- And Why These Things Matter
Recently, I came across a post by a Korean immigrant who rejected ancestral rites like *jesa*, calling them relics of a superstitious past. The anger was loud, but the disillusionment was louder.
I understood his frustration—everyone’s family is different. And I’ve felt that tension too, especially when I was younger. It wasn’t the anger that surprised me. It was the fact that it came from a father—a man who had probably inherited as much as he was trying to forget.
It made me reflect on how I’ve come to think about tradition myself.
Some people say they hate tradition. But if you look closer, it’s often not the tradition itself—it’s the people tied to it. The tension. The judgment. The history that keeps repeating.
You expect family to support you, care for you, understand you. But sometimes, even when they try, it doesn’t feel like support. You’re left feeling tired, unseen, or worse—used. So the ritual becomes the enemy. The holiday, the gathering, the ceremony—it all starts to feel hollow.
I’ve felt that too—when I was younger and still trying to make sense of what I was expected to respect.
In Korean culture, we have a ritual called jesa* (제사), a memorial for our ancestors. I remember opening the front door and turning our backs—an old tradition meant to welcome our late grandfather inside. I didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits. Still, the ritual stirred something in me. It made me wonder about someone I’d never met, yet somehow still felt connected to.
I remember turning my head, just a little, even though we weren’t supposed to.
Some part of me believed I might catch a glimpse— maybe my grandfather, whom I’d never met, sitting down for a meal.
But all I saw was my grandmother. Alone, looking at the table that we prepared for him.
And that was the first time I understood absence—not as silence,
but as presence with no one left to receive it.
Many rituals surrounding death aren’t for the dead.
They’re for the living—to carry memory, to soften grief, to feel like we’re not alone in missing someone.
Last year, I spent Chuseok in Korea for the first time in 15 years.
The room that was once full of noise, cousins, and laughter—yes, sometimes fights too. But the hate was never as strong as the bond I felt at the time.
My grandmother’s photo now sat next to my grandfather’s.
There was no more conversation. No more direction.
It felt as if someone had pressed pause on time.
And in that stillness, I understood—being together was already the rarest part.
I remember thinking: this, right here, is something I want to pass on to my own kids someday.
That’s what tradition became for me:
Not something sacred or magical, but something shared— a habit of remembering together.
---
Before we go on romanticizing tradition, let’s be clear: not everything handed down deserves to stay.
Some, like female genital mutilation or caste-based exclusion, are deeply painful to even name—yet they still persist.
I don’t bring them up to condemn cultures I don’t belong to, but to remind myself how easily tradition can be used not to carry people, but to contain them. And that line, between care and control, is thinner than we’d like to admit.
In cultures where such practices continue, the question isn’t “Why do they do this?”
but rather, “Why can’t it be stopped?”
Take the caste system, for example.
In many Hindu communities, each caste and profession is associated with its own set of deities, values, and sacred meaning. The philosophy isn’t always about rising to the top, but about finding fulfillment and harmony within one’s place.
That mindset has brought comfort and structure to many lives.
But like all systems, it carries contradictions. The same tradition can also lock people into roles they never chose, making it hard—if not impossible— to imagine a life beyond what they were born into.
There’s more to be said about this, and I plan to explore it in a future post.
For now, it’s worth recognizing how tradition can hold both meaning and harm, depending on how it’s carried—and by whom.
--
There were also times in Korean tradition when men and women didn’t even sit at the same table.
The belief was that men represented the sky and women the earth—two roles meant to stay apart.
It wasn’t fair, and it certainly wasn’t equal. But within that system, there was also a clearer division of responsibility. Men were expected to carry heavier burdens. Women, though limited, often held the home together in quietly powerful ways.
That doesn’t make the tradition just. But it does mean it had structure—
and that structure carried both purpose and flaw.
When tradition loses its meaning and becomes only surface—a ritual without reflection— it turns into a tool of control. But when we understand the why behind it, we can choose what still matters and reshape it into something that belongs to the present.
Can you believe my mother’s generation actually lived like that?
I remember being seated at the women’s table a few times growing up— and even as a kid, I thought, wtf?
There was no way my fat boy cousin deserved more food or respect than I did. I was hungry too.
Tradition isn’t about reenacting the past exactly as it was.
It’s about knowing what came before you, and deciding what’s still worth carrying.
I understood his frustration—everyone’s family is different. And I’ve felt that tension too, especially when I was younger. It wasn’t the anger that surprised me. It was the fact that it came from a father—a man who had probably inherited as much as he was trying to forget.
It made me reflect on how I’ve come to think about tradition myself.
Some people say they hate tradition. But if you look closer, it’s often not the tradition itself—it’s the people tied to it. The tension. The judgment. The history that keeps repeating.
You expect family to support you, care for you, understand you. But sometimes, even when they try, it doesn’t feel like support. You’re left feeling tired, unseen, or worse—used. So the ritual becomes the enemy. The holiday, the gathering, the ceremony—it all starts to feel hollow.
