July, 2024. In response to Jamie Ho and Junli Song
Jieun Ko is a multidisciplinary artist who lives in Brooklyn with her husband, Greg, and their dog, Gamja. She is the singer-songwriter of the indie folk-soul duo, Jieun & Greg. She is the writer of the weekly newsletter, With Love, Jieun & Greg. And she is the host of the podcast, Gajok, a daily podcast about the Korean American experience. Jieun was born in Seoul, Korea; she immigrated to Annandale, Virginia when she was two years old; and she spent her formative years in Springfield and Great Falls, Virginia. Her identities as a Korean, an American, and a Korean American, are central to the art she creates. Jieun is her ancestors’ wildest dream.
Instagram @jieunandgreg
My name is Jieun. It’s a joy to meet you both, through the form of art and letters.
It was helpful to read the messages you shared with each other for the first part of this project. It gave me more context and understanding for this second round of messages. Your mothers experienced so much trauma in their lives in China, much like my mother did in Korea. I hold space for all of the grief that their bodies have had to carry, and all of the grief that their bodies are still having to carry. I wish our mothers could rest.
Reading your messages was particularly challenging for me. My appa died nine months ago, on September 26, 2023, after a four-year battle with metastatic lung cancer. I am seven months pregnant with my first child. And I have not spoken to my umma since February because appa’s death changed everything — her, me, our family, and our relationship.
I disagree with the sentiment that our mothers did everything for us out of love and care. I think they did many things for us out of love and care. They also did many things to us out of fear, anxiety, trauma, circumstance, selfishness, and a lack of emotional maturity. I think our mothers deserve to be seen in all of their colors. I want us — daughters of our immigrant mothers — to feel safe enough to sit in this tenuous, uncomfortable space together.
A lot of grief, jealousy, and anger came up for me while reading your messages to each other. I was particularly jealous of the carefree nature with which you both were able to talk about your parents existing and showing you love through food and acts of care. This is how my parents love, and loved, me, too.
I don’t have the privilege of talking about appa in the present tense anymore. I don’t have the privilege of eating his delicious guks, jjigaes, and all of his over-the-top meals. I don’t have the privilege of seeing the delighted look on his face when he would watch me eat. I don’t have the privilege of receiving FaceTime calls from him. I don’t have the privilege of hearing him say, “hi, ji! mohae? bap muhguhssuh? joshim, joshim. bye, ji.”
Even though my mom is still alive, the temporary loss of connection means a temporary loss of her and her love, too.
Losing appa has been devastating. Becoming a parent without a physical connection to either of my parents has been deeply painful. Carrying the death of my father, while carrying the life of this child, has been the most difficult thing I have ever had to do in my 35 years of life.
During the first week of May, I ate a plate of mandu that umma made for my husband Greg and me back in January. She was living with us in Brooklyn after appa died. She had frozen a giant tupperware container full of these handmade mandu, filled with pork, green onions, vermicelli noodles, kimchi, dubu, and love. As soon as the mandu hit my tongue, my eyes filled with tears, and a flood of grief hit me like a tidal wave. I ate the mandu. I wept and wailed. It was the first time I had eaten umma’s food since February. The smell and taste of her food flooded me with memories of eating mandu together with my parents, at their table, in their home. The smell and taste of her food also flooded me with the searing grief of the reality that we will never be able to eat mandu together again.
When my dad died, it felt like an entire line of my life had suddenly been severed. It felt like all of the lights went out. It felt like losing a limb. It felt like losing a life — my life. It felt like I had lost half of myself. My identity became so unsteady. Who am I without appa?
Since appa died, I hold onto things more loosely, and more tightly.
Since appa died, I realized that nothing matters, and everything matters.
Since appa died, physical things feel more meaningless, and more precious.
Since appa died, I live my life with more patience, and more urgency.
The only things we have left when people die are their memories and their things.
I find myself holding onto all of our memories, and all of his things.
With love,
Jieun, 지은
Photo Description: Appa, Jieun, Greg, Umma, Litchfield Villa in Prospect Park,
September 20, 2020. Our Wedding Day.
PC: Eloise Photography.