I have become a New Yorker. Certain changes in mentality occur, not noticeable at   first. For example, it irks me a little too much when people take their own sweet time walking on the sidewalks, because let’s face it, some of us have places to get to, and a slow moving obstruction is the last thing any of us need.

 

Another thing that has changed is now I can immediately point out tourists. For example, one morning my friend and I were taking the 6 train down to Baruch, and a family of four entered at 68^th street. First thing I noticed was the fact that it was a family.  I thought about it, and realized just how uncommon it is to see a family travelling together on a New York City Subway. Usually bustling with crowds, it’s hard enough taking care of a wallet, let alone an entire family.  When this family came on, he following conversation ensued.

 

Dad: “You better grab a seat squirt, these trains get crowded I hear.”

Son: “Sounds good dad.”

Mom (to dad): “Now you keep an eye on him you hear”

Dad: “Eh, don’t worry, he’s gotta see the big city world someday”

 

Then the conversation went on for a couple more stops. I, being the New Yorker I am, was reading the Washington Post on my phone during this  exchange, not caring about anything but my destination.

 

The most interesting thing about this entire exchange had to be the fact that up until some time ago, I would have been the boy from a suburban town, seeing the city by myself for the first time., not understanding streets and avenues, befuddled by the obscenely complicated subway system, and awed by the enormity of it all. Now I am a part of the biggest city in the world. I have become a New Yorker.

 

A blur of a crowd, the life of a New Yorker

Credit: SVLUMA

I was watching a movie the other day called I Not Stupid Too. The title is grammatically incorrect but the story itself is quite touching.

The movie portrays many different aspects of the life in a country like Singapore, as well as the relationship of a family. There were many sentimental scenes in the movie but one scene that I want to focus on was the caning scene. In short, a teenager was publicly caned, with an audience, as a punishment for being involved in a fight with a teacher at school. At first, I was surprised that they would include this in their movie because there are many countries that do not support such physical abuse. This issue lingered in my mind for a while and it made me curious. What else can you do to end up being whipped with a stick in front of anyone and everyone that wants to watch?

I spoke to my relatives who had lived in Singapore for three years. They hadn’t watched the movie but when I brought up the issue of public caning, they weren’t surprised. I learned that caning is widely used as a form of punishment. I found this interesting and decided to research a bit about caning in Singapore. There are different canes that are used for different reasons or ages. If you are younger, a lighter cane is used, and the maximum number of strokes will be lower. Some exceptions for caning are women, those who are sentenced to death, and men above the age of 50. With these exemptions, is caning still an effective punishment?

When I thought about what it felt like to be caned in public, I realized that aside from the physical pain, the point of being punished in public can also be a way for the government to embarrass the criminal. I would imagine that the criminal would continue his actions if nobody had known about his misdeeds, as opposed to if he was shamed so openly.

Growing up in another country, I can never get used to the American culture. Among the different but altogether weird aspects of American culture, one thing I know I can never tolerate is Halloween. By “cannot tolerate”, I do not mean I dislike this holiday to such a point that I can’t digest anything about it. In fact, I like watching when everybody dressed up as various monsters, animals, fairytale characters, or even superstars. It is… Um, interesting. But when someone asks me, “Why aren’t you dressing up?” WOW! I did say I like to WATCH didn’t I? It doesn’t mean I want to be a part of it!

It doesn’t matter when someone else is doing it, but no matter what, I won’t do it. This is the baseline I held for most of the things here in the United States. I know for a fact that, no matter how long I stay here, there is always something that I wouldn’t try, and Halloween is a part of it. It is permanent that I can never dress up in those costumes. I won’t allow it; my culture won’t allow it.

I actually don’t know why this is happening, but I guess when two cultures cross each other, there are always contradictions in between. For me, I would always stand on the side of my own culture.

Just last week, devastation struck New York.  Hurricane Sandy pulverized many parts of the city, including Staten Island, Breezy Point, and Long Island.  I knew I had to do my part to help out once I saw parts of Staten Island were destroyed.  When I came back to the dorms late Wednesday evening, my friend informed me that she was going to Long Island the next day to help out with the Red Cross.  I decided to get up early the next morning to join her on the trip.

