Celebrating Chinese New Year’s

Gloria Wu, 18
California

My hands rubbed over the grainy heads of the guardian stone lions as I faced the steps to the red gate. I don’t have time to be here. Spanish presentation. Biology lab. History research project. Volunteer work. Piano lesson. I should just go home. But I’m already here. I might as well go in.
My heart brightened at the welcoming sight of the red lanterns hanging from both sides of the gate, laughing as they danced in the wind. My feet whispered soothingly as I passed up the stairs. My shoulders shrugged off the heavy weight of my coat as I pushed open the gate and entered a different world.

New Year’s was conducting a wonderful symphony. Oil splattered on the stove, firecrackers pounded away in the distance, the grandfather clock ticked happily in the corner, mothers screeched while they carried platters of steaming food, children shrieked as they chased the poor dog, fathers rumbled quietly as they played mah jong*, grandparents murmured to each other as they sipped green tea and talked of times long past.

“Aiiiyaaaah!” My stooped nai nai* was the first one in the organized chaos to notice me. I opened my arms as she shuffled over, but instead of a warm welcome, a piece of paper was stuffed into my outstretched hands. “What are you doing standing there?” she demanded. “Be useful and give Zhao Jun new clothes! We don’t want to anger him!”

I was hustled into the kitchen. I took down the half charred picture on the wall and reverently pasted the new one in its place. Zhao Jun is the Chinese god of the kitchen. According to legend, he goes up to the heavens each New Year’s to give an account of the good and evil deeds of each family. In hopes that he would give the gods a good report, a new picture of him was placed in the kitchen each year.

When I finished my job in the kitchen, I heard nai nai’s familiar screech for dinner. I hurried into the courtyard and slipped into my place at the table among my seventeen cousins. Polished benches stretched out before me, bearing their burdens of assorted fresh and candied fruits, sautéed vegetable, soft pale cakes and barbequed meats. Tables staggered under the weight of platters of jie cai, plates of round dumplings, dishes of stir-fried noodles, roasted duck and large steamed catfish that graced the center. Everything was tasty except for the catfish; no one dared place their chopsticks near it. Yu could not be eaten on New Year’s.

After dinner my grandfather brought out his shadow puppets and reenacted the story of the monster Nien who terrorized the world every New Year’s, looking for people to eat. Legends say that the great gods took pity on the people and taught them the secret of firecrackers. With the firecrackers, the people could scare away Nien and live another year. That is why we say “Gong xi fa cai*” on New Year’s – congratulations on surviving!

At midnight, the rumbling of firecrackers and cheers exploded across town. We jumped out of our seats, bowing and shouting, “Happy New Year’s!” Everyone lined up in front of our ancestors’ altar, thanking them for keeping us safe this past year. The children lined up before their parents, wishing them a happy New Year’s. In return, they received hong bao, envelopes filled with a year’s worth of allowance.

As the darkness slowly brightened, the adults seemed to realize the time. Lights were extinguished and the fire put out as my relatives gathered their hats, coats, and children and bid each other farewell, seeking their own homes and beds. And me? I donned my coat – once again a heavy weight upon my shoulders – walked out of the courtyard, out of the red gate, down the well-worn steps, past the laughing lions, and back into my own waiting world.

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