Category — Cultural Encounters

Last Friday, I found myself wandering around St. Mark’s Place in a daze, wishing I was back in Tokyo. I went to Sunrise Mart, the Japanese supermarket there, to pick up some ingredients for dinner and try to pretend I was back in Japan. It failed miserably, and I left the store with delicious food, but an even stronger feeling of emptiness and longing.

I walked slowly up the street towards the Astor Place downtown 6 station, feeling extremely sorry for myself. As I stood on the street corner, waiting for the light to change, I noticed a Japanese tourist next to me, fervently studying his map with a look of total confusion on his face. I watched as he craned his neck to see what street we were on, and then went back to his map, his eyebrows contorted in frustration. After he did this four or five times, I decided to intervene.

“Excuse me, are you okay?” I asked in Japanese. He glanced up, startled, and I repeated my question. A look of absolutely relief appeared on his face as he exclaimed “thank you, thank you!” in a thick Japanese accent.

“I”, he began in English, and looked at me to see if I understood. I nodded, smiling, and he smiled back, continuing.

“I want to go to Bleecker Street”, he said slowly. Being from Miami, I don’t know my way around the city all that well yet, but thankfully I was going to Bleecker Street station in order to get back to my dorm.

“Ah, you have to ride the train!” I told him, adding “I’m going there too.”

So off we went to the subway station. Once we arrived at Bleeker Street Station, I pointed towards the exit, telling him “you go that way”.

He nodded and bowed to me deeply, showing great appreciation and respect. I bowed back, and sent him off with the Japanese expression for “be careful”. He nodded, smiled, and bowed again, saying thank you again and again as he did so.

I turned around and walked towards the F train, smiling and almost crying with joy, thinking maybe, just maybe, not being back in Japan just yet wasn’t so bad after all.

The best things in life are free, or at least nearly free.  There is the conception that quality is compromised when something is offered for free but I learned otherwise a few months ago.

I used to take yoga classes to supplement dance classes but stopped because I couldn’t see why I should pay to stretch and decided that I could just do it in my spare time.  After a few weeks of self-taught yoga, I stopped because I didn’t really know how to organize a session

One random day in February, my friend tells me that there’s free yoga at St. Mark’s Place.  Without any expectations, I go to yoga with her.  She has a mat, gym clothes, and water at the ready; I have two bucks to rent a hopefully non-infected, slip-proof, decent smelling mat, the dress that I wore to school, and no drink to hydrate myself with.  To my surprise, I came out feeling lighter, energized, and relaxed.

I laughed my way through a good part of it: at this place, they encourage you to breathe with a loud sigh or hum if it feels good and let’s just say some people are loud.  Then there’s this pose that you lie on your back, and grab for your feet called “happy baby.”  It’s possibly the most awkward pose ever but then you realize that everyone else is doing it too, and nobody’s looking at you.  Then you start hearing the “goo-goo ga-gas” and gurgling noises and you think you that you’re in a room full of absolute nuts.  Then you try it yourself.  And you know you’ve become a part of it.

There are no mirrors, and anything you change you have to feel if it is right or wrong.  Yoga is something I do for myself and when I do my practice I’m completely involved in my own world, but there’s something about the collective breathing that’s calming even if it’s next to the most hipster-y hipster, the graceful dancer, the uncoordinated boyfriend who was dragged along, or the old couple that decided they needed to exercise and are less than a half of a foot away from you or even if you’ve had the worst day and you decided that you hate the world.  The practice, the teachers, and the people have transformed me in some way; yoga has helped me realize things I want to pursue and things I want out of my life.  It’s strange because yoga really just leaves you to your own thoughts; so I guess I’ve taught myself what’s best for me and it didn’t cost a thing.

http://imgs.xkcd.com/comics/academia_vs_business.png

I remember a story my AP World History teacher told me back in high school. He was an alumnus of Yale and in his spare time he interviewed seniors in high school that had applied to Yale. Sometimes he would end up interviewing a student who had, as a high school student, already read scholarly works extensively. These students most often always attended private high schools, and either had parents in academia or parents who were rich. Other times he would interview students who were middle class or poor, with little academic stimulation other than what they got at school. These students had massive potential to succeed, but did not have the same instilled knowledge. He asked us this question: which student should get the better recommendation if they have the same GPA and SAT?

