Spring Festival

When I was younger, Chinese New Year was an exciting affair. They call it the Spring Festival. On the lunar calendar, it occurs at the end of winter, at the start of spring, and, on its cusp, we would take the nine hour drive back to Sibu, Malaysia without fail.

Ma would wake me up at midnight and prepare a bag filled with blankets and snacks and mint candies while Pa took the wheel. I would sleep for most of the journey, waking up for meals in between and when the road got too bumpy to sleep.

When we arrived at Sibu, we stayed at Er Gu’s house. We always stayed there. It was a big three-story bungalow nestled deep in the crevices of a small neighbourhood. Pa said that when Er Gu and her husband bought the house years ago, it was just a single-floor detached the size of a shipping container. After marrying Uncle Chong, she quickly adjusted to the wealthy tai tai life. Now, she lives with her two sons, their wives and her grandchildren, my nieces and nephews. I never remember any of their names.

Every time we pulled up at her driveway and greeted her Gong Xi Fa Cai, Happy New Year, she would usher us in with big sweeping motions and then say, Chong and I just got a new room done in time for the new year! Don’t be shy ah, girl, make yourself at home.

I would smile politely and say, thank you, aunty, you have a very beautiful house.

And then we would put our luggage in the guest room which had plain white walls and big windows looking out to the fenced in boundary of the property. Ma would say, ah girl, when you grow up, make sure to marry a rich husband. That way, you don’t have to work so hard to have a good life. I would sneak a look at Pa who would be busy rubbing his moustache or checking the en suite bathroom.

One of the wives would bring us quilts and covers and freshly washed pillows, say, please make yourselves at home. She would always smile, have her hair up in one of those tiger-printed claw clips, wear slippers that slapped against the wooden floors of the big bungalow house; slap, slap, slap.

The night we arrive would be spent having a jovial, merry feast with steamed chicken in white wine, curry fish head, dishes and dishes of abalone and mushrooms and baby kailan. Uncle Chong would always serve three cases of tiger beer and the men would drink the night away until midnight. Midnight was when the kids would light up sparklers and chase each other around the yard. Midnight was when firecrackers would be set up on the flag poles, when the neighbours would fill out onto the streets, when clinks of liquor bottles and the stench of sweat and drunkenness would flood the evening air. Midnight was when fireworks would be launched and sent zooming into the sky, when they would pop and sizzle into clouds of sparks, when families would scream and cry and shout, buried in the hazy evening and cheer, happy new year, a new spring has arrived.

It was always the same routine, the same long drive, the same nausea, the same big house, the same reunion dinner, the same return of the diaspora back home – until now.

Over the years, things have changed. Every return back, every time I’m a little older, I would notice something different about the big bungalow house. There were more closed doors, more tense smiles. My nieces and nephews were always broody, their mothers were always stiff, terse, had shorter tempers. Er Gu grew thinner, didn’t have the same shiny smile. Uncle Chong would be drunk when we arrived and left.

If my parents noticed the change, they kept it to themselves. We still returned every year right before spring and left two weeks after. The days that stretched in between now and the next time we returned were filled with my growing up and my parents’ quarrels.

I never found out whether our trips back affected their marriage but I knew something had changed. When I’m not at school, I’m at home where I’ve locked myself in my room, trying to drown out the insults my parents hurled at each other.

I didn’t realize I married such a useless man! You look at your sister, look how well off she is, and you look at yourself. Barely putting food on the table and now I have to work!

Don’t you dare raise your voice at me; you live under my roof. I can throw you out if I want to.

Go ahead, I dare you!

Being stuck in the same house with people who seemed to feel nothing but hatred for each other was grueling. It breeds anger. I’d feel it when I come home and I’d hear their voices slam against their wooden bedroom door, when they’d emerge as if nothing’s happened even though a tense smog hung in the air when they called me to the dining table for lunch and dinner.

I grew to despise their pretense and soon, I grew to despise the house I lived in as I waited with bated breath for the inevitable.

I’d seen it happen with Er Gu’s family, heard the arguments behind closed doors, the marks on forearms, the dark circles beneath eyes. Their family disintegrated in front of my eyes as we returned year after year after year while they pretended everything was okay. Spare me the niceties.  I’d rather be sat down and told the truth.

And then it happened; I learned to despise Chinese New Year. Ma slept in the guest room. Pa left the house early in the morning and returned only after the house had gone dark. Every year, we still packed our bags. Ma still handed me blankets and candies. Pa still took the wheel. We still returned to Er Gu’s house in Malaysia in icy silence and, once we got off the car, smiled enthusiastically, shook hands, said it’s great to be home.

Every year I’d promise myself that this was the year I’d finally leave. When lunar spring rolled about and we’d take the bumpy road back, I would be long gone when Ma wakes me up at midnight.

And this year—this year, this midnight, this spring, I’ll finally do it.