Category — Cultural Encounters

Leanna Bornkamp, "E. Houston Store Front"

“With downcast eyes, there’s more to living than being alive…”–Stephen Christian, Anberlin

More often than not, I find myself looking at what people leave behind in the city—graffiti, posters, litter, signs. But it’s another thing entirely to truly look at the faces around us.

Most people make eye contact fleetingly in this city. Too long of a glance is awkward–women cross their arms, men look inquisitively—but why is it this way? Why is it that eye contact is so taboo? I was with a friend just yesterday who curiously asked me why I made eye contact with the man across the street, gauging if it was safe to cross. In my small hometown, if you don’t make eye contact with people on the street, it’s considered offensive—yet here, going about an average day involves a total disregard for the countless strangers in our lives.

I feel, like many, that a face can tells stories, that eyes often are the key to the soul. How many opportunities to connect with others, no matter how transiently, do I miss in my walk from the dorm to class? I must pass thousands of people in that half-hour—thousands of stories rendered meaningless through my indifference. If we are all meant to learn from each other, why is it so hard for us to even make eye contact?

Sadly, I know that tomorrow, as I walk to my first class, nothing will change: I will not go out of my way, no matter the potential benefit, to learn what I can from the people around me. Because it’s always Point A to Point B—it’s always the destination, not the journey, a concept so dissonant to the philosophical thoughts we hungrily consume.

But I know for sure, though, that tomorrow I will not react to the faces of New York City furtively—each glance I will end with a smile.

I wonder if others will appreciate that the way that I would.

In the prison world a tattoo of a spider web on one’s elbow used to mean that the wearer had killed a member of an enemy minority. Eventually the meaning expanded to someone who killed anyone and eventually just someone who did time in a correctional facility.

Meanings of symbols constantly change; the most common example of this is the swastika, once a symbol of peace, now one of hate. While change is expected and can be good, the shift in the meaning behind the web tattoo has inspired a generation of people who see it as solely artistic. In the last week I’ve seen five individuals adorning that tattoo, while I couldn’t be certain that two scrawny hipster types with black elbow webs didn’t fall under the traditional prisoner stereotype, I’m pretty sure they did not.

I’m not saying people shouldn’t get a tattoo like that, only that there continues to grow generations of people who are completely unaware of the vast array of symbolism around them. Anything from the color red to the number eighty-eight can represent something hostile. My fascination for symbolism has made me aware of what’s around me, and has occasionally proved invaluable. Almost everything around us means something significant to someone else.

My family is really big on traveling. Not to make this sound like a laundry list or anything but I have been to Russia, Spain, France, Egypt, Armenia, Canada, Mexico, and the Dominican Republic. Traveling to different countries offers the ultimate cultural encounter, and I will not forget many of the customs specific to each region from around the world.

I have already written an entire separate post about my trip to Armenia, but here, I want to focus on traveling in general. My parents have always been very cultural and have tried to keep up the traditions of our heritage. They value the importance of culture, and that’s why they tried to diversify me as much as possible when growing up – by immigrating to America instead of Australia, by sending me to all these countries to get a glimpse of how others live their lives, and by constantly reminding me of my own heritage.

Each country that I visited offered something unique that I never saw before in my life. Even the countries that I visited for pure leisure like the Dominican Republic and Mexico had a ton of traditions flowing around in the atmosphere. Things as simple as the dances that the performers performed during shows, the accents they spoke with, and even their average facial expressions all gave hints as to who they are ethnically. In Russia, people look like they are the most miserable people on earth – no one ever smiles in public. In Spain, they seemed very proud of their history and it definitely showed in the ancient cities like Toledo. In Egypt, the merchants spoke every language you could throw at them. In France, people were really nice – until you turned around and were out of earshot. Canada… well it was actually pretty similar to America to be honest.

I definitely think that my cultural encounters around the world have benefited me in one way or another. Although I wasn’t a fan of spending my summers touring the Hermitage and Louvre because I was too young to appreciate any of the art, I now realize that my parents wanted the best for me in having an education that was not only intellectually stimulating, but also diverse.

A few weeks ago, I decided (for no particular reason) that rather than take the subway, I would walk through the downtown Financial District. At some point, every so many steps that I took, a plaque appeared on the sidewalk bearing a date and a particular person or event. It didn’t take me long to realize that I was walking down the “Canyon of Heroes,” a walk that I had certainly done before at a much younger age but since forgotten.

