Fresh Air - Best Of: Writer Ocean Vuong / Comic Atsuko Okatsuka

Episode Date: June 14, 2025

Poet and novelist Ocean Vuong talks with Tonya Mosley about his new novel, The Emperor of Gladness. Set in a fictional small town in Connecticut, it follows a 19 year old grappling with addiction and despair, who forms an unexpected bond with an 82-year-old widow living with dementia. Also, book critic Maureen Corrigan has a review of the book. And, we hear from comedian Atsuko Okatsuka. She's known for finding humor in the dysfunction of her immigrant family, and the daily responsibilities of being an adult. Her new standup special is about her father, who reappeared in her life after decades away.Learn more about sponsor message choices: podcastchoices.com/adchoicesNPR Privacy Policy

From WHYY in Philadelphia, this is Fresh Air Weekend. I'm Tanya Mosley. And today, poet and novelist Ocean Vong talks about his new novel, The Emperor of Gladness. In it, Vong tells the story of a suicidal man who is talked off the ledge by an elderly woman suffering from dementia. Through their friendship, Vong challenges the very foundation of what makes us American, including individualism and every man for himself. And yet, in the working poor communities, the black and brown communities that I grew up in, the generosity came first. That sort of doggy dog world was shameful.

Book critic Maureen Corrigan also has a review of Vong's novel. And we hear from comedian Otsuko Okotsuka. She's known for finding humor and the dysfunction of her immigrant family. Her new standup special is about her father who reappeared in her life after decades away. That's coming up on Fresh Air Weekend. This is Fresh Air Weekend, I'm Tanya Mosley. Our first guest is writer and poet Ocean

Vuong. Before we hear our interview, let's listen to book critic Maureen Corrigan's review of his new novel, The Emperor of Gladness. Ocean Vuong's 2019 debut novel, On Earth Where Briefly Gorgeous, was one of those novels that made me silently pledge, I'll follow you anywhere, whatever you write. And so I have, into Vuong's 2022 poetry collection, Time is a Mother, and now his second novel. The Emperor of Gladness, like its predecessor, explores what Vuong has called in a recent interview the loneliness of class movement. Sprawling where its predecessor was compact, the Emperor of Gladness opens on a view, sweeping in time and space, of East Gladness, Connecticut, a town that

manufacturing left behind. Our tour guides are the spirits of the place who speak to us in a collective voice. Follow the train tracks, the ghosts advise, till they fork off and sink into a path of trampled weeds leading to a junkyard packed with school buses in various stages of amnesia. Furred with ivy, their dented hoods pooled with crisp leaves, they are relics of our mislearning. If the novel's opening calls to mind Thornton Wilder glazed with Springsteen, what happens next reads like Wang's nod to Frank Capra

and his classic 1946 film, It's a Wonderful Life. Our main character, a 19-year-old depressed Vietnamese-American boy named Hai, stands on the town bridge. Hai has lied to his immigrant mother. She knows he's dropped out of college, but in an effort to make her feel better, High claims he's been accepted to med school, which she naively believes. Her joy fills him with self-loathing. As High is about to jump into the river below, he's stopped, not by Clarence the angel, but by an elderly woman whose house abuts the river. Grazina arrived in East Gladness as a Lithuanian refugee after World War II. She's now a widow suffering from dementia and

stranded in what was once a thriving blue collar neighborhood. Because she has an empty house and Hai can't return to his mother, the two settle in together with Hai becoming Grazina's caregiver. This is one vision of a found family that Vuong presents in The Emperor of Gladness, and its miraculous lack of sentimentality surely owes something to the fact that he lived a similar story himself. In fact, Vuong dedicates this novel to his Grazina. Vuong's gifts of writerly restraint also keep things real here. About midway through the novel, Grazina asks Hai, who's giving her a bath, if he'll undress for once so she doesn't feel like I'm some patient. Hai steps out of his boxers and Grazina looks at him, the relationship silently equalized. But it's another type of found family that this novel even more deeply explores. That is the often fleeting but intense one that sometimes emerges through work.

