Though I am currently in the States, I live with two time zones: one of Eastern Standard Time, and one of Greenwich Mean Time +7. Exactly twelve hours apart the two worlds, and I caught in the state of living half in the future, half in the past. The perplexity intensifies greatly during the Lunar New Year season, a time where all the diaspora students long for a familial touch but can only reach a smile through the blurry phone screen. For one Lunar New Year, I decided to journal (digitally for my brain runs so rapidly and unorganized my hands just scribble down repeated phrases).

February 9th, 2021 (Lunar Calendar: December 28th, 2020): Boiled Chickens and Altar Prayers 

At around 10pm, I tried to fit a call to my dad into my busy night of reading and writing about Emily Dickinson. My dad picked up as he walked into the kitchen, his face took up two-thirds of the screen, but hey, I’m not complaining. I asked my rehearsed question, “Dad, what are you doing?” to which he replied, “I’m about to bring the chicken up to the family altar to prepare for the worship.” I immediately nodded in agreement and remembrance, and then I let him go. It’s funny how our calls never really lasted longer than two minutes. I’d like to think that it’s our secret way of communicating deeper emotions without actually saying them; we only needed five seconds of silence where our facial expressions did the talking to know that we miss the other’s presence. The inaudible softness runs in the family. 

My Dad reminded me of the one thing I found difficult to fully convey: the Vietnamese way of worship. I remembered going to Buddhist temples with grandma occasionally, but Buddha isn’t the one I pray to when facing hardship. Instead, I pray to my grandma’s mother or her mother’s mother, even to those of the older generation whose names I’ve probably never even heard. It dawned on me, only after I separated myself from the familiarity, that I realized Vietnamese worships our ancestors. Our Gods are those once lived, their presence everlasting; I can’t think of anything more uplifting than the idea of being forever remembered. 

It’s funny I was in the middle of writing about D’s work, specifically her deathbed scenes. She was uncertain about the afterlife, so am I. Yet I know she’s remembered, and I will be remembered. One by the world, and one by the family that meant the world. Still, I hope that departure is distant, way distant in the future my feeble mind can’t see. 

February 10th, 2021 (Lunar Calendar: December 29th, 2020): Pay All your Debts before the New Year

It stopped snowing in Maine, although the ground stayed solid with ice. I made a promise with my boyfriend Max to go sledding with him, and we settled on a Wednesday at 9pm when I’m no longer overwhelmed with schoolwork. 

I bundled up in layers, replicating Max’s recipe: sweatshirt followed by sweater topped with a puffy jacket, jeans underneath snow pants, gloves, hat, and finally a cloth mask. We grabbed our only sled bought from the Canton Price Chopper to the top of a frozen hill. The new snow came down like pixie dust. I spent most of my time aiming Max towards his planted target (no pun intended here though most of the targets were twigs) for my boots were inept in helping me climb back uphill. 

The air was crisp. I breathed mainly through my mouth. In less than an hour, my cloth mask turned damp with condensation. We decided to walk back. When we reached the apartment, Max said thank you to me for joining him, and I said, “No worries at all! I owed it to you anyways. It’s a custom to pay all one’s debt before the New Year.” 

Though it’s been more than three years since the last time I experienced Tet, our Vietnamese way of saying Lunar New Year, I distinctly remember the hustle and bustle of the last few days. It’s bad luck to bring your debt over to the next year, so I once rode my electric bike for 20 kilometers to return a book to a friend. Or I myself would be the person whose money or belongings got returned to. It probably sounds superstitious, and it is, but this is a way for Vietnamese to “end the old chapter” and start a new one. 

That night, I eventually agreed to slide with Max, and on our way down, the needle-like particles went up to my eyes effortlessly and forced me to close my eyes and keep them that way. My heart sank happily. The whole year I’ve been worrying about my steps and been planning my talks to prepare for a future too far away. So, that moment (or two for I wanted to do the ride again), there’s something about not being able to see my paths as the plastic sled carrying us rolls along the curve of a not-too-steep hill. I called it a debt-clearing to myself, and boy it was freeing. 