I’ve felt that too—when I was younger and still trying to make sense of what I was expected to respect.
In Korean culture, we have a ritual called jesa* (제사), a memorial for our ancestors. I remember opening the front door and turning our backs—an old tradition meant to welcome our late grandfather inside. I didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits. Still, the ritual stirred something in me. It made me wonder about someone I’d never met, yet somehow still felt connected to.
I remember turning my head, just a little, even though we weren’t supposed to.
Some part of me believed I might catch a glimpse— maybe my grandfather, whom I’d never met, sitting down for a meal.
But all I saw was my grandmother. Alone, looking at the table that we prepared for him.
And that was the first time I understood absence—not as silence,
but as presence with no one left to receive it.
Many rituals surrounding death aren’t for the dead.
They’re for the living—to carry memory, to soften grief, to feel like we’re not alone in missing someone.
Last year, I spent Chuseok in Korea for the first time in 15 years.
The room that was once full of noise, cousins, and laughter—yes, sometimes fights too. But the hate was never as strong as the bond I felt at the time.
My grandmother’s photo now sat next to my grandfather’s.
There was no more conversation. No more direction.
It felt as if someone had pressed pause on time.
And in that stillness, I understood—being together was already the rarest part.
I remember thinking: this, right here, is something I want to pass on to my own kids someday.
That’s what tradition became for me:
Not something sacred or magical, but something shared— a habit of remembering together.
---
Where Does the Word ‘Tradition’ Stop Being Valid?
Before we go on romanticizing tradition, let’s be clear: not everything handed down deserves to stay.
Some, like female genital mutilation or caste-based exclusion, are deeply painful to even name—yet they still persist.
I don’t bring them up to condemn cultures I don’t belong to, but to remind myself how easily tradition can be used not to carry people, but to contain them. And that line, between care and control, is thinner than we’d like to admit.
In cultures where such practices continue, the question isn’t “Why do they do this?”
but rather, “Why can’t it be stopped?”
Take the caste system, for example.
In many Hindu communities, each caste and profession is associated with its own set of deities, values, and sacred meaning. The philosophy isn’t always about rising to the top, but about finding fulfillment and harmony within one’s place.
That mindset has brought comfort and structure to many lives.
But like all systems, it carries contradictions. The same tradition can also lock people into roles they never chose, making it hard—if not impossible— to imagine a life beyond what they were born into.
There’s more to be said about this, and I plan to explore it in a future post.
For now, it’s worth recognizing how tradition can hold both meaning and harm, depending on how it’s carried—and by whom.
--
There were also times in Korean tradition when men and women didn’t even sit at the same table.
The belief was that men represented the sky and women the earth—two roles meant to stay apart.
It wasn’t fair, and it certainly wasn’t equal. But within that system, there was also a clearer division of responsibility. Men were expected to carry heavier burdens. Women, though limited, often held the home together in quietly powerful ways.
That doesn’t make the tradition just. But it does mean it had structure—
and that structure carried both purpose and flaw.
When tradition loses its meaning and becomes only surface—a ritual without reflection— it turns into a tool of control. But when we understand the why behind it, we can choose what still matters and reshape it into something that belongs to the present.
Can you believe my mother’s generation actually lived like that?
I remember being seated at the women’s table a few times growing up— and even as a kid, I thought, wtf?
There was no way my fat boy cousin deserved more food or respect than I did. I was hungry too.
Thankfully, we didn’t actually live under that tradition anymore.
My parents told me about it, but never enforced it.
My dad wouldn’t let my mom eat at a separate table.
And the same went for me.
They chose what to leave behind.
My dad wouldn’t let my mom eat at a separate table.
And the same went for me.
They chose what to leave behind.
That’s the point.
Tradition isn’t about reenacting the past exactly as it was.
It’s about knowing what came before you, and deciding what’s still worth carrying.
It doesn’t have to be incense or rituals. It’s not that serious.
It can be the dish your mom always made for your birthday,
a song your grandma sang that came from her grandmother,
a story you haven’t told in years—
and maybe one day, sharing that same song with your grandkid.
We gather, not to resolve, but to remain.
And somehow, in all that unfinished noise, we still find warmth.
And that, ultimately, is the price we pay to hold on to those things.
Tradition isn’t here to save us.
But it can still hold us—if we’re brave enough to carry it, and wise enough to shape it with the slow patience of human wisdom.
Still, we contradict ourselves. We always have.
Maybe that’s the truest tradition of all.
It can be the dish your mom always made for your birthday,
a song your grandma sang that came from her grandmother,
a story you haven’t told in years—
and maybe one day, sharing that same song with your grandkid.
We gather, not to resolve, but to remain.
And somehow, in all that unfinished noise, we still find warmth.
And that, ultimately, is the price we pay to hold on to those things.
Tradition isn’t here to save us.
But it can still hold us—if we’re brave enough to carry it, and wise enough to shape it with the slow patience of human wisdom.
Still, we contradict ourselves. We always have.
Maybe that’s the truest tradition of all.
Comments
Post a Comment