Category — Cultural Encounters

This weekend my family and I dropped my sister, Sarah, off at The University of Connecticut, where she would be attending college for the next four years. It turns out that for the past two weeks it has been known to us that Sarah would be dorming with an Indian roommate that grew up in a small town outside of Hartford.

I was excited about sharing the cultural “encounter” between my sister and her roommate before it even happened, I was expecting some serious juxtaposition. My sister, for lack of a better phrase is a wild child. She’s a social butterfly. To put it bluntly, she likes to party. My sister was afraid that her new roommate would be shy, dare I say, even introverted after growing up in a small town and influenced by a more reserved culture, than say Queens NY. When my sister addressed her concerns to me I told her that she was just stereotyping and that you can’t judge a person until you meet them, but in my head I couldn’t help but imagine the cultural gap that might divide my sister from her new roommate.

When the inescapable encounter finally occurred it was more or less uneventful. Each set of parents frantically made sure their daughters had everything they needed before the two young women were inevitably left with only each other. It wasn’t their differences that I saw, rather, it was the bond between them as they entered into a brave new world (college).

This weekend, my best friend Eilin and I decided to have lunch together before he left for college. As an incredibly indecisive individual, I left the decision to select the restaurant solely to him. When I asked, his first and only suggestion was a Korean restaurant on Main St. Ironically, he is not Korean, nor is he any sort of Asian. Instead, he finds his roots in the tropics of the Dominican Republic. When we arrived at the restaurant, it was interesting to see that he knew just what he wanted. He ordered a traditional dish called “bibimbap” and even requested some extra “bulgogi”, or barbecued beef. Later, when I mentioned dessert, his first thought was a bakery in Bayside, and as you may have guessed, it was Korean! I laughed at his proposal, not because I thought it was silly, but because of his immense enthusiasm for Korean cuisine. While some Dominican boys find comfort in the taste of red beans with white rice, Eilin seems to find just as much satisfaction in the distinct sesame oil flavor and spice of Korean food.

9:30am Thursday, I trudge up the steps toward my destination: the wooden planks of the B train platform.  I arrive, and my fellow travel mates salute me, silently.  They acknowledge me in various forms: the elevator stare, the nod, even a short movement of the lips that could pass as a shy smile.  I interpret their body language as acceptance. The Travelers—working men, college students, and some odds and ends—have accepted me to join their anxious waiting and occasional peeking for the train. I notice a girl who appears my age, toting a school bag. I mind my own business; she minds hers. I resist the urge to introduce myself, to exchange minimal information. Instead, the deafening sound of the approaching train interrupts my thoughts and I make a beeline for the open doors.

We share a bench, me and the Unnamed Girl. A couple stops later, neither of us have said a word. I take out my travel-size siddur[1], and begin to pray.  From the corner of my eye, I see the Unnamed Girl do the same. Our shared Jewish culture has created a silent bond in the subway car, but it remains silent. The unnamed Girl leaves the train, only her memory in the now-empty seat.

Moments later, a middle age African American woman bounces on board and fills that void. Her cheery “Hello, good morning!” startles me, but I quickly recover from my NYC-subway-rider-syndrome and surprise myself with an equally cheery greeting…

[1] Prayer book

Some people have a quiet place for their thinking. Others take solace in their headphones, artists screaming or whispering into their ears, to straighten up their hearts and minds. I, on the other hand, donate my thoughts to the streets of New York. The rhythmic beat of my sneakers as they hit the asphalt, always running forward to explore a new corner of the New York skyline, keeps my thoughts rolling. Earlier this week I rolled my way over the Williamsburg Bridge, where I met Billy.

Billy is what I nicknamed this Billy-Burg Bridge Monster, a fiery character with an impressive wingspan of two bike lanes and a pedestrian lane. His demeanor and overall randomized placement made me “LOL”. I stopped my pensive thudding and smiled at how beautiful life can be when it reveals itself. Someone, somewhere, probably took hours, maybe even days, to give him life – so he can brighten the lives of those he meets.

And then I wondered who he has met. Thousands upon thousands of people, daily, must pass him by. Runners, friends, families, skaters, neighbors, tourists, hipsters, and an ever-growing following of bicyclists – all sharing a page in their untold stories with Billy. He must have some stories to tell.

Who cares if walls can talk? I want to listen to the ground.

The first day of classes ends at Baruch, I thought it was a nice day to walk home. Walking past boutiques selling high class paintings at “discount” prices, I think of how nice it would be to have some sort of fancy artwork hang on my wall.

As I was approaching Union Square I had an intense craving for Chinese food, and while scoping out the streets for a take out joint these bright colors on the floor caught my eye. A man was creating this intricate pattern with nothing but a vision in his mind and colored spray paint. He didn’t need his art to be hanging in a gallery or boutique, he just created.

