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On Thursday evening, the streets of Flushing were rampaged by a storm, the likes of which most Queens residents had not seen before. As I returned to Queens from school, I felt as though as I had just stepped into a war-torn battlefield. Light poles and trees were knocked down, and cars and houses were damaged all over. Normally I would take the bus back home, but due to the immense traffic, caused by the blocked streets, I was forced to walk. What would have been a grueling 40-minute trudge became a walk to remember. The damage of the storm had brought all of Main Street out onto the streets, as everyone was contributing to the clean up effort. As I approached Jewel Avenue (a predominantly Jewish community) I saw how the Jewish community in that area was extremely prepared and organized for these situations. They had what appeared to be their own little community patrol force, and their private ambulances hard at work making sure everyone was okay. As I walked further down Main Street, snapping photographs left and right, I approached my neighborhood (a predominantly Asian neighborhood). Our clean up effort was also well under way as neighborhood residents were outside clearing streets and sidewalks of all the fallen trees. I decided to stop and help my Chinese neighbors, as a fallen tree blocked their driveway. They thanked me with a nice, warm cup of tea. The storm had united all of the communities in Queens, as we all strived to overcome the devastation, and return to our normal daily routines.

Li wrote a powerful memoir and I was able to connect to him in many ways. Certain aspects of his life are common through out the Chinese community. His traditional father is something that I shared in common with him. His father did not value a close bond with his son and at his best his father would be nonchalant and at his worse he would put down Li. Li’s response was admirable and he did not allows his father’s critique and brutality get to him. Li persevered by entering his own world and attempted to obtain his father’s love at almost any means possible. His attempt seemed to be successful when him and his father connected at a political level, which all shattered once again. His relationship with his father is a rollercoaster of a ride with many ups and down, but it finally would end with an up.

Much of my life mimicked Li’s life. I as well desperately tried to obtain the approval of not just one parent but both my mother and father. It would seem that no matter how well I performed it just was not enough. They wanted more from me and pushed me to my limits. It was not until my later years that they gradually started to accept me for what I was. They let go of some of their tradition and embraced a more familial tie with me. It was this idea that the parents should not communicate with their children because parents function at another strata from their children. However, my parents soon let this go when I embraced them about their philosophy.

The Bitter Sea is an enticing read for those who can connect to Li. Much of his life and ordeals can be applied to anyone who has or is going through a struggle. Reading about his pain and jubilance brings hope to the hearts of many people such as myself. Although there may be many more themes to this novel, the message I got from Li was to be strong and endure no matter how much “bitterness” may exist in your life. In the end the bitterness we experience make the small things much more enjoyable.

In black and white, our present and the past are captured on a plain sheet of paper. Swirls of nostalgias, memories, and moments are all blended into a mixture of life in a photograph. Last Tuesday, I attended a seminar called “Meeting the Artist” at Macaulay Honors College. From there, Howard Greenberg, a freelance photographer and an owner of the famous photo gallery in Manhattan, opened my eyes to see the new world of photography. From his passionate speech, I was able to see how meaningful my life can be by pursuing my own dreams.

Howard Greenberg’s life has been dramatically changed since he took his first look of the world through the lens. With the rhythmic shutter sounds made by thousands of snapshots that he has taken in his life, he was constantly driven by his own motivation and passion. “I was hungry,” he said. Because he was hungry, he did not hesitate when the time of making decisions came. After his first encounter with photography, Mr. Greenberg instantly changed his dream to become a photographer. After finding his own interest in business, he decided to run a photo gallery. His life was full of risks, but he was a man of action. I was inspired by his determination and confidence the most.

I always thought photography was obscure. Whenever my photographer friends started to talk about angles, light exposure, and contrast, I simply wanted to escape from these professional, heavy terms. I was more drawn to painting because I thought it allowed me to directly convey my thought and express my imagination or fantasy on canvas. From that perspective, photography had a limit: I had to use existing objects, people and places to express my own self and thoughts. However, Mr. Greenberg redefined and even broke my initial definition of photography.  While I was hearing all the behind stories about each photograph that he brought, I felt taking a photo means more than just documenting an idea or a moment. Through each person’s facial expression, the contrast of light and irony of the setting, an excellent photograph can make us relive that very moment in our lives. “Capturing the moment, that’s all what it is, really.” After listening to Mr. Greenberg’s handy tip, now photography isn’t that intimidating to me. To be honest with you, I’m little hungry to learn more about it.

