The Red Envelope

Instructor Introduction

The first formal writing assignment of the term asks students to close read an object that is important to them, analyzing its details to give the reader a more complex way of understanding the chosen object. In “The Red Envelope,” Corina’s sincere and insightful meditation on an important cultural tradition brings to life the profound personal meaning of this recurrent object as well as its broader implications for our relationships to material things. With each carefully described detail—the tactile immediacy of the envelopes, the feeling of receiving them at different moments, the blessings that convey the love and support of family, and the transition from receiver to giver—Corina literally unfolds the lessons these objects have taught her and an evolving sense of herself and her place in her family. The vividness of her prose brings readers along for the journey, helping us reach these revelations alongside her. While “The Red Envelope” demonstrates the power of close reading to reveal the momentous in the miniscule, it also showcases Corina’s nuanced understanding of value, tradition, and care.

— Madeline Hennessey

The Red Envelope

During the festivities of Chinese New Year, one symbol stands out for me as the most cherished tradition—the red envelope. Ask any child what their favorite part of the New Year’s Day is, and their eyes will likely light up at the thought of the clean, crisp notes tucked inside these red, small, but with a little weight pocket. The red envelope is more than just a container for money, it also represents blessings of good fortune, health, and prosperity passed down from one generation to the next in Chinese culture, and it has another name called “the lucky money”.

Chinese families cherish reunions, so we have strong bonds with our extended family. Therefore, these envelopes come from many elders’ hands—grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles. For children, it’s a season of “harvest.” When I was a child, the anticipation of receiving red envelopes during Chinese New Year was immense, just like it was for every other child around me. I would wait excitedly for the moment when my grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles handed me the bright red envelopes, usually it is on the last night of the year.

To the six-year-old me, these red pockets weren’t just symbols of luck, they were keys to a world where I could indulge in my every thought. While many Chinese parents save this money for their children, believing they don’t yet understand its value, my parents had a different view. They trusted me to make my own decisions, allowing me the freedom to spend it as I wished. The money inside felt like a password to endless possibilities, and I wasted almost no time spending it on whatever I desired at that moment, whether it was a new toy, a notebook, or something I had been eyeing for months. I still remember the joy of purchasing my first music player with the red pocket money I have received. Handing over that small pale of red notes to the cashier in the electronic shop, and then eagerly taking the music player from his hand, it was a moment of pure happiness. This kind of purchasing freedom made every January a time when I felt rich, both in independence and in the little sense of unmature vanity that came from being the kid with new things in my small friend group.

The red envelope wasn’t just a tradition reserved for New Year’s Day in my family. It accompanied me through many important milestones since my childhood. Whenever I started at a new school, my grandmother would give me a thick red envelope, with her best wishes written on the back, blessing me with good luck and success in my academic journey. Birthdays were no exception, as red envelopes from my extended family would appear, and I clearly know that each one filled with more than just money, it was their way of sending love, support, and blessings for the year ahead. These small red pockets became intertwined with almost every memorable moment of my upbringing, reminding me and making me feel that no matter the occasion, I was surrounded by a net of love and care.

But it wasn’t as if I spent all my red envelope money right away. I had a little habit of tucking some of it away in a small drawer in my bedroom, saving it for the future. This habit came from a lesson learned from my past experiences: once, I wanted to buy the latest issue of my favorite comic book—something my mom wouldn’t allow—but found myself out of money. With comic books being serialized, and the new version of the toys I wanted always being released, I knew I had to plan ahead and save for what was to come. This is another lesson the red envelopes taught me. Over the years, the drawer grew fuller as I stashed more envelopes inside, each one waiting for the right moment to be opened. If I wanted something small, like a decent, elegant album of painting, I’d pull out a thinner envelope. For something bigger, like a new headphone, I’d go for a thicker one.

This habit changed after my aunt, who had been such an integral part of my childhood, passed away. Her death in a sudden traffic accident left our entire family in shock, and we were shrouded in grief for a long period of time. As my mom’s only sister, she held a special place in my heart. When I was in primary school, I used to have this funny thought in the back of my mind, wondering why I couldn’t have been my aunt’s daughter, since she always seems more soft-spoken and patient than my mom. One day, long after her passing, I opened the drawer and ready to grab an envelope as usual. My hand paused over one with her familiar handwriting on the back. It was a red envelope she had given me when I got into the high school that I always wanted to go, her blessings written in delicate, careful strokes. Instead of the usual encouragement of study hard like every other elder, her message celebrates my small achievements and expressed her good wishes for me as I stepping into a new stage of life. At that moment, I realized it wasn’t just money inside, and not only it was her love and her best wishes for me either, but it is more important is her presence in my life. The thought that I would never receive another envelope from her again hit me hard. But a part of me had been forever changed by her. I found myself is unconsciously learning to treat others with the same sincerity she did and to give selflessly to those I love, just as she had. This little red envelope in my hand became something to be deeply cherished, a precious keepsake. The realization struck me that those who love me, and whom I love, won’t always be here, and that the envelopes won’t always keep coming. It’s not just that they might leave one day for any number of reasons, or that I might move far away—like now, studying abroad, thousands of kilometers from home—but the part of me shaped by them will always remain with me.

When my first nephew was born, my mom joked with me, saying, “Now it’s your turn to give money to those younger than you.” But I don’t mind this kind of compulsion from social norms. For us, Chinese people who often too shy to express our love verbally due to our cultural of restraint, the red envelope is a way to transform a simple monetary exchange into a heartfelt gift. With newfound reverence, I placed my aunt’s envelope back in the drawer, closing it softly, and never use the money in the drawer again.

As the years passed, I transitioned from being a wide-eyed recipient of red envelopes to someone who now gives them. I send red envelopes to my younger sister and nephews, hoping that they experience the same warmth and joy I once felt — the reassurance that, no matter the occasion, someone is thinking of them, caring for them, and wishing them all the best. Or perhaps, like I did when I was a child, they feel that receiving more red envelopes gives them more sense of independence and freedom. That’s certainly another part of what I hope to convey as well, the importance of having the right to make choices, the rare opportunities for autonomy that come with childhood, and an early understanding of the value of money. Even though online payment methods have become so convenient, I still behave in an “old-school” style on it. I would ask my mom to exchange crisp, fresh bills for me and to hand-deliver the physical red envelopes to my younger sister and nephew. While it would be easier to send money digitally, there’s something irreplaceable about the red envelope itself—the tangible symbol of love and tradition that can’t be replicated through a screen. It pains me to be on the other side of the world during Chinese New Year, which makes me unable to hand the envelopes to them in person but knowing that my mother will deliver them on my behalf makes it feel like a small part of me is still there, sharing in the joy with people I love.

The little red envelope witnessed me transitioned from being the recipient to the giver, and the transitioned of the meaning I attach to the things around me. What was once a simple token of excitement and temporary pleasure has become a symbol of love, care, continuity, and constant reminder to cherish and be grateful for the kindness and love I’ve received. I’ve come to realize that the value of an item is not fixed; it grows with me, accumulating meaning through the cycles of giving and receiving. And it also reminds me that traditions are not only something we simply borrow from the old way—they carry our stories, our growth, and our connections, making them far more valuable than their material worth, holding within them the essence of who I am and where I come from.