Category — Cultural Encounters

My cultural encounter came last night in the form of an article. Dana Farber researchers discovered a way to reverse the aging process in mice. I think this is a fascinating discovery that may eventually lead to reversing human aging. There is a cultural dimension to this scientific development because the cycle of life and death, although historically inevitable, are understood in different contexts across an array of cultures. Many religions believe in an afterlife, hinting that the life we are living now is just a pre-cursor to the afterlife that lies ahead. Death has always been fabled to be an inevitable occurrence that cannot be avoided, no matter how much money, friends, or power you have. Here science and culture clash, simultaneously testing the religious tolerance and cultural tradition. Will people separate themselves from traditional livelihood as individuals for an indefinite period of time, or will they revere pious doctrines?

http://www.massdevice.com/news/dana-farber-researchers-reverse-aging-mice

On the intersection of East 26^th Street and Kings Highway, aside James Madison High School, stands the modern Christmas tree, an aluminum layer cake of red and blue Budweiser cans taped together with flashing Christmas lights, accoutered with the Star of Bethlehem atop.
The Christmas tree has a rich history; coming from a Pagan background, it has spread to multiple cultures and religions. In Russia, it is treated as a secular signifying the coming of the New Year. In Christianity it serves as an ornament for the birth of Christ. In Brooklyn, across the street of house, it is a trophy of consumption and intoxication – basically, just celebrating the holidays.  Contrary to finding it offensive, I’m fascinated by the range of subjectivity that the tree embodies. From a polytheistic idol to a Christian tradition, its pretty amusing to see the housings of barley malt at their fullest glory: a token to college drinks, football games, and domestic abuse. Traditionally, the tree evokes a sense of family, togetherness, and happiness, but here it achieves a fresher dynamic, commenting on the fun and profane, and the darker side of family life.

P.S. This was written before the Menorah was put up.

Having not grown up in New York City, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I am not too familiar with riding the city bus. Yesterday, I found myself with the need to, and to my shock, it was running well behind schedule. (Actually, I have found that all forms of public transportation in the city are late, it amazes me though that the Staten Island Ferry always leaves on time when I happen to be a minute or two behind.) Anyway, following a couple of stops in the Grand Central area, I found myself trekking out to the public library on 50^th and 10^th in search for a book that they had available. Never mind the fact that I had no idea where it was in the city that I was going, it was already past five o’clock and it was getting dark. By the time I had checked out my book, it might as well have been eleven o’clock (it wasn’t, it was only about a half past five, but it very well could have been, judging from the limited light).  As I waited at the bus stop, an ensemble of various characters emerged from who-knows-where, first a drunk from a nearby bar, and a woman waiting with me at the bus stop (she had situated herself in a corner and covered herself with her jacket, her presence was not comforting). Then out of nowhere appeared a rather odd man who, in his twenties, started questioning me about the M50 bus, where it went and how often it ran (I had no clue what I was saying). Then another shady male appeared out of nowhere at which point the ‘odd’ one cuts off his conversation with me, shakes hands with the ‘shady’ one and heads into a nearby building. I knew they were up to no good when an even shadier man left the building minutes later. Moments after that, a policewoman upon a horse came strolling down 50^th street, figuring though that she had little interest in my lead, I kept it to myself. Then the bus arrived and I left what turned out to be the Hell’s Kitchen part of the city.

Afterward, upon reflecting on my experience that night with a reasonable mind, it hit me that in April I had been in Hell’s Kitchen, not too far from where I stood waiting for the bus, at an Italian restaurant. (Their pizza was excellent: very thin, with a focus on the sauce; I recommend the Margherita pie, though you may want to bring somebody else to foot the bill.) Ultimately my lessons from the experience are threefold: 1) It’s probably not a good idea to explore unknown parts of the city by oneself at night, 2) Don’t count on the bus to be on time (already knew, just reinforced), and 3) No matter where you are, a good pizza pie is always around the corner.

