The Nature of Epiphany

Grant Kien
Abstract This autoethnographic reection explores the nature of Denzins
notion of epiphany, an identiable moment of lived experience that one can
identify as a turning point in ones understanding of oneself and ones relationship to the world. The recurring, longitudinal but unpredictable characteristic of remembering the epiphanic moment as it erupts throughout
ones life leads to the description of epiphany as if it has a life of its own. Thus
the epiphany compels the researcher to return to and explore that lifealtering moment. The emotional urgency induced by the epiphany thus turns
the methodological instructionthat one must constantly return to that
momentinto an imperative, meaning one must constantly reexamine the
epiphany because the epiphany of its own accord demands reexamination.
Keywords: autoethnography, epiphanic moments, performance ethnography

University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, Gregory Hall, ICR, seminar room, Fall

2003: Dr. Denzin is pacing around the crowded room, telling us that, like James
Baldwin, we must go back to that moment of pain, like James Baldwin did, reexamine
it, return to it again and again, turning it over, reexamining it, challenging it, understanding it, forging new paths forward from it.
I take the word must to be an instruction. Years later in San Francisco, 2012,
I realize it isnt an instruction. It is an imperative: We MUST return to that moment.
We cant help but return to it because it lives on its own inside its human host, inside
the anatomical brain, as its own Being. To the host, it is immortal. And sometimes it
takes possession of the body.
San Francisco, Saturday Sept. 15, 2012, 6:30 a.m.: I wake up and cant go back to
sleep. Why not?
Busy mind. Whats my mind so full of?
That moment, years ago.
International Crossroads in Cultural Studies conference, Urbana, Illinois, Saturday afternoon, 2004: Im presenting in a session made up of Dr. Denzins students. So
International Review of Qualitative Research, Vol. 6, No. 4, Winter 2013, pp. 578584.
ISSN 1940-8447, eISSN 1940-8455. 2013 International Institute for Qualitative Research,
University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign. All rights reserved. Request permission to photocopy or
reproduce article content at the University of California Presss Rights and Permissions website at
http://www.ucpressjournals.com/reprintinfo.asp. DOI: 10.1525/irqr.2013.6.4.578.

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there I am reading and telling Mystory: A Night in Itaewon: Performing America

in Seoul, South Korea. Its a story about something that I observed one night that
impacted me very strongly. The room is packed with spectators, some students or
former students of Dr. Denzin, many who are qualitative researchers interested in
what was, at the time, a new frontier of performance ethnography.
Here is what I read to them:
Welcome to Itaewon. From the back seat of the taxi, I read the words splashed
across a stylized marquee arching over the street, signifying the beginning of the
American section of Seoul. Its Saturday evening. Sean and I have been shopping in
the giant Yongsan Electronics Market, and I convinced him that we should see
nearby Itaewon on a Saturday night for the benet of my study of performances of
Westernness. Since Yongsan is the area in Seoul where the U.S. military base is
located, in our taxi ride we pass through some extensively walled and barb-wired
areas and observe many cadres of Korean police guarding the walls and entries along
the way, dressed in blue paramilitary uniforms and holding long black staffs obviously designed for cracking the bones of unwelcome would-be entrants. I know these
staffs are not mere props, having seen several news stories of people protesting the
U.S. military presence attempting to gain entry to the base, repelled or subdued with
vicious blows. Yogi? (here) Sean tentatively states to the driver, who pulls through
the entrance and up to the curb to allow us out. Sean pays the driver, and we exit the
taxi. Once on the sidewalk, I quickly glance up the brightly lit street extending up the
hill before us, absently turn and look back at the marquee from behind, then look at
the rst building I see at the beginning of this commercial strip. It is an urban
clubwear store, almost identical to the one across the street from my apartment back
in Toronto. I snicker a little bit at the confusing signicance of this. Does it mean
Toronto is American, or that Itaewon is Torontonian? Come to Itaewon and see
America! I exclaim to Sean, but realize hes already going straight for the goods.
Since there is a strong concentration of U.S. soldiers in this area, there are a lot of U.S.
urban styles and larger sizes in the stores along here. International name-brand outlet
stores intermingle with local businesses specializing in imitation products of remarkable quality, and street vendors crowd the sidewalk with almost-as-good counterfeited products. As we duck into shop after shop, Sean busies himself trying on
jackets but primarily searches for a pair of shoes suitable for meeting the parents
of his students. We marvel at the prociency in Englishstrange for Seoul. Were
greeted and dealt with almost exclusively in English here, and when we do use any
Korean, the responses are always in English. He is unsuccessful in his quest for shoes
but manages to negotiate a deal he is satised with for a small brass Buddha. I notice

