Category — Cultural Encounters

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Most places have some kind of tourist appeal. In New York, it’s the skyscrapers and diversity. In the Bahamas it’s the sandy white beaches and bright blue water. In Sweden, it’s the moose. A few years ago, my aunt’s brother-in-law, Leif, decided to open up a moose park. I laughed at this idea, wondering why anyone would pay to see a moose.  I had seen them in the wild several times and didn’t think of them as much more than overgrown deer. I didn’t give Leif’s plan much more thought, assuming nothing would come of it. However the next summer Leif had already bought two moose and had opened a moose café. My family and I went on a tour, just out of curiosity. We were pulled around a fenced-in area by a noisy tractor. I did see the moose but I had come closer to them walking my dog in the woods than I did at the park. I left feeling sorry for Leif and his wife after all the time and money they had put into this project, just to have it fail. A few weeks later, to my surprise, Leif proudly announced that he had had visitors from over 350 different countries. Every time we passed his farm the lot would be filled with cars. I am still surprised now, years later, to see how busy the moose park is every time I’m visiting my aunt. It is interesting how something so common in one country can be a source of joy and wonder to people from other cultures.

When I first moved into my building about 15 years ago, my condo building was rather empty and dull. Cultured is hardly the word I would use to describe my family; Chinese is a better word because that’s the only type of people my parents would ever talk to. But as time soon passed we heard different languages throughout my condo as different families began moving in. My mom was bewildered and wondered why she could not understand them and failed to realize that they were not speaking her native language. Soon enough as weeks passed no language was easily deciphered as we heard many different languages being spoken at once when we stepped outside of our condo building. With time my mother became accustomed to these “outsiders” as she would call them due to the fact that there were hospitable “outsiders” contrary to her beliefs. Our neighbors would come down to our home and bring in fruits and other delicacies. As my mom attempted to communicate to them she resorted to speaking her native tongue and our neighbor also resorted to their native tongue as well. So we ended up with my mother speaking Chinese and my neighbor speaking what I believe was Korean. The end result is a screaming and laughing contest with one person trying to speak over the other person. It is interesting how language works, even though neither party understands a word that is being said, they continue screaming as if they did understand. Perhaps it was the fact that they did not understand each other that kept them going or maybe it was this desire to understand more about each other through laughter and basic facial expressions. The language in my condo varies greatly and everyone picked up on basic vocabulary. I found that my mother was speaking words of Korean to me instead of saying it in Chinese. Language is contagious.

As a lowly white male living in the most diverse borough, in one of the most diverse cities, I have often felt isolated from my more culturally defined peers. I have never left the country, and when someone asks me what race I am there is an awkward pause, until finally I proclaim, with very little pride, “I am white.”

I’m supposed to be Catholic and I guess my ancestry means that I’m mostly Italian. The problem is that I haven’t been to church in at least five years and the closest thing to Italy I’ve seen is the inside of a pizzeria. I don’t want to pretend I’m something I’m not and I’m definitely no Roman Catholic Italian. Everyone seems to be so interesting and unique, culturally at least, what happened to me?

I guess I blame it on the fact that I can only speak one, not so exclusive, language. I always wanted to speak a sexy language, or maybe one of those cool languages. Walking around Baruch and seeing all the different groups speaking in their own languages makes me feel jealous, to me it seems like everyone is part of small, super secret clubs bonded by uniquely shared sounds. I want to join! It’s not all bad news though, I get to participate in a much larger club, making friends with people from various cultures and adjusting my own cultural identity along the way.

For the past two summers, I have been invited to go on a wilderness trip with nine other Brooklyn boys to Kennicott, Alaska. It’s run by a New York City lawyer who raises money by holding fundraisers in order to cover the costs. It is a free trip for me and all the other boys involved. The purpose of the trip is to take city kids and take them out of their comfort zone to the outdoor lifestyle, with no phones, TV, iPod, or computers.

The trip itself is an unbelievable experience. We get the privilege to go ice climbing on an Alaskan glacier, hike to the peak of a mountain, and go rafting down Alaska’s Chitina River for a few days. But one thing you realize when you go on an adventure like this is the cultural differences between Brooklyn boys and Alaska natives. There are things I experience there that I would never see while home in New York. The location aspect is a huge transition. While in Alaska, we stayed for a night in a man named Jurgen’s cabin. Just like many of the people in Alaska, he built his home himself and lives pretty secluded. To eat, he needs to make sure he’s always catching fish or hunting other animals. That’s the only way he can get his food. Either that, or he has to travel 8 hours by car back to the city of Alaska in Anchorage to get groceries. So that was a bit strange for me. I’m used to walking to the deli on the corner of my block to get a sandwich and some chips. At his house, I was eating salmon out of a jar and filling a water bottle outside in a stream by his cabin. I guess you can say we’re spoiled in a way living in the city, having everything we need right next to us, with practically no work involved to get it. In Alaska, they work for the little things that we aren’t accustomed to.

