Seollal | 설날: Lunar New Year 2022

Growing up, my family never celebrated 설날. We probably didn't celebrate Seollal because my parents were young immigrants who were too busy working to make time to celebrate. We also didn't have a lot of family that lived in America, so there weren't a lot of people to gather and celebrate with.

It makes me sad to think about all that was lost for our immigrant family, and all that is lost for so many immigrant families, when they leave their home countries and start new lives in new places, with new histories, new customs, and new traditions. Unfortunately, it falls on us to keep our culture’s traditions alive.

A couple months ago, my mom started working, and today, on Seollal, she has to work at a bakery, from 8 am to 8 pm. I have a thousand feelings I haven't fully processed, but the general feelings are overwhelming grief, anger, and sadness.

I wish we could be together today. If we could've been together today, she would've woken up at 5 am and started cooking. She would've gone to 한아름 the day before to get all of the ingredients she needed to make 떡만두국 for all of us. She would have made the 만두 filling with pork, dangmyun , dubu, green onions, garlic, ginger, and fish sauce. I would have helped her make platefuls of dumplings, something I've been doing with her since I was a little girl. I would have heard the sound of a giant pot of beef broth boiling on the stove. And the smell of this delicious soup would have filled our home, and it would have filled my heart with a comfort and peace that can only be done with the food of my people.

My mom would have ladled out three bowls for us, and she would have saved the last bowl for herself — everyone else has to eat first. My dad would have crushed some 김 on top of my bowl. There would have been 반찬 covering the entire table: kimchi, myeolchi, moochae, ojingeo-jorim. And we would've eaten it for breakfast, because that's what Koreans do.

And I definitely would have forced my parents to play 윷 with us. We started playing yut together in 2020, and I love playing it with them because it brings them back to their childhood. And I like watching my parents play. They never get to play.

Seollal is a day to think about our ancestors — our loved ones that are no longer with us today. So I'm thinking about my 외할머니 and my 외할아버지 today. I'm thinking about my 친할머니, that I barely knew, and my 친하라버지, that I never met. I'm thinking of my dad's brother and one of his sisters today. Im thinking about her son, my cousin. I'm thinking about my 큰아빠 who passed away from cancer last August.

I’m also thinking about my family in Korea today — my 이모, my 삼촌s, my 숭모s, my 이모부, and all my cousins — that I would’ve spent every Seollal with, if I had grown up in Korea. I haven’t spent nearly enough time with them, and yet they feel so close I can feel them, even though we’re thousands of miles apart.

This is the first time I've ever intentionally celebrated Seollal, and while it’s been painful to hold all the losses, it’s also been incredibly beautiful to reclaim the day. I’m connecting with a Korean tradition that is thousands of years old. I’m reclaiming a holiday that was lost through immigration and assimilation. I’m connecting with my family, my people — past, present, and future — and I feel the weight and power of that today.

Today, Greg and I will be grabbing big, warm bowls of 떡국 from Haenyo, a Korean restaurant named after the legendary female divers from Jeju Island, South Korea. Next year, I think I’ll just take the days off, drive down to Virginia, spend it with my parents, and give myself the full space to observe the holiday.

I'm looking forward to celebrating many, many Seollals, for many, many years to come. I will be keeping these Korean traditions alive. It's my honor and my privilege to keep them alive.

Happy Seollal, friends. 새해 복 많이 받으세요. ❤️

Love always,
Jieun | 지은