A Chinese New Year's worth of firsts..

This is the first year I’m not home for Chinese New Year. The first year without 2 weeks of hellish spring cleaning (I am the Polisher of All Things Wooden – my dad buys nothing but wooden furniture and collects wooden sculptures), of frantic shopping for the all-important new clothes, of stifling visits to smoky temples bearing mandarin upon mandarin upon bundles of joss sticks and red wax candles. The first year without strings of visits, to and fro in the afternoon heat and rustling discomfort of un-broken-in clothes, without the fielding of questions like, “Wahhh…how old are you now?” rapidly followed by “Can get married already!! Where is your boyfriend?? When are you getting married?” (both of which can be answered the same way – “I’m twenty-two”, albeit much firmer the second time around). The first year without drinking lukewarm chrysanthemum and soya bean milk out of waxy paper packets at each and every house, just to be polite, without being faced by bottles and jars of “My pineapple tarts, special-one, have to be ordered weeks beforehand! No no, eat..don’t be paiseh!” and the ubiquitous tin of love letters; crisp and tissue-thin, melting in your mouth.

The first year without that excited feeling at midnight, watching my brother and dad light firecrackers, and spinners, and rockets from inside the car (because you can’t wash your hair on the first day, and it would smell). The first year without waking up early, picking out an outfit that matches Sylvia’s, because, although it’s cheesy, it’s somehow really fun. The first year without the unavoidable pang I get from temples, as I step from burning heat, sun and altar, between the gables into a smoky, hazy shade that somehow isn’t any cooler, because this is something I’ve done since before I could remember, something everyone before me has, fathers of fathers and so on and so forth. Different temples, same day, a never-ending chain of prayer. Pang, because I’m not sure how never-ending it actually is, that I suspect it might end with me. Pang, because there seems to be a method in the chaos, first this god, then that one, to the right, now left, now centre, now out, now in again, and finally the great burning pit in the courtyard, like the mouth to a fiery underworld, or a large, fat fire-eater, laughing. Pang, because I don’t know the method, and I cannot order the madness, I can only follow.

I spent Chinese New Year Eve spring-cleaning anyway, because it just felt wrong to start the year with the 2 years’ worth of dust that’s settled on my photo frames and window blinds. Boyfriend bought me new pyjamas for $7.15, because it’s tradition. I felt tempted to buy CDs of loud, garish, clanging songs, and strings of red, lighted lanterns. Boyfriend, a friend, and I went down to Chinatown last night in hopes of seeing something (there was, but more pasar malam and Chinese-wedding-style stage and singers than Chinese New Year celebrations), and I looked hopefully for perhaps some hitherto unnoticed temple I could go to this morning (there wasn’t).

At midnight I wished my parents Gong Xi Fa Cai by SMS as we walked down the street, surrounded by people who simply didn’t know.

This is the first year I’ve felt so alone.