The altar has been decorated for Tet with sweet-smelling, white velvet tuberoses and red-and-yellow gladiolus stems. I watch my father light incense amidst the droning voice of the sports announcer as the TV broadcasts the 49ers football game. Three joss sticks for the Buddhist altars: Quang Am Bo Tat, the Goddess of Mercy, Quang Cong, my father’s patron god, and Ong Dia, the Earth God. Four for my grandfather’s altar as his spirit is being called back to join our Tet festivities and share in our family meal.
Sitting there watching the scene, I wonder how long it has been since I have made it home for a prayer session. I spend my days in front of a computer screen, my nights working out, my weekends running errands and doing chores. Sometimes I drift from the roots that supposedly bind me, from my mother tongue, from my tiny country across the sea. In front of the altar, as an adult woman, I feel small. How many times have I gazed upon the familiar pictures and icons of worship as a little girl, feet bare and hands clasped to show my respects? But when you start drifting, you start forgetting, and I am afraid that one day I will forget how to pray, forget how many times to bow at which altar, in what order, how to formulate the words in my head.
When we were young, my little brother asked me how to pray in front of an altar. What do you do up there? When do you start and end your bows? I was eight years old, and, lacking an adult sophistication to formulate an eloquent explanation, I told him, “Your prayers are your wishes. You stand before your ancestors to tell them what your wishes are.” Perhaps I corrupted them then, so that the spirits of our ancestors became no more than Santa Claus, who only hear from the children of their children, “Dear Ancestor, during this prayer session I pray for a new bike, a better cell phone, and for a big-screen TV.” But in truth, there is some sense in that—your prayers are your wishes, selfless wishes that extend beyond your sphere of control. Sure, you pray for your family’s health and success. But for others,’ too. For how well this year should work out for everyone. For misfortune and all the past hurts and ill luck of the last year to vanish like incense smoke dissipated into thin air.
I stand in front of the altar, the first in line to pray after my parents, as the eldest sibling. In my head, I formulate the prayers in Vietnamese as I have always done. When I was young, I figured that my ancestors would not understand English, and so to get my prayers granted, I must use Vietnamese. I tell them my given name so they would recognize who stands before them, what the occasion is, and why I have come to pray.
“Nam mo a di da phat. I am Luu Hong Cuc, and today I come before you to show my respects for Lunar New Year, to invite you to share in our family meal and grace us this year with your blessings.”
I end with a wish. I wish to be rooted, to not forget. I wish to pass on this tradition to my future children, to be wise enough to answer their questions of why we do what we do, and that my current nieces and nephews, born in America, will retain some sense of culture and at least understand our ways even if they choose not to partake in them when they are grown.
I am almost a married woman. Traditionally, married women stop receiving li xi, the lucky red envelopes, and pass them out to the children in her extended family, or her own. Weeks before Tet, I take out new money from the bank, the bills crisp and sharp with their new-money smell. Tet is a time for rebirth, for ushering in a spring that starts everything anew, a time when all old debts are paid, all ill luck washes out, and everyone gets another chance. I stuff the bills into little red envelopes and label each with the name of a younger sibling, niece, or nephew.
And so, little ones who have joined our extended family within the past few years—this earth is still a new place to you, and there is still much to see, taste, hear, touch, and learn. These three days of Tet in the Year of the Dragon, I will spend my time in an office, as will your moms and dads. We busy adults cram our traditional celebrations on the American work schedule. It’s not like in Viet Nam, where all shops would close in honor of one of the most heralded holidays in the country. But on New Year’s Eve, you will hear the firecrackers exploding in the distance to ward off evil spirits, and it will make you wonder. In the next few days, you will get a bright red envelope from your Auntie Daisy. Inside is a crisp new bill just for you. As you grow up, you will look forward—as I have—to getting your own money to spend on sweets, treats, toys, clothes. But even as you grow, think not just about the money inside, but the red envelope itself. See the colorful pictures or the words and characters with their traditional wishing for your well-being. This year, I will not be there to hand it to you. I will not get to hear your sweet, high-pitched voices stutter over the Vietnamese words to pay me back with a blessing. But when you are old enough to wonder why we do this and what it all means, ask your parents, who in their youth have prayed with me at our ancestral altar. Ask how we exchanged stories and laughter over a table filled with traditional foods and how we united and celebrated amidst each other’s company. Ask about all our traditions, and they will tell you the meaning of the spirit of Tet.
