Category — Cultural Encounters

On Thursday evening, the streets of Flushing were rampaged by a storm, the likes of which most Queens residents had not seen before. As I returned to Queens from school, I felt as though as I had just stepped into a war-torn battlefield. Light poles and trees were knocked down, and cars and houses were damaged all over. Normally I would take the bus back home, but due to the immense traffic, caused by the blocked streets, I was forced to walk. What would have been a grueling 40-minute trudge became a walk to remember. The damage of the storm had brought all of Main Street out onto the streets, as everyone was contributing to the clean up effort. As I approached Jewel Avenue (a predominantly Jewish community) I saw how the Jewish community in that area was extremely prepared and organized for these situations. They had what appeared to be their own little community patrol force, and their private ambulances hard at work making sure everyone was okay. As I walked further down Main Street, snapping photographs left and right, I approached my neighborhood (a predominantly Asian neighborhood). Our clean up effort was also well under way as neighborhood residents were outside clearing streets and sidewalks of all the fallen trees. I decided to stop and help my Chinese neighbors, as a fallen tree blocked their driveway. They thanked me with a nice, warm cup of tea. The storm had united all of the communities in Queens, as we all strived to overcome the devastation, and return to our normal daily routines.

One of the first things I noticed when I moved into my Lower East Side dorm was the graffiti openly displayed on walls, buildings, roofs, etc. From my window, one piece in particular stands out to me. JIM JOE written in plain black print. ‘Does this even qualify as graffiti?’ I thought to myself. A sense of curiosity grew in me every time I saw his paint had touched another location. Sometimes its just his name, sometimes a message attached. His sometimes inspirational but most of the time disturbing writings have left an indelible mark on New York City. I had to google….

What am I doin – JIM JOE

I need some help – JIM JOE

Don’t fall in love don’t smoke weed – JIM JOE

Did you even realize? -JIM JOE

This is kind of a nice table – JIM JOE

Justin Beiber and JIM JOE

JIM JOE has his own website, blog, and twitter which is updated from his iPhone. Could the guy I pegged as an absolute lunatic actually be a fully functioning human? Reading about him has not only left my questions unanswered but has sparked even more questions and heightened my interest in JIM JOE. Who the hell is this guy and what is he telling us? Its all around me in simple writing but I just don’t know.

Standing in the 53rd street train station after spending a day with my friends, I heard a peculiar sound. Normally when you’re in a train station, all you hear are the high-pitched screeching of the train tracks when a train is moving through the station or the loud chatter of fellow transit riders ready to go home after a long day at work. However, this sound was different; it was the plucking of strings that made this almost ominous sound. I followed the sound to see where it was coming from and saw a Chinese man sitting down to the right of the turnstiles, with a large instrument propped on a table in front of him. He wore these picks on his fingers, and every time his finger met a string, it made a plucking sound that echoed throughout the train station.

Born in the United States, I’ve never seen Chinese instruments except for the booming drums that are used during Chinese New Year when there are lion dances and dragon dances in Chinatown. This was something new to me, since I am used to the more-known instruments such as the piano, trumpet, flute, and guitar. This Chinese instrument I later looked up, was called the gǔzhēng, translated as “ancient plucked zither;” it has 6 to 21 strings, which in musical terms can be tuned to give up to four complete octaves. Seeing this instrument in a New York City train station made me feel as if there is culture everywhere, and that music is not limited to only one location of the world.

http://www.listenforlife.org/oneworldwalk/10musicfest_files/guzheng.jpeg

Before I left Manhattan on Monday night, I decided to make a stop at the Feast of San Gennaro. As I neared the festival, music blared, roads were closed and lining the streets were green, red, and white colored tents hanging with signs promising the best cannoli, zeppole or sausage and pepper sandwich in the world. Even if they happened not to be the best, their smell filled the air and they were enticing nonetheless. Stretching down several blocks, the Feast of San Gennaro seemed to be in full swing as I turned to walk down Mulberry Street.

