The recent Lunar New Year celebration at Liberty Center in Liberty Township, Ohio, brought back a flood of memories for me. On February 28, 2026, the mall complex—always a wonderful development just north of the I-275 loop—hosted a vibrant Lunar Festival organized by the Alliance of Chinese Culture & Arts. The event featured classic dragon and lion dances, Chinese music, Asian drums, acrobatics, Taiji demonstrations, and more, filling the space with energy and drawing crowds from the local community in Butler County. It was a positive, constructive way to launch the next phase of the year, embracing Eastern cultural traditions in a modern American setting. The performances were well-coordinated, tasteful, and joyful, with vendors offering dumplings and other treats amid the festivities, and watching the dragon soar and the lions prance reminded me of my own early experiences with these rituals.

As a teenager in the mid-1980s—around 1984, 1985, and 1986—I had one of my first real jobs at Emperor’s Wok, a highly decorated Chinese restaurant on Chester Road in Sharonville, Ohio. It was one of the most elaborate spots in Cincinnati at the time, with intricate interiors dedicated to Chinese culture. Everyone went there for authentic food in an immersive environment. The owners and family were wonderful; I got to know the cooks and the performers who handled the dragon dances. My role included customer service—dressing sharply in a bowtie to hustle tips in a classic, high-energy setting—but during Chinese New Year, it became something more adventurous. They kept the dragon costume and props in a closet year-round, and I was tasked with climbing onto the roof and the magnificent awning where cars pulled up for drop-offs. The restaurant had a grand entrance, and the parking lot would fill with spectators as the traditional dragon dance unfolded.

The dance lasted about half an hour, complete with booming drums, crashing cymbals, and the performers underneath the long, colorful dragon puppet. My job was to feed strings of thousands of firecrackers off the awning, setting them off in bursts that exploded above the dragon’s head as it twisted and leaped below. The noise, smoke, and flashes created an electric atmosphere, scaring away bad spirits in the tradition while entertaining the crowd. Firecrackers were key—loud explosions to drive off evil—and the whole thing felt proactive: humans creating their own spectacle to combat terror. Seeing similar elements at Liberty Center in 2026 brought it all rushing back: the coordination, the percussion, the acrobatics, and the sense of community triumph over unseen threats.

These dances aren’t just entertainment; they’re deeply rooted in Chinese mythology and serve a spiritual purpose. The lion dance, prominent in southern China, is often associated with the legend of the Nian (or Nian beast), a ferocious monster that terrorized villages on New Year’s Eve. Descriptions vary—some say it resembled a flat-faced lion with a horn, others a massive creature larger than an elephant with sharp teeth—but the core story is consistent. The Nian feared loud noises, bright lights, and the color red. Villagers discovered this and used firecrackers, fireworks, red decorations, lanterns, and couplets on doors to repel it. Over time, these customs evolved into annual traditions: red envelopes for luck, staying up late, and performances to ensure protection and prosperity. The lion dance mimics this defense, with performers in vibrant, red-heavy costumes embodying strength and courage. The dragon dance, dating back to the Han Dynasty or earlier, honors the dragon as a symbol of power, wisdom, benevolence, good fortune, and control over rain and water—essential for agriculture and abundance.

A key figure in many lion dances is the Laughing Buddha, or Big Head Buddha (Dai Tou Fat), often portrayed as a jolly, potbellied character in a mask, waving a fan. This isn’t the historical Buddha of Buddhism but a folk figure inspired by Budai (or Hotei), the “Laughing Buddha” known for joy, prosperity, and contentment. In the dance, he provides comic relief, teasing and guiding the lions—sometimes playfully chasing them or interacting with the crowd—while coordinating to the music. His presence adds lightness: amid the fierce combat against evil, there’s laughter, pranks, and confidence. The potbelly symbolizes a full, prosperous life, laughing in the face of danger. It’s a brilliant touch—turning fear into joy, showing human ingenuity in overcoming darkness through humor and skill. The martial arts elements, acrobatics, and kung fu displays highlight dexterity and strength, reinforcing that humans can triumph over lurking monsters.

