The pandemic induced in me a few stages of hysteria. First, denial (“it should be okay after a week or two, right?”). Then, resignation followed by a brief sliver of hope brought on by flattening curves. But in recent weeks, with the pandemic showing absolutely no signs of letting up, I have officially moved on to the fourth stage — nostalgia.

Perhaps it is because this season marks the celebration of the Lunar New Year. By way of background, the Lunar New Year is an incredibly important occasion for many Asian people. As a temporary member of the large Asian diaspora in America, it seems to me that this holiday is especially important for people in the diaspora. Physically cut adrift from the actual Asian continent, the holiday represents an important shared experience and moment of solidarity across different Asian cultures. 

It seems a little bit cruelly ironic that amidst the raging winter storm and gusts of snowy billows, I yearn for the Lunar New Years of the recent past, spent in the tropical cradle of Malaysia with my extended paternal family. One of my favorite traditions particular to where I grew up is yee sang. Just thinking about yee sang now makes me realize how it really resembles a recipe for disaster in this pandemic, and how impossible it would be to recreate. Different condiments are added to a platter to signify various well-wishes for the new year. Then, everyone each wields a pair of long, sometimes saliva-covered chopsticks and tosses the condiments in the air. The higher you toss, the better your luck for the new year is said to be. 

When I spent my last Lunar New Year back home with my family, I did not know it would be the last of its kind. The last one spent at that particular location, with that particular permutation of uncles, aunties, cousins and friends to visit. But it was. It is so easy to talk about cultures and traditions dying over time. However, the fact that Lunar New Year was only a recent memory is more striking to me, because I think I have witnessed little traditions die before my very eyes. When this pandemic is over, almost all of my cousins will be married. Will anyone remember the card games we used to play? The house rules we made up? The secret to getting the most ang paos (red packets) at Lunar New Year?

I sometimes think about the fact that my class, the class of 2023, will next year perhaps be the only class to know what a fully in-person Yale life was like before the pandemic. We did not get to have a Spring Fling, nor even a full spring break. Yet, we will be charged with a heavy burden, as the only custodians of a culture that generations before us have worked so hard to build up. 

There is a sort of melancholy to this whole situation. A kind of sadness that cannot be erased. Yale simply will never be the same. There are events, student organizations, little traditions that have totally died with the pandemic. In the same way, Lunar New Year will never be the same. Try as we might, the pandemic has definitively and inexorably changed the contours of the traditions that we hold near and dear because lines of transmission have been broken.

Of course, as old traditions die, new ones will grow in place to replace them. Maybe in the future, the younger cousins will play House Party or Nintendo Switch instead of the card games with house rules. Maybe they will discover their own secret ways to get more ang paos. But today, I am just letting the feeling of nostalgia and naïve, stubborn hope wash over me. I am thinking about how I can more actively have conversations with seniors and alumni about events and traditions that used to exist before the pandemic. About how I should probably make the long march out to the Hong Kong Market to get some snacks that remind me of home. I am clinging to the fighting hope that we can pass on just a little glimpse of how things were.

SHI WEN YEO is a Junior in Morse College. Her Column, “God, Country and Yale”, runs every other Wednesday. Contact her at shiwen.yeo@yale.edu.

SHI WEN YEO
Shi Wen Yeo edits the Opinion Desk. She is a Senior in Morse College, majoring in English and Economics. Her column "Through the stained glass" runs every other Tuesday.