By Li Min Mo
Why Did We Stop Paying Homage to the Earth?
Taipei, 1955
It was still dark as I fumbled out of my corner of the rattan bed. My two brothers never tossed and turned; they always slept like rocks. Ma had just gotten under the cotton quilt but had already fallen fast asleep.
The major fireworks had stopped three days ago, but the sulfur odor lingered in the air. I was excited for new beginnings.
A rooster crowed in the distance as I rushed to the outhouse. From its small window, I saw the cement alley where the water pump stood. Next to the pump was a large, covered tray on a low bamboo table. Following tradition, we always left a tray with fish out for the seven days of the Chinese New Year celebration, for yu (fish) also sounds like “surplus.” It signified hope for abundance in the coming year.
I knelt by the table, lifted the wok cover, and examined the big yellow fish, the flesh almost consumed. Ma had already served some of it, as we had very little chicken left. She had saved the spine bone, a white branch extending between the dark gray tail and the huge head with its gaping jaw. Slices of ginger, fermented black beans, and long strands of wilted scallions littered the transparent sauce. If we were rich, we’d have fish more often than once a year—but then it would not be as special to deeply breathe this pungent good luck sake.
One of my brothers stumbled out of bed with his heavy footfall. I carefully replaced the cover and hurried back into the house.
More roosters ushered in the morning, waking Ma to start the charcoal fire and boil water. She poured the water into the old tea, which was then added to the leftover rice. Our faces showed delight as Ma piled the last bits of chicken and cabbage on top of the rice. Most days, we didn’t get to eat breakfast, but during the holiday, we’d have three meals a day instead of two.
• • •
At age nine, I became a determined little thief. Before the rooster crowed, I’d scramble out of bed, careful not to stir up Ma or my brothers, so I could get a taste of that fish.
I was a greedy, rangy girl known as “Ugly Crane Girl” due to my long legs and arms and mop of messy black hair. I also had earned the nickname “Monkey Girl” for my skill in scaling brick walls, bamboo polls, and tall trees. Animals crawled inside and outside of me.
A cold spell whipped around my legs as I knelt before the dish and examined what was left. I was afraid to take apart the fish head, as that might destroy all our good luck. The large, lone white eye was ghastly; the mouth with its few teeth seemed capable of talking.
With my thumb and two fingers, I scooped up a little bit of the frozen gelatin sauce with its added morsels. So slippery, as I sampled another round of that strange food. My mouth felt like a little river in the winter. Something slid down my throat, causing hairs to stand up on my arms. I rushed back to bed and ducked my head under the quilt.
• • •
I was by the mouth of the Yangtze River, standing next to my grandfather while he performed the New Year ritual of fang sheng (freeing a life).
He had traveled for hours by rickshaw, transporting a barrel holding a large, live carp that he’d bought at the market, all in order to set it free as an act of gratitude. Dawn’s light had only just peeked out, but many houseboat folks already had their tea water boiled and their oil lamps lit.
My grandfather removed the barrel cover and tipped the fish into the river. Then he quickly lit a large red paper lantern, burning it to send the spirits of thankfulness up to heaven. The red flame caught many folks’ attention and lit up my grandfather, who was formally dressed in a dark blue brocade gown, a matching cap, and a fox fur-lined black silk vest. With a ceremonial chant, he bowed to the Heaven, to the river, and to the four directions of the earth, offering thanks for the recovery of his youngest daughter (my mother) from a long illness that year.
• • •
In addition to a live fish, the holiday called for a live chicken.
Sitting on a small wooden stool, Ma dunked the tied-up creature into a metal pail filled with boiling water. She then plucked a few feathers from its neck and made a tiny incision to drain the blood into a bowl: an offering to our ancestors.
I watched how skillfully she moved, no struggle with the killing or cleaning. The feathers were put into a basket and hung to dry for other uses. The chicken—complete with its beak and claws—was put into a pot filled with water, soy sauce, wine, five-spice, ginger, garlic, and a bunch of scallion, to slowly simmer until golden.
Everyone in our lane of row houses in Taipei had been preparing for New Year’s Eve, and our landlord even more than the rest of us: he was roasting a little piglet in his front yard. The air was enriched with spices, and the cacophonous kitchen sounds of chopping and washing became the New Year music.
By nightfall, there was a calm in the neighborhood, as people all sat around their tables.
My brothers and I were very pleased with ourselves, as if we had done something amazing and were now being rewarded with the tuan nian fan (New Year reunion dinner). A golden chicken, a whole steamed fish, a big bowl of cabbage, and a big platter of dumplings was a special sight to behold. Most days, we only had one dish of vegetables and one bowl of rice per person. We smiled with gratitude, remembering that a few years ago, Ma served only tofu and sprouts for the holiday dinner.
• • •
Bai nian (worship the year), and gongxi (wish you joy) were the essence of the holiday.
The New Year would not be complete without red envelopes, or “good luck money,” from our friends and relatives. We rode on a rickshaw for hours, the dusty, bumpy road making the crammed ride miserable.
By the time we reached our first stop, the mansion of some of our relatives, several lines of poor people had already arrived to bai nian. Waiting in the crowd, we listened to the voices of greeting. Imitating the others, I cupped my palms into a lotus shape and called out “gongxi, gongxi.” We were each rewarded with one huge red envelope.
The rickshaw man in his tattered black jacket wiped the sweat from his neck and temples. We had many rounds of bai nian to go. Our stomachs were growling and our bodies stiff and cold from riding for hours, but no complaints were allowed on the New Year.
I focused on the rickshaw man pushing his way through the city streets and now the country road. Fog obscured the houses. The scrawny, shaven-head rickshaw man sighed and hummed with the pedaling noise. His dusty brown pants were rolled up to reveal legs like steel rods. I caught him spitting out chewed-up betel nuts, red splatters on the dusty streets, like cosmic brushstrokes. I felt humbled as I watched a life force pedaling us forward with hope.
Ma gave us small red envelopes with small amounts of cash in exchange for the big ones with larger sums of money that our relatives and friends had given us.
I went shopping for candy and roman candles. At nightfall, I walked around our courtyard like a peacock, with the showering lights of my fireworks exploding right above my head. Other kids were setting off their own strings of explosions. Winter light and joyful noise!
• • •
Chinese New Year is about making connections with one’s ancestors, with the earth spirits and guardians of life.
Many rituals have been forgotten, but those that have been preserved are simple. The chicken must be whole, showing no sign of injury. The fish also stays intact. The dumplings, small round pieces of dough holding chopped meat and vegetables, also represent the Whole.
Our modern ways are far from being Whole. Who pays homage to the River or the Ocean? Overfishing and exploiting the planet for profit have brought us to the verge of irreparable damage. Freeing a life is a gesture of thanks we are tossing away.
Art Information
- “H,M,L” © Leo Fung; Creative Commons license
- “Carp” © Michael Connors; stock image
- “Happy New Year” © Mike; Creative Commons license
Born in Shanghai, Li Min Mo now lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Under the name Li Mo, she is the author of a memoir, Spirit Bridges (Streetfeet Press, Boston, 2009). She's been a storyteller and artist for 30 years and recently retired as an adjunct professor at Lesley University.
Li Min has studied Buddhism, Native American Sun Dance, shamanism, Taoism, and tai chi with many teachers. She is inspired by folklore and lucid dreaming. A devout gardener, whole grain baker, and creator of new cuisine, she paints in oil and pastel.
Learn more at Li Min Mo’s website.
