Lucas Blogs About The Magic Fish

Like the one that sustained Saint Corentin?

I've been kicking around an idea for a Hey, Hypothetical Reader! where HR and I would discuss canon. You know, like in the context of fiction. I would have this whole schtick about how canon is a mind-prison that leads to a hyper-focus on continuity at the expense of examining what really matters about a story. Namely, what it makes you think and feel. They don't assign The Great Gatsby or The Scarlet Letter to high school juniors so they can find out whether Daisy will leave Tom for Gatsby or who the father of Hester Prynne's daughter is (SPOILER: she won't and it's very obviously Reverend Dimmesdale). They assign them because A) The Literary Canon is also a mind-prison; and 2) both feature such obvious symbolism that even a high school junior will notice it. I feel like I'm getting off track, let's start over:

The Magic Fish  is a graphic novel for young readers by Trung Le Nguyen. You might say it's about a boy who worries what will happen if his Vietnamese immigrant parents find out that he's gay. And it is. You might also say that it's about his mother, who feels guilty about leaving her own mother behind in Vietnam, especially now that her mother is battling a chronic illness. And it's also about that. You could also say that it's about the ways in which shared stories help shape and mediate our relationships. It's definitely about that.

Tiến is a middle school student and has a good relationship with his parents, Vinh and Hiền (who also goes by Helen). But he's got a crush on his friend, Julian, and is worried about what might happen if people find out. After all, he goes to a Catholic school, and it's the midwest in 1998 (Tiến sees a news report on the death of Matthew Shepard), and he doesn't even know how to come out to his parents in Vietnamese. Meanwhile Hiền works as a seamstress and reads fairytales with Tiến to help improve her English, and while she enjoys the life she and her family have made in America she still feels guilt about being so far away from her own mother, who is undergoing treatment for a serious illness back in Vietnam. And while both of these stories are enough on their own to be compelling (and not coincidentally, good examples of LGBTQ+ and immigrant narratives), what really makes this such a good read is the way in which Nguyen incorporates the fairytales into the book. The first one is a variant on Tattercoats and Allerleirauh, which Tiến reads to Hiền; the second is a version of Tấm Cám, as told to Hiền by her aunt (and which features the magic fish of the title); and the third is a takeoff on The Little Mermaid and Ondine, which Hiền and Tiến take turns reading to each other. Each is unique but all of them involve transformations, star-crossed lovers, and keeping secrets. So, you know, each is thematically relevant. And they also provide a show case for Nguyen's work as an artist.

The art in the book is striking. Not necessarily because it's stylistically bold, but because it's largely monochromatic. Nguyen uses uniformly thin line drawings with (mostly) only a single color to provide shading. The story in the present is in shades of pink, the fairytales are in blue, and Hiến's memories of Vietnam are in yellows. The only things that break this scheme are in the fairytales: peaches (which are peach) and blood (which is red). This is established from the first page, and — in addition to creating visual interest — allows Nguyen to change the setting wordlessly. One more word about the art in the fairytales: while Nguyen uses the same style as in the parts set in the real world, each is presented as a different character might imagine it. The first story is imagined by Tiến with a sort of Disney renaissance vibe, the second by Hiền's aunt has the look of a well-to-do mid-century Vietnamese household, and the third is imagined by Hiền with a Hong Kong epic look for the undersea world giving way to a mid-80's pastiche on land. These visual cues give insight into the life experiences and cultural framework of each character. The first story also brings Hiền's memories of fleeing Vietnam and falling in love with Vinh to the surface. Speaking of Vinh, he's one of the less developed characters. Largely absent because he works a night job, but Nguyen uses economical visual storytelling to establish his relationship with his son and his wife. In fact, the visual storytelling is well done all around, whether it's elements of Tattercoats popping up in Hiền's memories, or two panels showing that Vinh had his crucifix necklace melted down to make wedding bands, Nguyen is able to communicate motion and feeling cleanly and legibly.

Another way that Nguyen makes The Magic Fish stand out compared to other young adult fiction is by making it just as much Hiền's story as Tiến's. Like the tri-monocolor scheme, this is established from the begin which is briefly narrated by Hiên. It's cool that Nguyen trusts young readers to empathize as much with a parent as they do with a child. Further, it's great how he trusts the audience to make the connection between Tiến's fear of being rejected by his parents and Hiền's fear that she's lost a part of herself in coming to America without explicitly connecting them through dialogue, and allows each to progress through the stories that they share. And while it didn't have me full on ugly crying like, say, East of Eden, the conclusion is quite touching and did leave me somewhat misty-eyed. It's a really good book. It's written on a level that kids can understand without talking down to them. I'd recommend it to anyone who is or has a parent. Although if you're squeamish about fairytale violence like bleeding trees or people being tricked into cannibalism, consider this your warning.

The Magic Fish by Trung Le Nguyen, RH Graphic trade paperback edition, 2020, 229 pages, pairs well with peach tarts, fish stew, and looking up how to type Vietnamese diacritical marks

Links:

Here's the artist/author's website, if you're into that kinda thing.