However, despite how festive the atmosphere seemed, certain elements of the event were unquestionably commercialized and no doubt different from the tradition that has been present in the Little Italy area for the past eighty-four years. Now an eleven-day spectacle, the Feast was once a locally run affair, in which many local families would set up handmade stands, advertising their specialty food, whether it be canolis or sausages, with children setting up and hawking passersby into playing their coin games. At a time, in which the food was a means, not an end, locals and visitors alike gathered to join in the excitement.

Since my grandparents, great-grandparents, and even great-great grandparents have lived in the Mulberry Street area since the turn of the last century, I can only imagine the sense of community and celebration that once spread throughout the neighborhood during the festival which stretched even further downtown than it does today. While I certainly enjoy a good celebration of my (half) Italian heritage, and the Feast today was filled with great food, I am left to imagine (and listen to stories retold by my grandparents) of the time when the Feast of San Gennaro was for more than just the food.

What do we, as American college students, know about the world? To be honest, we do not know much even though we are Macaulay students. Most of us would not be able to point out Armenia on a world map, much less talk about the traditions and culture of the people there. Living in New York City opens up many doors to diversity and learning about different cultures in the world. My high school recognizes the importance of diversity and places great emphasis and effort on events that promote it. One such event is the International Food Festival that is held annually in the cafeteria after school hours.

I attended the food festival for the first time during my sophomore year. The only reason I went was because my Russian foreign language teacher mandated the class to bring a dish and contribute to the festival. Most of us had no idea what to bring in and she had to help those unfortunate enough to be unfamiliar with their culture’s cuisine. I, being of Armenian descent, knew exactly what cultural dish I would bring – dolma.


Image adopted from http://kronbergskrattarochler.files.wordpress.com/2007/05/dolma.jpg

I arrive at school the day of the food festival with the dolma cooked by my grandma. The time has come to bring all the food into the cafeteria and eat to our hearts’ content. I enter the cafeteria and my sense of smell goes crazy. Everything ranging from avocado to zucchini fills my nose and the feeling is nothing short of overwhelming. For the next hour or so, I walk around the gigantic, but crowded, room with my friends and go to each table and ask them “what’s this?” There were approximately forty tables representing countless different cultures and each group spent a minute or so happily talking about the food they brought in to people who they have never met or seen before.

I think that was the first time in my life that I really understood what the value of diversity is. There were probably more than sixty people representing the different cultures in that cafeteria and we were all unified by one thing in those few hours – food. Something as simple as food brought us together and left a huge imprint on me. The thought of being brought so close to other people through something as common as the food we eat really inspired and changed me to admire and connect better with people of different ethnicities. Now, whenever I go out to eat, I always try to go for something new and cultural – whether it is the Halal food on the corner of 25th and Lexington, the Chinese restaurant on 23rd, or Mike’s Due Pizza down the block from the Vertical Campus.

Feeling lazy and unwilling to cook, I found myself heading over to the “Hotdog Corner,” just a block away from my house. As I opened the door to the tiny store, I expected a warm greeting from Yonja, the sweet and friendly owner of the newly opened business. Instead, I was received with a cold “Hello,” as she looked at me without her usual smile. Though I was concerned, I shied away from asking her what was wrong. After all, I was merely a customer and it was not my place to intrude on her personal life.

Once I ordered my food, I waited in awkward silence as she grilled my pizza sandwich. Finally, Yonja spoke, softly breaking the quiet air. “Where have you been?” she asked. “Oh, just at home,” I replied with a puzzled expression. “Well, you know, people are not like this where I am from,” she began. “At my shop back at home, people always come in to say hello, even if it is just to get a cup of coffee. Everyone here is so disconnected. Always so busy.” I realized that it had probably been two weeks since my last visit to her store. I never imagined that she would be offended by my absence. “Well,” she continued as she handed me the bag of food, “You should come more often. It is nice when you come by.” As I headed for the door, I turned around and gave her a weak smile. Perhaps I am not just a customer to her, I thought to myself. Perhaps I am a friend too.