Hive finds a job at a local fast casual restaurant called Home Market. Although he quickly catches on that at Home Market, made by hand meant heating up the contents of a bag of mushy food cooked nearly a year ago in a laboratory outside Des Moines and vacuum sealed in industrial resin sacks. There are pages of wry and often compassionate catalogs here describing the routines of High and his fellow workers, as well as the

drugs they take to get through the pain and exhaustion of those routines. Every day this crew spends more of their waking hours with each other than they do with anyone else. One result is that they can sniff each other's presence. Before long, High began to know which employee was behind him by their scent alone. The Johnson & Johnson baby lotion Wayne rubbed over grease burns on his arms. The traces of whiskey coming through the Wrigley's Maureen chute. The bootleg Tom Ford BJ war, cut with the strawberry starbursts Russia was always sucking on. The Emperor of Gladness is a truly great novel about work, still an

under acknowledged topic in American fiction. Hard work is supposed to get you somewhere. That's part of the promise of America. But the payoff feels much less certain to these characters. A winning lottery ticket, an inheritance, maybe even a union would have to come along to propel these characters to a place of greater humane possibility. Vuong's achingly austere artistic vision leaves it to his readers to imagine the better world he won't let himself depict on the pages of this wonderful novel.

Maureen Corrigan is a professor of literature at Georgetown University. She reviewed The Emperor of Gladness by Hsuanh Vong. Now let's hear our conversation. Hsuanh Vong, welcome back to Fresh Air. Thank you so much, Tanya. It's a pleasure to be here. You were nervous about this next book coming out. And I wonder why. I imagine every author is nervous because you put so much care and work into something. But I,

I never expected to write on my own terms so soon in my life. Everything I did was for my family, and I got really comfortable with that. It was never a burden. But then when my mother passed, I inherited my brother. My brother moved in, so my family got bigger. We moved and I started writing this book January 18, 2020. And it was my way out of grief. I thought, okay, I'm fully an orphan now. You know, I said, goodbye, Mom, I'm going to write this without you. It's my first book from start to finish without her. And when you say on your own terms, you mean exactly that, because without her presence, even if it's on an unconscious level, you're not writing for her.

Yes. And this book is funny. I'm a funny person. There's all of me in here. And the first book, I was writing the history of my elders. I don't write their stories. I've never interviewed my family for my work. To me, it's very ethical, ethically clear for me to not have them expose their pain for my art. So, you know, there's things they've told me I'll take to the grave, they've taken to the grave. So I'm inspired by their life,

in the same way Tolst I'm inspired by their life in the same way Tolstoy was inspired by his family. But I don't mind their stories for my work. But because I knew that, as Toni Morrison also knew, that the majority of readers in America would be white, that, you know, Morrison said that really brilliantly, but she said, I know that as an editor, as a writer, however, I'm still writing for Young Black Woman. My intention and the market are two different things, although I can acknowledge both. And I'm so grateful for that model, because I knew Unearthed for Briefly Gorgeous is my debut, but it's my second book, so I've been in publishing.

I knew that the majority of my readers most likely will be white. So I didn't want to invite folks to laugh at my elders. So that book was very somber. And this book is more my history. And so there's a lot of humor in it. But it's still full of grief because I just, I felt really icky about writing on my own. I haven't figured it out yet. I think there's so much shame in accomplishment for someone coming from the working poor, because every triumph is also a moment of immense loss. Let's get into your origin story, which started in Vietnam, but you arrived here at two years old, lived in Connecticut, a small town called Glastonbury, and the book is set in a fictional town, East Gladness, which I suspect is very similar to Glastonbury. Can I have you read an excerpt from the book that really describes this setting?

