Along with almost one-quarter of the world’s population, I get to celebrate the New Year twice. While January 1st is marked by champagne and countdowns, the Chinese New Year is the one that reminds me of home.
Growing up in Indonesia, the Spring holiday meant a chaotic mix of family, festivities, and fun. My grandparents’ house turned red and gold overnight, every inch decorated for the occasion. We wore new, often coordinated outfits to mark the new beginnings ahead. We visited extended family, even second and third cousins we rarely saw, and exchanged red envelopes filled with wishes for good fortune. The day always ended with full bellies and a comfortable tiredness from hours of socializing. Back then, I didn’t think much of it; it was simply what we did every year. During some of my angrier teen phases, I even dreaded it. Only now do I realize how much I took those days for granted.
When I moved to America on my own almost 10 years ago, home changed, and so did how I celebrated.
The workday goes on as usual, the Chinese New Year unmarked. Firecrackers don’t punctuate the nights, and the only red and gold I see are in shopping mall displays, more decorative than meaningful. It’s hard not to notice what’s missing: the excited conversations, the nosy relatives, the familiar warmth that once marked the holiday.
But over time, I found my own ways to celebrate and honor the Chinese New Year tradition. I host small dinners with my friends. I wear a qi pao to work, even if I’m the only one. And I FaceTime my family while they gather halfway across the world, watching my screen to catch glimpses of familiar faces and crowded tables, and eagerly wish everyone I see: “gong xi! Gong xi!”
For the past few years, I’ve also been lucky enough to celebrate with my partner’s family.
They prepare traditional dishes that carry the same meaning I grew up with: noodles for a long life, citrus fruits for good fortune, and fish for abundance. Sitting around their table with a lazy susan at the center, I’m reminded that no matter where I am in the world, some things remain unchanged. The flavors are familiar, and the symbolism is the same. In many ways, the table looks a lot like home.
Being away from family is hard, especially around the holidays, but the traditions I’ve kept are what keep me connected to my roots. Every ritual I’ve carried and adapted is my own small act of remembrance for home — for family, culture, and the parts of myself still left behind.
Featured image via Tuan Vy on Pexels
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