My preparations for each Lunar New Year begin in the bathroom. On Lunar New Year's Eve, I turn on the hot water and let the air fill with steam. With my bare toes curled against the chilly floor, I scissor off a lock of hair, clip my nails, and discard these symbolic crumbs of bad luck into the trash. Then I get in the shower, where I suds and scour and scrub down every inch of skin.
“You have to wash off all of the bad luck from the year before.” This was my mother's imperative, as if bad fortune could accumulate into a grungy layer over the course of the year. As if I had one chance – a crucial opening on a February night – in which it would be possible to get rid of it.
The cleanse on Lunar New Year's Eve is one of many customs – really, superstitions – taught to me by my late mother and father. It's part of a larger idea that everything should be immaculate, including the body and the home, which should also be tidied and, most importantly,