Sure. It's a town where high school kids, having nowhere to go on Friday nights, park their stepfather's trucks in the unlit edges of the Walmart parking lot. Drinking Smirnoff out of Poland's spring bottles and blasting Weezer in Little Wayne, Until they look down one night to find a baby in their arms, And realize they're 30-something, and the Walmart hasn't changed except for its logo. Brighter now, lending a bluish glow to their time gaunt faces. It's where fathers in blue jeans flecked with wood stains stand at the edges of football fields, watching their sons steam in the reddened dawn, one hand in their pocket, the other gripping a

cup of Dunkin' Donuts. They could be statues for what it means to wait for a boy to crush himself into manhood. And each morning you'd sit on the frost-dusted bleachers, a worn copy of To the Lighthouse on your lap, and watch the players on the field, blue tomahawks shivering on their jerseys, their plastic pads crackling in the mist. And when you turn turn the page it would slip right off the binding flutter through the field gathering inky blotches through the wet grass until it tangles between the boys legs and disintegrates under a pair of black cleats the words gone to ground that town. This town sounds like so many towns in the United States in fact you go on to also write about

kind of the center of the town where there are lots of fast food restaurants and the main character actually works at a fast food restaurant. What strikes me is that so much of what is written about America and presented about America are the big cities and the big towns. But this reality is much more real and much more common. Yeah. Yeah. And it's so seldom written about. I think we really fetishize the stories that have these escape arcs and these improvement arcs, rags to riches. It's so interesting because we see it in our films, even magazine stories, things that are written about me. Refugee Kid makes good, right, writing his first book.

So the story, the profiles are all around that myth. Meanwhile, I grew up looking around. All I saw was stagnation in American life, but it didn't mean that it was doomed If you ask my stepdad worked at Stannadine What is Stannadine? Stannadine is a company in Connecticut. It's no longer there. He worked there for 25 years and its entire manufacturing was to manufacture a single screw that went into gas pumps and If you asked him a refugee who escaped by boat, living, people relieving themselves on a tiny boat, throwing up overboard, seven days he spent at sea, And you asked him, did you manage to live your American life the way you wanted? Without batting an eye, he would say yes.

Because he said, I have a uniform, there's a stitching on the right chest with my name, my Vietnamese name in diacritics. And our living room was so spare because we couldn't hang anything up. It was a HUD housing rental. So if you want to hang something up, you want to put a hole in something, you have to ask permission. It's a bureaucratic nightmare. You can't paint. You don't own anything. So we lived in a kind of, it felt like a stage set. It wasn't ours. But he would come home and he put a thumbtack on the wall. He would hang that

uniform every single day. And he said, I lived my life on my term. That was my American life that I wanted. He had health care. He had a salary. It's very relative for me because when I looked at his life, I saw something full of loss. This man went to bed, woke up at 3 p.m. to go to work, went to bed at 12 a.m. I never saw him. He never saw his kids.

My mother never saw him. And I looked at that, I said, gosh, my life needs to be different. Meanwhile, that was his triumph. And so to me, growing up, I realized that there are many versions of triumphs. And I'm not interested in the American dream so much as I'm interested in Americans who dream, because him and I had two different dreams. Both of them are valid. If you're just joining us, we're listening to my interview with writer Ocean Vong about

his new novel, The Emperor of Gladness. We'll be right back after a break. I'm Tanya Mosley and this is Fresh Air Weekend. One of the things that you do in this book through the story too, the main character Hai, he works at a fast food restaurant. And so I'm thinking about your stepdad working in a factory. He had a family of circumstances as well at work. And that same way, and those relationships, they're so fleeting, but they can be so deep as well. Yeah, because you depend on each other. And no ideology

on each other. And no ideology is strong enough to withstand kinetic kinship. That's what I learned working at Boston Market. Because that's where you worked for how long? Three years. Three years. Yeah. You also worked at other fast food restaurants. Panera Bread as well. Yeah. Two very different places. But actually, two very different places because they serve different communities. One was more upscale. Panera Bread was a little more upscale than Boston Market, but it was still minimum wage, 7.15. You still feel it. But you realize that people were kind of stuck. The shift was a trap. The fast-food restaurant was a trap. Meaning there was no place of mobility to move up. And everybody knew that. But we didn't dare say it. Hai, as I mentioned, the protagonist, he has decided that maybe he wants to die. And he's intercepted by this

