Red lanterns dot the streets of China during Chinese New Years Eve, and every kids bright eyes light up the night sky. The street vendors roll out their carts and roll up their sleeves, getting ready for a night of work. Although my memory is hazy, I remember sitting atop my grandpa’s shoulders, looking over the many heads in the crowd. The smell of chilis tickle my nose and any time I spotted any candy, I would lightly pat my Grandpa’s light gray hair, while excitedly yelling at him to go in that direction. Tanghulu was always my favorite, I was surprised I didn’t get sick that day, considering how much sweets I ate. The night was still young, but so was I, and I could barely keep my eyes open. The chatter of the crowd became a lullaby, and eventually, there wasn’t a chance that I could hide it from my Grandma’s sharp eyes. I wish I could’ve stayed awake a little longer, considering it was my last time ever experiencing Chinese New Years in China.
I still love that time of year however, because we still celebrate despite being hundreds of miles away. Before the day of, we set up a table outside and another one inside. Food and wine covers the table from corner to corner, and I wait as my mom light some sticks to pray with. I’ve never thought too hard about what to pray for, but I’ve always meant it when I do. I always thought we were praying to Buddha, but we were actually praying to our ancestors. The food and wine act as an offering to them, and after our prayers we begin to burn some fake money. It’s believed that if we burn fake money for our ancestors, they will experience a happy and prosperous after life. I was never able to fully learn and experience my culture, and even the parts I did experience, the memories have become quite hazy. I wish to go back to China, for at least one to two years one day, so that I can travel around and learn more about the land I came from.
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