Category — Site Authors

(http://www.bridgeandtunnelclub.com/bigmap/queens/alleypondpark/index.htm)

I step outside to the crisp air of a cool Sunday morning. I lace up my sneakers and jog over to Alley Pond Park, home to my favorite running path. The trees that line each side of the trail never fail to provide the best shade and a peaceful wooded scenery. As I begin my three mile run, I hear the ring of a bell from a bike behind me. “Good morning,” I hear the biker say, as he speeds ahead to the first hill. I smile. It’s always refreshing to hear friendly words from a fellow exercise enthusiast. As I finally finish my first mile, I spot a small family strolling together just a few meters in front of me. I listen to the parents speak to their little boy in Spanish, but as I pass by, they look up and greet me with a wave and a simple “Good morning.” In response, I grin and in between pants, I manage to utter the same words back. Finally, I reach the half-way point and turn around, with just a mile and a half left to run. As I quicken my stride and lower my arms, I catch a glimpse of two middle-aged Asian ladies, speed walking in the opposite direction.  I get closer and closer to the pair, and almost instinctively, I say “Good morning.” In unison, they respond in thick Chinese accents, “Good morning.” Once again, I find myself smiling. I realize that “good morning” is more than just a greeting. It is a phrase that breaks language barriers and allows us to acknowledge the inexplicable human connection that we all share.

As I prepared to go out on Friday night, I checked the weather to see how bad the night was going to turn out. Reservations for 53 Teriyaki House were at 7:30PM, and I was not going to let Hurricane Earl stop me from celebrating my birthday. Fortunately for me, the city was not going to be hit hard, but I brought my umbrella just in case luck was not on my side.

I met up with my friend and we took the train to 53rd and Lexington. When we arrived at the restaurant, I saw red paper lanterns and Japanese characters on the chalkboard posted on the walls. The waiters were warm and welcoming as they seated us in accented English.

When everyone else arrived, we looked at the menu to see unfamiliar words describing each dish, from “edamame,” to “tobiko,” to “katsu.” Luckily for us, our waitress was very well-informed with Japanese terms and provided us insight with all of these terms.

After dinner, I was surprised when the waiters all came to our table and startied singing happy birthday to me, and presenting me with fried ice cream. I had never eaten fried ice cream before, and the waitress told me that it’s a special dish that some Asian restaurants are known for; it was a real treat and a great ending to my night.

http://ninjai-thelittleninja.blogspot.com/2008_09_01_archive.html

Growing up as a daughter of Korean immigrants, my life was a consecutive challenges of coping myself into “a whole new world” called America. Especially, waking up in the middle of New York City everyday initiated and fulfilled my life with diverse cultural metamorphosis.

Most of my cultural encounters took place in school.  One day, my sophomore English teacher had a heated discussion with students about student discipline and punishment. He abruptly asked me what do they do in Korean schools. I instantly read his intention, but simply tried to avoid it. He did not show any sign of retreat, so I just stated, “Teachers can exert more authority over children in terms of discipline in Asia.” Obviously, this answer did not satisfy my teacher. He was looking for a specific example.

What I said was true though; I simply generalized my answer to avoid my friends’ “what?” and “huh?” In the Asian culture that I grew up for fifteen years, physical punishment –such as spanking and hitting, but certainly not physically abusing- was allowed to discipline disrespectful students. However, when I was admitting that fact, I felt ashamed for some reason. After a while, I realized there is no need to be ashamed of my culture. Is physical punishment for children right or wrong? I still do not know. Still, one clear lesson that I have learned from that experience was culture is neither right nor wrong; it is just different from one to another.

The image was taken from:<http://www.anirudhsethireport.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/right_wrong.png>

Last summer I visited Rome, Italy for the first time. One of the most charming things about this city is the fact that the people there generally do not know English, or at least don’t bother to speak it. This first became apparent to me on the taxi ride from the airport to our hotel. I asked the cab driver about these ancient ruins we passed on our drive and after a moment’s thought he responded, “Where the party is!” in heavily accented English. When he saw our confused expressions he tried to explain but after fumbling with words for a few seconds he threw up his hands in defeat and laughed. At that moment I knew that I was going to love Rome. In the following days I was often faced with a language barrier. However, this did not inhibit communication. For instance, when my mother and I asked for directions there would be a series of wild gestures between us and the person directing us and we would walk away confident in how to get to our destination. Unlike people in many other countries, Italians do not seem to feel the need to conform to the English language. However, they still manage to interact with tourists such as myself without having a common language, and their friendly and open attitudes are part of what made my stay in Italy so special.

Food is a lifestyle; it is the way cultures interact. Food is a language; it is a way tongue speaks without words. Too many times my family would eat a typical Chinese dinner: rice, meat, fish, vegetables, and the occasional soup. This is our culture and this is how we set up our meals; however, the problem is that eating has become a chore! The meat lost its tenderness, the vegetables lost its buoyancy, and the fish grew a poor habit of staring at me. My dinner grew to become something like a haunted house. Luckily a bulldozer came along and destroyed that house. That bulldozer was the flavor of Korean cuisine. Since our neighbors were Korean it was inevitable that my mother would speak to them. Eventually they began exchanging cultural secrets. Witnessing two Asian mothers teaching one another how to cook in broken English and finger pointing was one of the most amusing things I had ever seen. However, the taste itself is a language and they were able to communicate through flavor. I was blissful with this interaction as my buds on tongue rejoiced with a party. The taste of different Korean spices, meats, and vegetables was exhilarating. This cultural mutualism was beneficial and resulted in something new, the taste of “Chorea”.