A cultural difference that I happened to love in Alaska is that everyone is extremely friendly whether they know you or not. I understand that there aren’t as many people in Alaska so maybe it’s a little easier to be friendly but it’s still a very warm feeling. In Kennicott, people will walk up to our group of ten kids and ask about us and our story. It’s nice to be acknowledged. Another aspect of Kennicott that I loved is that every Friday, the communities of Kennicott and McCarthy (About 3 miles from Kennicott) get together and have a big softball game. It’s a really friendly game that anyone can come and play and it just gives you a sense of unity and friendship. Every Friday, 100 or so people come together and have fun with one another on the field and in town. It just amazes me how these people interact with one another and are welcoming to every person that visits their town. It’s not like that in Brooklyn. If someone even said, “Hi” to you on the street, you’d probably look at them as if they were crazy. Those are the experiences in Alaska that I’ll miss the most. They welcome you there as if you’re family. It’s an incredible, yet rare experience to have and I’m glad I got the privilege to spend time with those people. I’ve learned a lot by going by going to Alaska the past two years and it’s something I’ll never forget because it gives me knowledge of the different cultures and lifestyles that we have in America. I have gained knowledge past the boundaries of Brooklyn and New York City.

“Wow, Renee! You are absolutely going to love Frankie and Lena. They are just adorable!” A few months after my arrival in America, I met a friend who had long, silky blond hair with icy blue eyes. Elise resembled the all-American girl to me. One day, she invited me over to her house. It was the first chance of encountering a typical American family. Since I couldn’t understand what she was saying for most of the times, I assumed Frankie and Lena to be Elise’s chubby, petite younger brother and sister.

“Frankie! Are you home?” Elise shouted out as we entered the living room. From the kitchen, Mrs. Johnson -I predicted and I was right- ran into me in the speed of light with her arms widely extended. I barely had a time to GASP. ‘Ah, I think… she’s trying to hug me?! We just met five seconds ago, and she’s trying to hug me?’ Two seconds later, I found myself became a giant baby in her arms. She hugged and kissed me, and poured out all the adjectives that I have never heard about myself before: lovely, sweet, and yes, of course, adorable. I was embarrassed, but at the same time, equally amused. When Mrs. Johnson finally let go of me, the only thing in my head was the thoughts on how I would escape from that embarrassing moment.

In the backyard, there stood Frankie who was wearing a sky blue apron with small white polka dots. More than his outfit, I was rather shocked to find out Frankie was in his 40s. “Renee, this is Frankie. He’s my dad. And this is Lena, she’s my adorable mother.”

I was stunned. To begin with Korean culture, it is almost forbidden to call one’s parents’ names in public. Whenever I had to state them for any reason, I was required to put “ja” right after each word to show my respect toward them. Besides that point, how could you describe your parents adorable to your friend? It was totally against Korean society’s ethical belief and also, excessively disrespectful. Furthermore, I’ve never seen any Korean father wearing a sky blue apron with white polka dots in my entire life.

Five years have passed since I had the first glimpse of American culture. Still, I never dare to call my parents by their first names. However, there is a change though. Whenever I visit Korea, my Korean friends would prefer keeping their personal space from me because of my newly acquired “huggable personality.” But, seriously, doesn’t it make you happy?

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Last week, I agreed to teach my friend, a proud country bumpkin, how to take the subway. I wasn’t exactly sure what there was to teach…

Several moments into the ride, I hear “… on the street for six months… HIV positive … Bellevue has turned me away because I do not qualify for free medical care.  A dime, a nickel, even a penny…” No one stirs.  Just another homeless woman asking for a handout, I think. I admit, the homeless used to make me uneasy, but I’ve become too desensitized to care about the Lord killing me if I don’t spare a few pennies for some psychiatric woman. I’ve become so immune to these train announcements; I don’t even listen to the sob stories.

“Oh my gosh! Can we please get off right now?!” My initial reaction to my friend’s nervous exclamation was just laughs. Pu-leez, she’s not going to bother you! This happens all the time… But I felt I needed to quiet her fears, especially the one about HIV positive. I made a quick decision to switch cars before all hell broke loose.

What struck me is the contrast between my—is it nonchalance?—versus my friend’s immediate hysteria. I wondered if it we could both use an extra dose of sensitivity, or if my blasé attitude and her hysterics were just features of our personalities. Better yet, I wondered if I had just taught myself the most important lesson of all, to open my heart a bit wider to the disheartened.