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a lot of Australian accents. In search of more shoe stores, we innocently head up

a side street to see what lays in that direction.
About 20 meters into the side street, the tone of street suddenly changes. I notice
a lot of bigger black men in full hiphop street gear milling about and some pretty
large white men who I think are Russian standing around. Sean comments that he
doesnt think these men are soldiers. Suddenly, a beautiful, sexy-dressed young
Korean woman has taken hold of Seans arm and is trying to direct him through the
door behind her, into her bar, trying to persuade him with the plea, Come in! Come
in! Youll like a good time! He protests, slips his arm from her hand, and we escape
that doorway only to be confronted by another. This time we walk briskly enough to
not get caught physically, but I look intensely through the open door into the brothel,
trying to get a sense of what they are like inside. I glimpse a small bar, dimly lit, with
a couple of sexy, young-looking women sitting around it. As we continue down the
street, we pass several more of these establishments. I continue to look into whatever
open doors present themselves to us. I surmise from my observations that they all
look generally the same. We muse about what goes on in those bars . . . have a few
drinks . . . then what? Where do the patrons go after that? What are the pragmatics of
the operation? I sense were both curious but hesitant to admit that we actually want
to know more about it. When weve seen enough, we turn around and go back down
the street on the opposite side, passing more open doors and solicitations. As we near
the intersection joining up with the main strip, I see small squads of mainly white
male American soldiers in casual clothes heading into the area. I see a couple of these
small groups intersect and interact with a few of the aforementioned large men.
I think of my neighborhood in Toronto where from my living room window I would
sometimes see crack deals going down across the street and think to myself that this
setting has all the aesthetics of a major drug-dealing center. As we turn back onto the
main street, I notice a squad of U.S. military police turning into the side street,
escorted by Korean paramilitary police.
Dinner. We have to search hard among the overbearing Burger Kings and Dairy
Queens and Pizza Huts to nd a nice, small Korean restaurant serving normal
Korean food. Everyone else in the restaurant appears to be Korean. We order and
begin to discuss our impressions of the area. Sean talks about the militaryhe is in
fact a U.S. army brat, his mother a former Navy captain and his father a computer
consultant who has done work for the Pentagon. He mentions his distaste of the U.S.
military and how his family put pressure on him to enlist when he was a teenager.
I muse about how easy it is to spot the teachers in this area, with their disheveled outof-shape appearances in contrast with the sharp killing-machine soldiers and the big,

THE NATURE OF EPIPHANY

581

chunky career military men. He comments that he thinks he notices people around
us in the restaurant relax when they hear him say Canada a couple of times. I think
to myself that they are probably wondering why were eating there when there are so
many Western restaurants around.
After dinner we stroll along and look at leather coats and jackets, at the same
time searching for a coffee shop. Itaewon is famous for its knockoff leather garment
industry, and were not disappointed to see that the hype is true. Wonderfully crafted,
top-quality leather knock-off coat designs are price tagged at a third of the going rate
in North America. During the hot, muggy summer season, the shop owners are eager
to move some inventory. Numerous shop owners offer up to an additional 40% off
when they see were going to leave their store. In one store, the owner is a particularly
adept conversationalist who asks where were from. Sean tells him hes American and
that Im Canadian. For amusement, he tells the store owner that we have to ght all
the time because were from different countries. The man smiles politely, and I chime
in, Actually, the way it really works is the American insults me and blames me for all
his problems, and then I the Canadian say Thank you. Sean chuckles a little bit and
says lightheartedly, Yeah, thats the way it is . . . We drift out the door and nd
a coffee shop.
Were sitting on the patio of a coffee shop halfway along the Itaewon strip,
sipping iced coffee drinks and watching the people pass us by. I notice were right
beside the open door of a nightclub. It has the aura of a place that has strippers.
I notice several groups of young male soldiers in casual clothes enter and note to
myself that I dont see many of them leaving. I see a young blond soldier approaching
with a young Korean woman at his side. Dressed like a typical young woman from
a respectable family (i.e., wearing a pretty but not sexy designer dress), she looks
very out of place to me here, and my body bristles as I anticipate a potential disaster
looming. She has the aura of someone much like my own girlfriend, though obviously
doesnt share the same feelings about U.S. soldiers. I helplessly quash an urge in
myself to warn her not to go in there. I watch with the stunned fascination of seeing
an accident in progress as they pass through the door and ascend the stairs.
Sean and I continue chatting on various topics, and I notice there are a lot of men
dressed in traditionally Muslim clothing walking by us and turning at the corner.
I ask Sean if it seems like there are a lot of Muslim men here, and he agrees. Then
I notice over his head on the corner is a green sign with a picture of a mosque and the
words Seoul City Mosque with an arrow directed up the side street. I get him to
take a picture of me there on the patio, the Westerner in Itaewon, and tell him to
make sure to get in the door of the club beside me. I cant help thinking its going