February 11th (Lunar Calendar: December 30th, 2020): Facetime Blues

I woke up at 10:38, and immediately let out a quiet grunt. My plan was to watch a Vietnamese New Year special called Tao Quan virtually with my family, but the show only went from 8am to 10am my time. It’s special too because last year they didn’t have it and the year before I didn’t even call. 

After rushing through my morning routine, I called my younger sister Nhung. Being a college student, she was still living with my parents. I asked her if she enjoyed Tao Quan, but she didn’t watch it. For some reason, that struck me unpleasantly. It didn’t matter whether I watched the show; I needed a confirmation that my family was watching and was watching together. I noticed that Nhung had a hat on, so I thought, It must be a really cool hairstyle underneath. I started pressing. Nhung take your hat off so I can see your hair! She said no, that it’s ugly, but I didn’t stop. The one curl not covered by the hat looked beautiful. Please.

Then she did. It was not curls carefully maintained, not stylishly cut hair, but a patchy cut head with parts that looked like it was shaved. The curl I saw was the only curl on her head. I swallowed my agony in, and said, “No it looks good. And don’t worry about the length. It’ll grow back!”

Now my unpleasantness turned into something else, something unexplainable, something painful. I said bye and hung up.

I called them again two minutes before midnight, and this time my mom picked up. I heard the sound of the altar music before seeing her face, and my widened smile disappeared the way bursts of firework sparks did: rapidly, leaving you with a hollowing blackness afterwards. Then the scene through my blurry phone screen revealed itself. My mother was kneeling underneath the altar. Heavy frowns on her face, her hands moved back and forth rapidly in praying motions. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten a chance to look straight at her for more than 10 seconds. We were both too busy or pretended to be busy just so we didn’t talk about anything else besides “make sure to wear two masks” or “I’m doing fine you don’t have to worry about me.” Right when the clock turned anew, a suppressed physical longing hit me, I felt an immense need to give the woman in front of me a tight hug. Her hair line retreated so much I only saw the difference then. 

I was holding back a burst in my throat hoping the phone call would again last two or three minutes so I could run to the bathroom to let it out without anyone hearing, but the call kept going. It was when my mom said she did wrong, she ruined our lives, she trusted the wrong people, she missed me and she loved me. It was the last thing that opened the water gate. I turned my phone to face the ceiling and wept. I didn’t care for her mistakes, I cared that she finally said she loved me. I said it back, my words stumbled between hiccups I hope she heard. 

My dad jokingly scolded my mom, “Stop talking, you’re making her sad. How can she focus on studying if she’s sad?” As if it was a reflex, I yelled out, smudging my tears and snuffles onto a nearby t-shirt, “No, dad, I’m happy!” I recited that for the rest of the day, only to find my eyesight blurred a couple more times. My body grew heavier, I sank into bed on the first day of the New Year.

February 13th (Lunar Calendar: Jan 2nd, 2021): Leftover Spring Rolls for New Year’s Wishes

Last night, I made sticky rice topped with fried shallots and dried shrimp and beef spring roll, the traditional dishes of the Lunar New Year. There were some spring rolls left so I decided to refry them for lunch. If you were wondering how spring rolls would taste the second time you bathe them in hot oil, the answer is: it tastes even better. I do not like food analogy, so I would just leave the deeper meanings and lessons to you. All I can think of while avoiding splashes and making dipping sauce was how much it reminded me of the older times. Where we would keep leftovers in the fridge for so long, wrapping them with Cling Wrap, there were times the kitchen ran out of bowls and plates. It brought me back to the days when we were cramped in a little garage all six of us while we were renovating the house, to the days even before when we sat on a rush mat more frequently than tables and chairs. I transported myself back in time only to come out of it knowing how far I’ve gone, how stronger I’ve become, and how I’d always hold my family at my core while traversing new skies.

I found it hardest to give myself compliments, to pat myself in the back saying “well done.” This New Year, I decided to try something new. I whispered wishes from good health to happiness to my ears. All the while, my fingers grasped the chopsticks, I cooked each side of the spring rolls golden brown. 

Published in the first issue of UBUNTU, St. Lawrence University’s first-ever BIPOC magazine.