After brutally waking up before 6 AM, we made our journey to the Red Cross headquarters in Midtown.  Once it was time to leave there, three buses took volunteers out to scattered areas of Long Island.  I spent the first half of the day standing in the middle of the street advertising the free Red Cross meals.  Once four o’clock rolled around, I was called over to hand out dinner to the families who lost everything.  This process went smoothly for quite some time, until a large number of Spanish speaking families began to arrive.  Although I took three years of Spanish in high school, my Spanish is rusty because it’s been a while.

“We have bologna, cheese, and turkey sandwiches,” I said to a man.

He looked at me very puzzled and responded with “Que?”  I knew he was speaking Spanish, but I did not know how to tell him the types of sandwiches in his native language.

Luckily, my friend, fluent in both English and Spanish, jumped in quickly and said, “Tenemos mortadella queso y pavo.”

He smiled and answered, “Dos mortadellas, por favor.”

After listening to this conversation, I told her I would handle the next Spanish speaking person, thinking I could handle it.  Sure enough, there was a Spanish couple a few people later on line.

I said, “Tenemos mortadella queso y….” I forgot how to say turkey in Spanish.  After about a minute, I pointed at the turkey and said “El pave-o!”

Both the couple and my Spanish-speaking friend burst out laughing because of my horrible pronunciation, but they understood what I was trying to say.  My friend even told me after that I was massacring her language.

The wife then replied, “Mortadella y queso, por favor.”

I was then stuck with the challenge of asking how many sandwiches they would like.  Accepting defeat, I told my friend to take over, and she carried out the rest of the conversation.  From there on, she handled the Spanish speaking families for the day.  Even though I wasn’t much of a help to some of them, I provided a lighthearted, comic relief for those going through a difficult time in their lives with my broken “Espanol.”

Hi Everyone,

I just added a new category Funny Photos (under Street Photography). Please add this to your Funny Photo Post.

See you tomorrow at ICP at 1:45 PM. Hope it doesn’t SNOW!

Prof. B.

I was raised in a family where being over prepared was the way to go. At home, I had an entire room dedicated to foodstuffs, filled with enough snacks, drinks, and foods to feed an army. It could be considered good preparation, or it could be that my mom likes to shop. Either way, I was always prepared for anything while at home.

But this past week was the first disaster I experienced without being home. I had to take care of myself. Of course my mom was calling me “Buy this, buy that, don’t do this, be home by 7, subways won’t run”…and the list goes on. But being raised in that kind of family, I was already doing what I had to do. My clothes were washed, batteries bought, the last thing was food. No longer could I open a pantry and have the variety choice of a supermarket aisle; this time I was on my own. And spending my own money, I was not going to get the same buffet of snacks I had at home.

I set out to the grocery store around the corner and as anticipated, the lines were long. I guess many people were preparing just as I was. But the spectrum of preparedness was so vast it was shocking. I predicted the storm to be bad, but some people looked as if they were planning for the apocalypse. Seeing full carts of food and stacks of water cases scared me. In my arms were only a couple cereal boxes, chips, and cookies I was going to share with a friend back at the dorm. Was I underprepared or were they being irrational? They scared me into going back and getting some more crackers.

Citing Isabel’s post, as we were waiting on line, we encountered the other side of the spectrum. Nothing but crates of beer would last these guys for the storm. Clearly we were not on the same page. It was irritating that they were playing Sandy off like nothing, making jokes about it, but who am I to tell them off. News reports of the storm and seeing everyone else carry food and water apparently meant nothing to these two. This beer would sustain them through if things got bad. How there were people like that after all the warnings I have no idea, but they just had a different mindset.

We all heard the same news, got the same warnings and live in the same area. So the range of preparedness came as a culture shock. How can New Yorkers go from preparing for the end of the world, to laughing about “a little rain?” Guess that New York state of mind differs when dealing with natural disasters.

