Category — Cultural Encounters

Up until this point in my life, I have only attended private schools; so, on Friday when I went to the theaters to view Davis Guggenheim’s Waiting For Superman, I was more than a little taken aback from what I saw. Beyond the startling statistics regarding the nation’s public schools presented every so often, lied the stories of five children, who despite their inner yearning to learn were stuck in situations beyond their control, namely their compulsory enrollment in some of the worst public schools in the country.

What I had always taken for granted, the parents of the children portrayed in the documentary would have given anything for, and their efforts are chronicled in attempts at charter school admission. What’s more however is that the children were strikingly similar to my little brother in both age and interests, for instance, several were eight years old, enjoyed superheroes and one wore similar SpongeBob pajamas, and one little girl, Daisy expressed her desire to be a veterinarian, just like my little brother. If anything, the film put faces to the problem of public schools, and I found myself unable to remain a detached viewer. In the end, the film got me to think just how different a path in life that my little brother will lead from his counterparts in the documentary.

Certainly, we all would like to think of ‘culture’ as being differences that make us unique, unfortunately there are also disadvantages to certain ways-of-life as documented in the film, and it just makes me more thankful for the opportunities that I have been given, and eager to see the same opportunities given to others as well.

During my last trip to Florida, as I traveled from towns such as Boca Raton and Boynton Beach to Miami and Fort Lauderdale, a cultural clash elucidated itself. As a New Yorker, and somewhat of tourist, I no longer could have camouflaged myself after leaving Miami for Boca. Pedestrian culture was substituted for car culture, and I found myself lost in the absence of sidewalks, as I was perched in the passenger seat of my friend’s 1995 Jaguar.  I now cannot remember the model he drove. Perhaps, that on its own attests to my removal from a familiar lifestyle at that moment. The only mid-day walking that I remember during my stay in his town of Boca was between the gas pump and the passenger seat. I developed a consciousness of my restlessness to go outside and do things, as my immobility of self soon convoked homesickness. Many towns, like my friend Dmitri’s, have relied on automobiles for transportation, and nurture a seemingly different lifestyle void of pedestrian culture. Attesting to the reciprocity of my experience, during his last visit to Brooklyn, Dmitri, who lived in New York for sixteen years, was distressed by all the walking he did when last visiting me. Apparently, we both suffered when we were removed from the lifestyles we are acculturated to.

Exiting out of the Holland Tunnel this morning, I noticed two big signs: New York City Speed Limit 30 MPH Unless Otherwise Posted and New York City Law No Turn On Red Unless Otherwise Posted. Being a driver, I thought to myself “Well that’s pretty much common knowledge to anyone driving a car in New York… You learn that when you take your permit test, you learn it again when you take your road test, and you learn it a third time when you get caught speeding.” After thinking about it for a moment, I understood why the signs were there. They aren’t meant for us New Yawkah’s, who know what’s up, but rather for the foreigners.

I started thinking about it today, and each of the fifty states has its own unique culture. Think about it – every state has its own laws that govern its people who behave differently in accordance to the laws. In Florida, the driving laws aren’t really enforced so the people from there tend to drive aggressively. In Staten Island, people tend to drive relatively normal – it’s the roads themselves that make a driver want to stay indoors (they’re terrible). In Wyoming… do people even have cars there?

But why limit the analysis of driving cultures to this country? I’ve visited Egypt, Russia, Armenia, Spain, and France and the driving there is a key part of what makes the cultures in these countries unique. In Spain and France, wherever you can find a space that can fit your car, you park it there. Such spaces can be found on: sidewalks, rooftops, bridges, inside buildings, in parks, etc… In Russia, every single car on the road is a potential taxi – just wave at any random car and they’ll pull over to give you a ride. In Egypt, honking is so common and prevalent that they call it “Cairo music.” When two cars crash (stand around for 10 minutes), it’s called “Cairo kiss.” In Armenia, the traffic lights serve as nothing more than Christmas ornaments decorating the streets.

Driving is an essential part of most commuters’ lives and we oftentimes don’t stop and look at ourselves. Is there a unique feature of our driving style that would seem absurd to people of other countries? I’m sure there are… One time, a relative from Moscow came to visit my family and my dad was driving him around. An ambulance was coming up from behind with it’s sirens and lights on so my dad pulled over, along with every other car on the road, to let the ambulance pass. The relative was shocked at how organized everything was but his first question was “What happens if you don’t let him through?” A question like that never even pops up in driving courses – it’s just something we all do because we know we have to. Can you think of any other practices we Americans do on the road that would seem unusual to an outsider?