“That was definitely intentional,” I thought to myself as I lay there recovering from the agonizing pain I felt in my now black and blue eye.  The Colden Basketball Tournament carried a reputation for its physicality, however this game was turning into a brawl.  On the very next possession as I dribbled the ball down the court, I heard my friend holler in pain.  When I gazed back I saw my friend cupping his ear, blood oozing between his fingers.  The same person from the other team who took a cheap shot at me, stood next to him, with a sinister grin on his face, and my friend’s blood on his lip.  The cannibalistic monster had apparently taken a bite from his ear.   Having had enough, I plowed him to the ground and planted a right-handed jab, contorting his face.  As he got up, he howled at me in Chinese, a language completely alien to me, and vanished.  Both teams had been disqualified, but I was happy that I stuck up for my friend.  The moment we stepped outside of the gym, my teammates and I were enveloped by a group of Asian teenagers, some of whom I recognized instantly from my junior high school.  Again, Mike Tyson Jr. (as we appropriately nicknamed him) barked at me in Chinese and pulled out a knife. To my relief, one of the kids from my school told Mike Tyson Jr. something in Chinese, and they quickly disappeared.  Apparently they were scared that I had recognized them, and that I could easily identify them and get them in trouble.  Many insecure, Asian, immigrant teens (especially in Flushing) form gang like groups, trying to pick fights and gain a reputation for being hardnosed, but thankfully this group stopped before they did anything regrettable.

Dyker Park. The place where I learned to play the game of basketball.

Growing up in New York City has been an enriching experience. Not only have I enjoyed myself; I’ve also learned to adapt to the often-hostile environment.

I moved from the suburbs of New Jersey to the streets of Brooklyn at an awkward age. During my adolescent years, I had a difficult time connecting with my peers. A series of small happenings built up and exploded into a particularly heated situation. I was alone at a local park playing basketball when a couple of African American kids came and wanted to play with me. I was hesitant at first, but being the nice guy that I was, I begrudgingly invited them to join me. After a few plays I knew that I had made a  terrible choice. Not only were they twice my size, but they were manhandling me as well. At that moment, my self-esteem was shattered. I started to hate the game of basketball, and most importantly I started to hate those who were a different race than me.

Five months later, I attended a high school where I met and befriended a culturally diverse group of classmates. It was at that time in my life that I finally realized skin color does not define a person. I was no longer restrained by my fears and anger towards those different from me. Also, I learned to keep an open heart and mind and not to judge future acquaintances solely by recalling past experiences.

Growing up in an idyllic little New York town sixty miles north of Manhattan, unquestionably, I have lived my entire life a ‘New Yorker.’  Undoubtedly though, my idea of a ‘New Yorker’ differs from your ‘New Yorker’ and while I have been born into a family whose entire existence in America has been limited to the boroughs comprising New York City, I am quick to point out to all who inquire, that my ‘title’ applies merely to my residence in the state. Perhaps, it is because my ideas of the City have come primarily from watching Eyewitness News in the morning or listening to my dad complain about the traffic going to or from (probably both) ways to work each day. Either way, I figured that once school began I could see for myself what being the other ‘New Yorker’ was all about.

With little more than a week under my belt, the one thing that I have witnessed more than anything else is that New York is different just for being diverse, unique for being inimitable. Sure everything in New York moves a little quicker and sure, I have been to dozens of cities where the residents are friendlier, but what New York lacks in etiquette, it makes up with something more important: a common bond and attitude (like it or not) that surpasses language, appearance, socioeconomic statuses and other so-called boundaries that are supposed to divide, rather than unite. The City is, at least in my estimations (and current limited knowledge) the perfect microcosm of what our country once was, still is and always will be: united not because of our differences, but in spite of them. And while my title ‘New Yorker’ might not be the same as yours, I don’t mind, at the very least, I have it in my genes.

My New York. The train coincidentally is heading to the City.

Photo Copyright- Wikimedia – Daniel Case

My coach’s laugh is incredible. Her voice never fails to permeate the unexpectedly thin walls of the ping pong club on West 100^th. She speaks impeccable Mandarin and beautiful Japanese but her English is fractured at best. Coach reacts to miscommunications and misunderstandings with a dainty, shielded giggle that rapidly morphs into a vivacious laugh. Her reaction to uncertainty is friendly and honest- wildly different from the demeanors of other club members of analogous descent.

I made the mistake of adorning green socks for a table tennis session not long ago. Barely a moment after I pulled them on under coach’s quizzical eyes she spoke loudly and sharply, “What is that?” I held one up, and slowly replied “…Socks”. As she continued to ogle I clumsily attempted to put my Chinese vocabulary quizzes to use, “Ni zhidao, wazi.” After a moment of continued staring she began to laugh, apparently green socks are incredibly funny in China. Gasping she attempted to explain but naturally couldn’t find the proper English words to elucidate her hysterics.  She said something about Chinese police officers wearing green socks, and how silly I was to not have normal white ones but broke off again in another fit of laughter. I remain unaware of what was so funny about my socks, but appreciate the all-encompassing amusement of mutual confusion.

Photographed by Leela Corman of Brokelyn.com

I took a place in line behind an elderly man in the meat market section of my residential international food store. Domino is one of the many stores on Kings Highway that highlights the street’s cultural diversity.  However, this store served as the principal port of Slavic cuisine, particularly the delicacy of Eastern European meat and the harvest of the Ukrainian breadbasket that is seldom found in American chain supermarkets.

The man in front of me spoke in a raspy voice that both attested to his age with his wrinkly complexion, and to the tainted mustache that was trimmed with decades of tobacco smoke. He wore a Soviet naval cap and a shirt with the American flag, the sort that may have been given out in a raffle during a Fourth of July festival. The woman behind the counter asked him in Russian. “Здравствуйте, что вы пожалаете” (Hello, what would you like?)  He answered “Cердельки – две pieces.”  (Sausages – two pieces) She complied and probably took no notice of his melting pot rhetoric.