 

I am always amazed at New York City’s diversity, racially and socioeconomically. However, I’m also amazed at the seeming homogeny of New Yorker’s political views. I always knew that New York City was overwhelmingly democrat. I did not expect the percentages to be so one-sided though. Brooklyn voted 82% for president Obama this election. Manhattan voted 85% for Obama, and Queens voted 79% in favor of the incumbent. The Bronx voted 91% for the president, and even the normally conservative Staten Island voted 50% to 49% to elect Obama to a 2nd term. Up-state New York is more diverse in their political party affiliation. While there are more Republicans, there are at least a fair number of Democrats (30-40%) mixed in. It astounds me that with the huge divide in wealth and race, almost all individuals would all affiliate with one party.

I must confess I am from a traditionally “red” state, Missouri. Even there though, there is a much greater range in political party affiliation. While almost all counties voted for Romney this election, each race was close. No county voted for Romney by more than an 80% margin, in contrast with Obama winning more than 80% in 4 of the 5 boroughs of New York.

It’s amazing how deeply divided our country is now. There was even a report recently that after it was announced that Obama had won reelection, there was a riot at the University of Mississippi. Just search “University of Mississippi riot” on Google and you will find the top search results containing a detailed report of what occurred. The protest comes on the heels of the 50th anniversary of the forced integration of ‘Ole Miss which was met with intense violence almost half a century ago.

I think now more than ever, it’s important for both sides to look at what the other party is saying and try to find some compromise. We need to work on things that both parties can agree on, and sometimes we have to realize we cannot always get everything we want. It seems many of our politicians never learned the basic skill of conciliation.
I think both parties need to be more open-minded to opposing ideas. New York City is supposed to be tolerant of all ideas, but it seems that Republicans are often derided as bigots. In the South, Democrats are disdained as “sell-outs” or socialists. I think it’s time that we quit with the name-calling and actually work together, but I suppose that in Washington things never change.

When I moved to America from India, I could not have been more amazed. The people were polite, the streets were not as crowded, and people actually stopped at red lights! Most of these perceptions have changed over this last week in the wake of Hurricane Sandy. I have been back home on Long Island for this week, and everything has become super competitive. The prime example of this, of course is gasoline. I waited two hours in line the other day to get some gas for my mom’s car. The funny thing about it all is that in India, the electricity goes out all the time, sometimes twice a day for an hour, or for two days straight.

People over there, however, have learned to deal with it. Now that I live here though, I could not bear to spend more than a couple of hours away from my phone or computer. Half the people I know back in India can’t even work a computer! This truly puts a spotlight on one aspect of society. The more advanced a society becomes, the harder it becomes for it to return to the “basics”. If there is no electricity, w cannot charge cell phones, we cannot check Facebook or twitter, and we cannot watch TV. Technology has become the centerpiece of our society, with electricity as the obvious backbone. However, the more emphasis we place on technology, the harder it will become for us to cope in times that it is not available to us.

Hurricane Sandy has really put into perspective the different approaches societies take in response to technological problems. In India, the phrase “Oh, the light has been out for two hours” is common, but in America, the fact that the power even goes out is considered to be rare event.

During my senior year of high school, it became a tradition to go out for dinner to celebrate the birthday of every one in our friend group.  Diverse with our taste buds, we covered a range of Chinese, Thai, Ecuadorian, Korean, and Indian cuisines, having nothing to do with our ethnicities. Each of the aforementioned cuisines cost me about $6 – $20, but after several birthdays and day activities that accompany each birthday, my expenses built up. Though these nights with friends were enjoyable, there’s a limit to how much I’m willing to spend per day out, especially without having a job. I wasn’t the only one, of course. All my college-bound friends have the same thought process. Accustomed to Chinese cuisine, I am used to getting a wide variety of dishes and being too full to eat any more, for the cost of maximum $20 per person after tax and gratuity.

