Category — Cultural Encounters

Waiting for the fresh cuts!

Freshman Friday is certainly a day of horror for newcomers in high schools that honor this tradition. Fearing lockers, toilets, and garbage cans, freshmen may attempt to hide from the upperclassmen bullies who take pleasure from their fright and embarrassment. It appears, however that such cruel rituals fade away in college, perhaps due to a change in students’ maturity and a new perspective on what freshmen mean to their school. Instead, freshmen are welcomed and are often given attention and guidance. Giving clubs, teams and other organizations the opportunity to expand, freshmen are also received warmly and treated with enthusiasm.

Despite this seemingly stark contrast between high school and college freshmen, the traditions that emphasize the rookie status of newcomers is inescapable. During my visit to Williams College last weekend, I watched a home football game against Wesleyan University. It did, however, lack the excitement that comes with tight competition. Wesleyan’s defeat was evident even in the second quarter, and a few spectators, including myself, left before the end. I was under the impression that the peak of the day’s thrills had been reached at the close of the victorious game. Although I had long been gone from the football scene, my best friend, Eilin, urged me to head back to the area near the field. “We know they won! It’s over!” I argued. I was too lazy to return to the other side of campus. “Come on, there’s something I want you to see over there,” Eilin insisted.

I reluctantly walked back with him, and stopped just a few blocks from the field, where a sizable crowd was gathered with flashing cameras. There was cheering and laughter, but for what? I wondered what was going on. After a couple of seconds, I saw a few of the football players in the center of the crowd. Their hair had been cut and shaved in various amusing designs. “Wow,” I said aloud. Suddenly, I heard Eilin burst into a loud and shameless guffaw. “Oh my god! That’s my friend … over there!” he cried in the middle of his hysterical laughter. I looked over, and sure enough, it was one of his friends from the football team. There were random patches of hair left on his head. It looked as if a monstrous little five-year-old had cut his hair with both eyes closed. I turned to Eilin, whose laughter had finally died down into a smirk. “Well,” he began to explain, “It’s a tradition that if we win the last home game, the freshmen players get the craziest haircuts while the town watches!” I must admit, I thought it was rather funny, but that’s when I realized that no matter where one goes, a freshman is still a freshman, even if he is a champ!

“Go stand over there,” Steven ordered, “no wait, go a little more to the side, I need more light otherwise the picture’s going to come out bad.”

“You’re embarrassing me by making me do all these random poses in front of passersby!” I argued with him.

I met up with my friend, Steven, to take photographs for the collage project due in a couple of weeks. Since I wanted to take many pictures of nature as well as the humans’ effect on nature, I decided to use his expert photography skills to capture every image I wanted portrayed in the collage.

Knowing him since high school, Steven was always fascinated with photography and photoshopping photographs he took or finding images online and enhancing them to the potential he wanted them to be. I always thought it was a mere hobby of his until I saw how he was performing today. He carried around his messenger bag filled with his alternate lenses for his camera.

Carefully angling himself to the direction of the image he wanted to capture, he would walk around a couple of inches here and there until he took the perfect photograph. As a deal for coming out of his house, I was required to have my photographs taken as well… At first it was really uncomfortable considering we were in public and he would stop me literally every couple of feet, but I grew to realize that this was his way of perfecting his photographing skills.

As the sun went down, I sat down with him on a park bench as he showed off his photographs to me, and I was impressed. His constant switching of camera lenses paid off, as well as arranging me and the setting of Central Park in accordance with the amount of lighting the sun provided; his past photoshoots with his friends definitely paid off in his photography skills.

One of the things I fantasized about American culture was definitely Halloween: children in their cute costumes walking door to door, shouting “trick or treat!” and collecting bags of candies that would last for a year. In my first year in the States, my aunt and uncle were reluctant toward my participation in trick or treating because of my Christian belief. Also, I was in eighth grade by that time and they thought I was too “old” for such a “baby thing.” When my friends wore their costumes going door to door, I pretended that I was “too cool and mature” to join the crowd. Actually, I was secretly jealous.