relationship with this 82-year-old woman who's suffering from dementia. He ends up being her caregiver. And every moment in the book, as I'm turning the page, after I realize that, I'm thinking, he wanted to die, but he's living another day. And in that living another day, it's very much like that classic movie, It's a Wonderful Life, with Jimmy Stewart, where he says, I want to live. But there's something in it where these mundane, everyday things now seem kind of beautiful. These interactions he's having with his colleagues in this fast food restaurant that are so deeply human,

it's almost a reframe of the mundane day-to-day life. Absolutely. I'm so glad you mentioned it's a wonderful life. There's a moment that I've been thinking about that I didn't put in the book because it's a little too dramatic and I didn't know what to do with it. But there was this quintessential moment of these laborers coming together. There was a woman in her 30s and we were closing up, this is at Boston Market, we were closing up for the night, about 30 minutes to close, and she gets this phone call on the landline. No, we didn't really have iPhones.

And the phone call basically said her brother had overdose. He's in the hospital. They're trying to do everything they can. It was her ride. It was her aunt supposed to pick her up every day. And she's like, I gotta go. You gotta stay there until I figure this out. And this is the early aughts. So our community in Connecticut was hit with the opioid crisis before it had a term.

And it was like a bubonic plague. We didn't know what was hitting us. And there was so much shame because you had lunch ladies, gym teachers, everyone was taken out overnight. And we finished the shift, we closed out. And there was this unspoken reality. Nobody said it, but we all knew we were not gonna go home. I still think about that. Like, we clocked out, we're not paid, the lights are off, safe for the little fluorescent light by the sink, and we're sitting in this Boston market just holding vigil. For her and her brother. For her. Because we go, how can you? I mean, but I'm interested in that. I'm like, where

does that kind of kindness come from? Where does it, who taught us that? It's like the elephants. Every year they come back and they touch the bones of their dead. And the eldest gets to it first and they form a line. And I'm like, what is it about our species that came with that? This is a question that you've been asking yourself. I think you use the term, what is kindness without hope? Can you be kind without hope?

There's sort of a hope embedded in kindness because there is some sort of faith in many instances that really bind all of this together. That's a better word for it, huh? Faith. There's so much faith required in doing something, knowing there is no guarantee that it will pay off. I mean, we're told in this country that you have to pull yourself on the bootstraps. Every man for himself, individualism, and yet in the working poor communities, the black and brown communities that I grew up in, the generosity came first.

That sort of dog-eat-dog world was shameful. Class mobility has been really strange for me. I'm in these spaces where it's mostly upper middle class folks, academia, publishing, and I found like a totally different set of ethos. And values. And values. And that ricochet, I was never prepared for. I'm still not prepared for. You're now in elite circles. You're teaching at an elite university. You are a bestselling book author. You grew up where your mother did not know

how to read, you did not know how to read until you were 11. Your mom worked at a nail salon. And in these elite circles, they can read your work, but they'll never truly feel and know. And yet the people that you grew up with, they feel and know, but do they care really about the things that you've seen, the stuff that you come home to share with them? It's a privileged place to be in.

Is it also a lonely place? It is, but I prefer that they don't care. I'll say more on that. Yeah. Because when I come home, I'm just one more. I'm just one more of the litter. And also, here's another thing. Why should they care? Just because the New Yorker says what I do is valuable.

Just because Time Magazine or NYU or Yale says what I do is valuable. Why should all of a sudden that value system be foisted on them? They never had time to read a book. My mother worked from 8 a.m. 8 p.m. If somebody walks in at 7.55, she has to do their nails, she's not leaving till 9. When do you read a book? If you can afford a $30 hardback, when do you read it? So time, the idea of engaging in this product is expensive on the soul, on the body. And I'm really proud actually that they don't, because some authors,

their work comes home with them. And I't even bring it home. Because nobody cares. Like, oh, book, cool, put it aside. You know, fry, die, lay it aside. But they do care in some instance because you're caring for a lot of relatives. Like, you're financially caring for how many is it? Nine people. Nine people. Cousins, brothers, representative. Extended family, and they're really proud. They, you know, my aunt actually, she has a little album of all of my press cuttings, and she puts it under her desk at the nail salon. She whips it out, you know, because she doesn't think anyone will believe her. It's also interesting. She said, I'm keeping all your press clippings because people don't think, I don't think they're going to believe me if I say my nephew is Ocean Vuong, you know.