Perhaps my cousin Carner has passed the stage infamously known as the “terrible twos.” At the age of three, however, he is no less mischievous or hyper active. The day before Thanksgiving, my aunt asked me to accompany her to the barbershop. Yes, it was that time again. Carner was going to get another haircut. “Maybe you can help him stay calm today, hmm?” my aunt asked. I knew I could try, but he’s a restless little toddler and I was not sure if my presence would keep him behaved.

Once we entered the shop, an elderly Asian man with a wide grin pointed with his scissors toward a tiny chair. My cousin caught a glimpse of the scissors and immediately responded with his eyes closed and his head shaking. “No, no, noooo,” he squeaked adamantly. The barber chuckled, but my aunt did not. “Not today Carner. No tantrums today,” she reprimanded him. After a bit of squirming, Carner eventually settled into the seat.

In just about ten minutes or so, the impossible task had been accomplished. My aunt sighed in relief once the barber finished up the job with a few last snippets and a quick comb through his hair. “Sorry if he was fidgeting too much,” my aunt apologized with pink cheeks. “Oh, no problem, really,” the barber assured her, “It’s because of this. Two. Two means bad.” He pointed to the two cowlicks on my cousin’s head. “Really?” my aunt responded, almost with sarcasm. “Yes, yes,” he said, “Two. Two means naughty boy.”

I wondered where he got that strange idea. As I walked to the car with my aunt, I asked her, “Do you believe it?” She turned around. “No, of course not! It’s just a silly belief,” she stated with confidence. “Your grandma said a lot of things like that before. You know the older generation and their stories.”

When my friend Javed asked me if I knew how to work iMovie, I enthusiastically told him about the collage project that I had just completed and how it gave me the gist of how most of it works, and that I would be happy to help with what he had to do. His project was for his Discover New York class, the theme- Homelessness. It was not his choice, the professor had assigned it to everyone because it’s a topic she is quite passionate about. I found it odd that someone who feels strongly about the injustices of homelessness would ask a class of college students to wander the city looking to snap shots of homeless people. I think that a homeless person would feel singled out, embarrassed, ashamed, belittled, or all of the above if they were to notice that they were being photographed. I told Javed this and he had no good answer to it, and said he would ask his professor how to deal with this issue.

A few days later the topic of his project came up in conversation again, and he asked if I wanted to see the photos he had taken so far. He told me that his professor had clarified that she did not want photos of actual homeless people, but of things representative or reminiscent of homelessness.

Those are two of the photos he took. I found his approach very interesting because it required him to step back and think of homelessness in a different way. Portraying homelessness without homeless people may seem difficult, but I think these photos are successful in what he wanted to capture and that when joined with the rest, his photoessay will give the same sad feeling as the topic of homelessness.

It’s 12:00AM and I am setting my alarm for 5:20AM the same day. I lie in bed anticipating the alarm on my cell phone to ring.

Hours go by and I am still unable to fall asleep. I am too excited for shopping the day after Thanksgiving: Black Friday!

There is that one day in the 365 days of a year that people all over the country anticipate: Black Friday. After stuffing their faces with turkey, stuffing, corn, pasta, and all other kinds of food eaten during Thanksgiving, they wait for the remaining hours of Thanksgiving Day to pass so Black Friday can come around. Many of us wake up at crazy hours just to commute to the nearest shopping area for the best bargains, and some of us do not sleep at all. However, where did the term “Black Friday” come about?

Apparently, the term Black Friday came from Philadelphia in 1966, and was the term many people used to describe the traffic that occurred after Thanksgiving Day. In 1975 other states began using the term to describe the period where stores would make profits from people rushing to beat the Christmas shopping crowd, a term also known as “in the black.”

Amazingly enough, despite the recession America has experienced in these past years, people (myself included) still go out of their way to race to the malls to get the best bargain, whether it’s clothes or electronics, or gifts for relatives and friends. I wonder if it’s a tradition that will spread to other countries later on…

“Qu’est que tu veut manger maintenant?”

“Oh, Oh, Oh! I know, I know! How about… Ravioli?”

“ 또? 딴 건 뭐 없나? 그저께도 그거 먹었는데.”

“You should never complain in front of food! Do you know how many kids….”