In Korea, I never celebrated Halloween. Koreans have two annual –not like as big as national holiday- rituals throughout the year that are based on the similar concept of Halloween. One is Jung Wall Dae Bo Rum, or sometimes interpreted as the Full Moon Festival, and the other one is Dongji. The full moon festival is around November, and Koreans eat nuts and peanuts on that day. In our tradition, the cracking sound of nutshell is believed to scare bad spirits away and bring fortune and health. Dongji is usually around the end of December; it is a day when the duration of night is the longest throughout the year. As a celebration, Koreans eat sweet red bean soup, Patjook, which has the brownish red color that is –again– believed to scare off the bad spirits.

After I came to the states, I could not find Patjook easily. The cooking process was rather time-consuming and the ingredients were hard to find.  Also, it was so difficult to figure out the exact dates for those traditional rituals because they were changed every year according to the lunar calendar. I did not celebrate Halloween for a while. It was evident that I could never join the march of children for trick or treating anymore.  However, I’m thinking about giving out almond chocolate and Crunch to my friends next year to introduce them about my Korean culture. Want some Crunch, guys?

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This summer my friend asked me if I wanted to come to a music festival with her. I immediately agreed, not really knowing what she meant by a festival but expecting something akin to a concert. The morning of the festival was cold and rainy, a typical summer day in Sweden. My friend’s dad picked me up and we drove for over an hour until we reached a town consisting of nothing more than a bar and a gas station. “We’re almost there,” my friend told me and I wondered where this “town” could possibly be hiding a concert hall. We turned onto a thin dirt road and continued for about fifteen minutes, going deeper and deeper into the forest. When my friend’s dad stopped the car, I stepped out to the sight of more trees and a few other cars parked along the path. We walked up the road for several minutes and by the time we finally reached a tiny ticket booth I was shivering and damp. I was given a hot pink band to put around my arm and directed even further up the road. We finally came to a clearing with a little farmhouse and three big red barns. I heard faint music playing from one of the barns and peeked through the door to see people spread out on the dirt floor listening to a tiny woman with thick blonde dreadlocks wailing into a microphone. I shot a look at my friend but she was busy talking to a group of women that looked exactly like the one up on stage, all wearing similar flowing tunics and chunky beaded bracelets. I felt like I was at a festival straight out of the movie “Taking Woodstock.” My friend soon returned to my side and ushered me into one of the barns to hear a band called New Tango Orquesta. As the musicians stepped out on stage carrying classical instruments I had to suppress a groan. According to the schedule this performance was going to last over two hours and I did not have the patience to listen to boring music for that long. However I slumped down next to my friend without complaint, making sure to be seated by the wall so I could lean against it if I felt myself growing sleepy.

The next two hours flew by like they were fifteen minutes. From the moment the band started playing, the music captivated me. I downloaded several of their songs once I got home and I still play them often. This was the first time I had ever really listened to classical music and it has led me to a whole new world of musical possibilities. My friend and I have already vowed to return to this festival next summer and I hope I will be pleasantly surprised once again.

I swear, it had to be four degrees. My hands shook like a volcano, my nose as red as molten lava – but I didn’t care. I sat on the steps of Central Park on the cusp of a wide open space around the famous fountain. All types of people passed, or stayed, or skated, or ran by. What caught some of our attention on this brisk day (to say the least) was a man and his bucket.

Standing between me and the fountain was a man in his mid thirties, equipped with two sticks, some rope attached, and buckets of soap. He routinely dipped the sticks, which he held like wands, at arms length and dipped them into the buckets. As he lifted and separated the sticks, he brought with him the most entrancing things – bubbles. Huge bubbles. Bubbles bigger than you and I put together.

Watching the bubbles form and float seamlessly in the wind, only to pop and dissolve, was beautiful. The bitter air was no longer fearful as long as I watched those bubbles. They seemed to have every color of the rainbow trapped inside, swirling and twirling and molding into each other.

I wasn’t the only one who noticed. People started to gather to watch this man make his bubbles. He gently lifted his sticks, and almost genuflected to the wind as he gracefully swept his arms in his magical bubble-making motions. Children started running around, chasing these huge mystical things. They would scream, and giggle, and skip, and just enjoy. And they weren’t alone: passersby would be pleasantly surprised to turn around to find an abnormally sized bubble ready to pop in their faces.