Waiting for the elevator on my way downstairs to the community center, I see none other than my Peruvian friend, Walter. On other occasions, this encounter would be awkward but today he was in a happier mood than usual. We were not merely conversing, but laughing and joking as we waited for the elevator. At that moment I realized that this elevator ride together would be quite enjoyable and could possibly change our relationship forever.

As we enter the elevator, I quickly look around and recognize an odd situation. Besides the other neighbors that I share this lovely Ludlow dorm with, I see a maintenance personnel with a ladder possibly three times his size. When Walter enters the elevator, he takes a quick glance and couldn’t help but communicate with the personnel, who was Ecuadorean.

After Walter began the conversation with “Hey man, what floor you working on today,” I could barely make out what they were saying. Since I don’t speak Spanish, I waited for Walter to switch back to the English language so I could finally follow this peculiar conversation. After a while I got my wish when Walter finally said to the Ecuadorian, “you know that Peruvians and Ecuadorians are enemies right.” At that moment, I thought the mood in the elevator would immediately worsen, but instead, laughter erupted from both Walter and the maintenance personnel. At this particular juncture I realized that this was New York City, the biggest melting pot in the world. I learned that New York City is the place where enemies would become friends, and that nationalities rarely affect how we make those friends.

I love this city.

(http://softrice.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/6-beef-intestines.jpg)

“Wow, this is really good”, I exclaimed, intensely chewing the rubbery, white substance that had been placed in front of me at the dim sum restaurant. It was like a noodle, yet not, and somewhat resembled a soggy tree branch.  I continued moving it around in my mouth, trying to distinguish what exactly the strange, but still quite pleasant flavor and texture were. Both were completely foreign, and I finally asked, still mindlessly chewing, “what is this?”

Everyone at the table glanced towards their neighbor, shifting their eyes uncomfortably, trying to decide whether or not they should tell me exactly what I was eating.

“It’s a thing Chinese people eat.”

Not at all satisfied with that answer, I reiterated my question.

“No seriously, what is this? It’s really good!” Silence prevailed for a few more seconds until finally someone piped up.

“It’s cow intestines.”

My chewing slowed as I processed that bit of information, and suddenly I wanted to get what I had moments before found absolutely delectable out of my mouth as quickly as possible. Trying to remember how delicious I thought it was before I knew what it was, I swallowed down the cow intestine.

“Oh. I see” I gulped. The look on my face made everyone laugh.

“I just think of everything as squid”, my friend said, picking up her own piece of cow intestine and popping it into her mouth, “makes it easier”.

I laughed and nodded. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.

http://coffeescholar.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/futurama-coffee.gif

“I NEED STARBUCKS.”

There is manic glint in my friend’s eyes.  They’re slightly bloodshot and she tries to open them wider but her eyes are restricted by a droop in the upper lids and abyssal black circles underneath.  I begin to chuckle a bit as I go to grab my coat from my locker.

Another friend slumps to my side and says, “No, no, no. Go to Dunkin’ Donuts. They have that ninety-nine cent coffee deal today.

To that statement, there are shouts of excitement and people jump out the door.  But Dunkin’ Donuts doesn’t serve real coffee, they serve a watery, oddly colored, noxious concoction.  (And the one near our high school had a cat running around in the kitchen at the Dunkin’; sometimes there was an odor.)

The Dunkin’ argument had been gone over so many times, that the Starbucks friend, just rolled her squinted eyes over at the Dunkin’ friend and glared at him without saying a word.

“I’m not going to learn some special lingo or whatever just to order my coffee. A small is a tall? That doesn’t even make sense!! Extra hot?  Skinny?  Double?  All those macchiatos, lattes, whatever—they’re just all the same thing! Coffee and milk!”

The three of us go out and they settle on the Colombian coffee at the café that gives us student discounts.  Cheap, tasty, and heartwarming.

I sat there, sipping blissfully away at my home brewed, French-press made Costa Rican coffee as I had been the whole morning.