“Okay, okay. Je comprend, mammon. Je suis desole. ”

“Wait, auntie. How do you say I will eat well in Japanese again?”

“ 음, いただきます.”

“That sounds funny, 이타다키마스?”

“Okay, let’s have a dinner! Who wants to say grace in Korean?”

Who is saying what? We normally don’t know while we are talking. Usually it is extremely challenging when four different languages are being exchanged in front of you. However, this is not a conversation taken place at JFK international airport or at some huge international convention. This is a typical conversation at my cousin’s house. One special thing about my family is that we ask questions to each other in four languages over our dinner table.  Normally, we also respond to those questions in different languages.

My cousin has a husband and two adorable girls who are 7 and 5 years old respectively. Most of the times, our conversation is in English. All the grown-ups in our family can speak English and Korean interchangeably. My cousin-in-law and I additionally speak French. Our conversation is often in Korean, but the girls are not fluent yet. So English is our first language for communicating. As I started learning Japanese and my niece picked up French as her second language at school, our conversation at the dinner table became more diverse and interesting both in a good way. Japanese and French children’s songs are now added to my nieces’ new soundtracks.

Despite the confused look that guests who are invited to our exciting “learn a new language” at the dinner table for the first time, our communication is processed without flaws. This complicated infrastructure allow us to be more open toward different cultures. Often we ask each other about the words or cultural customs that we do not know about a particular culture. For instance, since I am the only person who knows how to speak Japanese, I teach the girls how to say basic things  along with culture that I already learned from my Japanese class.

Also, the subjects we talk about usually affect the languages. There are certain topics that we can be more expressive in a particular language. When we are talking about our beloved family, we tend to use Korean to describe our affection toward them. I can express the intimacy better with other people by using Korean adjectives.  It feels more spontaneous that way. In contrast, when I talk about my lives in New York City, I obviously speak in English because it is more convenient to find the exact words that match with my emotions and thoughts as the New Yorker.

One of the major reasons why I cannot wait till I can meet my cousin’s family all the times is that I enjoy the positive feedback that we show each other. We encourage each other to talk and express him or herself in a diverse way. Often I mistakenly pronounce or phrase something wrong. No one picks on me for not saying in the perfect grammar or accent. As a family, we tend to treat each other with respect and encouragement. In this positive and supportive learning environment, I can practice different languages without being afraid of mistakes. Language is culture and culture is language. My family speaks four different languages and speaks of four different cultures. This is also our family culture.

It turns out that other colleges get a whole week off for Thanksgiving, which means that my sister is home again. But she didn’t come home alone, she brought along her new boyfriend who just happens to be from Massachusetts, and lives in a town just outside of Boston. What I have learned so far is that people in Massachusetts curse very differently from us. The F word isn’t as casual a phrase as it is in New York City, but Bastard turns out to be a word these New Englanders like to use a lot.

With an accent straight out of The Departed my sister’s boyfriend, Jimmy, nonchalantly calls people a dirty bastard like its normal or something. My sister had to explain to me that they do things differently up there. It’s a less explicit way of saying things compared to what we’re used to in NY, but that doesn’t mean these guys don’t curse. Jimmy is still able to holding his own with all of us New Yorkers, who might talk fast and act tough, but won’t get into a fight as readily as some of our more physical neighbors in the North.

I haven’t learned much about what actually goes down in the Mass. But I figure it’s just like the way we do things in NY, except not as grand. When it comes down to it all I really care about is that he is a Democrat from the North and that makes him alright with me, even if he does use the word bastard as a curse.

Last week, I was made aware of the concept of driving lingo. I use it all the time without even realizing. Last week, I was behind the wheel, and I mentioned to my passenger something about flashing people on the road. A non-driver, she heard “flashing” and her imagination immediately was way off the road. She resisted the urge to question my most unexpected exclamation.

When I talk about “flashing people,” I mean repeatedly shining my bright lights at pedestrians who walk dangerously on the road. It’s something I feel is my duty as a driver. I flash people who do not wear reflectors. I flash people who are too close to oncoming traffic. I flash my bright lights all the time.

Apparently, it was a foreign concept to my passenger that “to flash” could have any other meaning.