Breath of Fire

By Cara Chang Mutert

2024 marks the Year of the Dragon. A mystical creature that has sparked imaginations through the ages with tales of great feats, giant wingspans, and powerful breath. Breath of fire, no less. Stoking the fire within.

Cultural traditions and holidays, like Chinese New Year, provide ways for us to celebrate and stay connected as families. But they also serve as ways to remind us of our heritage, our ancestors, the difficulties that were overcome, and how far we have come despite it all.

I was born in the Year of the Dragon, an auspicious symbol in the Chinese culture. My great grandmother was also a Dragon, and passed away the same year I was born. In some belief systems, souls are reborn. And I think there was, at least somewhere buried deep in my father’s heart, a hope that I may have somehow carried the spirit of his grandmother, the woman who cared and nurtured him as a young boy, as he endured the hardship of serving as the man of the house and provider to his family at age 10 following the tragic death of his father.

This particular Year of the Dragon marks my 5th cycle of the Chinese lunar calendar. (I’ll let you do the math.) But as I prepare to move into this next 12-year cycle of life, I’m noticing a shift in myself, and also how I am approaching life. Now sharing a home with my mother, 90, of course has influenced my awareness. But I’ve noticed my growing connection to myself, my roots, my parents, and the significance of my ancestors and my culture.

This is in sharp contrast to the last time we lived together when I was a teenager. I was born an American, and raised as an American. But I was living in a household of Chinese-born parents. It was confusing, sometimes embarrassing, and often maddening as a self-focused teenager living in affluent, predominantly white community. My parents were highly educated, progressive, and successful, but still, I rejected most of my heritage (and truthfully much of who I am) in hopes of fitting in and blending in with everyone else. A story with which I’m sure most children of first-generation immigrants can relate.

But now, as I begin to feel like an old bottle of wine getting better with age, I understand the importance of where I came from, where my parents came from, the challenges they endured, the sacrifices they made, and the obstacles they overcame to make a life here for themselves in this strange new world. But ultimately, their goal was to provide opportunity and security for me and my brother, as well as for our children and grandchildren. It’s a perspective we all might want to pause to think about when considering the migrant crisis in this country.

Although my father has now been gone for almost 4 years, every day, I look at pictures of him on my desk in the morning. His warm smile, greeting me to a new day. I still miss him. Deeply. Profoundly. His expectations of me still guide almost every move that I make. But even more so, it’s the life that he led, the hard work that he modeled for me, and his will to never give up that continues to motivate me to try to live my life to the fullest.

I am grateful for his quiet teachings, and for all the daily lessons I still get to receive from my mother as well. She continues to inspire and show me the way every day. I do hope that my great-grandmother does in fact still live within me. And most days, I can almost feel that my father now lives within me as well.

Here’s to a good year, Daddy. I will continue to stoke the fire within and work hard to breathe strength, hope, compassion, and life into this world.