Category — Site Authors

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As I waited on the street outside Irving Plaza, slowly cooling cup of too-bitter coffee in numb hands, I counted down the minutes until the beginning of the possible best night of my life. To my right were a dozen or so people (I always arrive at least 2 hours early for this band, no exceptions), and to my left the line continued around the next two corners of the block, with all kinds of people: young, old, punk, hipster, “normal,” all waiting for the same thing: Anberlin. The daylight drained away with the minutes, my eagerness making every moment feel as though at a complete standstill—but then the doors opened.

Entirely too excited to give up a second row spot for coat check, I went right in to Irving Plaza’s main room for the second time in my life. This time, though, I felt more than just anticipation. I’d seen Anberlin twice before already, but that only made me more in awe of what I was about to witness. Soon to be before me were the very people that influenced the decisions I’ve begun to make for my future. One of the main composers of the band, Stephen Christian, has his own side project, has written a book, and has formed a charity, called Faceless International, that he and the rest of the band actually go all over the world to contribute to. What these few people have done (and all in under a decade, too), is nearly exactly what I hope to accomplish with my life—but mainly, it’s the sheer power of their music, the fact that they can bring so many different people together and feel a common emotion, that I wish to one day achieve myself.

We all knew what was about to happen as the last opening act filed off: the lights would slowly fade up, as Anberlin’s bassist played a deep continuo in the background, so deep that we could not hear it but only feel it in our bodies—and everyone around me, from all backgrounds, all nations, all with different stories, pasts, futures…we all raised our hands as one, as the stage lights flashed and the first chords struck our very souls.

Every culture in inextricably linked to certain superstitions and strange traditions. Many of us follow the superstitions of our native culture today, without reason or a general idea of their origins. My mother never rests her handbag on the ground because it will curse her and she will lose all her money. I never followed this one because I never saw any logic behind it. My aunt never leaves the toilet seat up because doing so will “flush your money away,” a little more convincing but not quite. Remember “step on a crack and you’ll break your mother’s back”? Yeah, my mother never broke her back either.

My friend Prattasha follows Bengali superstitions dogmatically. I didn’t know this about her and I found out the hard way. One day in high school, we went to get some fast food at Burger King to go before attending an after school review session. We sat toward the back so we could quietly eat, and I noticed that I had never tried her Spicy Chicken Crisp. Out of curiosity I asked her to try it and she   held the sandwich out for me to take a bite. I took the bite and enjoyed it and expected to go on with the review when she exclaimed- “Take another one!” and held out the sandwich again. I asked her why she was so enthusiastic about it, and found out that it was a Bengali superstition that if you feed a person, you must do it an even number of times.

Not one for superstitions myself, I decided to be difficult and not take the second bite. “I don’t feel like it, i’m full.” Little did I know Prattasha did not mind causing a disturbance in the review session in order to attack me and forcefully implement her second-bite policy. I’m still unsure of what bad luck she was trying to avoid, i’m actually quite sure she does not know herself.

I have always been told that New York abounds with many ‘different’ people (to put it gently), so I have come accustomed to not being surprised by the varying absurdities that I may come in contact with throughout the day. Still, there are times that my surprise gets the best of me; case in point: yesterday, November 1^st.

As I was waiting on the Shuttle between Times Square and Grand Central, just as the doors were about to close, a loud (and very obtrusive) ‘clacking sound’ seemed to grow louder and louder, as at the same time, it grew closer and closer. And suddenly, just as the doors were about to close, a man in his mid-50s squeezed into the subway car. His dress seemed normal enough, and otherwise would not have come to my attention had it not been for the enormous wooden clogs that he was wearing on his feet.

It is not that I haven’t seen a pair of clogs before, I have. It is just that the size of the shoes that he was wearing were larger than one can imagine. In fact, to merely speak of the size of them would not suffice, as they also appeared to be handmade, essentially chiseled out of a block of wood. I know little else about the man other than what his figure presented, and will never know why he was wearing those particular shoes. In a city in which people are generally ignored, it is sometimes interesting to pay attention to things that generally would not go unnoticed anywhere else.

It was late Friday and we were coming back from a Halloween party, waiting for the downtown F at around 10 pm. Catalina and I were dressed as hipster crossing guards in matching electric orange reflective vests and laced leggings.

“Oh I love your costumes!” a high-pitched, impeccably coordinated young man cried. Catalina and I turned towards each other and then him,

“Thanks,” we each replied with a smile as the train arrived and we all boarded.

“Yeah!” he continued, “Spain, right?”

“… Spain?” I asked, turning back towards Caty to exchange a mutual look of confusion, “What?”

“You know… Spain.” The man seemed to be grasping at ends, and we had no idea what he was talking about. “Never mind, I guess I’m thinking of something else.”

