Currently listening to: Stray Kids – Stray Kids
어린 나의 분화구에 터져 나왔던 갈등
눈이 감길 때쯤 무너져 내렸던 노력들
every part of me 해내야만 했던 그날들의 힘듦
속에서 버텼네 이젠 자랑스러운 그 이름 ’cause
새해 복 많이 받으세요! (May you receive many blessings in the new year.) Every Asian culture that celebrates Lunar New Year has its own traditions and greetings. This year is the year of the snake, and I’m hopeful it’ll be a good one for me.
Typically, we’d be gathering with family, performing ancestral rituals, wearing traditional Korean clothing, eating classic dishes, and offering formal bows to our elders. In Korea, Lunar New Year is celebrated for three days—shorter than in many other Asian countries. But since I had to work, I didn’t partake in most of it this year. The only things I managed were exchanging money (red envelopes with my non-Korean friends and colleagues) and wishing each other many blessings. A few of my Mexican coworkers brought food to celebrate.
Thinking back, my experience with Lunar New Year in school was…something else…to be desired that is.
In fifth grade, my teacher assigned Amiee and me to give a presentation on “Chinese New Year.” The problem? We were Korean, not Chinese. What in the actual fuck did we know about Chinese New Year? At that point, I hadn’t even met a Chinese person—I was the token Asian in my school until Amiee moved to Minnesota a few months ago.
When I told my parents about the assignment, my mom decided to make 튀긴만두 (fried dumplings) for the class, while Amiee’s parents suggested we wear our 한복 (traditional Korean clothing).
So there we were, two Korean kids, sitting in chairs wearing our traditional Korean clothing while our doe-eyed and very naive Caucasian classmates sat cross-legged on the floor. Off to the side was our German teacher, looking on proudly and taking pictures. We did our best to explain how Koreans celebrate Lunar New Year. When we finished, our teacher pulled out a giant red poster with the phrase 恭喜發財 (wishing you happiness and wealth) written in Chinese.
Then she turned to me and said, “Can you teach the class how to say this?”
Now, my dad had been teaching me some Chinese characters at the time, but I barely knew anything. Still, I hesitated for a moment and then said, “Gong hay fat choi?”—because honestly, I had no clue if I was pronouncing it right and Amiee couldn’t read Chinese, periodt. I’m sorry if you’re Chinese and reading this. I’m sure you’re shaking your head in disgust but know that I desperately tried.
And then… the entire class started repeating it back to me. In unison.
It was horrifying to say the least. I wanted to melt into the chair.
Afterward, Amiee and I changed out of our 한복 (traditional Korean clothing) while the rest of the kids devoured the fried dumplings that were dropped off by my mom five minutes ago. They loved them and kept saying how they were going to order them the next time they went to a Chinese restaurant. I responded, “Okay, let me know how that goes.”
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