I Burned Joss Paper for Grandpa in New York, and My Foreign Neighbor Followed Suit
03 Dec 2025
Last Qingming Festival in New York, the spring breeze in Brooklyn still carried the chill of late winter. I fixed a folding clothes rack on the balcony railing and laid out the fire-resistant tray that came with the product—a "compliant solution" I found after doing countless research. The ash-proof baffle and high-temperature resistant coating on the tray's edge could avoid New York's strict fire regulations. When the first stack of joss paper printed with "Heaven and Earth Bank" was lit, the pale golden flame licked the paper, and a faint osmanthus fragrance (I specially sprayed the perfume my grandpa loved most during his lifetime) drifted into the sky. Suddenly, there was a commotion on the adjacent balcony.
"Excuse me, are you sending a gift to your ancestors?" Mr. Smith, my neighbor, leaned over, holding a watering can in his hand. He was a retired carpenter who always loved chatting with me about Chinese chopsticks and calligraphy. I quickly turned down the flame and nodded with a smile: "I'm 'sending pocket money' to my grandpa. We Chinese believe that ancestors still need money in the other world." He put down the watering can, brought a folding chair and sat by the balcony, listening carefully as I told him about my grandpa.
Grandpa sneaked into New York in the 1980s and opened a small wonton shop in Chinatown. He got up at 3 a.m. to chop fillings, and his hands were always stained with the smell of green onions and ginger. When I was a child, I always did my homework in the shop, and grandpa would secretly slip me a fruit candy, saying "Studying should be sweet." Ten years after he passed away, I wanted to burn joss paper every Qingming, but I was always afraid of triggering the smoke alarm or being complained about. It wasn't until last year, when I bought this joss paper set with a fire-resistant tray and Chinese-English manual, that I dared to perform the ritual with peace of mind.
"He was thrifty all his life, and I'm always worried that he's reluctant to spend money over there," I pointed to the burning joss paper. "The '100 million yuan notes' printed on it are just to make him spend freely."
Mr. Smith's eyes lit up, and he suddenly sighed: "My wife passed away two years ago. She loved roses and handmade cards during her lifetime. I go to the cemetery every week to place flowers, but I always feel that something is missing, like I can't 'really talk to her'." I handed him the Chinese-English manual that came with the set and pointed to the page "Worship Script Reference": "Actually, the key isn't the money, but talking to your loved ones through the ritual. You see, I just told grandpa that his wonton shop has been taken over by someone, and it still tastes the same as before." He took the manual and read it word by word, his reading glasses even slipping to the tip of his nose.
A week later, I suddenly received a WeChat photo from Mr. Smith—on his balcony, a piece of red velvet cloth was spread, on which lay the "Western-style joss paper" he made by hand: cut into the shape of US dollars with pink colored paper, written with "To my love" in gold marker, with fresh white rose petals and a small ceramic candlestick beside it. The caption read: "According to what you said, I told her 'The roses are blooming well this year, and I watered them three times for you'. I feel like she really heard me."
I suddenly remembered the surprise when I received this joss paper set: in addition to the fire-resistant tray, it also included a blank area for handwritten messages, flowcharts of worship procedures for different scenarios, and even marked "the best worship time in New York" (avoiding morning and evening peaks and community activities). The English translation in the manual was particularly thoughtful, translating "burning joss paper" as "ancestor money offering" and explaining the cultural connotation of "treating the deceased as the living", which is why Mr. Smith understood it immediately.
This Qingming Festival, Mr. Smith even took the initiative to knock on my door, holding a wooden box: "I made two sets of handmade joss paper, one for my wife and one for your grandpa. I drew a wonton on your grandpa's set—he should recognize it, right?" We set up two fire-resistant trays on the balcony together. His pink "joss paper" and my yellow joss paper burned together, and the flame reflected two faces of different skin colors, but both were equally gentle.
The wind blew across the balcony, carrying the smell of ash and roses. I suddenly realized why this joss paper set has become popular among overseas Chinese—it not only solves the compliance problem, but more importantly, it allows us overseas wanderers to express our longing with dignity. Mr. Smith's imitation made me believe even more: longing has no national borders. Whether it's Eastern joss paper or Western handmade cards, whether it's exhortations in Chinese or confessions in English, the concern hidden behind the ritual can always be understood by those who care.
Interactive Topic: What moments have you experienced overseas where "emotional bonds broke cultural barriers"? Neighbors learning to make zongzi, or foreign friends burning spirit money with you? Share below
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