“No no,” Caty said, “tell us what you’re talking about.”

The man smiled, “I don’t know if I should…”

“Well now you have to,” I replied.

“Okay well I read this article two days ago about how prostitutes in Spain are now required by law to wear reflective vests.”

“WHAT?!” Our friends burst out laughing, and we did too, faces turning bright red.

“Haha, that’s pretty funny I guess. I thought you were being political, you know…” the man trailed off again but we were lost in a fit of hysterics. As the train approached the next station the man continued, “do you mind if I take a picture, my friend will get such a kick out of this” we were reluctant but still laughing too hard to say no. Attempting to maintain a straight face in the photo we smiled and with a click he thanked us and got off the train. I guess our costumes were significantly better thought out than we had imagined. It’s hard to decide what’s more amusing, our original costumes or the one we unintentionally fit into impeccably.

It’s been three weeks since I’ve abandoned coffee. In my efforts to stifle my caffeine consumption, I switched to tea. “Did you know tea has more caffeine than coffee?” came the rhetorical question. “No. No, I didn’t, and let’s keep it that way.”
I guess it was an illusory transition, but I’ve been raised since birth accepting that tea is generally good for you. Upon realizing that I was sick, my parents treated me as a funnel. Apparently, a hot cup of earl grey soothes the sore throat, and it was a simple way to smuggle some vitamin C from a squeezed lemon past my taste buds. When I was ill, it came down to six cups a day, and tealeaves took temporary residence on the food pyramid. Perhaps, that is the just the culture my family keeps; it’s simpler elsewhere.
In England, there is teatime: a national afternoon break for a lovely cup of tea. In China, green tea is a common serving of hospitality for guests. In America, it’s a venti caramel dolce latte a couple of times a day until you’re crashing like a heroin junkie, or the lesser known Tea Party – your choice.
I can’t tell if our consumption culture has relieved traditional duty or if there never was a traditional, American, approach to tea or coffee. I remember reading once, that Americans adopted coffee because it was cheaper than tea, and treated it as a symbol of independence after the Boston Tea Party. Certainly, they stuck it to the man. I’m not sure if our founding fathers would have made themselves at home at their residential Starbucks, sipping away their frappe like today’s coffee shop intellectuals. But it certainly seems to be the American thing to do.
Count me out; I’m rebelling against the charred bean corporate coffee culture. Maybe that’s the American thing to do. I can start my own culture, and call it the Tea Union, or the Tea Boys, or better yet the Tea Party. Maybe I can take your cup of coffee and turn it into my cup of tea. If I did, would you vote for me?

During the summer of 2006, I went on vacation to Punjab, India.  Although I didn’t enjoy my trip as a whole, I really enjoyed visiting the city of Amritsar.  The whole city of Amritsar contains a rich collection of Sikh history and culture.  There are many Sikh temples, and historical sites spread throughout the city, of which the most popular is the Golden Temple.

If you were to ask me what my favorite thing about my trip to India was, I wouldn’t hesitate at all to say that it was visiting the temple.  Harimandir Sahib (as it is also known as) is perhaps the most elegant work of Sikh architecture. When I first walked through the archway and saw the Golden Temple, I was awestruck.  It stood surrounded by a large body of water, glowing in the night sky; also, the water casted the reflection of the temple.  My parents made me take some of the water (from the body of water) and pour it over my head; they said that it was for purification.   I didn’t really understand what they meant by this, but I did it anyways. My parents had brought me to visit Harimandir Sahib not only for its aesthetic beauty, but for religious purposes as well.  I also got the chance to go into the temple, and say my prayers; however all my attention was focused on the magnificent building.  Over 85 percent of the temple was covered in gold (including the inside), and the floors were made of exquisite marble. Nothing I’ve seen in my life is more beautiful than the Golden Temple in Amritsar India. (photo from http://www.visit-incredible-india.com/golden-temple-budget-tour.html)

Woosh, woosh, woosh. Oops, excuse me, coming through; oh what a beautiful tree.. Woosh, woosh, woosh. Hard right turn – woooooshhh.

Eventually the run is finished and you look back up the mountain in awe. It’s There isn’t much that can give you as great of a rush as snowboarding down a mountain at speeds sometimes exceeding 30 miles per hour. Today is a terrific day with mind-boggling snow conditions. There is enough powder on the ground that you would sink if you were to stop the continues zig-zags, slides, and carving. Any skier or snowboarder can tell you the thrill of going down a mountain, but few can convey the beauty (and danger) of doing it in Park City, Utah.