To celebrate the birthday of my Guyanese friend, my Bengali friend suggested an Italian restaurant located near Central Park, reassuring the rest of us that it is family style and the cost wouldn’t be more than $20. Seating thirteen people around a table, we ordered about 6 family style dishes and passed them around clockwise one by one. Looking around, seeing that there were twelve more mouths to feed after me, I took my fraction of each dish: a piece of fried calamari, some spaghetti, a meatball, a fried zucchini, and maybe some more pastas, but not much, hoping that the dish would come back around with some extras later. Unfortunately, by the time each dish reached around the eighth person, they were almost cleared and the interesting meats were already all taken. It was clear no one was completely full even after licking each plate clean; we ordered some desserts – a birthday cake – to sing the traditional Happy Birthday song with.

A few appetizers, six family style dishes, and a dessert for the birthday boy split between twelve people. “No big deal,” I thought.

Dropped jaws and wide eyes spread as the receipt came to the people sitting closest to the waiter. “Well how much is it?” echoed across the table.

After intense mathematical analysis, long division, and triple checking, the table’s smartest math guy concluded $40 per person without the birthday guy pitching in.

Our wallets were already flattened at the movies earlier that day, and now this dinner completely emptied them.

This was my first Italian cuisine, and now I thought, this is going to be my last. Never do I want to pay so much for not being full again. Maybe for my birthday – when I won’t need to pay. Just kidding. I’ll just stick to Chinese cuisines.

“Do you need help?” my neighbor shouted as I was taking plants down from my balcony.

“No. It’s fine! Thank you, though!” I smiled.

Then we talked about how disastrous this storm might be.

“I hope that old tree across the street doesn’t fall.”

“Yeah, me too.”

We were a day away from the arrival of Hurricane Sandy. Everyone in the neighborhood was outdoors securing garbage cans, sweeping leaves that the strong gusts of wind had blown onto their lawns, and, like myself, bringing plants into the house. For the first time, I saw neighbors and pedestrians offering to help each other secure objects. In the back of my mind, I have always viewed New Yorkers as people who would focus on themselves. Typically, everyone is rushing to get from point A to point B that it is difficult to stop and lend a hand. This was the culture that I am used to.

When my neighbors moved in, we only spoke to each other if we left our houses at the same time. Even then, it was a simple, “Good morning,” or “How’s everything?” The conversations never lasted for more than a minute because we were in a hurry to catch the next train. This Saturday evening was the first time we were able to hold a conversation for longer than a minute.

One positive thing about natural disasters in New York City is that people begin to genuinely care about each other more than usual. Friends and family members who have not been in contact for long periods of time are suddenly calling each other to make sure everyone is safe. Even pedestrians who are probably rushing home to their families are willing to stop and help. After this incident, I can finally say that New Yorkers are not as self-centered as we appear to be.

“I’m one of those New Yorkers who don’t believe anything that bad can happen,” said a classmate of mine. I was one of those New Yorkers who didn’t believe Hurricane Sandy would be as bad as they say. In the past, when a natural disaster makes its way to New York, I’m always at home with my family. I didn’t have to worry about stocking up or running out of food. If anything were to go wrong, I’d have my family with me.

This year, I ended up staying at my dorm over the weekend instead of going home, which meant I was on my own to prepare for the storm. I went to the grocery store around the block on Sunday afternoon. Instead of the usual short lines, I saw a line so long I couldn’t even see the last person. The fact that the line was so long didn’t register in my mind immediately, so I continued to snake through the aisles, looking for non-perishable foods and anything easy to eat. I picked up two boxes of cereal, a bag of pita chips, and a pack of cookies – I was ready to go. I follow the line to the last person and find myself in the back corner of the store. This was the first time I have ever encountered something like this. At home, the supermarket by my house was never ridiculously crowded.

As I waited in line, I unwillingly eavesdropped in on some conversations going on around me. One conversation between two men behind me, both carrying crates of beer, was about how absurd everyone was for stocking up for a small storm. I looked ahead of me, and sure enough, most people were pushing carts and carrying baskets filled with food up to the tippy top.

There are two sides to every story. I guess in Sandy’s story, the two sides are made up of those who doubt, and those who believe.

There are many views on photography but perhaps Rodchenko’s view is the one that I agree with the most. His view on photography is that it should be used to capture what we see normally in different perspectives. It creates something new and bizarre yet at the same time, it was always there in front of our eyes. He stressed the importance of perspective in order to help the people gain a more complete impression of the world around us.