This reverence for the spirit world extends across Eastern cultures. In Japan, Shinto temples feature similar beliefs in kami (spirits), with rituals to balance the seen and unseen. Korea and other regions share roots in warding off malevolent forces through noise, color, and performance. The thin veil between the physical and spiritual worlds means monsters or evil spirits—rambunctious and ever-present—must be managed proactively. Red wards off negativity; mirrors on costumes reflect evil back; drums and gongs create an overwhelming sound to dispel it. It’s optimistic: approach the unknown with boldness, abundance, and good fortune, much like fortune cookies that always deliver positive messages.

These patterns aren’t unique to the East. Globally, cultures confront “monsters” or paranormal threats through ritual. North American Indigenous traditions often involve drums, yelling, colorful regalia, and dances to connect with or control spirit visions—sometimes blurred by hallucinogenic plants in shamanic practices, creating colorful, terrifying projections that demand management for societal harmony. The use of red, loud percussion, and aggressive displays taps into the idea of warding off evil, much like firecrackers or mirrors. In Christianity, demons are pushed out through prayer, exorcism, or faith in divine protection. Everywhere, humans develop mechanisms to live with terror—whether invisible forces, cryptids, or existential fears.

This brings me to the Mothman legend from Point Pleasant, West Virginia (close to Ohio roots). Sightings in 1966-1967 described a large, winged humanoid with glowing red eyes, often near the TNT area (a former munitions site). It became tied to the tragic Silver Bridge collapse in December 1967, killing 46 people, turning Mothman into a harbinger of doom. Some link it to Native American lore, such as thunderbirds or curses (e.g., Chief Cornstalk’s), or even misidentified birds, such as sandhill cranes. But the archetype persists: a monster emerging seasonally or in crisis, attacking or foretelling harm. Around Christmas or New Year periods, it echoes the Nian—seasonal terror tied to transitions. Both involve communities responding: firecrackers and dances for Nian, vigilance and folklore for Mothman.

Expanding further, many speculate on shared origins for such creatures. Ancient astronaut theories suggest amphibious or serpentine beings from places like Sirius (as in Dogon African traditions of Nommo from Sirius B) influenced global myths. Chinese dragons—long, serpentine, benevolent yet powerful—might reflect memories of advanced visitors or natural phenomena, migrating from regions like the Indus Valley over the Himalayas into East Asia. From the Near East westward, dragons became adversarial (e.g., biblical serpents or European fire-breathers), but in the East, they’re auspicious. Amphibious gods (e.g., Babylonian Oannes or Dagon) appear in Sumerian and other lore, possibly tied to seafaring or aquatic extraterrestrials who seeded civilization. The persistence of monster myths—winged humanoids, serpents, beasts—suggests a universal human concern with the “other”: unseen threats in the dark, whether paranormal, spiritual, or existential.

Yet cultures don’t just fear; they innovate. Eastern approaches—optimistic, proactive, laughing at danger—offer lessons. The Laughing Buddha prances confidently amid monsters, embodying joy despite peril. Drums attack the spirit world aggressively, red banners proclaim victory, and firecrackers create human-made chaos to counter it. This mindset—embracing abundance, prosperity, and humor—helps build constructive societies. Liberty Center’s event wonderfully blended this ancient wisdom with modern community life, reminding us that engaging with other cultures enriches our own without duplicating rituals wholesale. We have strengths in the West, but learning to face “monsters”—whether literal cryptids, personal demons, or global uncertainties—builds resilience.

My time at Emperor’s Wok taught me early about cultural depth beyond surface festivity. Friendships with the family performers, the thrill of the rooftop explosions, the cultural immersion—all shaped how I view the world. Watching the 2026 festival, I saw echoes of those days: positive energy pushing back darkness, joy in the face of the unknown. It’s a healthy reverence for survival, a reminder that humans thrive by confronting fears creatively. Watch out for the monsters—they’re everywhere—but find ways to laugh, drum, and dance them away.

For further reading and research:

•  Wikipedia entries on “Nian,” “Lion dance,” “Dragon dance,” and “Mothman” provide solid overviews with sources.

•  Britannica’s article on the Chinese New Year details legends and traditions.

•  Books like The Mothman Prophecies by John Keel explore the Point Pleasant events.

•  Robert K.G. Temple’s The Sirius Mystery discusses Dogon-Sirius connections (though controversial).

•  Academic sources on shamanism and global folklore, such as studies on Indigenous North American rituals or comparative mythology.

Rich Hoffman

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