Red Envelopes
Happy Lunar New Year's; Gung Hay fat choy.
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The red envelope recurs in my memory like a family recipe, a reliable flash of color that I associate with aunties and uncles and resembles the warmth of being fed the same thing every summer at my grandparents’ house. Always containing a two, five, or ten dollar bill, always embroidered with flecks of gold, always stamped with Chinese characters I only understood in the brief year that I studied kanji in high school. As a kid, the color red in the shape of a rectangle birthed a mountain of anticipation, for it always led to a cash surprise. As a teenager, the shape lost its light. It was expected, an annual appearance tied to my culture and my family, and was no longer a means of snagging a life-changing pack of Pokémon cards or bags of candy at the drug store. The cash went forgotten in a tattered canvas wallet and the rectangles were stuffed into a drawer.
This is the first year that I purchased a pack of red envelopes myself. I searched the fluorescent counters of four Korean markets in Mexico City to find them, walking along the concrete rapids of Avenue Chapultepec under a belly of dry sun. Tienes sobres rojas? At the final market, a lady dressed in a black shirt and gray apron nodded si, pulled out a package next to the cash register, and asked me how many I wanted. Seis… o no, ocho, por favor. She counted the envelopes and handed me one to assess — firm, large, and covered in gold illustrations — before I perused the aisles in search of moon cakes, mochi, and packaged sweets that reminded me of home. Or, more specifically, my grandmother.
There is a Lunar New Year every year, but this is the first year that I recognized it as a tradition of my own, as an insignia of where I come from, what I honor, and who it is that I associate with the word foundation. Perhaps it is because my grandmother Ah-Mah (also known as Jeanette) passed this year. Perhaps it is because I’ve become more firm, proud, and grateful of every aspect of my being, especially my Asian American identity and the people who taught me how to walk in it — my father, my mother, my grandparents — over the past several years.
When I placed the red rectangles into my bag, I felt my grandmother’s fingers handing me one of the many envelopes I opened when I was younger. I imagined her walking into a market in San Jose, buying a package herself, returning home to stuff them with two dollar bills and write, in her signature typography that blossomed with the pointed tips of a lotus petal, the names of her friends and family. I looked at myself in the glass of the market window, bag bulged at the seams, snacks threatening to jump to the pavement. In a place beyond the space I could sense and the time I could measure, we were together, spending the day outside of an Asian grocery store, preparing our parcels for the Chinese New Year.
A red envelope that is detailed in gold and enclosed with money is a symbol of good luck. To be handed one is to be blessed with happiness and fortune for the coming year. To hand them to others is to ensure that the people you love live well. The envelope is always accompanied with the words “Gung Hay fat choy,” whose direct translation is “wishing you great happiness and prosperity.” Tomorrow I will give one to each of the eight friends that I am meeting for breakfast, as well as my partner at home. If I had all the time in the world, I would give one to every person on the street.
It surprises me that it has taken me twenty eight years to begin sealing my own envelopes, for gift-giving is something I have adored since I was a child (Christmas, birthdays, Valentine’s Day, so on and so forth). The small moments in which we find time to give to the people we care about — to make sure that they know they are cared for — seem to create the largest lives. That is why I went full auntie mode this afternoon, consulting five paper stores until I found one that could print miniature photos that fit into each envelope, returned for a sharpie when I realized I had nothing to mark them with, and asked my partner to take 200 pesos out of the ATM seven different times, since the machine wouldn’t allow him to choose the size of the bills. Even numbers are considered lucky.
When I went to grab a special bill from my passport wallet, the place where I store my “emergency” cash, I forgot that I had kept them in a red envelope, one that my grandmother gave me. Season’s greetings! With much love, Jeanette. The paper was soft and faded at the edges, red receding to white. I took out the bill, placed the envelope back into the wallet, and returned to the table cluttered with my own scarlet rectangles: fresh, pigmented, and firm to the touch. When one tradition ends, another begins.
I am my mothers and my fathers. I am my ancestors, my family, and my friends. I am a congregation of luck and fortune bestowed over generations, in decisions to move from Japan to the States and Hawaii to the mainland, in friendships and communities, compassionate acts and red envelopes covered in gold. Although it is only an envelope, I seal it as a means of giving life to something I care about: my family and our stories. Although it is only a dollar amount, I give it as an act of sharing, as my grandmother did with the people she called home.
May we all enjoy a year filled with luck, joy, and happiness. Gung Hay fat choy.
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Your favorite capybara ~ AKA Travis Zane
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