I think also like, you know, my aunt was the first one to told me, she says, I was talking about Oprah and my nephew is an Oprah pick at the salon. And all the people at the salon, they start Googling all the other nail workers. And then the first thing they said was, he's the first Vietnamese American Oprah pick. And they probably never read an Oprah pick, you know? But they were proud of that. So there is a kind of symbolic pride, but I don't force what I value onto them because I don't think it's fair. Lylea Kaye Growing up though, did you feel a certain sense of class betrayal? I think that's something that you've mentioned about, because my sense is that you've always been who you are, that you love to read once you discover that

as a medium. And how do you reconcile that to being yourself but also being one of the litter? I don't read in front of my family. You still don't? I still don't. Why? Because there's a sense of, I think, ache when they see it. And I know even when they, oh, go, go do it. But there's a kind of, when I start to read in front of them,

everything, everybody goes silent. The room. When you're reading, like, aloud. Like even like a magazine. I'm just reading a magazine in the corner in front of my family. Everything goes silent. Because they're illiterate, they have so much reverence for it, as if I'm performing some kind of liturgy or magic, right? And that saddens me because... And it was like, everyone, shh, Ocean's reading, as if I'm doing something like a wizard, right? And also, my mother, when I would read early on in my college life, she would, she was, I wish I could do that. She said, just so you know, just so you know, if I had a chance, I would read too. And when she was dying, this is like the days, they're still in the hospital,

and I was asking her, you know, you say, we knew it was terminal, and I just said, what do you need mom? Anything. What do you want to do? and we believe in reincarnation as buddhists and she said in the next life I want to be a professor like you ocean Because and she She don't she don't know what that is right and you're told You're told you you're you always thought that you look up to your mom. And I did, I did not know she was looking up to me the whole time.

You know, I just thought, gosh. You know, but she was so proud to say that. Do you hold any like thoughts to the afterlife and what she can see and what she's a part of this reality in this moment now? I don't know but I feel her and it's important for me to say this because so much of Asian-American life is about making art despite or against our family's wishes and I know that's true, but for me, I always had their blessing, even though they didn't know what I was doing. It was so strange to them, but they never said no to me. So when I walk into a place like this,

or when I walk into the classroom or on stage, my mother, my grandmother, my teachers, living and dead, my partner, my brother, I come in with their blessing and they have vouched for me. So I do feel completely invincible in that sense. The body I can't speak to, that will degrade and fall apart. But mentally, spiritually, I feel invincible because that's the only thing I care about, their blessing. Ocean Wong, thank you so much. Thank you for making space for me and for us, Tanya. It's always a pleasure. Ocean Wong is the author of the new novel, The Emperor of Gladness. Coming up, we hear from comedian Otsuko Okatsuka. Her new Hulu stand-up special is called Father, and in

it she jokes about the challenges of being an adult, the cultural expectations as an immigrant, and the return of her father in her life after decades away. I'm Tonya Mosley and this is Fresh Air Weekend. This is Fresh Air Weekend. I'm Tonya Mosley and my guest today is comedian Otsuko Okatsuka. Her origin story might sound like the setup of a drama. She grew up undocumented, was raised by her grandmother, who she jokes kidnapped her and brought her to the States, as they both dealt with the instability of watching her mother suffer from schizophrenia. But Akatsuko has made a career of turning that story on its head, mining it for sharp, hilarious observations about mental illness, identity, and navigating

adulthood with few life skills. Here she is in her first comedy special, The Intruder, where she reflected on the unconventional family dynamic that shaped her. I've never heard, try to look different. No, it was always blend in, Atsuko, blend in, keep your head down and blend in as much as possible. At least that's what my family would tell me.