Cultural encounters aren’t too hard to come by living in Brooklyn. I live in Sunset Park, a predominantly Spanish and Chinese neighborhood sandwiched between Bay Ridge, a predominantly Arab area, and Park Slope, a predominantly white area. I am white myself, being that I am nearly one hundred percent Irish, with a little Scottish thrown in. Living in a multi-cultural neighborhood my whole life, I see cultural encounters all the time. An encounter I’ve experienced just the other day is when I was hanging out with two friends of mine. One is my next-door neighbor, Nicole, and the other was a friend Dana. The other day they dragged me to the nail salon with them on the corner of my block. This nail salon is owned by a Chinese woman and there are only Chinese workers in there. But if you walk in, you see these Chinese ladies speaking Chinese to customers who speak Chinese, Spanish to customers that speak Spanish, and English to customers that speak English. There is no language barrier. They’ve adapted to the cultures around them and adjust to these cultures to make sure they can communicate in the easiest and most effective way possible. These women in this salon didn’t limit themselves to one culture and language. They realized that the best way to get their message across and be heard was to accept other languages and become strong, multicultural people.

This weekend my family and I dropped my sister, Sarah, off at The University of Connecticut, where she would be attending college for the next four years. It turns out that for the past two weeks it has been known to us that Sarah would be dorming with an Indian roommate that grew up in a small town outside of Hartford.

I was excited about sharing the cultural “encounter” between my sister and her roommate before it even happened, I was expecting some serious juxtaposition. My sister, for lack of a better phrase is a wild child. She’s a social butterfly. To put it bluntly, she likes to party. My sister was afraid that her new roommate would be shy, dare I say, even introverted after growing up in a small town and influenced by a more reserved culture, than say Queens NY. When my sister addressed her concerns to me I told her that she was just stereotyping and that you can’t judge a person until you meet them, but in my head I couldn’t help but imagine the cultural gap that might divide my sister from her new roommate.

When the inescapable encounter finally occurred it was more or less uneventful. Each set of parents frantically made sure their daughters had everything they needed before the two young women were inevitably left with only each other. It wasn’t their differences that I saw, rather, it was the bond between them as they entered into a brave new world (college).

This weekend, my best friend Eilin and I decided to have lunch together before he left for college. As an incredibly indecisive individual, I left the decision to select the restaurant solely to him. When I asked, his first and only suggestion was a Korean restaurant on Main St. Ironically, he is not Korean, nor is he any sort of Asian. Instead, he finds his roots in the tropics of the Dominican Republic. When we arrived at the restaurant, it was interesting to see that he knew just what he wanted. He ordered a traditional dish called “bibimbap” and even requested some extra “bulgogi”, or barbecued beef. Later, when I mentioned dessert, his first thought was a bakery in Bayside, and as you may have guessed, it was Korean! I laughed at his proposal, not because I thought it was silly, but because of his immense enthusiasm for Korean cuisine. While some Dominican boys find comfort in the taste of red beans with white rice, Eilin seems to find just as much satisfaction in the distinct sesame oil flavor and spice of Korean food.

9:30am Thursday, I trudge up the steps toward my destination: the wooden planks of the B train platform.  I arrive, and my fellow travel mates salute me, silently.  They acknowledge me in various forms: the elevator stare, the nod, even a short movement of the lips that could pass as a shy smile.  I interpret their body language as acceptance. The Travelers—working men, college students, and some odds and ends—have accepted me to join their anxious waiting and occasional peeking for the train. I notice a girl who appears my age, toting a school bag. I mind my own business; she minds hers. I resist the urge to introduce myself, to exchange minimal information. Instead, the deafening sound of the approaching train interrupts my thoughts and I make a beeline for the open doors.

We share a bench, me and the Unnamed Girl. A couple stops later, neither of us have said a word. I take out my travel-size siddur[1], and begin to pray.  From the corner of my eye, I see the Unnamed Girl do the same. Our shared Jewish culture has created a silent bond in the subway car, but it remains silent. The unnamed Girl leaves the train, only her memory in the now-empty seat.

Moments later, a middle age African American woman bounces on board and fills that void. Her cheery “Hello, good morning!” startles me, but I quickly recover from my NYC-subway-rider-syndrome and surprise myself with an equally cheery greeting…

[1] Prayer book

Some people have a quiet place for their thinking. Others take solace in their headphones, artists screaming or whispering into their ears, to straighten up their hearts and minds. I, on the other hand, donate my thoughts to the streets of New York. The rhythmic beat of my sneakers as they hit the asphalt, always running forward to explore a new corner of the New York skyline, keeps my thoughts rolling. Earlier this week I rolled my way over the Williamsburg Bridge, where I met Billy.

Billy is what I nicknamed this Billy-Burg Bridge Monster, a fiery character with an impressive wingspan of two bike lanes and a pedestrian lane. His demeanor and overall randomized placement made me “LOL”. I stopped my pensive thudding and smiled at how beautiful life can be when it reveals itself. Someone, somewhere, probably took hours, maybe even days, to give him life – so he can brighten the lives of those he meets.

And then I wondered who he has met. Thousands upon thousands of people, daily, must pass him by. Runners, friends, families, skaters, neighbors, tourists, hipsters, and an ever-growing following of bicyclists – all sharing a page in their untold stories with Billy. He must have some stories to tell.

Who cares if walls can talk? I want to listen to the ground.