Category — Cultural Encounters

At its most fundamental level, a culture can be explained as a group of people sharing several unifying characteristics.  In that sense, a culture can be found just about anywhere. I happened to find one on a train; the 4:47 p.m. Port Jervis bound NJ-Transit commuter one to be exact.

The train ride home from a day of school is hardly the place for one to expect to find a unique ‘culture,’ but lo-and-behold, one was unquestionably present in the back car in which I sat last Thursday night. Initially expecting a quiet ride home, I was most definitely surprised that once the train left the station, it seemed to awaken with a newfound vigor amongst everyone onboard. Chatter began and conversations took place not between a few people, but the entire train car, and seemingly everyone had something to add onto the topic at hand, whether it be the Yankees’ win that afternoon or the impending hurricane Earl; and as each speaker changed, one thing stood out to me the most: they all knew each other’s names.

Now this may be something that only I find to be noteworthy, but one good look at the bunch heading home from work that day would force you to realize that nowhere else in the world would that group of people be conversing with one another, let alone playing cards or talking about family. To say that they were “ethnically” diverse, would truly be an understatement as the car was diverse in many more ways; one look would yield a train filled with everyone from businessmen in suits, to construction workers in dirty bright orange vests and they all were friendly with one another.

Off of the train, each person no doubt leads completely different lives from one another, however it struck me that no matter how different each person is, regardless of race, income, or occupation, each day they spend 80 minutes or so together with their good friends, each other, who they happened to find by chance heading home from work each weekday from New York City.

When I went home this weekend to visit my family, my mother was so happy to see me she said she’d take me out to eat anywhere I wanted to go. The first place that came to mind was Best1Sushi, a small japanese restaurant where I had spent many afternoons and a good amount of my summer earnings savoring what in my opinion was the best sushi ever made with my close friends.

My mom is as Mexican as can be and had never had sushi before but I encouraged her to try it, promising she wouldn’t be let down but secretly fearing that she would. I ordered the usual, shrimp tempura roll with no cucumber. She decided to have the same, my dad ordered a Mexican roll, and my sister a crab meat salad. When all of our orders came out, my mom brushed the chopsticks to the side, picked up a piece of her roll with her hands and ate it. To my pleasant surprise, she loved the sushi. She questioned why my dad’s roll was called the Mexican roll and he simply said, “Well, because it’s spicy, try it.” but it wasn’t spicy enough for her; disappointed, she went back to eating her own roll.

This time, she decided to try it not dipped in soy sauce, but in the “guacamole” that was on the side of our plate. Needless to say, the wasabi she mistook for guacamole turned out to be a little too spicy for her Mexican taste buds.

With me being an avid viewer of Hollywood films, and my dad being a fan of Bollywood films, we rarely watch movies together. “I don’t want to go to the theatre and sleep when I could do that at home,” he often says in his somewhat raspy voice. Although, when Slumdog Millionaire came out, he asked me to go to the movies with him. I agreed, because finally, there would be a movie that both my dad and I could enjoy. It was a movie that integrated aspects of Bollywood and Hollywood, and was also receiving critical acclaim. When we arrived at the theatre, we got the last two tickets available for the seven o’clock show time, thus raising our anticipation. “If so many people want to watch it, then it must be good” I kept trying to reassure myself. However, when the movie was in progress I couldn’t stand it. It was another boring cliché love story that kept dragging on and on. While I was fidgeting endlessly, I glanced at my dad, who was taking a nice little nap, and was happy that he didn’t like it either. “How was your nap?” I asked him once we got out. “It was better then watching that movie,” he said through laughter. Apparently he agreed that it was too sappy, and he also felt that it was a poor representation of Indian culture. Although, at the end of the day we continued to have differing tastes for movies, we both felt that Slumdog Millionaire was a dreadful movie.

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I step outside to the crisp air of a cool Sunday morning. I lace up my sneakers and jog over to Alley Pond Park, home to my favorite running path. The trees that line each side of the trail never fail to provide the best shade and a peaceful wooded scenery. As I begin my three mile run, I hear the ring of a bell from a bike behind me. “Good morning,” I hear the biker say, as he speeds ahead to the first hill. I smile. It’s always refreshing to hear friendly words from a fellow exercise enthusiast. As I finally finish my first mile, I spot a small family strolling together just a few meters in front of me. I listen to the parents speak to their little boy in Spanish, but as I pass by, they look up and greet me with a wave and a simple “Good morning.” In response, I grin and in between pants, I manage to utter the same words back. Finally, I reach the half-way point and turn around, with just a mile and a half left to run. As I quicken my stride and lower my arms, I catch a glimpse of two middle-aged Asian ladies, speed walking in the opposite direction.  I get closer and closer to the pair, and almost instinctively, I say “Good morning.” In unison, they respond in thick Chinese accents, “Good morning.” Once again, I find myself smiling. I realize that “good morning” is more than just a greeting. It is a phrase that breaks language barriers and allows us to acknowledge the inexplicable human connection that we all share.

As I prepared to go out on Friday night, I checked the weather to see how bad the night was going to turn out. Reservations for 53 Teriyaki House were at 7:30PM, and I was not going to let Hurricane Earl stop me from celebrating my birthday. Fortunately for me, the city was not going to be hit hard, but I brought my umbrella just in case luck was not on my side.

I met up with my friend and we took the train to 53rd and Lexington. When we arrived at the restaurant, I saw red paper lanterns and Japanese characters on the chalkboard posted on the walls. The waiters were warm and welcoming as they seated us in accented English.