Anyway, as I progressed down the street, I passed such placards noting past parades celebrating world leaders such as Winston Churchill, or Dwight Eisenhower, and events such as ‘V-J Day,’ (the day World War II ended). It dawned on me however that the most notable use in recent years of the ‘Canyon’ was by the Yankees and the Giants, both sports teams celebrating their respective championship efforts. Certainly, sports teams have been lauded in the past, but never were they the main focus of the parade route. In August of 1945, at the conclusion of the Second World War, in the masses all different kinds of Americans centered on the Canyon to celebrate, ultimately dumping some 5000 tons of ticker-tape (compared to avg. 50 tons for sports teams) down onto the streets. Of course it is great to celebrate when the Yankees (or Mets for that matter) win, but it is also great to think of the time, when such parades were reserved for more important things.

Image from: http://www.theufochronicles.com/2009/03/return-to-foggy-bottom.html

Last weekend, I took a trip down to Washington D.C. to visit my best friend from High School, Olivia. She’s attending the George Washington University as a freshman, a school that I had an interest in but was turned off by the stereotype of the elite snobby students. I was curious about how true the stereotype was, and this weekend would be the opportunity for me to get a feel for the GW culture. After a long and uncomfortable bus ride and a sleepless night preceding my arrival, I immediately crashed and had to take a nap. When I woke up, Olivia rushed me to get ready for a tour that we were going to take. The Black Student Union had organized a tour of the black history of Foggy Bottom. We met somewhere along F street and as the group congregated, I couldn’t help but notice that I was the only white person among them. I was made very much aware of this by the strange looks I was receiving, a kind of “Why are you here?” being asked.

Interestingly enough, when the tour guide arrived to start our evening off, he was a middle aged white man. One of the first things he addressed was just that: “You may ask yourself why a white guy is giving this tour. I’m not an African-American but i’m an African-Americanist..” and then went on to describe his studies and his role in the Civil Rights movement. He spoke about how this predominantly white rich neighborhood used to be a black neighborhood, a part of history often completely ignored. On this tour we would uncover the hidden gems of black history that GW has, and be in the “presence of the absent.” He opened it up for questions before beginning the tour:

“As we go along, can we pick up black people to join on the tour?”

“Actually, wait, there’s a white person here too. Can we just acknowledge that for a second and give a round of applause!?”

The big elephant wandered out of the room when I was commended, not shunned, for participating in the tour of the spirit of black foggy bottom.

Over the summer, I was helping out at a daycare when my supervisor called me out to the entrance door. I saw a man standing outside; he looked tired and worn out as if he hadn’t slept or eaten for days. My supervisor said she wasn’t able to communicate with him, and asked if I could be so kind as to try to find out what he wanted (he only spoke Spanish). I had not taken Spanish for over a year, but decided to give it a shot.

As I spoke to him in my broken Spanish, I learned that he was from Ecuador and had traveled by boat to America and had no money on him nor food, and he needed to find his friend. I felt sorry for him since he was in a foreign country for only a couple of days and had no way of contacting his friend, for he didn’t have an address nor a phone number, only a mere train stop name. I called back my supervisor and explained the situation to her, and she walked back inside and came back to the door with bananas and a Metrocard. I translated for her saying that she wished him the best and that he have a safe journey finding his friend.

As scared as I was, I knew I should do more, and I offered to walk him to the train and teach him how to get there. When we arrived at the train station, I taught him how many stops to take to get to his friend’s neighborhood and how to use the Metrocard. He looked at me with gratitude and took both of my hands, and said “Muchas gracias” multiple times. I was glad that I contributed to helping this man find his friend, and in the process, practiced my Spanish skills for a good cause.

Perhaps this is not a cultural encounter in the ethnic sense of the term, but there is something about today’s youth, a difference in conscientiousness, that constitutes a culture in another sense of the term. I got on the crowded, mid-rush hour, Brooklyn-bound Q train on Union Square and took the empty seat. I looked behind me as people were still getting on, determining if there was anyone else who could use that empty seat more than I could. There was a grandmother with grocery bags, and she caught my attention. I immediately got up, only to have my seat taken by a fourteen-year-old boy who ran in front of the unknown women. There are countries where that boy would have been beaten for disrespect, or others like my own where his parents would have made sure to raise him otherwise. It makes me wonder whether my own decision to lend a seat was a consequence of my culture or whether discipline has generally been escaping the youth.

Photo taken by Brian Yee

As I warmed up with the girls, the tingling in my foot grew into a sharp sting. “Sara, it’s really starting to hurt,” I confided in my teammate. I continued to jog, wondering if I would actually race that day. “Maybe you shouldn’t run,” she suggested. I knew that was an option, but it was certainly not one that I was leaning towards. “You know what?” Sara continued, “Just scream out during the race if you’re in pain, and I’ll turn around to help you.”