And then they named me Atsuko Okatsuka. And then they went on to choose English names for themselves. I know. Thanks, Mom. Or Linda. That's betrayal, Uncle Paul. In her new special on Hulu called Father, Atsuko goes even further, reflecting on her relationship with her father in Japan, who was largely a distant figure in her life after she moved to the States. In 2022, Atsuko became the second Asian American woman after Margaret Cho to release an hour-long comedy special on HBO with The Intruder. And she became a social media darling a few years ago, thanks to her viral videos and dance challenges, like the one where she walked around LA

with her grandmother dancing to Beyonce. Otsuko Okatsuka, welcome to Fresh Air. Oh my gosh, Tanya, it is a pleasure. It's an honor. This is too good to be true. Well, your story is incredible. You were born into a Japanese Taiwanese family, spent your early childhood in Japan, moved here to the United States when you were eight years old. Your grandmother

basically kidnapped you and you joke about this, but it sounds pretty traumatic. Yeah, but you know what I found about trauma is while you're going through it, you're not going, this is trauma, this is trauma, this is not good. Right. I didn't have time to feel that I'm realizing. Yeah. Yeah. And so in a strange way, as I like processed it over the years, I guess, you know, guess whether it was depression that I was hitting or sadness that I was feeling, I didn't know that was maybe the trauma that I was processing.

And then now that it's been really a longer time and I'm able to joke about it, I've sort of started to heal without even realizing it. Does that make sense? Well, it does because so much of your comedy, it feels like you're working it out on stage. I also want to know though about those first years when you arrived here, because the three of you, your mother, your grandmother, and you, you arrived and you were staying in your uncle's garage. Was it a real garage? Like describe this garage. So it was a garage that he then extended for us so that there would be a bedroom attached

and then a toilet shower and then a kitchen unit in where the cars were originally would go. Yeah. I don't think that built that that was legal for him to do to deck it out like that But it happened to be that the garage was like behind this sort of like gate that you open to go to the backyard So it was kind of hidden away from you know, the streets you joke when people Ask you like what's wrong with you. You say well, I was raised by a 50 year old man when that's your only friend You have talked about this quite a bit on stage in this American life You say, well, I was raised by a 50-year-old woman when that's your only friend. You have talked about this quite a bit on stage in This American Life.

There's a beautiful episode where you even joke about, like, you know your life is traumatic when Ira Glass calls you and says. Oh, yeah. Yeah, that is not good. But what did your grandmother tell you about the choice to bring you all here? And really, you spent your childhood in that garage.

Yeah, so my grandma and I hadn't really talked about it in depth until kind of Ira Glass, which was just... 2023? Yeah, yeah just two years ago. I mean this whole time I just needed someone to be like, do you want to do it for radio? And I'm like, yes, yes, yes. Now I would like to uncover what's going on. Or else, you know, I'm fine with just not knowing. You know, the truth hurts, right? And so I want to do it not alone.

And it helped that I got to do it with Ira and the thousands and thousands of thousands of listeners, right, at the same time. Then I'm really not alone. It wasn't funny though. You know, I mean, you told it in a very matter of fact way thousands of listeners, right? At the same time. Then I'm really not alone. It wasn't funny though, you know? I mean, you told it in a very matter-of-fact way, in a very moving way as well. As someone who is always used to bringing in that that little bit of humor into it, what was that like for you to share that

story in that way? I always say there's like a kind of aura of sadness around me, you know, because the truth is my mom as we're speaking is I can picture her right now she's sitting upstairs in the house that my uncle owns, my other uncle, and she is laying in bed and she hasn't left that house in a long long time. She you know doesn't have any friends, she is severely depressed and all my life my mom has suffered and I think about that all the time. As I get to do things like tour and travel, see the world, come to here, the West Side even, you know. As I go out drinking with friends, my mom can't do any of those

things. She's suffering so much, right? And so I have the ability to tap into, I guess, being present and real, especially when dealing with heavy topics, you know? When I'm trying to protect an audience, when I'm trying to protect other people, which is why I became a performer, I love people and I love the arts because of that, yes, I'm going to do it with humor. People pay tickets to come see me. I'm not going to just tell you sad stories. I'm going to make sure you laugh so you can forget your problems. What's interesting is your mother was not diagnosed with schizophrenia, you share, until she was

much older. She was in her 30s. So growing up, when did you become aware that she was suffering and that maybe she wasn't like other mothers? I think that I was always in denial a little bit. I still am. I still think that I think this of everyone that is going through mental illness because I think it is true. I truly believe it that like however much you know there is chemical imbalances going on, underneath that is the real you that loves dancing. If you're my mom, my mom was ballerina when she was young, or loved to put on plays with her neighborhood friends,

you know, when she lived in a small village in Taiwan. You know, whatever your story is, whatever you're into as a person, before bipolar or depression or whatever that you have come across, you know, I truly believe that about each person. I knew before I even moved to America, in Japan, all of my classmates, their parents were still together.

