The Nature of Epiphany

Grant Kien

Abstract This autoethnographic reflection explores the nature of Denzin’s

notion of epiphany, an identifiable moment of lived experience that one can

identify as a turning point in one’s understanding of oneself and one’s rela-

tionship to the world. The recurring, longitudinal but unpredictable char-

acteristic of remembering the epiphanic moment as it erupts throughout

one’s 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 life-

altering moment. The emotional urgency induced by the epiphany thus turns

the methodological instruction—that one must constantly return to that

moment—into 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, under-

standing 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 isn’t an instruction. It is an imperative: We MUST return to that moment.

We can’t 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 can’t go back to

sleep. Why not?

Busy mind. What’s my mind so full of?

That moment, years ago.

International Crossroads in Cultural Studies conference, Urbana, Illinois, Satur-

day afternoon, 2004: I’m presenting in a session made up of Dr. Denzin’s students. So

International Review of Qualitative Research, Vol. 6, No. 4, Winter 2013, pp. 578–584.ISSN 1940-8447, eISSN 1940-8455. © 2013 International Institute for Qualitative Research,University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign. All rights reserved. Request permission to photocopy orreproduce article content at the University of California Press’s Rights and Permissions website athttp://www.ucpressjournals.com/reprintinfo.asp. DOI: 10.1525/irqr.2013.6.4.578.

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

in Seoul, South Korea.’’ It’s 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. It’s 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 benefit 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 obvi-

ously 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 first 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 significance 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 he’s 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 remark-

able quality, and street vendors crowd the sidewalk with almost-as-good counter-

feited 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 proficiency in English—strange for Seoul. We’re

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 satisfied 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

doesn’t think these men are soldiers. Suddenly, a beautiful, sexy-dressed young

Korean woman has taken hold of Sean’s 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! You’ll 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 we’re both curious but hesitant to admit that we actually want

to know more about it. When we’ve 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 find 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 military—he 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 out-

of-shape appearances in contrast with the sharp killing-machine soldiers and the big,

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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 we’re 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 we’re 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 we’re going to leave their store. In one store, the owner is a particularly

adept conversationalist who asks where we’re from. Sean tells him he’s American and

that I’m Canadian. For amusement, he tells the store owner that we have to fight all

the time because we’re 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, that’s the way it is . . . ’’ We drift out the door and find

a coffee shop.

We’re 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 we’re 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 don’t 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

doesn’t 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 can’t help thinking it’s going

THE NATURE OF EPIPHANY 581

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 sister’s 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 don’t, 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 sister’s killer is a blond man.

As if I’m watching myself onstage in a drama, I hear my voice break as I say it,

‘‘My sister’s 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 fight it.

‘‘Don’t go back to that moment,’’ I tell myself

I fight it so hard.

I scream at myself silently: ‘‘Don’t 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 fight so hard to block that moment; I can’t

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:

He’s 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

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scene as we begin to ride down the escalator to the track level, descending into

the terrible dread of my memories of my sister’s 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.

I’ve sanitized it because I don’t 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 find 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 isn’t ‘‘Mystory,’’ this is her story.

Some are concerned: ‘‘What’s happening to Grant?’’

Some are disinterested: ‘‘Let’s get on with it.’’

Some are not sure how to deal with what they’re witnessing.

With my voice breaking, I finish 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. I’m feeling angry

and, typically, realize that I’m blaming the victim. I take back my words,

admitting that I don’t really know what’s 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 find some respite witnessing this woman’s ability to cope but can’t

help a feeling of dread as I review the aesthetics of the area we explored this

night. Some folks in that locale obviously don’t 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 company—Sean 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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There is a smattering of confused applause. I have ended it badly. I don’t care. I will

myself to return to the audience and take my seat, returning to the safety of ano-

nymity in the crowd.

So what do I do after?

I toss the printed pages into a folder somewhere—and 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 fight that memory.

I fight 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 couldn’t protect her.

I couldn’t act to stop it.

She was murdered in cold blood, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I tell myself that I’m over it, that I’ve moved on, that I’m now stronger and

immune.

But there’s no ‘‘getting over’’ anything. That pain lives on its own. And I try, but I

can’t 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.:

Can’t 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: ‘‘Don’t let her die again.’’

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