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GRANT KIEN

to make a brilliant addition to my ethnography. We get ready to leave and exit the
patio. As we head down past the door of the club, sure enough, the young Korean
woman hurriedly strides past us. The young soldier/would-be boyfriend trails close
behind her, trying to get hold of her hand as she strides purposefully ahead of us
toward the subway entrance. He is trying to persuade her of something, trying to pull
her to make her stop walking, but she has escaped into a conversation on her cell
phone, simultaneously diverting her attention from him and at the same time,
I imagine, gaining moral support from whomever is on the other end.
I feel bad, suddenly riveted to this melodrama in front of me. All the emotions of
my own sisters murder in a domestic dispute 15 years ago take possession of my
body. I become shocked and irrational. I want to walk up to the soldier and push him
away from her but dont, knowing I have no right to interfere and that it is her
responsibility to handle it herself. Trying to talk it out of me, I ask Sean, Did you
see that? Did you notice what just happened? and then explain how I spotted them
heading into the club. They disappear down the subway stairs ahead of us and vanish
from our sight, but by the time we get to the subway gate, I see that he has managed
to make her stop short of entering and is earnestly explaining something to her.
I recall that my sisters killer is a blond man.
As if Im watching myself onstage in a drama, I hear my voice break as I say it,
My sisters killer is a blond man. I feel the tears and anger and rage well up inside
me. Right there, in front of everyone, I feel the pain of that moment awaken with all of
its fury, overtaking me against my will.
And I ght it.
Dont go back to that moment, I tell myself
I ght it so hard.
I scream at myself silently: Dont let it rule you!
But I must.
I already have.
That moment back in 1989 or 1990 or something.
Even now when writing this, I ght so hard to block that moment; I cant
remember the exact year. But I remember it was 1992 when I decided to start living
myself again.
So there I am, back in that night, back in that moment of her death, in front of an
audience in Urbana, IL:
Hes been back on the streets in Canada for several years already. The Korean
woman looks uninterested but gives him her attention anyway. I look at the

THE NATURE OF EPIPHANY

583

scene as we begin to ride down the escalator to the track level, descending into
the terrible dread of my memories of my sisters last night. She is talking with
him as they disappear from my sight.
Why do we sanitize the truth in our own minds?
Passive voice. Derail and distract. Try to avoid the pain.
It was her murder.
Ive sanitized it because I dont want to go back there, to that moment.
In spite of this, my body has betrayed me, gone there on its own.
So there, in front of everyone, I nd myself in that moment again.
This is the epiphany.
Nothing will be the same again.
Nothing else matters.
I look out into the sea of faces.
Right there, I realize this story is about her, my murdered sister, not me, not those
strangers in Itaewon. This isnt Mystory, this is her story.
Some are concerned: Whats happening to Grant?
Some are disinterested: Lets get on with it.
Some are not sure how to deal with what theyre witnessing.
With my voice breaking, I nish the next paragraph and stop:
I mention my disbelief to Sean, asking him what it is that makes beautiful
women seem to like being treated like shit by total assholes. Im feeling angry
and, typically, realize that Im blaming the victim. I take back my words,
admitting that I dont really know whats going on with them. It just makes me
frustrated to see that, I state blandly. I can only know what is going on with me.
We stand on the platform waiting in the quiet, calm anticipation of the subway
train; I see the woman step peacefully onto the opposite side platform. She is
alone. I feel immense relief, though not yet total quiet. I examine my feelings:
the enduring resentment, frustration, and confusion in me from the murder of
my sister. I nd some respite witnessing this womans ability to cope but cant
help a feeling of dread as I review the aesthetics of the area we explored this
night. Some folks in that locale obviously dont have a lot to look forward to in
their lives. When the subway train comes, we board and head back to Yeoksam,
where we part companySean back to his small room in a Goshiwon and I to
my small apartment, where, in absence of a phone, I take out my laptop and
pirate a wireless internet signal from a neighbor and search for someone on
MSN Messenger to chat for a while.

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GRANT KIEN

There is a smattering of confused applause. I have ended it badly. I dont care. I will
myself to return to the audience and take my seat, returning to the safety of anonymity in the crowd.
So what do I do after?
I toss the printed pages into a folder somewhereand never look at it again.
I bury the Word document in a folder on an abandoned hard drive and try to
forget that it exists.
I try to ignore the moment.
I ght that memory.
I ght it with the conviction that my life depends on me getting over that pain.
I never want to be that quivering, embarrassed, weak thing I was standing there
in shame.
I couldnt protect her.
I couldnt act to stop it.
She was murdered in cold blood, and there was nothing I could do about it.
I tell myself that Im over it, that Ive moved on, that Im now stronger and
immune.
But theres no getting over anything. That pain lives on its own. And I try, but I
cant sanitize the truth in my mind. That moment lives forever, all by itself. It MUST
return, for it is part of my immortal being.
Jump back to San Francisco, Saturday, Sept. 15, 2012, 6:30 a.m.:
Cant sleep.
Why not?
Busy thoughts.
Busy in that moment.
Epiphany.
I MUST go there.
MUST remember.
MUST miss her.
MUST love her.
MUST write about her.
MUST tell myself: Dont let her die again.