So I did notice, you know, at like school plays or parental meetings, it was always both parents present for all the other kids. When I would go have play dates at their house too, it was both parents there on the weekends and stuff. And so was it your grandmother who would take you to those things? Right, so it would be my grandma, yeah. And you know, sometimes it would be like,

whispers like, who's she bringing this time? Is it grandma? Is her mom gonna show up? What's her mom look like? We don't even know. Does she have a dad? What would you tell people when they'd ask you about your mom? Well, I remember one time telling my second grade teacher because she knew that my mom was sick. That was the word I would use. My grandma told me she was sick and I knew something was off so I was like, oh she's sick with something.

And you know, my mom also has seizures. So that was the part that she understood. She was like, oh wow, she has seizures and then she'll just fall. Okay, that's intense. Yeah, I could see why it's hard for her to physically be at the school or get places, you know. I didn't know how to quite describe her mental state, yeah, because I, you know, I was a kid. Yeah. I was thinking about that your mother's diagnosis and what it was like growing up with her, but she was diagnosed with

schizophrenia in her mid-30s. Was that a relief to know a name for what you had been experiencing throughout your childhood that that offer anything to you by the time that happened? Oh, it did not because I think I didn't super look into it on my own. I was afraid for more, probably, truth. Yeah. What do you mean by that? So I used to go to church when I first got to the States and my uncle, who we were staying with, and his wife, you know, my aunt and uncle were going to church. What kind of church?

It was a Chinese Baptist church. And that's how you end up going there, right, is like, if you're an immigrant, it's very easy for them to be like, well, you need friends, right? And you like free food? I was like, yes, yes. Do we do outings? Sometimes we go, you know, play basketball at the park. I like that.

So, yeah, I ended up there. And you know, because of that, and then I became super Christian, right? Like on my own. I think, you know, right, I needed something to believe in or something. It was community, all these things. And I was still confused about why we didn't go back to Japan, and my mom's condition, and in that garage. So I took it very seriously to the point I even like signed up for Jesus Camp on my own. Usually, you know, churches sign up together. Like the youth group will sign up together.

One year, nobody from my church signed up, but I was like, I'm gonna do it on my own because that's how much of a believer I am. What an insane thing. I had no group representing me. It was just me on my own, because that's how much of a believer I am. What an insane thing. I had no group representing me. It was just me on my own. And so I went and I remember at the camp, there were like these prayer groups and prayer meetings we would break it off into. And one night it was like me and like 30 people in a prayer group. And I asked for them to pray for my mom, pray for my mom to get better,

to be freed from the voices in her head and all these things, from the suffering, from severe depression, from the seizures, from feeling so isolated and down all the time. And then I remember when 30 people are praying for you out loud, and you're in in Big Bear.

It's almost like a vacation. We were outdoors overlooking forests and mountains. It was so beautiful. I truly thought that it was going to work. When I go home, she's going to be healed. So by the time your mother got that diagnosis, where were you in that realm? Had she already gotten the diagnosis,

or did that come later? Well, at the time, I'm trying to remember when I found out that she, it was, you know, I remember seeing the word schizophrenia because I asked my grandma to write out what it is that the doctor said she has. My uncle who is OBGYN in Taiwan is the one that helped figure it out. And my grandma wrote out the word. I think, I think that was after this Jesus camp incident, because when I came home, I was super disappointed that she had not changed, right? And feeling really down and hopeless.

