Publishers Weekly
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Choi's volatile relationship with her domineering, chronically dissatisfied mother is at the heart of this memoir, a funny and often moving account of growing up in a family of Korean immigrants. The parent/child compact in Choi's childhood home was as follows: Mommy and Daddy's job is to take care of the child; the child's job is to study hard, go to Harvard and become a doctor. But Choi and her mother face each other across a seemingly unbridgeable divide: Annie has little desire to embody traditional Korean feminine virtues (and no desire to be a doctor); her mother-to whom social status is everything-cannot countenance her daughter's "shortcomings." Whether recounting the shame of bringing home a B-plus on a fourth-grade spelling test (a clear indicator that she's destined for an inferior institution) or the greater horror of having to wear Korean clothes to American school ("The fun of soup bring Spring" reads one pair of her tracksuit bottoms), Choi adds acid wit-mixed with compassion-to her descriptions of immigrant life in the San Fernando Valley. This is that rare book that delivers more than it promises; Choi tackles the theme of mother/daughter conflict with grace and humor. (Apr.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Book list
From Booklist, Copyright © American Library Association. Used with permission.

Mining the age-old tensions between mothers and daughters, Choi's strong debut is an uproariously funny memoir of growing up with her Korean American family in Los Angeles. Many stories expose the specific struggles of children of immigrants. When she entered kindergarten, for example, Choi was placed in a remedial learning program because her school didn't have an ESL specialist. Other stories focus on familiar mother-daughter battlegrounds (when her mother asks her to wear an ensemble that Choi describes as appropriate for Paul Revere's stable boy, she writes, I felt she had stopped loving me ) and on the universal adolescent feelings of a self-described late bloomer : Anyone could confuse my back for my chest. From the elementary-school memories of her mother's tough-love academic views--Don't be baby! You not wear diaper no more. You have to practice so you get A --to the phone exchanges when college-age Choi learns of her mother's breast cancer, these are indelible, poignant, and often riotously funny scenes of a daughter's frustrations and indestructible love. --Gillian Engberg Copyright 2007 Booklist

Kirkus
Copyright © Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

A debut offering tedious recollections of childhood. Choi has strung together 13 essays about growing up in a tight-knit Korean-American family. The title piece is a meandering account of how Choi spent her 27th birthday: alone. All of her friends bailed on her, and her parents forgot to call. Then Choi moves to "Animals," a meditation about her childhood and adolescent love of teddy bears, squishy lobsters and other stuffed animals. "Spelling B" is a light-hearted examination of her parents' obsession with academic excellence: As Choi's mother said, the parents' job was to provide for their kids, and the kids' job was to go to Harvard. Characteristically, this essay ends on a confusing note. Having recounted her less-than-triumphant performance in a school spelling bee, Choi—who holds an MFA from Columbia—describes her nightly study of "exotic and challenging words. My favorite was ytterbium. I wondered what it meant." (Does she imagine that this sounds profound?) Throughout, the author focuses on common battles between girls and their mothers, arguments over clothes and diet. Unfortunately, in her hands, these fights are little more than trite set pieces. The titles of the essays are exceedingly cutesy—the reflection about the onset of Choi's menses is called "Period Piece." Still, there are a few redeeming moments. Choi's meditation about her mother's breast cancer is tender, and her discussion of the pressure she feels to get married is laugh-out-loud funny. Choi uses dialogue to good effect, though even that faint praise must be tempered, as her rendition of her mother's broken English—"You make Mommy so tire!"—quickly gets old. Lackluster. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.