Family Rituals, Chaos, and Identity in the 21st Century

This is Part 2 of the series on Macanese Identity. First, a gentle warning: This article is unlike any other that I published on this site before. It is anecdotal, personal, and subjective, without notes or citations, and almost dream-like from memories of recent and past experiences with my family. I’m posting it without identifying specific people, but hopefully those who read it will be able to identify a character in their family that they recognize. My reason for writing in this style is to suggest that “family”, for all their quirks and foibles, still resonates in many different cultures, not just my own. An underlying theme is that while relatives make up different families, they create the foundation of a specific community, and in mine formed the basis from which migrations were born, organizations were formed, and a cultural identity over many generations evolved. My hope is that the rituals that I describe below and the people who participate in them continue to touch us in ways that we’ve come to love and respect.

Several nights ago, I spent a wonderful evening at a family party. This may sound odd to some Americans, who are often portrayed in the media as resentful of relatives, or dislike attending family dinners. But in my multi-racial family spanning four generations, our frequent get-togethers are not a time for drama, but for celebration and catching up. It is an opportunity to leave bad behavior and transgressions behind, (and we don’t allow each other to hold grudges). Our parents and grandparents always taught us to approach family with kindness, to be in the moment with many of our best friends, to whom we happen to be related, and to look to the future. The drive over may be silent sometimes or difficult with kids, depending on how the day went, but to be in the presence of those who we grew up with, or have known for years, is almost cleansing and certainly, in my experience, rejuvenating.   

Our family dinners usually follow a similar pattern, which I look forward to but often take for granted. After the initial greetings and hugs at the door, we almost always retire to a kitchen or a backyard patio for drinks and appetizers before the main meal. This time it was a backyard, where a younger relative in his thirties broke out a special brand of Chinese oolong tea he discovered in a small shop in San Francisco. Surprising, he also brought along a set of ceramic cups and a brewing vessel, had hot water ready, and began to serve each of us (several cousins, brothers, and uncles) seated around a long table. Then the chilled tequila arrived, which was served right alongside it. A seven layer bean dip my wife made also appeared just as my sister breaks into the conversation and begins to crack wise, and away we go ! That’s when somebody broke out the cigars. After the third round of tea and tequila shots, my niece and her spouse from Helsinki, whom I hadn’t seen in a year, joined the group. They were immediately given teacups and shot glasses to catch up.

Just as this was getting interesting, I noticed my wife sitting off to the side in a smaller patio with two sisters-in-law munching on chips and bean dip. So instead of hanging out with the guys, I brought over some tequila to the “girls” and attempted to expand the revelry. One of my brothers soon followed, then the niece from Helsinki pulled up a chair. Others feeling the tequila joined us. Now we had two loud groups trading tea and drinks in two locations, not more than 20 feet apart, with several people going back and forth between the two groups. Soon, the genders were well mixed.

While this continued, the conversations were getting interesting. Some of the older generation on the verge of retirement were discussing their travel plans. My cousin was trying to organize a trip on “Dia de Los Muertos” to Oaxaca in southern Mexico. This really interested me because I traveled there after college, and have been trying to go back for years. Another brother was trying to give away his vast collection of lighters. I really liked some, so I snagged a few. Other relatives in the middle generation discussed work: one is an animator for a media company. Another manages a city homeless shelter. His wife was telling us about her fundraising work with a children’s hospital. Another niece works for an environmental company. Her husband is going for his general contractor’s license. In the younger generation, several were doing gigs with start-ups: one as a graphics designer; another was just hired by a marketing company; and yet another considered working remotely. Several people had been traveling and connected with others who had gone to the same places or were planning to in the future. This resulted in some taking out phones to show videos they shot or scenic vistas in Japan, Mexico, Vienna, Budapest, and Helsinki. At that point we were starting to get very loud.

That was just the first hour. Next, a dinner of Chinese style “Chili Crab”, from my departed mother’s recipe. But before the food, I should provide some background.