A few days ago I was in my dorm, hungry but unwilling to dish out the money on a dinner from one of the fancy Lower East Side restaurants in my neighborhood. I decided to take a walk to Chinatown and dragged my friend Elisabeth who told me of a deal at a place on Elridge Street: 5 dumplings for a dollar. Its too good to pass up so we walk there and grab some take out menus on the way. Looking at the menu I just picked up, I feel proud to have found a better deal than Elisabeth. “Look, this place has 5 dumplings AND bok choy for $1.50.” I don’t know exactly what bok choy is but it sounds familiar and I imagine a large platter overflowing with noodles and 5 dumplings resting on top. Then she crushes my happiness, “Do you even know what that is? You’re paying 50 cents extra for CABBAGE.”
I’m feeling disillusioned but we continue our walk through Chinatown and I see in the window of a store, a large bag of “#1 Extra Fancy Kokuho Rice.” I find this humorous because what can possibly make rice fancy or unfancy? Isn’t one grain of rice just as fancy as any other grain? I chuckle at this and start to take out my camera to take a picture of it, but Elisabeth soon warns me that every passing Chinese person is giving me dirty looks. Did I offend their culture by making fun of fancy rice? I decide not to take the picture and walk (run) away as subtly as possible.
We make it to the dumpling place and I enjoy my dollar dumplings accompanied by a dollar can of Arizona green tea. I have to head uptown so I get on the train, intending to transfer to the E at West 4th. It’s the weekend and I remember reading something about service changes on the E line, I can’t remember what I read but maybe i’m mistaken. I get to West 4th and sure enough there are posters with the letter E, but as I approach one to read it I notice that they’re only in Chinese. “All of them are ONLY in Chinese. What’s going on? Do they only want Chinese people to know where to go?” Luckily, I only waited on the platform for a minute before the E came and safely brought me to my destination.
China, you certainly confused me today.

Coming from a dominantly Caucasian elementary and middle school, I had no idea what I was in store for when I entered Bronx Science. In my middle school, there were less than ten Asian students in my graduating class. I entered the yellow “cheese bus,” as my friends called it, and I saw a whole bunch of Asians just staring at me as I walked to an empty seat. I felt lonely and as if I were an outsider, even though I too am Asian.

When I arrived at school, there was a mass of students crowding the entire block. It was the first time I saw that many Asian students congregated in one area. I called my upperclassman friend Lin to pick me up since I did not know anybody there, and he greeted me with open arms only minutes later. When we entered the building, he showed me around, telling me which wing contained which room numbers, and that I should find him after school so I could meet some of his friends.

The day seemed to creep by slowly, and I was anticipating seeing Lin again since he was the only familiar face around here. When I met up with him, he introduced me to all of his friends, and suggested that a good way to get to know people was to join a club.

“Which club?” I asked him.

“Lunar!” he replied with enthusiasm. I had no idea what that club was so he explained to me that club members spent half a year preparing for a Lunar New Year Production in celebration of the Lunar New Year. I decided to consider it since I figured there was nothing to lose.

Weeks later after I joined the club in October, I grew to know many more new faces and learn more about the traditional performances of Lunar, as well as some random facts about Chinese culture that I was never exposed to back in middle school, and I’m glad Lin forced me to open up and try new things; I even ended up performing a modern dance that year, and sang for the next two years’ performances as well, and was awarded the title Vice President for my senior year.

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As I walked into the little Japanese restaurant, I felt a bit out of my element. Not often being one for trying new things, I had accepted that I would probably just sit this one out and eat at home. But my enthusiastic friend opened her menu and started telling me what items looked really good. As the waitress came up, I panicked: I had no idea what these foods were, much less how to pronounce their names. In a final act of hopelessness, I looked at my friend and asked, “Which one am I ordering again?” She gestured to the item on the menu that we had discussed. I seized the opportunity and pointed frantically. “This one, please!” I said quickly.

I might have felt embarrassed, but at this point I had moved on to worrying about eating the food. When it arrived, I clutched my chopsticks and fearfully poked the unknown ingredients of the soup. “It’ seaweed,” my friend told me “reassuringly,” as I continued to move around the dark green bits out of the way. As I took my first bite, though, I realized that my fears were irrational. It was delicious!

As I walked out of the restaurant, my friend cheerfully saying goodbye to the staff in Japanese, I realized that not only had I faced a “fear” I’d been avoiding for years, I now know a place with a great ramen dish (its name starts with a “T,” I think).

In 2006, my mom’s three siblings got engaged and the news brought a whirlwind of excitement, anticipation and family drama. I thought that attending three weddings in one year would be thrilling, but my aunts and uncle thought otherwise. As the three set to resolve the issue of who was going to get married when, my family waited anxiously to see what they had settled on. As I discussed the matter with my sister, I asked her why they couldn’t all just get married the following year, as each couple had originally planned. “Well, duh,” she replied, “three weddings and one family? Don’t you think they’d all explode or something?” I digested her comment and realized it was probably impractical to clump them all in the same year. After all, planning a wedding and the stresses of in laws can drive not only the bride and the groom insane, but their families as well. While my sister’s logic seemed to make sense, I soon discovered that my aunts and uncle had another reason for their different wedding dates. “Sukob” was the term that explained it all. Apparently, there was a Filipino superstition that if one gets married the same year as another immediate family member, both parties will experience terrible luck, leading to great misfortunes, such as death. When one of my aunts first explained it to me, I could not get myself to believe her. This sounded like absolute rubbish. My aunt could tell that I was not convinced, so she showed me a movie called Sukob, which meant “wedding curse.” Though it was a bit frightening, and showed a series of unexplainable tragedies in the lives of two siblings who got married in the same year, I wasn’t buying it. Whatever the truth may be, I suppose I am just thankful that I have no reason to believe that any of my family members are cursed …

“The North side uses more butter, the South side actually uses more oil.”