My uncle brought up a similar predicament. He was distressed about the fact most college students will have to learn how to write a research paper at some point. He says that most people who get a regular job will never have to know how to write a research paper, unless they themselves enter academia. He says that colleges should only be focusing on preparing students for their careers, instead of relying on old methods of teaching, which were only important a century ago, when most people who graduated college would enter academia in some form. This brings up the clash of the academic culture with a newer culture which tells people to achieve academically only for the sake of getting a job sometime in the future.

http://english.people.com.cn/200702/18/eng20070218_351074.html

It was only recently that I discovered a big cultural gap between my parents and I. My parents grew up in a traditional era in China where kids must respect their elders with one hundred percent devotion. This may mean acting in an entire different way in the presence of elders and relatives. In American culture a simple hello or wave would suffice, as an introduction to one another, but in Chinese culture to do so would be rude. My mom would always tell me to address my relatives by their proper title. I would have to state their relation to me such as aunt, uncle, or grandmother and bow. To say their name would be an indecent action. I have made many mistakes in saying hello to my relatives and it eventually came to a point where I just stopped altogether. My parents always complained about how American culture changed me for the worse. They do not appreciate the American form of greeting believing that it does not fully address a person. My parents still abide by their form and greeting and often they would talk to their friends about how American children are so different. They talk about how in China filial piety rules dominant but in America this simply does not exist. My parents expect children to listen to parents no matter the situation even if we think our parents are wrong. There have been many instances where I have engaged in argument with my parents over the proper way of greeting. My reasoning is that a wave or hello is enough to acknowledge a person’s presence but they simply do not agree. Eventually we would come to a compromise and realize that no one was going to win an argument over culture.

Some time last week, I was taking the bus home alone after a grueling workout at Baruch’s gym. I was exhausted and wished for the bus to arrive on time so I can go back to my dorm room and collapse on my bed.

www.lightrailnow.org

The bus just so happened to be late, and I cursed silently at the dysfunctional New York City transportation system. I boarded the crowded bus, paid my fare, and headed towards the back. At that moment, I realized that my iPod was out of batteries. This was possibly the worst thing to happen, since the chatter of the people on board and the noise they produced made my headache worse. As I looked around for an empty, comfortable seat in which to sit in, I realized that would be impossible since it was rush hour. Instead, I look towards the very back section of the bus and see six people who were conversing loudly. Two of the individuals spoke French, another two spoke Russian, and the last two spoke German.  This experience surprised me because I’ve never experienced three different languages being spoken at the same time within the same group. Additionally, these same individuals were communicating with the others in their own language, even though the other person spoke a completely different one. This amused me to a high extent, and for the rest of the bus ride I would eavesdrop on their conversations. Even though I had no idea what they were saying, it was just an amusing event that entertained me.

Looking back, I was lucky that I got to experience something that was truly rare, and I’m glad that I had the opportunity to witness a cultural encounter like this one. Since then, the only mode of transportation I take to and from Baruch is the bus.

There are certain things that I always say when I have to introduce myself to other people. One of them is the fact that I came from South Korea about five years ago. Because of that, I had to overcome some hardships to fit myself into this society. The most noticeable challenges were language and communication. I wasn’t able to understand English that well when I first got here. I felt like everybody was making fun of my accent. Thankfully, that was the time when I started taking art classes. Some Korean girl, who was always in the corner of the English classroom due to her lack of English speaking skills, was now placed in the spotlight of attention during the art class. I was able to build a lot of self-confidence, and this eventually became the motivation for my studies.

Art class was like a window that opened my mind to the American culture. Through this window, I was able to look and step forward in the American culture and perceive it with heart. I didn’t judge other cultures through my own cultural perspective. Meanwhile, I tried to reach out my Korean culture to my American friends. I made several attempts to make my projects to be related to the Korean culture. Once, the Korean traditional costume called Hanbok inspired my sculpting project. I built a basic shape of a vase and decorated its exterior with ruffle-like clays, which looked exactly the same as the dress. After a few days of research, I was able to accentuate the dress with other traditional Korean jewelry in my own design. I chose all the colors that might blend into a beautiful ensemble of traditional and modern aspects of beauty.

The art class was a great relief for me. It also made me think about what I really want to do and where I am heading in my life. The canvas always reflected my question attentively and somehow gave me the answer. That is the reason why I am  still facing the white canvas: to find answers to my questions.

The image shown above is a picture I took while walking to the train through Madison Square Park. Class had just ended as I was approaching the 23rd street train station, I saw this man who was by himself in the middle of the park and he seemed to be doing an interpretive dance. But as he was doing these exuberant moves, he also was moving around some sort of glow stick, giving the illusion that it was floating around him. To be honest, I had no idea what he was doing. Was he dancing? Was he trying to do magic? Did he want money? Maybe all of the above? But the more I looked, it seemed as if he was just doing it because he wanted to. He had headphones in so he was listening to the music by himself. He could care less if anyone was watching him or not. This whole scene interested me. I was really curious to what he was doing so I decided to take a picture of him while he was doing his….. “thing.”

