Every year there is a two-week period when I become a superstitious Chinese person. I am Chinese year-round but my belief in superstitions ramps up around lunar new year.
It is irrational, I know, to believe that I – a regular person with no magical powers – can control how much good luck or bad luck I receive, by doing things like not washing my hair or sweeping at particular times. And yet. Am I living with such an abundance of luck right now that I want to risk washing or sweeping it all away? No, which is why I won’t do these things on the first day of the lunar year (that’s this Saturday, in case you feel similarly). Also, bonus: clean hair and a clean home to start the year. Is this … self-care?
A lot of Chinese new year superstitions require no effort. So why not abide by them, just in case? There’s the belief that you shouldn’t give pears or knives as presents, because the word for pears (梨, lí) sounds like the word for “to leave” (離, lí: indicating that you want to leave the relationship), and knives symbolise your wish to sever ties. It is incredibly easy to adhere to this. Pears aren’t in season in Australia anyway, and have you seen the price of knives?
Some superstitions do require effort, and that effort mainly involves eating. For example, the idea that the more dumplings you eat, the richer you’ll get. What an imaginative and hopeful culture, to come up with this beautiful fantasy, based on the fact that dumplings are the shape of ingots, an olden-day form of currency. If your family and friends are concerned about the huge number of potstickers you eat in the next few weeks, you can say it’s in your best financial interests to do so.
It’s the superstitions surrounding death that I really pay attention to. Superstitions are simply another way to express our preferences if we were given a choice: I prefer to be lucky, I prefer to have good relationships, I prefer to have money. The ultimate preference, of course, is to be alive – and to wish for the long and happy lives of the people you love.
So during the new year I don’t wear black or white, which are the colours of mourning. And I will avoid the number four (四, sì), which in Chinese sounds like the word for death, or to die (死, sǐ). I avoid this number when it comes to the number of pieces of fruit I buy or even the number of times I grind salt or pepper.
I didn’t realise until recently that lunar new year is not the only time I avoid this number. Six months ago my uncle in Hong Kong became ill with a rare form of cancer. A few days before my mum was about to visit him, knowing it would be for the last time, we were in a cafe together in Sydney.
I went up to the counter to order coffees and the waiter gave me a sign for our table: 44. I couldn’t bring myself to take that number back to my mum, even though it was just a number, and it’s not as though a luckier one would change what was to come. But why remind her of the sadness at hand when there were plenty of other numbers on the counter?
I asked the waiter if I could change my sign. “I’m Chinese,” I said. He nodded and handed me a 12. It wasn’t an eight – the luckiest number because it sounds like “to prosper” – but it would do. After all, you can’t always control what life gives you.
Jennifer Wong’s new standup show, The Sweet and Sour of Power, is playing at Adelaide Fringe, Melbourne international comedy festival, Sydney comedy festival, Perth comedy festival and in Brisbane and Canberra
