This is at once a specific story —one day in Boston Chinatown during the lunar new year parade — and an expansive one, which has played out time and time again in cities around the world.
This is a story about colors, red fabric draped over a dancer’s back, golden sequins that catch the light, yellow fur in the lion’s mane, the whites of its eyes.
This is a story about sound, the bright crash of red tasseled cymbals, the echoing ring of a gong, the steady heartbeat of the drum.
And this is a story about energy. The energy that sustains a troupe of dancers through a six-hour marathon across the streets of Chinatown, the energy between the lion they inhabit and the people they meet. And the energy of the lion itself, fierce, joyful, reverberant.
It starts earlier than I would like on a Sunday, with a gathering of troupe members and two dozen volunteers. Volunteers get debriefed on their duties, whether that be carrying troupe flags, wheeling around the drum cart, crowd control, or cymbaling. Performers show up in rain pants and boots in deference to the 5-7 inches of forecast snow, which ends up being much less. By the time we assemble and head to Phillips Square, the snow has, thankfully, drifted to a stop.
At noon we perform a snake dance on stage, then begin our lion dancing rounds at a bakery across the corner. Most stores set out a tray of lettuce, oranges, and a red envelope. If everything is outside, our job is straightforward. The drum thuds and we bow to the store, approach and sniff the food, jump away and approach again, this time snapping up the offering.
From the outside, the lion bends down and scoops the lettuce into its wide-open mouth. On the inside, the dancer in the head sneaks out a hand and grabs the food tightly, which is simple enough for an orange or two but trickier for a whole head of greens. We “eat” the food and kick it out, showering the store and audience with a flurry of lettuce leaves and fruit. (The red envelope stays with us, clenched between teeth or hastily shoved down a shirt.) This is the “choy cheng,” bringing luck to each business in the new year.
Every so often a store owner will invite us inside, and this can get interesting. Some places have barely enough room for the two-legged occupants, much less one with four legs and a giant paper mâché head. The drummer stays outside, but the cymbalists and Buddha, whose job it is to guide and dance with the lion, head in.
Inside a restaurant, we’ll parade around and interact with the customers, blinking big eyes at a little girl, sniffing a steaming bowl of hotpot and pawing at curled rolls of beef. The dancer in the tail is bent completely over, hands on their partner’s waist and bouncing up and down to bring the lion to life. If we’re in a grocery store, extra time must always be spent in the fish section.
There are always a few types of customers. Some are confused, curious, then excited. Quick to pull out the phones, everyone knows that lions love attention (we do). Some have been around the rodeo and are ready with a red envelope or a head pat. Others are totally unbothered; they came for a meal and that’s what they’re going to get. Finally, there’s the cutest kids you’ll ever see.
As we go door to door, sending two lions to each choy cheng and switching out performers so that each team gets their rest, it’s the human interactions that stand out.
A little boy in a puffy jacket who brings his own gong on a red ribbon, hits a high pealing note when he plays slightly off-time.
A group of colorful aunties hold hands and dance, twirling each other around and clapping. They make us very happy.
An uncle in a white work apron and faded baseball cap smokes his cigar as he watches, its smoke curls into the air.
When two troupes meet, onlookers are drawn to the sound and the spectacle. Cymbalists play and two lions from each troupe crouch and approach each other, each vying to stay lower to the ground as a sign of respect. Once they get close enough to bump heads, the lions exchange postcards from their respective teams. Is it a kiss, or are they just good friends?
As the sky turns from a pale blue to indigo and the energy starts to dip, our sifu gets in the Buddha head and capers about, starting snow fights, alternately haughty and playful, handing out lettuce to the lions and making us laugh. Seeing my teammates’ strength inspires my own efforts, and in between performances we dance to the drumbeat, share snacks, feed each other orange slices. We make it fun, otherwise, what’s the point of doing a hard thing?
At last, with our final performance under fluorescent lights and a dark sky, it’s time to head home. Arms aching and backs sore, we parade down the street and to the entrance of the den where we keep our equipment and altar. One last set of bows, and it’s over. Everyone cheers.
Truth be told we’re famished, and it’s time for a family-style feast. Salt and pepper pork, white fish with wood ear, orange chicken, stir fried green beans. Every bite is delicious, and from —where else? Chinatown.
— Anna Hu is a freelance writer, student and member of the Gund Kwok troupe.