“No!” Tamara’s voice broke in, “You are never supposed to do that.” I knew she was right. I learned this early on in my track career. During the cross-country championship in my freshman year of high school, I had a friend who was experiencing severe stomach pains during the competition. She was bent over, clutching tightly to her stomach, as if she were about to collapse at any moment. As she slowed down, I slowed down with her, but her reaction was rather unexpected. “Are you kidding?” she cried as she looked up at me, “Just go! Goooo!” Confused at first, I finally sped up, running past her through the steep hills of the concrete course.

At the time, the concept of abandoning a teammate was quite foreign to me. I was sure that Sara must have been just as bewildered to learn of this code. “Don’t worry,” I assured her, “It’s really important that you finish your race.” While the idea of leaving behind a teammate once seemed unethical, I now realize that in the competitive world of running, it’s not always wrong to go ahead.

“Where’s the shower Dad?” We had arrived on our farm in Costa Rica late the night before and I had gone straight to bed without having time to explore the place. Now I had just eaten breakfast after being given a tour of the farm. I had seen everything, from the outhouses to the ponds to all the animals; everything except a shower. Though it was still early, the sun was burning intensely and I sat down in the shade, unsuccessfully trying to cool off.

“I already showed it to you,” my dad said, pointing towards the bathroom. I checked through the door again and saw what my dad had meant by a shower, a drooping hose sticking out through the wall. I turned the tap and water trickled out slowly.

“I can’t wash my hair in that!” I told my dad.

“Well Pedro and Gustavo usually wash themselves in the river,” my dad said and told me to walk up the road and down into the valley where the river lay. I set off on the dusty path with my sisters and an armful of colorful shampoos and soaps. After trekking up a steep hill and sliding down a muddy slope we arrived at the river, overheated and exhausted. The river ran down from the mountain and had formed a clear pool of water where the path had taken us. It was a peaceful place, closed in by a leafy emerald canopy. I stripped down to my bikini and dipped my toe in the water. I pulled it out immediately with a shriek, struck by the icy cold. I hardened my resolve and walked in up to my ankles, waiting for several minutes to adjust to the cold temperature. As I started to take my next step, I slipped and fell on a slimy rock, submerging my whole body in the pool. After a few seconds of shock my body adjusted to the freezing temperature. From that moment on, I learned that diving right in without any hesitation was the easiest and least painful way to get in the water.

My sisters and I would go wash our hair in the river every morning, sometimes joined by Pedro and Gustavo. We would lather up, then dive down and swim along the rocky bottom, allowing the flow of water to wash the suds from our hair. These were the most fun, relaxing “baths” I have ever taken and those mornings at the river are one of the things I miss most about our time in Costa Rica.

Shoes.  There’s so much you can infer about a person just by looking at their shoes (or if they’re wearing them at all).  Are they clean, are they dirty, are they creased? Are they sneakers, high heels, platforms, boots, wedges, or sandals?

Most people I know put a lot of thought into what kind of shoes they wear because of how they want to be perceived.  There are those that are Nike or Puma or Converse loyalists, and there are those that will choose heels over flats because she thinks it looks better.  I confess myself to be shoe obsessed but nowhere near Imelda Marcos (who owns over 2700 pairs!).  Although I own shoes from my Adidas Samba Vintage’s to 6-inch hot pink heels, I am very particular about the shoes I wear.  In the end, they have to feel good and look good.

http://tynan.net/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/vibram-five-fingers-shoes.png

However, after years of dance and soccer, the bones in my feet have shifted, and it made running for an extended amount of time painful.  So I looked up some shoes that would replicate barefoot running and I found Vibram FiveFingers.  The name is not exactly appealing and at first glance, I thought: “People actually wear those things??”  But after reading reviews for a while, and continued pain while running in my regular sneakers, I bought them.  When I got home and showed my family, they all laughed and said I would look ridiculous.  I’d seen them on some other people and they did look a bit odd; but if I could run comfortably in them, I wouldn’t care.

http://keetsa.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2007/07/ladies-4.jpg

I didn’t have a chance to run in them before going to New Mexico in a program where we would be doing water testing, a perfect opportunity to wear them anyway.  My roommate, a student from Puerto Rico arrived wearing the craziest looking sandals I’d ever seen.  She told me that she calls them the “amphibians” and that they were the most comfortable sandals ever.  When she wore them out, everyone commented on them; some were positive responses, but most people thought they were just weird.  A few days later, we went water testing and I brought out the Vibrams to which I was also questioned on my choice of footwear.  My roommate and I laughed at the interest in our shoes and everyone whether they liked them or not, were intrigued.

I wear them on all my runs now, and people stare sometimes, but I could care less.