Culture
February 7th, 2011
Photo by Shirley McShane Sillars
Two young men all in black with red sashes cross the stage, bow, and begin pounding on a set of drums. As the beats build and pulse through the crowded gymnasium, my 5-year-old covers each ear with an open hand.
“Too loud,” she mouths over the din.
The beats change and the lions on stage jump to life. They bob and weave around two masked Buddhas. The mythical characters leap off the stage and toward the crowd. My girl leans into me a little harder as one of the fringed, bejeweled creatures heads our way.
So goes another family cultural experience. I haven’t been to a Chinese New Year lion dance yet that wasn’t loud and wildly colorful. It is, after all, the biggest holiday of the year, why not? Sure, the food buffets are great. But the clashing cymbals, thumping drums, and the dancing characters are always the highlight of the holiday. That’s my opinion. I’m not so sure my 5-year-old feels the same way. To her, the costumed characters and ominous drumming are more in line with Halloween.
She reacted the same way to the package of duck eggs, sesame balls, and custard buns served earlier in the program.
“I want mac and cheese,” she whispered with a pout.
Almost five years ago in China, we chopped traditional food into small bites and placed them on her high chair tray. She gobbled them up happily. How many miles and months separate those long-ago Chinese breakfast buffets of congee and dim sum from today’s choices of oatmeal, Cheerios, and peanut-butter topped banana slices?
Keeping Chinese culture a part of our youngest daughter’s life is a balancing act. Add too much and it feels forced. Ignore it and have some explaining to do later. Her first lessons were in a Chinese-language based preschool before we switched her to a more affordable, traditional one in our neighborhood. We continue to seek out and nurture friendships with Chinese families. We are sure to include some type of cultural activity each Chinese New Year. This year, we visit the area’s bustling Chinese-American school of language and culture.
My daughter knows she’s from China. But slowly she is morphing into an all-American girl. I’m reminded of that heart-wrenching moment when our plane ascended from the tarmac in Guangzhou, China. As happy as I was to have her cradled in my arms, I felt her cultural ties snap as we gained altitude. I feel an obligation to live up to a pledge we made in China as we processed our adoption papers — to teach her about her culture and keep it in her life.
Easier said than done.
While we have a solid network of adoptive families, our Chinese-American connections form and disappear quickly, as many families we meet don’t have deep roots here. A job transfer or a family matter whisks them out of our reach. We buy tickets to shows put on by visiting musical and dance troupes. We visit local China markets or seek Chinatown neighborhoods in other cities when we can, if for no other reason than to experience the sights, the sounds, the smells of her homeland. It can’t hurt.
We are not always welcomed with open arms. It seems many Chinese families don’t know what to make of us. I don’t think they really know what we are after. I’m not sure we always know, either.
Unless she tells us otherwise, we will continue to seek ways to merge our daughter’s culture with ours, inventing our own family traditions. Her birthplace and history are as important as our stories.
On this Chinese New Year as in years past, the music is loud. The colors are bright. The food is a little intimidating but delicious. We know little of the origins of the holiday and its customs. It doesn’t matter. Slowly a family reaches across the divide to make a connection.
Happy year of the rabbit.
