Vocal Point : Trip home with children sparks fond memories
It is the Year of Pig.
On February 8, the Chinese ushered in the last year of the 12-year cycle of the lunar calendar symbolized by 12 different animals. For the Chinese, the Year of Pig signifies prosperity and good fortune as well as fertility and virility, although how the last attribute is tied to pigs I don’t really know. But for a culture rife with symbolism, just about anything is a sign for either good luck or bad luck. And judging by the size of its population, fertility is very much on the mind of its populace. So weddings should be very popular this year. And for a country that knows poverty, famine and deprivation so very intimately and personally, just about anything should be and is a blessing for prosperity. And what better symbol to rely on than the animal that calls the beginning of a new year, and by extension, a new life?
For the Chinese in China, there is no other holiday. It is the only one that counts. The collective party goes on for 15 days, during which time, to encourage consumer spending and travels, the government gives its workers 10 days off.
What a frenzy life is this time of the year.
Everything must be finished off. It is the end of fiscal year for every company and every household. Old debt must be paid off. All personal feuds, entanglements, old scores settled. The year must start with a clean slate, just like the house must start with a thorough cleansing. Everything washed, dusted, swept, scrubbed and scalded. It is a frantic time for housewives and businessmen alike. The air is literally pregnant with expectation – for so many people, this is the only time of the year that they will see their families. For the millions of migrant workers who leave the impoverished inland for the economic boom of the coast and metropolis, for the millions of others who for reasons of livelihood, this is the only time that they will reunite with their spouses and children.
This time of the year, the whole country is on the move. And this time of the year, I give in to my subconscious yearning to be part of this collective frenzy. I long to reach out to all things Chinese, even if it is just the memory of it.
And lately, in this Year of Pig, I have been thinking of my grandfather. It is curious that the image of him should linger, for I actually never knew him well; except maybe in my own old age he has come to represent the stereotypical China man unadulterated by the changing of time. He was 5 feet tall or shorter, and shrinking. Even to a child’s eyes, he was short, a little old man always garbed in black traditional cotton shirt with its hand twirled cotton buttons all the way to his chin. He wore a black cap in the winter. And in the summer, his bald head glistened in the subtropical sun. When he grinned, his silver capped front teeth shone. He endlessly and furiously puffed on his pipe in the warmth of winter sun, when there was no field work to be done. At long interval, he would utter a slow “yep,” to nothing or nobody in particular.
In 1976, at the first sign of the country slowly opening its door to the outside world, his sons took him to Guangzhou to meet his daughter, who, in the ‘50s, had sneaked aboard a cargo ship to the Philippines and, along with her husband, made a fortune there. Guangzhou, along with Beijing and Shanghai, was the only city open to foreign travelers. On the street, my grandfather walked into a 6-foot-3 “foreign devil,” red hair, blue eyed, with “skin pale as a ghost, his arms covered with hair like a real devil,” according to his account. They both stopped dead in their track at the sight of one another, and stared in disbelief, causing a traffic jam, each utterly delighted in his close encounter of the third kind, and both probably feeling the fulfillment of their big trip to the alien city. According to my father, the “red hair devil” even reached out to touch my grandfather. Did he think he had just touched China itself? I wonder.
It is this little Chinaman that surfaces to my memories of new year this year. Every single year, without fail, he would go to the village credit union and take out his savings in brand new bills, count and recount them, argue with the clerk that the bills were not crispy enough, and on New Year’s Day, distribute these bills his to all his grandchildren. Instead of getting presents, Chinese children get cash and new clothes for the holiday. I can still smell the ink on those crispy bill and feel the stiffness in my hand. The sound of its crinkle pure music, and the smooth, cool touch of the new bill pure gold in a child’s hands. These new bills were folded neatly and tucked inside a small red envelope. If we pulled a dollar bill, it would be a jackpot.
Last year, in the Year of Dog, I couldn’t stand the nostalgia any more and boarded a plane home with our two children. Being in the middle of the emotions that is so much a part of the psyche to Chinese all over the world, I learned immediately what economic boom meant to some of its traditions.
On New Year’s Eve, I asked my parents for some red envelopes to tuck money in for the nieces, nephews and countless children visiting throughout the holidays. My mother handed me a stack. I was startled and alarmed by its intimidating size. These envelopes are meant for thousands of dollars. I asked for guideline but all my parents said was a very vague and diplomatic “give what you can,” which alarmed me even further. As a superpower, all Americans are automatically perceived as “rich, laden with cash.” And if I was not going to outdo the Changs, at least I was expected to keep up with them. But what were the Changs giving?
How time has changed.
Recently, as I was hanging up the red lanterns we brought back from China last year, I noticed everyone of them had the blessing in bright gold letters “May you have more male in your household and more fortune rolling in.”
To live up to that latter part, we had better just stay home from now on.