Howard Greenberg

http://www.guardian.co.uk/arts/gallery/2008/apr/17/newyorkschoolHoward

Greenberg started off like any one of us. He was confused with his path in life and play around with his career choices. He thought his life was with psychology but life often plays a trick on us and little did he know his career was going to make a one-eighty turn. Through what it would seem to be a miraculous circumstance, a camera fell into his hands and Greenberg discovered a passion that grew with no bounds. Greenberg was different and many would say he was a pioneer in his time. He took that camera and did something with it. With a certain amount of creativity and ingenuity he shot photos and built his portfolio eventually establishing a name for himself. He was different because he put his faith in the course of life and allowed it to bring him to new places and experience new events. As a result Greenberg was able to build himself a prestigious reputation as he traveled to various places such as Woodstock to get his name out there. As of today Greenberg holds a world-famous exhibition known as the Howard Greenberg gallery on 57th street and continues to collect mid-century photography. Although he has mixed feelings for contemporary photography his fervor for the classics will never change.

When I first moved into my building about 15 years ago, my condo building was rather empty and dull. Cultured is hardly the word I would use to describe my family; Chinese is a better word because that’s the only type of people my parents would ever talk to. But as time soon passed we heard different languages throughout my condo as different families began moving in. My mom was bewildered and wondered why she could not understand them and failed to realize that they were not speaking her native language. Soon enough as weeks passed no language was easily deciphered as we heard many different languages being spoken at once when we stepped outside of our condo building. With time my mother became accustomed to these “outsiders” as she would call them due to the fact that there were hospitable “outsiders” contrary to her beliefs. Our neighbors would come down to our home and bring in fruits and other delicacies. As my mom attempted to communicate to them she resorted to speaking her native tongue and our neighbor also resorted to their native tongue as well. So we ended up with my mother speaking Chinese and my neighbor speaking what I believe was Korean. The end result is a screaming and laughing contest with one person trying to speak over the other person. It is interesting how language works, even though neither party understands a word that is being said, they continue screaming as if they did understand. Perhaps it was the fact that they did not understand each other that kept them going or maybe it was this desire to understand more about each other through laughter and basic facial expressions. The language in my condo varies greatly and everyone picked up on basic vocabulary. I found that my mother was speaking words of Korean to me instead of saying it in Chinese. Language is contagious.

With me being an avid viewer of Hollywood films, and my dad being a fan of Bollywood films, we rarely watch movies together. “I don’t want to go to the theatre and sleep when I could do that at home,” he often says in his somewhat raspy voice. Although, when Slumdog Millionaire came out, he asked me to go to the movies with him. I agreed, because finally, there would be a movie that both my dad and I could enjoy. It was a movie that integrated aspects of Bollywood and Hollywood, and was also receiving critical acclaim. When we arrived at the theatre, we got the last two tickets available for the seven o’clock show time, thus raising our anticipation. “If so many people want to watch it, then it must be good” I kept trying to reassure myself. However, when the movie was in progress I couldn’t stand it. It was another boring cliché love story that kept dragging on and on. While I was fidgeting endlessly, I glanced at my dad, who was taking a nice little nap, and was happy that he didn’t like it either. “How was your nap?” I asked him once we got out. “It was better then watching that movie,” he said through laughter. Apparently he agreed that it was too sappy, and he also felt that it was a poor representation of Indian culture. Although, at the end of the day we continued to have differing tastes for movies, we both felt that Slumdog Millionaire was a dreadful movie.

http://fataculture.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/slumdog-millionaire-poster.jpg

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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”.

“That was definitely intentional,” I thought to myself as I lay there recovering from the agonizing pain I felt in my now black and blue eye.  The Colden Basketball Tournament carried a reputation for its physicality, however this game was turning into a brawl.  On the very next possession as I dribbled the ball down the court, I heard my friend holler in pain.  When I gazed back I saw my friend cupping his ear, blood oozing between his fingers.  The same person from the other team who took a cheap shot at me, stood next to him, with a sinister grin on his face, and my friend’s blood on his lip.  The cannibalistic monster had apparently taken a bite from his ear.   Having had enough, I plowed him to the ground and planted a right-handed jab, contorting his face.  As he got up, he howled at me in Chinese, a language completely alien to me, and vanished.  Both teams had been disqualified, but I was happy that I stuck up for my friend.  The moment we stepped outside of the gym, my teammates and I were enveloped by a group of Asian teenagers, some of whom I recognized instantly from my junior high school.  Again, Mike Tyson Jr. (as we appropriately nicknamed him) barked at me in Chinese and pulled out a knife. To my relief, one of the kids from my school told Mike Tyson Jr. something in Chinese, and they quickly disappeared.  Apparently they were scared that I had recognized them, and that I could easily identify them and get them in trouble.  Many insecure, Asian, immigrant teens (especially in Flushing) form gang like groups, trying to pick fights and gain a reputation for being hardnosed, but thankfully this group stopped before they did anything regrettable.