Right? And feeling really down and hopeless. So I think by the time I saw that word schizophrenia on a napkin, that that's what my mom had, I was like, would it even help to even figure out what that is? Because like the prayers didn't help. Like what would help? Because till this day, you know, she still hears voices. Even with medication? I mean, yeah, we had to choose. Do we treat the seizures more or the voices more? Because those two kinds of medications cancel each other out. So we decided to treat the seizures more because that's more, you know, immediately fatal and scarier

just because it's physical. What a choice to have to make. I want to talk a little bit about this latest stand-up special because you talk about reconnecting with your father in it and he's always lived in Japan. So essentially you grew up here in the States in LA where you all arrived without him. And I want to talk more about that in the moment. But he has brought up the idea of you and your husband having children. And I want to play a clip. Here's what you had to say about that in the special.

I have reconnected with my dad, and we're very close. But he really wants me to have kids because he thinks that's how you undo a traumatic past. And I always have to be like, oh dad, I think our family should stop. Should stop. In fact, Ryan has a vasectomy scheduled for the end of the year. Yes. Oh, yes. Yes. Thank you. Thank you. I booked it. Thank you. Thank you. That was my guest today, Atsuko Okatsuka and her new Hulu comedy special father. What I love about that is that it's very singular because it's your experience, but I think that a lot of people can also feel that way. Like, we're not passing down this generational trauma here.

But was not having children something that you always knew for yourself that you didn't want or did that come with you and Ryan together making that decision based on your history? It's something I never really wanted, you know, and then Ryan happened to feel the same way too. So when we came together, it was an easy thing to, you know, come to a conclusion about. We were just like, this is how we feel. Yeah. Margaret Cho, you tell the story about how being at this Baptist church, someone gave you a DVD. how being at this Baptist church, someone gave you a DVD. Did they give you that DVD because they already could see you were funny or was it just a coincidence?

Yeah, we would joke around a lot about stuff and, you know, she said, she was older than me, this girl who passed me the DVD. Yeah. Yeah. And she said, I think you'll like this. Yeah. Yeah, and she said, I think you'll like this. And she gave me an example of a joke that Margaret Cho had, which was, oh, she's really prolific. She has a joke about how Hello Kitty, she's Hello Kitty, that's her name, but she doesn't have a mouth. So how does she say hello or something like that? And I was like, oh, that's, as as a kid I found that to be so funny and neat Yeah, I think it's because she saw that I would enjoy it

Many years later you're face to face with Margaret Cho. I was really touched I think she said about you that when she looks at you from the moment she first that when she looks at you, from the moment she first became acquainted with your work, that you just knew who you were immediately because she didn't know. And I think that's just, she didn't know for herself when she first started off. I think that's so powerful,

because you know who you are in part because you were able to see her do it. Oh, for sure. Without Margaret Cho, there's no me. There's without even Bobby Lee, who was one of the first. Without Jo Koy, there wouldn't be me. Without a lot of people, right? And we can go on with the list without Anna Mae Wong,

who was an actress and not a comedian, but there wouldn't be me. Yeah, it's, we talk about the first, you said, you know, in 2025, there's still the first to do this and the second to do this. Margaret really was the first Asian American female standup and they were mean to her. They were not kind. She talks about it in her standup from having eating disorders to having to audition for her own TV sitcom for her own character. Only for them to say you're too fat so go and lose weight. What would that what does that do to a person and I've really I watched her go through it but look at I mean look to

to still be doing it and crushing it too, and she's my friend, that's, yeah, it's truly an honor to know her. Atsuko Okatsuka, this has been such a pleasure. Thank you so much. Oh my gosh, thank you so much for having me. Atsuko Okatsuka's new Hulu special is called Father. She is currently performing her new standup

as part of her Big Bowl Tour. Fresh Air Weekend is produced by Teresa Madden. Fresh Air's executive producer is Danny Miller. Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham. Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Phyllis Myers, Roberta Shorrock, Anne-Marie Baldonado, Lauren Krenzel, Monique Nazareth, Thea Challener, Susan Yacundi, and Anna Bauman. Our digital media producer is Molly C.B. Nesbur. Our consulting video producer is Hope Wilson. With Terry Gross, I'm Tonya Mosley.