My life has been filled with quite a few homecomings, almost all of them at the time bittersweet. That’s just a by-product of having lived in different countries growing up—and being stubborn enough to not see those changes for the blessings they were.
I was born in the Philippines, spent the first half of my life in suburban America and returned, departed and returned again to Singapore, where I now live. Outside of my parents’ best efforts to instil in me a semblance of discipline and family values, I never really grew up ‘Chinese’.
As a kid, I was enrolled in a tiny, private, very conservative Christian school. There, I was the only Asian—and the smallest, by far.
All I wanted to do was fit in with the born-and-bred Americans I rubbed shoulders with growing up. So I guess it’s not all that surprising that for a good chunk of my life, I never put much stock in Chinese traditions. Perhaps some of our readers can relate. Even if I dislike the term ‘third culture kid’, I unwittingly inhabited that mental space far more easily than I could care to admit. Here lies the crux of it all: Chinese New Year.
Among the many festive occasions here in Singapore that were largely absent from my upbringing, the new year was probably the biggest. Until I moved back here at the age of fourteen, I barely knew what an ang bao was, let alone its cultural significance. For an embarrassingly long time, I just didn’t get it.
Sure, in my childhood I went to a Chinese church in downtown Philadelphia. But my friends there were second generation Asian-Americans. They were never going to be the ones to ingrain in me the grand traditions of the Lunar New Year. Even if they tried, I probably (definitely) wouldn’t have had the sense of mind to give their teachings the light of day. However, in hindsight, their camaraderie—and really all the relationships that graced my childhood—hinted at one truth of the new year tradition I had only begin to grasp when I moved back to Singapore in 2007. Beneath it all, it was the people that mattered most, even if I could not quite see it at the time.
Following the footsteps of my first homecoming, I attended an international American school. For better and for worse, the cultural familiarity there helped ease that transition back to Singapore. Unfortunately, the curriculum and student demographics were so far removed from Chinese customs that it became remarkably easy to treat the new year as a passing fad. During the festive season, I would impatiently visit my extended family while happily receiving ang baos—and blissfully continue my existence as a Chinese-person-that-wasn’t-really-Chinese.
Still, despite the terrific lack of development in my teenage pre-frontal cortex, I would like to think I was able to discern the tiniest glimmerings of meaning lying underneath all of my restlessness during visitations. Granted, the incredible food certainly helped. In the end, though, things would only crystallise for me when I would depart, and return to Singapore again after university. Call it the second act of my life—one gained after a wholly humbling, life-affirming education in philosophy and English literature—and one which lifted the veil on what Chinese New Year should be about.
There is the family I never grew up with. The many aunts and uncles and cousins with whom I’m slowly, yet surely weaving together the loving threads of connection. Life’s only getting busier, so I cherish the few opportunities I have to spend time with them.
There are the friendships, old and new. I can reminisce with those friends that have endured through the changing times and make new memories with the ones that have been born amidst all the messiness of adulthood.
And between the two, I welcome the fellowship that comes in every shape and size. Sometimes, that looks like bantering with co-workers in the office; or huddling together with my cousins to update each other on what’s on our music listening rotations; or sitting around a table at home simply playing Magic: the Gathering with friends.
And there’s so much more to take in. From the loud and proud decor lining the streets of Chinatown to the quiet conversations filling the homes I visit, the cacophony of it all has made my time in Singapore all the more special. At least for someone like me who is ostensibly Chinese, it’s the one holiday that is centred around family, friendship and fellowship. For just a few days every year, some of life’s greatest silver linings truly shine through.
It only took the better part of three decades to realise it—and in many ways, I’m still en route to the destination. For now at least, Chinese New Year is finally beginning to feel like an exercise in true homecoming. Still slightly strange, but a homecoming nonetheless.
I’m not fatalistic about my time abroad. I’m grateful for the places I’ve been and the people I’ve met. I wouldn’t be who I am without them. If anything, for an especially foolhardy individual as I, sometimes that’s what it takes to understand what home looks like. I had to go there and back again—to rediscover parts of myself that I had held at arm’s length for far too long. And as the years continue to fly by, I’ve learned to take it all in stride and embrace this part of my culture—even if I still can’t speak Chinese.
