CUNY Macaulay Honors College at Baruch College/Professor Bernstein

Two weeks ago, I left for New Mexico to attend a National Institute.  I’d never been that far into the American West before nor I had I met anyone from Wisconsin, Texas, or Mississippi.  I had met some Californians, but I’ve never gotten to know any that well.  Anyway, on the way to Albuquerque, I met two other New Yorkers; when we arrived at the airport, there was already a large group waiting.  One of the New Yorkers said, “I’d be so tight if they lost my luggage again.”  The other replied, “Word.”  To this a Californian said, “Why would you be happy that your luggage is gone?  And what is ‘word’?”  Throughout the ten days, East Coast and West Coast debated the usage of “tight” and the West Coasters attempted to use “word” at all the wrong times.  Someone would laugh or point it out when a New Yorker said “word” because it came so naturally; it’s one of those not-really-annoying kind of words that just slip off the tongue.  It may just be a trend, but those Californians still say “hella” and “hecka.”

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.

The first day of classes ends at Baruch, I thought it was a nice day to walk home. Walking past boutiques selling high class paintings at “discount” prices, I think of how nice it would be to have some sort of fancy artwork hang on my wall.

As I was approaching Union Square I had an intense craving for Chinese food, and while scoping out the streets for a take out joint these bright colors on the floor caught my eye. A man was creating this intricate pattern with nothing but a vision in his mind and colored spray paint. He didn’t need his art to be hanging in a gallery or boutique, he just created.

“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.