Soon, the fountain started to become more crowded. Children joined in with extra sticks, dipping them in and trying for themselves. Parents watched, laughed, took pictures. Friends smiled and pointed, waiting for their turn. Dogs chased and barked at them. Skaters slid around them, and some unfortunate runners ran right into them.

It was just so funny to see something so mundane bring so much joy to so many different sets of people. For a moment, we were all together. All us fountain-goers shared something once-in-a-lifetime, and I think some of us knew it. The beauty of the bubbles (that’s right, just bubbles), brought together people that never would have even look at the other in the street. I shared smiles and knowing glances with grandmothers, preteen Justin Bieber wannabes and even toddlers.

For a moment there was no sorrow in the world. Just beauty. There was no war, or sadness, but just social togetherness. Maybe Obama should send some bubbles in to the Middle East, and not soldiers. The world might be a better place.

Violence is inevitable. I know that. Especially living in New York, there isn’t going to be universal peace in all areas and neighborhoods. People argue. And unfortunately, people fight. But somehow, when you aren’t really exposed to that violence, you seem to forget that it exists.

In my life, although I’ve heard about crimes including mugging and murdering in my neighborhood, I never knew anyone that it happened to. And since I never had any first hand experience with it or knew anyone with these experiences, I never really thought about it. However, in the last four months, I’ve had one friend nearly stabbed to death a block away from my house in Sunset Park and another friend nearly shot to death in Flatbush. The stabbing occured in July while I was on vacation and when I heard about it, I couldn’t believe it. The victim was a life long family friend and a good kid. He was apparently jumped by four “thugs” and stabbed twice in the stomach. He was rushed to a nearby hospital and luckily was in stable condition, able to make a full recovery. There was no motive behind this attack. They simply did it just to do it as far as I know. Hearing about an act like this really makes you think about some people and what could possibly be going through their minds? What causes them to do these things? I will never understand it.

My friend that got shot is a little older than me. He played on my school’s football team but graduated a year before I got there. I saw him recently and he talked about how a few months ago, he got shot three times by a person who he’s known since he was a kid. They’ve lived on the same block they’re whole lives and they had gotten into an argument over something and the guy shot him. My friend spent a week in the hospital recovering and is okay now. But he said while he was in the hospital, he realized that an experience like this really puts things into perspective. One day you can be living care free but tomorrow is never a guarantee. He says he appreciates life so much more now and each day is a blessing.

I am writing this blog post for two reasons. The first is to show the different types people and lives’ in this world and just because we may not experience these situations, that doesn’t mean it’s not there. These things exist and happen everyday. The second reason I am writing this is to show how we should never take life for granted. Count your blessings and be grateful for them because things can always be worse. You never know what tomorrow will bring so be thankful for today.

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This past Sunday there was a mixture of different dance cultures. At approximately 10 P.M people were being let in for the last big jam of the year known as Kings of New York. People come from all over the city to show off their different dance styles and to compete for the number one place as a King of New York. There was break dancing, popping, house dance, and rocking. The dances are all part of New York City urban culture and learn through teaching one another. Although, each dance has come to adapt its own style the origin is the same. When you walk into the event you are met with different faces and different colors. Japanese, Hispanic, Chinese, European, Korean, or African American, any nationality you could think of was probably in this one large room. Each dance style was not exclusive to a certain nationality. There were proportionate amounts of people participating in each dance competition; the only thing that mattered was the way you could show off your moves. The dance floor was full of moving bodies and waving arms as the music was turned on full blast. Everyone danced together, whether you were a break-dancer or a popper, they all belonged to one giant dance floor that united everyone.

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In the summer of 2009, Conan O’Brien took over The Tonight Show.  I’ve never thought Leno was funny and was glad to see Conan move from late night.  This also meant I could watch Craig Ferguson at late night instead; a great lineup of late night talk shows all around.

