When I was little, my mom would always remind me to pray in front of the altar at my grandma's house so I could pay respect to the gods and relatives looking over us. Back then, I just followed along because my mom told me to (you don’t mess with a Chinese mom). I didn't really know what to think about while holding those smoldering incense sticks between two cupped palms. Whenever I did have to pray in front of the ashy altars adorned with statues, pictures of long-dead relatives, and old fruit offerings, I imagined all the possible types of gods and places somewhere out of this plane. I didn't really know enough of the Cantonese Buddhist prayers, so I just prayed to the altars in English.
"Hey, grandad, I know that you probably can't hear me, but in case you can, I wish I'd known you when you were alive."
No answer.
"Hi, god of knowledge, I hear you give the opportunity for fruitful life. Do you think you could wish me some luck with my college applications? Getting into Harvard would be nice."
No answer, and I didn't get into Harvard.
As 10-year old me stood basking in the red light of the altars, I'd wonder what the point of it all was. Isn’t it ridiculous to pray to dead figures and imagined gods who wouldn't even give you the light of day amongst all the other millions praying?
I've always grappled with my spirituality. Growing up in a Chinese-Vietnamese household, I spent Lunar New Year’s at temples burning dozens of incense sticks to “appease” the gods. It didn't matter that I didn't even know any of their names or their significance, it was an activity that my parents dragged me to each year. I always went in wide-eyed. The temples were smoky, ashy, and jam-packed with worshippers on holidays. Giant altars with delicately painted statues and offerings lined the walls. I’d try not to burn myself while lighting my incense sticks. I got tired of it quickly, and the only silver living to these trips to the temple was the opportunity to see relatives and go to my grandmother’s house for a large feast afterwards.
In my family, Lunar New Year’s was always at my grandmother's. Relatives flew in from Oakland, Colorado, New Mexico, Canada, and Australia to gather in a tiny 2-bedroom house in Southern California to celebrate the 新年. Despite the small space, we always found room to squeeze our large personalities in with one another. For our parents and relatives, they were able to catch up with each other in a space free from work and child rearing. It was a chaotic time filled with sweets, roast pork, laughs, and loud gossip. As we mingled, the kids would hound the adults for their annual 利是.
Though frowned upon in a Western context, gifting red envelopes stuffed with cash was how we shared our capacity. For my family, this tradition is a smaller part of our larger commitment to mutual support. This is our way of sharing our love—more than just verbal affirmations. And more than that, it was an excuse to visit and share a meal with relatives and rarely seen friends.
I never believed in the spirituality of my family’s traditions. My mom and relatives would talk at length about the value of respecting the gods on the altar with food offerings and burning fake money for past relatives, but it all went over my head. I thought that those religious practices were delusions that my family was foolish to participate in. How could I believe when I was learning about evolution and Darwin in my classes? I didn't think there was a God, never mind several of them. The Big Bang didn't allow for divine intervention. Even with these skeptical thoughts bouncing in my head as I prayed to the altars, I never said them aloud to my relatives—to do so would have earned me a smack to the head for my silliness.
As a product of Western education, I was always skeptical. I was taught in school that everything could be split into its secular and rational parts; everything can be explained through the physical world. Or at least that’s how I thought about it until relatively recently.
In late 2017, my grandmother passed away. As a widowed mother, she single-handedly brought her eight children from China, through the Vietnam war, and to the United States from Saigon. With dozens of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, our family spans the globe and reaches the far edges of any place she could have dreamed of.
For her funeral services, family members from around the world came together in her small Monterey Park house to reminisce and see her off. Seeing everybody there then, I realized how much of a critical role my grandma had in bringing the family together during celebrations. The family came together each year, but mainly to attend to her. The service was the last time I’ve seen many of my far relatives in the past few years.
Knowing the scale of her influence through our family, it breaks my heart how she brought so much of us together only for it to fragment after she passed. The only thing that connects us now is our spiritual practices- my family's form of Buddhism lets us celebrate with a family dinner every few months for an auspicious Lunar calendar date. At these get-togethers, we still burn our incense, dedicate our dinner to our past relatives and gods, and tease each other incessantly, but it feels different now. Maybe it’s because I can connect a face and recent loss to these traditions now, but I feel even more connected to these practices in a way I've never been. Each time I cup the smoking incense in my palms, I think of my grandmother, looking down and guiding us through our lives.
And by our lives, I mean the lives of my family members coming together and sustaining the commitment we have to each other. This is what we give respect to at our family ritual dinners. There are fewer of us at our celebrations, but I’d like to think that the feelings are even larger now. We listen, we watch, and we’re here for one another. My view of my spirituality is still hazy (maybe it’s the incense smoke!), but I know I’m not alone as I navigate that path. My relatives, past and current, are watching over me. When I’m with my family, I know that they’ll give me all the faith I need.
-Kirby Lam
About the author
Kirby Lam is a Pomona '23 student from Monterey Park, California.
Description
Thinking and talking about religion has an important place in our community. In my household, the specifics of my familial spiritual practices have always been subtle, so I wanted to explore that dynamic through the ways my family shows its love. I hope to illuminate the often untold and complicated relationships we have to spirituality and our loved ones.
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