Wait, what? I looked up from my computer up at my friend Frankie, cooking pan in hand.

“Oh, Italy?” Well, duh. I wasn’t exactly on my A-game, at midnight with a four page paper due in the morning. I dipped my finger absentmindedly in the jar of Nutella I had conveniently moved away from the cook.

“Yeah. Most people think that oil is the biggest ingredient in all Italian foods, but it’s totally not. In the North side, they actually only use butter. I don’t know, it’s something to do with the seasons. But crepes are French, so I don’t even know why it matters.”

I had no idea where they were from, or what they were made of, or why we were really even eating them. By the bottom of the Nutella jar, I had lost an hour and gained only one introductory paragraph to my essay. But, I learned something new. I looked around the kitchen from my white, food stained counter throne, and smiled to myself. And what did I spy but an Irish girl from Brooklyn who knows diddly-squat about cooking; a Russian girl from everywhere whose experience with Italian food stops at spaghetti; an Italian-Puerto Rican girl from the-middle-of-nowhere, Upstate whose cooking preference is primarily easy mac; and an Italian from Staten Island with cooking pan in hand and an endless stream of cooking remedies and anecdotes. All assembled for the common goal: procrastination. And on our path to procrastination, we actually found something interesting.

Also, we found out how FANTASTIC crepes are at one in the morning.

I mention that I’m interning at Bellevue, and most people will shoot back “insane asylum.” That response, coupled with the shocking number of homeless scattered about the area, and cane-bearers, struggling to walk a meager straight line, led me to investigate.

After a couple days on the job, I was more than just curious about the people of Bellevue Hospital Center. I asked someone innocently why there were so many poor people specifically near Bellevue. Her response was along the lines of “Bellevue is a public facility hospital. They accept Medicaid, and administer free health care to the poor.”

Ahhha!, that explains that!

But I was not satisfied. I still wanted to know why so many people think Bellevue is one giant psych ward. Frustrated by the general populace’s ignorance, I investigated the matter further, probing the Internet for more information.

My findings taught me that Bellevue, now an affiliate of NYU Medical Center, actually began as almshouse for the poor in the early 1800s, and opened America’s first maternity ward in 1799.

Most people know about Bellevue’s psychiatric facilities because it is one of the oldest and therefore, most distinguished, in the country. Many famous people were treated there as patients. And, of course, its pysch ward has been made all the more famous by the film, “The Miracle on 49th St.” The building, which once served as the hospital’s psychiatric facility, now serves as a homeless intake center and a men’s homeless shelter.

Every day, I amble through Bellevue Park South opposite the hospital building. I notice the same homeless men every day playing Poker on the park benches. I notice their baggage and the scraps of junk they call possessions. They seem content with their own insular culture, whatever it may be. As I approach the hospital each day, I cringe. Every time. I cringe when I see impoverished people with crooked gaits struggling with the simple task of walking from point A to point B. I feel fortunate to be young and able-bodied, and I feel privileged to own a pair of working legs.

It doesn’t get easier to go to Bellevue, to witness the pain of those who populate the area. Actually, I think it gets harder.

This year I discovered the Swedish midsummer festival in Battery Park. I had celebrated midsummer in Sweden every year up until the age of 10, when I became too old to miss the last two weeks of school. I did not have high expectations of this New York festival, thinking it would never measure up to the true Swedish ones. When I arrived, I knew immediately I was in the right place by all the blonde and blue-eyed people milling about. The adults sat squeezed together on the grass while rosy-cheeked children raced around in traditional blue-and-yellow dress. My friends and I were handed leafy, supple branches and some twine to make wreaths for ourselves. We were then given a bouquet of native Swedish wildflowers, in purple and yellow and white, to slip in among the leaves. After helping my friends, I made my way back to the main area, just in time to see the maypole being raised to loud cheers. The traditional midsummer music started and I was brought back to cool summer evenings in Sweden. The hostess was an American-born Swede whose loud voice and heavy accent ruined the soft lyrical words of the song she was trying to sing. However her voice was soon drowned out by everyone joining in as we got up to dance around the maypole. I joined hands with the strangers at my sides and skipped around, laughing as the song required us to jump around like frogs or collapse into an imaginary ditch. Despite the childish nature of these dances and songs they are something that everyone participates in, no matter what their age. There was a short break, during which I ate a typical Swedish lunch of waffles with jam and cream, and then everyone got together again for more dancing. Even after the festivities were over people hung around. I met a lot of young Swedes, just a few years older than me, who had recently moved to New York and had come to the festival hoping to allay their feelings of homesickness. I left the festival already looking to forward to the one next year.