Whenever my mother prayed to the ancestors, I always laughed at her silliness. These so-called ancestors were already dead for years and of no further use to our current generation. Sigh ... I was so deadly wrong.
Now as I get older and live in white land, I realized that I have all but lost my roots. I have no memories of my past. Whenever I looked at old photos, I realized there were so many things I was not aware of. Where did I come from? Why did I land in that fucken little island? Should I return to where I came from? Why am I a loser yellow?
Now is the time for mid-autumn festivity. I have but no one around me to share my joy and sadness. I don't feel sad but just a little melancholic. I have chosen to travel this path alone and I alone only can resolve its pain and joy.
Now for the slightest of things, I would wrap an angbao to wish good luck to those who wish me well. I would pray to the wind and rain for blessing my land. I thank my body for doing so many amazing things (yoga). I value each tradition and cultural festivity.
When I finally break free, I will seek my roots back in china and thank those relations that made my gene pool possible. I pray for their good health and karma.
When I left, my mother gave me an angbao. I didn't realize its value. Now whenever I looked at it, I would tear non-stop. So much well-wishing and sacrifice for a son to go forth to a foreign land in search of greener pasture. What more can a person wish for? Isn't this blessing more than enough?
My tradition is for me to remind myself of who I still am. My tradition is the beacon for me to find myself in this sea of people. Even a simple angbao meant so much to me. I beg you too to remember the very root that brought you here.