Red Envelope
Pretty, red, and each unique in their own way, I’m surprised with a red envelope every Lunar New Year. Although the money inside has varied drastically as I’ve aged (my old envelopes amounted to just a measly $10), the heartwarming intent behind them has never changed. But more importantly, these little red packets remind me to appreciate the genuine actions of people who care.
I remember when I was a first-grader in Russia, gazing wide-eyed at the Christmas tree in my classroom, gasping at the ornaments, poking at the branches, and pointing excitedly at the lights that flickered on and off. It was the first one I’d ever seen. Later, I looked on in wonder as my classmates presented their new gifts in front of the class. I stared as their toy plane or bunny plushie emerged from their bag, the tags still on. Delight plastered on their faces, they ran off gleefully, clutching their new prizes.
When I got home, I asked my mom if I could get an action figure or a new bike as a Christmas present. “It’s from Santa,” I explained hopefully. Her brows furrowed. “Santa? Don’t be silly, he’s not real.” Stunned and disappointed, I could only sit in silence.
The same thing happened at Easter. Our house would be the only one blank and empty, while all the others in our neighborhood would have flowers or crosses on the front porch. When I begged my mom to join the neighborhood Easter egg hunt, all she replied was that the Easter Bunny didn’t exist either. So, while all the other kids went egg hunting, I stayed home and read, trying my best to ignore the squeals of delight that snuck through the front door. Of course, I didn’t get any candy either, so the next day, I had to sit through hours of classes while my classmates greedily munched on peeps and chocolate eggs.
Even everyday occurrences, like waiting for the tooth fairy, were twisted into something different. One time, I placed a chunky molar under the pillow, giddy with excitement, just to wake up the next morning with a note saying the tooth fairy was on vacation. Disappointed, I tossed my tooth down the sink.
That February, although the first signs of spring were just beginning to creep through, I wasn’t looking forward to the cool air and perfect temperatures. My mind was still reeling from the events that unfurled during the school day, where my classmate giddily revealed their birthday present—a brand-new watch that was both glow-in-the-dark and waterproof, mind-boggling to my eight-year-old self. But when I reached home, I was greeted with a surprise. The house was filled with red colors, from lanterns to couplets, and little shoots of bamboo decorated each table. Smells of sweet and sour pork ribs, steamed dumplings, and noodle soup wafted through the rooms, reminding me of my grandmother’s kitchen back in Beijing. Baffled, I walked up the stairs to the living room and kitchen, where my mother was shaping the last pieces of nian gao she had prepared.
I’d thought we left the Lunar New Year traditions back home when we moved, like another piece of furniture too heavy to carry abroad. For one, it was hard to celebrate because buying Asian cooking supplies in Europe was almost impossible. I experienced this firsthand when my mom accidentally mistook pelmenis for dumplings at the local supermarket (I gagged and spat it out after the first bite). And how’d she find couplets, lanterns, and bamboo?
Yet when my mom noticed me standing in the doorway, she smiled and held out my hongbao. A little symbol of our faraway home, a genuine gift with caring intent. Receiving the packet with both hands and clutching it tightly to my chest, I sprinted up the stairs to the bedroom and stuffed it under the pillow. That night, I smiled too, my stomach still buzzing with the warmth of food and the faint feeling of something else.
On my last day of winter break, right before we moved, my parents asked me if I wanted to write a letter to Santa. “Maybe you’ll get a gift this time.” As the Christmas carols rang out from the plaza underneath my hotel room, I scribbled down each item I wanted. But as I wrote more and more on the paper, I felt increasingly indifferent. There was nothing special, nothing delightful in the list. Crumpling the paper, I threw it in the trash.
For eight-year-old me, delight was found in other things—real things: the riddles that hang from the threads of each lantern, the sweet sesame paste hidden in the middle of each tangyuan, and of course, the old red envelopes in my drawer, left untouched til this day.