When everyone else arrived, we looked at the menu to see unfamiliar words describing each dish, from “edamame,” to “tobiko,” to “katsu.” Luckily for us, our waitress was very well-informed with Japanese terms and provided us insight with all of these terms.

After dinner, I was surprised when the waiters all came to our table and startied singing happy birthday to me, and presenting me with fried ice cream. I had never eaten fried ice cream before, and the waitress told me that it’s a special dish that some Asian restaurants are known for; it was a real treat and a great ending to my night.

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Growing up as a daughter of Korean immigrants, my life was a consecutive challenges of coping myself into “a whole new world” called America. Especially, waking up in the middle of New York City everyday initiated and fulfilled my life with diverse cultural metamorphosis.

Most of my cultural encounters took place in school.  One day, my sophomore English teacher had a heated discussion with students about student discipline and punishment. He abruptly asked me what do they do in Korean schools. I instantly read his intention, but simply tried to avoid it. He did not show any sign of retreat, so I just stated, “Teachers can exert more authority over children in terms of discipline in Asia.” Obviously, this answer did not satisfy my teacher. He was looking for a specific example.

What I said was true though; I simply generalized my answer to avoid my friends’ “what?” and “huh?” In the Asian culture that I grew up for fifteen years, physical punishment –such as spanking and hitting, but certainly not physically abusing- was allowed to discipline disrespectful students. However, when I was admitting that fact, I felt ashamed for some reason. After a while, I realized there is no need to be ashamed of my culture. Is physical punishment for children right or wrong? I still do not know. Still, one clear lesson that I have learned from that experience was culture is neither right nor wrong; it is just different from one to another.

The image was taken from:<http://www.anirudhsethireport.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/right_wrong.png>

Two weeks ago, I left for New Mexico to attend a National Institute.  I’d never been that far into the American West before nor I had I met anyone from Wisconsin, Texas, or Mississippi.  I had met some Californians, but I’ve never gotten to know any that well.  Anyway, on the way to Albuquerque, I met two other New Yorkers; when we arrived at the airport, there was already a large group waiting.  One of the New Yorkers said, “I’d be so tight if they lost my luggage again.”  The other replied, “Word.”  To this a Californian said, “Why would you be happy that your luggage is gone?  And what is ‘word’?”  Throughout the ten days, East Coast and West Coast debated the usage of “tight” and the West Coasters attempted to use “word” at all the wrong times.  Someone would laugh or point it out when a New Yorker said “word” because it came so naturally; it’s one of those not-really-annoying kind of words that just slip off the tongue.  It may just be a trend, but those Californians still say “hella” and “hecka.”

Last summer I visited Rome, Italy for the first time. One of the most charming things about this city is the fact that the people there generally do not know English, or at least don’t bother to speak it. This first became apparent to me on the taxi ride from the airport to our hotel. I asked the cab driver about these ancient ruins we passed on our drive and after a moment’s thought he responded, “Where the party is!” in heavily accented English. When he saw our confused expressions he tried to explain but after fumbling with words for a few seconds he threw up his hands in defeat and laughed. At that moment I knew that I was going to love Rome. In the following days I was often faced with a language barrier. However, this did not inhibit communication. For instance, when my mother and I asked for directions there would be a series of wild gestures between us and the person directing us and we would walk away confident in how to get to our destination. Unlike people in many other countries, Italians do not seem to feel the need to conform to the English language. However, they still manage to interact with tourists such as myself without having a common language, and their friendly and open attitudes are part of what made my stay in Italy so special.

Food is a lifestyle; it is the way cultures interact. Food is a language; it is a way tongue speaks without words. Too many times my family would eat a typical Chinese dinner: rice, meat, fish, vegetables, and the occasional soup. This is our culture and this is how we set up our meals; however, the problem is that eating has become a chore! The meat lost its tenderness, the vegetables lost its buoyancy, and the fish grew a poor habit of staring at me. My dinner grew to become something like a haunted house. Luckily a bulldozer came along and destroyed that house. That bulldozer was the flavor of Korean cuisine. Since our neighbors were Korean it was inevitable that my mother would speak to them. Eventually they began exchanging cultural secrets. Witnessing two Asian mothers teaching one another how to cook in broken English and finger pointing was one of the most amusing things I had ever seen. However, the taste itself is a language and they were able to communicate through flavor. I was blissful with this interaction as my buds on tongue rejoiced with a party. The taste of different Korean spices, meats, and vegetables was exhilarating. This cultural mutualism was beneficial and resulted in something new, the taste of “Chorea”.

Cultural encounters aren’t too hard to come by living in Brooklyn. I live in Sunset Park, a predominantly Spanish and Chinese neighborhood sandwiched between Bay Ridge, a predominantly Arab area, and Park Slope, a predominantly white area. I am white myself, being that I am nearly one hundred percent Irish, with a little Scottish thrown in. Living in a multi-cultural neighborhood my whole life, I see cultural encounters all the time. An encounter I’ve experienced just the other day is when I was hanging out with two friends of mine. One is my next-door neighbor, Nicole, and the other was a friend Dana. The other day they dragged me to the nail salon with them on the corner of my block. This nail salon is owned by a Chinese woman and there are only Chinese workers in there. But if you walk in, you see these Chinese ladies speaking Chinese to customers who speak Chinese, Spanish to customers that speak Spanish, and English to customers that speak English. There is no language barrier. They’ve adapted to the cultures around them and adjust to these cultures to make sure they can communicate in the easiest and most effective way possible. These women in this salon didn’t limit themselves to one culture and language. They realized that the best way to get their message across and be heard was to accept other languages and become strong, multicultural people.