When I meet people, and they ask me “What are you?” I tend to throw out “Ukrainian.”
One time, I was at the Ukrainian Sports Club on Second Avenue, a few blocks away from St. Marks place and St. George’s Church, the former epicenter of Ukrainian immigration to Manhattan. I was introduced to a friend of a friend from Chernivtsi, Ukraine. I extended an arm for a handshake, but he told me his hand was dirty.  Ignoring the gesture, I continued talking to him in English, and minimally in Russian, which seemed taboo.  Once I left, my friend Bogdan explained that the Chernivtskian implied that I was dirty – Americanized, Russian speaking, and from “Odessa.” Supposedly, Odessa is an Oblast tainted in guilt due to its Soviet conformity.  If Ukrainian identity is not solvent, then I am not Ukrainian. To say the least, I’m Slavic, as my name suggests. Like many others, who immigrated to America, I have “diluted” my identity, yet it is the newly acquired one that is enriching, endowing me with a more fluent and tolerant scope.

In my house, we have six family members, but it usually seems to be around 7 or 8 most of the time because of the guests that come over; and I don’t necessarily mean come over for dinner.. One time, we had a family friend from Kaliningrad come over to stay for an entire summer. Our guest’s name was Slava. Slava came to America on a foreign exchange program and his goal that summer was to have as much fun and make as much money as possible. He immediately started partying and looking for jobs. Slava wasn’t exactly what a parent would call an “ideal influence” because, although he was 20, he loved to drink alcohol a lot (It’s legal in Russia at that age). Kaliningrad is an enclave of Russia and Slava fit the Russian drinking stereotype quite well. Once he found a job at the local McDonalds, he started going out at night with his colleagues. My parents, who were devastated at how this “adult” acted and behaved were shocked and devastated at how someone from such an intelligent family could be so.. well.. unintelligent… I, personally, had a great time that summer introducing Slava to my friends and I honestly think that despite the hardships he faced in a brand new country, he loved being in America that summer more than he ever did in his home country.

“Elisabeth, can I ask you a very important question?” Whenever my coworker Chirag communicates something like that I can’t help but brace myself for what will inevitably turn out to be a ridiculous inquiry on an arbitrary but amusing subject. I gave him a half-hearted go ahead and he continued in his heavy accent, “you are Jewish, right?”

“Yes Chirag, I am Jewish.” Already I regretted entertaining his absurd question of the day. He intensified that regret by launching into a highly detailed story of what he knew about Jews because of his multitude of Jewish neighbors and his experiences with Jewish customers at Kmart.

“Ok, don’t take this the wrong way”

“Just ask the question!” When you let Chirag go off on a tangent he tends to forget why he was bothering you in the first place.

“Okay okay,” he held up his hands in defense and continued, “you are Jewish, so you only eat bagels, right?” I raised an eyebrow, convinced he had finally lost it. Any chance of miscommunication was shattered when he began to describe the shape and texture of a bagel.

“I know what a bagel is!” He laughed and began to nod as though I had proven his theory. In an attempt to retaliate I protested, “Just because I’m Jewish doesn’t mean I only eat bagels! That’s like saying you only eat curry…” but it was a lost cause. “Go away Chirag,” was the only lame comeback I could contrive. For the rest of the summer Chirag never failed to ask what type of bagel I had eaten that day.

Once again, I’ve stumbled upon something magical in New York City.

This time, I wasn’t planning to witness culture in any spectacular way–I didn’t think a slice of pizza and some overplayed dance tunes were going to leave me a changed girl, at any rate. But that’s what made it so stunning. This whole accidental revelation began with a wrong turn–and ended with a whole new outlook on the “Big Apple.”

Walking back from a party with a friend, we became so engrossed in conversation that we  walked in the wrong direction for quite a few blocks without notice. Just as we were about to turn around, though, we heard the most beautiful singing coming from the next block over. Despite some hesitation, we decided to check it out. After climbing some steps, I realized that I knew were we were: The Metropolitan Opera. Still, though, I wasn’t quite sure what the occasion may have been–until we reached the top of the steps and set our eyes on the nearly 3,000 people sitting outside, transfixed as a magnificent voice leaped from the vast HD screen’s surround sound. This was the Summer HD Festival that I had been hearing about–and we stumbled upon it by sheer accident!

Completely agape, my friend and I moved to sit on a ledge on the side of the massive crowd, and began to watch the magic of the “Hansel & Gretel’s” Act III. I myself, being fond of operatic music but never of sitting through a true opera, was surprised as to how much joy this moment was bringing me. Surrounded by thousands of equally enthralled people, I began to realize the sheer enormity of the city and its beauty–and how just a few marvelous notes were able to travel straight to the souls of so many people, no matter their differences.

On our way home, more than satisfied by our night’s “accidental adventure” and the magical storyline still fresh in my mind, I began to ponder how a trail of bread crumbs would likely have solved the problem of finding our way home. Quickly, though, I realized that if we, like Hansel & Gretel, had used those bread crumbs, we would never have stumbled into the encounter of a lifetime.