It turns out, what this man was doing is referred to as “glowstringing.” Glowstringing is a form of “glowsticking” in which it’s a combination of dance moves with a glow stick tied to a string. This activity is generally done at raves but that is not necessarily where it came from. It is said that glowstringing comes from poi (performance art) whose origins come from New Zealand. Poi is a performance art in which a ball suspended from a cord, is held in the hand and swung in circular patterns. From that art, glowstringing came about.

I’m glad I happened to have stumbled upon this scene in the park because it showed me how there is a lot of variety in the world. When I think of dancing, I would never think of someone by themselves making gestures and twirling a glow stick in mid-air. But that is DANCE… Whether me or anyone else is aware of it. There is variety in dance just like there is variety in everything else. Sometimes you just have to open up your eyes to see it.

At 6:55AM, a doorbell woke me up on a Friday morning. The deliveryman from Best Buy was one week late and five minutes early. Half awake and half-dressed, I get up to answer the intercom, letting the man through the lobby, as I hasten myself to get dressed. After carrying out the old fifteen year television set, he began to unpack its thinner descendant with a box cutter. As the shavings of cardboard and packaging tape piled on the floor, my stomach twisted in alarm when I noticed that he was wearing his shoes. It wasn’t that my new rug was potentially tarnished, or that my mother would stumble upon a mess while she was getting ready for work. It was a violation of Russian canon. You do not walk around in a house with shoes.
This rule is common in Japan, the Czech Republic, and Sweden as well.
For the next ten minutes, I was driven impatient in an awkward setting that felt little like my home. I wasn’t going to be impolite. I was aware that he was clueless, but the cultural dimension to my logic found it unreasonable and repulsive to walk around in shoes.

Matthew Weinstein

At first, my ventures across the Williamsburg Bridge were meant solely for exercise. It’s close to my dorm, but long enough that it actually counts as a good workout—but that was it, nothing more. Now, I look forward to my daily jogs as so much more than a way to burn calories: they are an endless opportunity to set my eyes upon imagination—and determination—in a myriad of places that are different with each passing day.

My first few times really taking in the sights of the bridge consisted of minor revelations: the “Williamsburg Bridge” sign used to be a solid color, and the paving has been redone so many times that you can actually see the raised shapes of previous path guidelines. It wasn’t until a bit later, though, when I began to realize that it’s the little elements of the Bridge that make it so beautiful.

One such example of stunning detail is the writing on the bridge. Every once in a while, a phrase catches my eye, and remains at the forefront of my thoughts all the way home. Often I run across pavement quietly stating “Love is always the appropriate reaction,” and it never ceases to amaze me that such few words beneath my feet become such wings to make the journey home feel so brief. And just a few days ago, as I looked up in desperation for the top of a seemingly infinite hill, my eyes crossed upon the word “love” gently tied into the chain link fence that suddenly seemed to be a much closer finish line.

But words alone are not what make this bridge such an exciting place—it is the other people on it that make each new trip a beautiful journey. Seeing others (young and old, big and small) working under those massive beams as I do towards a goal—be it the simple one of just reaching the other side without stopping, or getting home from work as fast as possible to see the faces of loved ones, or just loving the way the breeze feels on the downhill—opened my eyes to one simple, yet beautiful thought:

Bridges, held up by crossbeams and cables, or love and hope, are where we all may meet in the pursuit of attainable dreams.

And I can’t wait to see where they lead us next.

It was well past my bedtime when Pablo, a Peruvian friend and Maria, a Mexican friend, showed up at my door. My room is known as the “work room” which really means it’s the room people come when it’s 2:00 AM and they aren’t close to finishing (or beginning) their homework. I had nearly completed my assignments for the next day but let them in anyway, well aware it meant putting a few hours hiatus on sleep. Pablo was visibly distressed over his personal crisis of the day while Maria was wired on over-exhaustion and glucose.

The combination was a recipe for procrastination, and one hour later zero papers had been written and the two had engaged in a vivid discussion about Anthony “Romeo” Santos, a Dominican heartthrob. They were blasting “Los Infieles” and yelling out their favorite songs over deafening Spanish lyrics.

“Yo,” Pablo yelled out, “did you see the clips from that concert where Romeo asked for gorditas to come on stage so he could kiss one?”

“What?!” Maria cried out, “he can’t do that! He has a girlfriend!”

“It’s all for publicity, don’t worry, look see he got a much bigger fan base from this.” Pablo turned his laptop to Maria and she watched transfixed as her Latin dreamboat made out with a heavy-set Hispanic girl in front of tens of thousands of people.

“Why would he do that?” she whined, “It’s so unfair!” Pablo laughed, and so did I, mostly because I had no idea who Anthony Santos was or why he was making out with gorditas to sell records instead of running a regular ad campaign. I learned that if there’s one thing Hispanic people from any country can bond over it’s the music of “Romeo” Santos.