As I mentioned, my family is racially-mixed, actually Eurasians, with some related by marriage to Japanese, Germans, Goans, Jews, Malaysians, Chinese, Swedes, Finns, and Mexicans. My mother was born in Shanghai. My father (also deceased) was born in Hong Kong. Both were from Portuguese families originally from Macau, by way of Spain, Portugal, Goa, and northern China. They collectively identified as “Macanese”. If you are familiar with Macau’s cuisine, you’ll appreciate that it is derived from Cantonese, Portuguese, and Mandarin cultures, but is uniquely singular.

One of the premier dishes served to large families in my culture, of which my extended family numbers in the hundreds all over the world, is Chili Crab. This is spicy, not necessarily hot, but it should, if made correctly, be cooked for several hours. The dish consists of cooked Dungeness, small red chilis, usually with one whole crab for each person. It is also extremely messy to eat, but well worth the effort. This is actually something we look forward to: traditional dishes. Feijoada is always a crowd pleaser, as is Indian Curry, Dim Sum plates, Vaca Estofado (Portuguese roast), Shanghai short ribs, and Steamed Fish with ginger and green onions. That night we had about twenty people in attendance, so the dinner could literally be considered a family feast. In addition to Chili Crab, my sister-in-law included brazed Ox tails cooked in a savory sauce, Asian-Mexican style, served with white rice, and a shredded vegetable salad to keep everyone honest. Red and white wine completed the menu. We definitely enjoy good food.

The guests were separated in two rooms by generations, with 10 sitting at each table. The crab was served on two gigantic platters, one spicy and a milder version for the “light weights”, with the rice, oxtails, and salad on a large buffet table just outside the kitchen. I could imagine the pre-dinner announcement: “The flag is up, the horses are approaching the gate …,there’s the gun, and they’re off !” 

Most of the revelers attacked the crab platters first. The most succulent parts are the middle “cells” located under the shell, which when split and opened by hand, yield more meat than the claws and legs. The oxtails, rice, and shredded vegetables were also consumed quickly as family members kept coming back for seconds and thirds. This is no exaggeration. The mounds of used paper napkins on each table began to grow in high stacks. This scene is so ingrained in my memory that I can see it re-enacted over and over in different locations throughout my life: in numerous restaurants, at my parents’ large table, in my grandparents’ home, in the dining room of cruise ships, and even in exotic places we visited on vacations. It didn’t matter where we were, we always ate with gusto and enjoyed the food the same, with loud conversation and much relish.

The aftermath of such meals also fit a pattern. With the exception of restaurants, rather than leaving the family table and letting “the women” clean up, my parents always insisted that we bring our plates to the kitchen and remove the leftovers as a courtesy to our hosts before being placed in a sink or dishwasher. This may sound chaotic, especially if you envision 20 people lining up with dishes in a small kitchen, but it actually works because not everyone finishes at the same time. The final diner often receives the evening’s award for “last man/woman standing”, but since no one actually rushes to finish the meal, the end happens almost in slow motion.

I often wonder why these family rituals stay with me for so long, even at times in my dreams. There must be something in the gathering of familiar people, in the comradery, the boisterous conversation, and in the cultural bonding that continues to maintain its hold on me after so many years. Perhaps it is a remnant of the personal attachments that our family and many others have kept intact for so many generations, connections that have survived persecutions, wars, revolutions, plagues, migrations and resettlements from Europe, across India and Southeast Asia, and eventually to the west. Now these traditions appear in the strangest forms, such as in the hot, chaotic, delicious mess of enjoying Chili Crab on a cold winter evening in Southern California.

It remains a mystery why I look forward to these dinners, but I can’t deny that in many ways they define me as a person, and as a member of this rich and vibrant community. As more people learn about their heritage, I have come to realize that such family rituals, in the end, are meant to remind us all that we are never truly alone.

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