My brother is an avid skier and he oftentimes takes me with him on his journeys to such exotic places. Snowbird mountain was where I had the most thrilling and inspiring snowboarding experience of my life. The sounds and beauty of the nature there just can’t be described in words.
You stop for a moment to admire it, knowing well that you will need to rebind your bindings to get back on your feet. The hassle is worth what you see. Spruce and pine trees covered in a heavy layer of snow swaying to and fro from the heavy winds at such high altitudes. Then you look down and see a family of porcupines – some scurrying around looking for food, and others just looking for a way to stay warm.

WOOSHHH. Those damn skiers always cutting so close… Don’t they know it’s rude to spray snow on someone taking a break and admiring the view? Enough is enough; your friends and family are waiting for you to get off the mountain.

Woosh, woosh, woosh. A photographer taking powder shots all the way on the other side of this 30 “lane” slope!! I just have to get this perfect shot now.. You start cutting across the slope making sure you have enough powder trailing behind you to make a trail, at the very least, to the height of your head. You’re ready, focused on making the perfect pose and getting for what will be a beautiful snapshot. The photographer now focuses on you and is lining up the shot. Just a few more seconds…..

WHAM. You suddenly feel the impact of another rider. You fall to the ground spinning, tumbling, and sliding down the slope. You can’t get up because it’s too steep and you can’t regain your balance. You start attempting your very best to at least SLOW DOWN because the edge of the slope is fast approaching and you really don’t feel like falling down a cliff to your death just yet.

ICE!!

Perfect.. Really; the last thing you need right now is an even slipperier surface so you can’t stop. You close your eyes and hope for the best..

Peace.. Calm.. Quiet.. You see in front of you a tree – no longer covered in snow because all of it just fell, burying you. You also see the poor skier you collided with whose skis are now broken in half. You take a minute to recollect what just happened..

The cliff ended up being only a few feet high with a forest backing it. The skier seems to be conscious and you seem to be physically fine as well. “Not the safest way of cutting across the mountain, now is it?” he asks to you with a smile on his face. You apologize incessantly and he seems to understand that you’re only a beginner and in no position to replace his skis. A short conversation ensues and then you both start heading back down the mountain to rejoin your friends and family. You on your snowboard; he on foot.

No dorky outfit is ever complete without the Townsend Harris I.D. card!

Binder. Check.

Extra loose-leaf. Check.

Folders. Check.

Pens and pencils. Check.

I.D. … I.D.?!?!

“Noooooo,” I moaned to myself, as a frown crept over my face. I frantically looked through the contents of my bag. Where was this precious piece of plastic hidden? It was only the first day of school and I had no desire to get reprimanded by the security guards so early in the morning and so early into the academic year. I was finally a sophomore, but I felt completely like a freshman. The “I forgot my I.D. card” crisis was common amongst Townsend Harris newcomers, but after a year of experience, I was ashamed of my forgetfulness.

In my high school, the I.D. was not simply an identification card. It was essentially one’s golden pass into the school. No pass, no entrance … or at least no entrance without an embarrassing scolding at the front door and a few dreadful demerits to go down in one’s record. Unfortunately, I was out of luck. I was a block away from school without my I.D. and there was no turning back. I took a deep breath before taking my first step inside. I opened the door and made a pathetic attempt to scurry past the security guards. “Young lady,” one of them yelled, “WHERE IS YOUR I.D?” I was caught and stood frozen in my tracks. I could feel my face turning scarlet red, as I slowly turned to face her. Suddenly, I felt a lie fumble out of my mouth, almost like an instinctive reaction. “I’m a freshman. I-I-I didn’t get mine yet,” I managed to stutter. “Oh, well okay then,” she replied. My heart was pounding and I hurried to the nearest stairwell. I ran up the stairs, amazed at my own escape from humiliation and punishment.

When I returned home later on that day, I was confronted with the typical first day of school question. “So, how was it?” my mom asked. I groaned and began my story with a detailed account of my morning and the I.D. card incident. When I finished, she laughed and said, “What’s the big deal with the I.D.?” I sighed. She did not understand. In fact, I do not know if anybody outside of the Townsend Harris community can ever really understand how important that I.D. card is, or at least, how important my high school makes it seem.

Not surprisingly, the anxiety that comes with forgetting an I.D. at home is still very much alive at my former high school. When I hopped on a Q46, early last Thursday morning, I saw two younger girls get on the bus after I did. I glanced at them for just a second, but I instantly noticed their I.D. cards glistening, as they hung around their necks. Typical, I thought. They were definitely Townsend Harris freshmen. I smiled to myself and shook my head. Two months into the school year, and they already knew just how important these little cards were. Of course, wearing one’s I.D. card outside of school is considered a dorky move, even for a Harrisite, but for a freshman, fearful of those demerits and security guards, there seems to be no hesitation in wearing it on the bus. I suppose I should have been more like them on my first day of sophomore year.

A nice alternative to no-parking laws.