From Coney Island to Seattle: A Portrait of My Family's Lunar New Year

Coney Island, 1995

Eleven-year-old me rushed downstairs to a flurry of music and activity in our kitchen. Cheerful Cantonese songs, like Choi Sun Dou (許冠傑) blasted from Mom’s AM/FM radio. Evelyn, my little sister, danced and sang along. Mom (oh, she was so young then) stood before the stove, deftly flipping homemade egg-covered nian gao in the pan, only pausing to hand me the phone that had just been wedged deftly between her right cheek and shoulder.

"Say hello and nice things to your gūpó (姑婆 or grandaunt)," she commanded in Cantonese, her authoritative voice infused with the joy of the occasion.

“Gūpó, gong hey fat choy,” I said to my grandaunt, who lived in Hong Kong. I showered her with other auspicious greetings and wished her the energy of horses and dragons and a long, healthy life. (She would eventually live just shy of a century.) We hung up the phone, and Mom offered me a piece of her warm, gooey, chewy nian gao and a Chinese peanut cookie, both tokens of good fortune when eaten during the new year.

Kat Lieu's Lunar New Year Recipes

Yi Mein (Auspicious Longevity Noodles)

Umami-Packed Spiral Cucumber Salad

Kat's Heady Chinese Peanut Butter Cookies

Then, Mom and I exchanged greetings. These are the things she wished for me: good grades in school (which I always proudly maintained), growing up skinny and tall (a ship that seems to have sailed as I remain quite short, with my forties only promising horizontal rather than vertical growth), and overall happiness and health.

In return, Mom enjoyed hearing wishes like, “May you win the lottery” or “May you forever be beautiful and young.” I happily obliged. Then I eagerly extended my hands, cheekily signaling I was ready to receive her gift of lai see, those auspicious red envelopes filled with money. The more money one gave, the more one received, but Mom had little to give back then, and I was happy with just five bucks in each envelope.

After breakfast, adorned in our new clothes embellished with red and gold, Dad drove us from our home in Coney Island to NYC’s Chinatown. There, we plunged into the joyous chaos of the day: climbing endless flights of stairs in tenements to visit our relatives, getting packed like sardines on the streets, swept up in the excitement of the Lunar New Year parade, counting the money from my red envelopes, and savoring White Rabbit candies and Almond Roca from the red trays of togetherness.

The day culminated in a family dinner (a banquet, really) with my grandparents and all my aunts, uncles, and cousins. We relished traditional dishes like braised shiitake mushrooms, steamed prawns and fish, whole-baked chicken, and succulent longevity noodles.

Lunar New Year has always been, without a doubt, my favorite holiday, transcending celebration to become my sanctuary. Aside from the great food, the money the kids received, and the fun times, it was always on Lunar New Year when I could wholeheartedly embrace my Cantonese and Vietnamese roots in America without an ounce of shame or embarrassment. 

The laughter at my family gatherings, the festive crackle of firecrackers, and the eardrum-shattering dragon and lion dances drowned out the painful echoes of racial taunts like 'Go back to China!' or 'Ching Chong Chung' or derogatory remarks about my 'chinky eyes' that marred my childhood in America. It’s on Lunar New Year when I never feel the sting of my perpetual perceived otherness as an Asian American. I experienced profound pride and a sense of belonging every Lunar New Year in America.

Seattle suburbs, 2024

Moving from New York City's vibrant fanfare to Seattle's quieter suburbs in 2017 marked a significant shift in my family's Lunar New Year celebrations. Once again, it’s the morning of Lunar New Year, nearly two decades later. My 10-year-old son, Philip, is more excited about playing video games than attending a parade in the International District of Seattle. Cantonese New Year music, a nostalgic thread from my own childhood, fills our living room from the Apple HomePod. Philip doesn’t understand the lyrics but senses their importance to me and dances along. My mom and I keep our age-old traditions alive in the kitchen, making Chinese peanut cookies and frying nian gao together. Mom then texts greetings to our relatives. Instead of wearing new clothes, we’re all still in our PJs.

Gone from the day are the roaring NYC parades and loud firecrackers, the crowded tenements with throngs of family, and the evening banquet. Evelyn is still on the East Coast, and Dad celebrates with us in spirit, watching from above. Our neighbors, stepping in for distant relatives, visit us throughout the day, bringing life to our home with gifts like candies, flowers, and cakes.

In turn, I present to them a modern-looking tray of togetherness I got from Temu filled with Rochers, gummy bears, and lotus seeds. They also get macarons and other Western goodies. A mishmash. I then make them my signature longevity noodles and delicious umami-ful cucumber salads shaped like dragons, perfect for the year of the dragon. Philip joins in, shaping peanut cookies with Avery, the little girl next door, and eating them together. They then say “gong xie fai cai” to the adults (Philip speaks more Mandarin than my mother tongue, Cantonese) and happily receive their lai see. 

Our transition from New York City's dynamic celebrations to a more subdued, intimate gathering in our new home has undoubtedly changed how my family and I celebrate Lunar New Year these days. This evolution in our festivities reflects both a change in our location and a shift in generational experiences. My family’s traditions, deeply rooted in our Cantonese and Vietnamese heritage, have adapted to encompass a new, fourth culture—one that my son Philip, who is also Filipino and Taiwanese, is growing up in. At the heart of it all, the core elements endure: the warmth of family and togetherness, the joy of sharing good food, and the deep-rooted sense of belonging.

Happy Lunar New Year, dear readers.