne], Lyon, ENS de LYON/DGESCO (ISSN 2107-7029), mai 2025. Consulté le 22/06/2025. URL: https://cle.ens-lyon.fr/anglais/litterature/litterature-postcoloniale/multilingualism-in-min-jin-lee-s-pachinko-2017