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Most people I know don’t care for late night talk show hosts, but once I watched The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson, I couldn’t stop watching.  Perhaps his humor isn’t meant for a larger demographic such as Letterman or Leno, as his joke are a little dirtier and of the moment (although he doesn’t have the technology prowess of Fallon).  With his Scottish accent, witty humor, yet intellectual musings, Ferguson makes for funny, sometimes laugh out loud moments that Leno and Letterman can barely solicit.  Ferguson doesn’t always get the most popular stars and sometimes they’re relatively little known or just an unknown author or comedian.  His guests are not always the most well known, but he knows how to get a laugh out of them and make the show entertaining.  There’s also his regular use of puppets, the letters from viewers he responds to, the way he throws his speaking cards or rips them up after he’s done reading them, funny facial expressions, and the censorship of curses with various flags covering his mouth and an expression from that country’s language (for example: it’ll be a Spanish flag and the viewer will hear “ay caramba.”

Talk show hosts like these will never be of the same tone as Jon Stewart or Stephen Colbert but nonetheless, Conan, with his gingery floppy hair and gangly awkwardness will finally be bringing back his brand of self-deprecating humor.  TBS may not be the best platform for Conan, but it’ll be great to have him back on television.  Perhaps on cable he’ll be able to bring what Ferguson brings to late night: little humorous actions and the ability to make a regular interview and experience more interesting.  I feel like Conan is more modern and basic cable will serve him better any way.  On a bit of a side note, hopefully there will be more “wars” between Colbert, Stewart, and O’Brien which sometimes is left to dance-offs and brawls.

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As I type this, the season premiere is starting, Conan still has his facial hair, and has done his trademark jig.

The words going through my head right now are the ones Craig Ferguson always starts his show with: “It’s a great day for America, everybody!”

“We look like a bunch of hoodlums” were the first words I had directed at my Uzbekistani friend Kevin the moment we stepped through Eataly, an Italian marketplace that was known as the “heartbeat of Italy.”

I don’t know why Kevin and I decided to step into this radiant palace filled with expensive imported items packaged neatly into boxes and bottles. It might have been that we both walk past it everyday to and from school, and our curiosity one night led us to enter at our own peril.

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No doubt Eataly was a fancy place, and our plain attire didn’t help us to blend in with the rest of the folks eating and shopping. The moment we entered, I realized that we weren’t in New York City anymore. I felt as if I had just suddenly been transported to an Italian city, perhaps Roma or Venezia. Even the employees and shoppers looked ethnically Italian, and some even spoke in their native tongue. At this moment I told Kevin that we should buy a single Italian item so that we can be reminded of Italy when we leave Eataly. However, I decided to pick out an overpriced soft yogurt drink while Kevin chose to go with chocolate milk. After we had purchased these two items, we realized that we had just spent our money on two of the most generic items found almost anywhere. So much for being in Italy!

For those who aren’t afraid to spend time with themselves, I highly recommend a Sunday morning run. Minus the cell phone. Plus the iPod if you insist. But get ready to face your own self. I did just that this Sunday morning.  And, phew, I’m still alive and breathing. Here’s what happened to me:

I met no one but the leaves. And I crunched those crunchy leaves in peace. I found the occasional passing car to be just a nuisance disrupting my leaf-crunching.

In the hilly Suburban area I fondly call home, my twenty-five minute run spells out twenty-five minutes of solitude. A very well received twenty-five minutes of solitude, I might add. A time I can truly feel alone. Not lonely. Alone. Enjoying my own company.

I see myself as part of the hoards of people who parade the streets of New York every day. Yet, sometimes, when I’m the city, I just can’t knock the loneliness out of me. That loneliness is stubborn as a mule and no amount of foot traffic can fill that void. My fellow streetwalkers might be right alongside me, but really, they’re just too absorbed in their own selves to notice or care that I’m there.

After my run, I can say that I finally understand the difference between loneliness and aloneness. Loneliness is a certain sadness caused by a lack of companionship. Because sometimes we forget to be our own companions. But alone? Alone just means being in your own presence, with your own self as your companion.

So on my mid-morning run, I spent some time with the leaves and myself. And the air was crisp and my mind was clear. And I had a good time accompanying myself. As for you, though, here’s a thought to ponder: how good of a companion are you to yourself?