Red Envelope
When I think of red envelopes, I think of the Chinese New Year Eves spent in my hometown, an isolated utopia in Xingning, Guangdong. These days are my definition of childhood: innocent, carefree, and even silly at times. With my cousins, we would light up blasting fireworks into the dark night sky, illuminating the rising smokes from the chimneys of every household cooking their New Year’s Eve dinner. I made friends with the hens fed by my grandma and took care of their little chicks after they turned into delicacies on the dinner table. Childhood was running freely in the cropland, covering myself and my sister in mud, stealing sugar canes from the field owned by some uncle of mine. Childhood was a flawless bubble, one filled with curiosity and creativity.
Opening a red envelope is usually a result of curiosity but also requires loads of creativity. Mom has always warned me that “opening a red envelope in front of the person who gave it to you is very rude and impolite”. My curiosity only grew after hearing her words. Determining how much money is in the envelope without opening it is a bit of an art. I’ve always envied my friends who’ve mastered this skill. They would pinch the two sides of the envelope with their thumb and index finger, gently rubbing it back and forth before revealing a look as mysterious and confident as the fortune teller always wandering on the streets in Xingning. When the tension rises to the peak, they would then slowly announce their estimations, garnering gasps across the room. I am never one of these magicians, but the slightly hoarse yet captivating sound of the envelopes and the bills rubbing against each other never fails to delight me.
As I grew older, I started to notice something special about this seemingly impoverished little town. I lived in a shabby, timeworn Hakka Weilong House, called 谢屋 — the Xie’s house— meaning that everyone living nearby share the common last name, Xie. I’ve always been proud of my last name, not only because it’s likely the first Chinese character learnt by most foreign Mandarin learners, but also because of its meaning— thankfulness and gratitude.
Red envelopes are all about appreciation and gratitude. As a child receiving the envelopes, memorizing paragraphs of different ways to convey my gratitude through compliments and blessings was a must. While thinking about what to say after I receive the envelopes, I am also recalling moments in the past year where I owe a simple “thank you” to my family, where I took their help for granted. From the most basic 恭喜发财 (wish you wealth) to reciting poems, red envelopes provide me the precious opportunity to spit out all my unspoken gratitude to my parents and grandparents. Heartfelt words of hope and appreciation that seem too cheesy for everyday occasions perfectly suited this time of year. They serve as a final expression of all my gratitude from the past year and mark the beginning of a brand new one—still surrounded by my loved ones but ready to embark on new adventures.
I don’t remember when was the last time I visited Xingning. Probably long before COVID, long before academic stress and uncertainties about the future engulfed me. After moving to Singapore, that remote little town was gradually fading in my life, both physically and mentally. However, my red envelopes will always come back every Chinese New Year— but in a slightly different way. I found something more delightful than receiving red envelopes: giving out envelopes. I will never forget the smile on my grandma’s face when she received the first digital red envelope from me. The blurry video quality of her old cell phone didn’t conceal her wrinkles. The sight of her smile spark the most georgeous firework— more dazzling and colorful than the firework I lit back in Xingning— when she smiles. Stirred by her warmest smiles, I was instantly brought back to my hometown, not only somewhere I call home, but more importantly where my roots are.
Red envelope is never just about a few bills of cash. It’s a medium transferring delight and gratitude, between me, my parents, and my childhood.