“This is your year!” That’s what my mom kept insisting I internalize. You’re the dragon! She was referring to this being the year of the dragon, the wood dragon to be precise (in the Chinese Zodiac calendar). When I left Asheville to return to NYC, my marching orders were clear. But how would I pivot from 2023 into a more fruitful and fiery 2024? And what happens if I don’t grab the dragon by its tail?? To help get out of my cave and slither weightlessly into the clouds, I went to Chinatown for the Lunar New Year parade.
My experience at the parade started in typical New York fashion– getting manhandled by the police. I was standing in front of the barricades, which isn’t allowed. I moved on eventually, after getting cursed out by a couple o ladies who’d been waiting behind the barricades FOR TWO HOURS! I eventually found my place in the sun on Mott Street. I knew I found hallowed ground when I heard one parade goer say “they’re really horsing around,” when cops atop steeds passed by. What do you call such a group by the way, i.e. a group of geese is a gaggle, an array of concubines, a harem, but cops on horses, a… stirrup?
After the stirrup came a lineup of dancing aunties decked out in their finest red threads, twirling scarves. Slightly less festive were the politicians, like Chuck Schumer, wishing parade goers a happy New Year. And then dragons! And lions, which I thought for the longest time were dragons. The lions have huge, square heads, pom pom whiskers, and shimmying rump. Brought to life by a team of two+ dancers, they’re the ones we see every year hungry for lettuce, chasing the dancing cherubic man-child, helping usher in good fortune in the new year. The dragons have long, meandering bodies, and they move to and fro between audiences forming the parade limits.
Taking a break from the nippy weather, I ducked into a shop selling soy milk. Bless the auntie running this snack outpost. In addition to a perpetual milky flow of soy, she also was selling sticky rice wrapped in lotus leaves, gor dong ti, or zongzi in Mandarin. After a customary Gong hei fat choi, I was off to try and find my brotha Wes and his bebé. He was on the other side of Mott, which, due to crowds and barriers, was as accessible as Taipei. This Jew would not be parting the human red seas. We hatched a plan. I’d take the long route, circle around, and meet him on his side. BUT, I only had 1% battery life left on my Medievil iPhone 7. Moreover, the outside edge of my foot was killing me; who knew I could get any cornier??
When I finally arrived at the agreed upon intersection, Mott and Worth, he and his daughter were nowhere to be found, surprise, surprise. Up and down, up and down the street I searched for him, growing irritable ever more . When I turned off the street, ready to head home, I finally spotted his daughter in an open area, prancing around. This is your fault, were my first words to him, my body arched like a cat’s in defense. Bruh… he retorted. Eventually, we both accepted blame, thanking the Gods and Lord Buddha for the good fortune that we hadn’t been born whales, elsewise we’d be echolocating in opposite directions. Our next immediate thought: food.
There are more restaurants in Chinatown than lakes in Minnesota, so landing on one should’ve been a cake, err, a dumpling walk. But, wanting to avoid the crowds, I tried to walk along the perimeter of Chinatown. We walked for blocks and blocks, and somehow failed to find a single dining establishment. We were rebounding to and fro like roombas, and I was ruminating on my inability to discern a path forward, as in life. Eventually, we landed on a rice noodle spot, a slippery, wide stuffed noodle, or cheng fun. Like Noah prepping for his ark, I went for the whole kingdom. I ordered one shrimp, one beef, one pork, one mixed vegetable, one ovaltine, and one herbal tea. After waiting 5, then 10, then…. Xyz minutes, I came to rue my decision to dine there. When I finally got my floppy, flippant noodles, the fillings were paltry, my drinks were iced rather than hot, I was taking in starch and sugar direct to the veins, aiiiyaaaaaa! This is supposed to be my year!
Things continued to get messier on the train ride home when the chili oil breached its full-proof mini-container, rendering the paper bag a greasy porous piece of tissue paper. I attempted to lick my way out of the problem, garnering side eye from Wes and looks of grave concern from fellow passengers. I collapsed on my bed at 9pm and woke up with a cold the next day. If the parade was any indication, I’ll be playing with fire, and charting an uncertain but fruitful flight plan in this, my year.