Larry Sultan’s view on photography was also interesting in that it shows two conflicting vies of photography. His father was a big fan of the model and pose form of photography whereas Sultan’s photography had more substance in revealing time and mood. He viewed staged images of success as deteriorating to families who don’t ever find success. When he ended with “to stop time” and “i want my parents to live forever,” I stopped and thought about how we take pictures to remember the times we spent with people who may have already passed on. While perspectives are important, the freezing of time and the importance of memory are truly fundamental in photography.

White Balance – is the process of removing unrealistic color casts, so that objects which appear white in person are rendered white in your photo. May be used for creative purposes.

Image Noise – is the digital equivalent of film grain for analogue cameras.

Macrophotography –  is extreme close-up photography.

ISO – is the sensitivity of the pixels when taking images. This plays a great role in exposure.

RAW – is also known as the “digital negative”. A RAW file contains all of the detail and information recorded at the time of shooting as it comes off the sensor, and before any in-camera processing is done meaning that you have all the information at hand when processing with compatible software later on.

As a child, one of my favorite places to visit was the library. I would often beg my grandmother to take me to the Rego Park Library, and every now and then she would give in to my wishes. Holding my hand, she would shuffle her weary feet for twenty minutes to get there. Except for the pain in her legs, she didn’t mind going there. The library’s collection of Russian books was quite good, so I knew that she wouldn’t be too bored while she waited for me to scout the place for yet another Penguin classic.

Amongst all the hours that I spent in that place, there is one experience that stands out amongst the rest. Standing in front of a grandiose cabinet, I scanned the books to find a specific title. Not spotting it on the shelves, I looked through the collection a second and then a third time. The book wasn’t to be found. I was left with one choice; a choice that I dreaded for as long as I knew of the existence of libraries.

I took my grandmother’s hand and reluctantly made my way to a librarian. There were a few of them sitting at their desks, engrossed in filling out some computerized charts. The gleam of their computer screens hit their faces and illuminated their every drooping wrinkle, every bag under their bloodshot eyes, and each excess hair that grew above their frowning lip.

Now, I might be slightly exaggerating when it comes to their descriptions. But the fear inside me, that was real.

I approached a lady that didn’t look as petrifying as the rest. She was wearing thick round glasses and her few blonde hairs were all combed backwards. Her fingers slowly pressed the buttons on her keyboard. She was still stuck in the 70s. “Um, may I ask you a question?” my thin voice asked.

Her eyes moved from the computer to my face.  With a voice so monotone and computerized she responded. “Yes?”

Gaining more courage, I told her about the book that I was looking for. She searched the title and author in the electronic database and reported to me, with the same unenthusiastic tone, that Rego Park Library did not carry such a book.

My spirits crushed, I turned to my grandmother. “Ok babushka, we can go home,” I said in Russian.

Grandmother looked at me for a moment, her gaze always so loving and tender. She turned to the librarian. “Ex cooz me, doo you,” she hesitated, “speak Russian?” That was about as much English as my grandmother could muster.

The librarian’s frown grew even deeper and she stared at my grandmother for a moment. Then shaking her head almost violently she spit out the obvious word. “No”. Everything about her suggested that she was irked by the question. It was as if it caught her off guard, making her lose her mechanical and oh so precious way of addressing others.

My grandmother shrugged her shoulders and beckoned me to go to the other part of the library, where she knew I would enjoy looking at the newly arrived movies. As I began to walk away, I caught sight of someone else approaching the librarian. I stopped to see if she would treat the other person with the same demeanor.

The lady approaching her was another, younger, librarian. She sat in the chair next to her, crossed her lean legs, and in an alarmingly high-pitched voice began to recount the details of last night – in Russian. She was answered, of course, in the same language.

So I stood there, wondering.

I always thought that all members of the past USSR shared some sort of bond. Ninety-nine out of one hundred times, meeting a fellow Eastern European would be such a heartwarming pleasure.

Why was it such a trouble to admit that she spoke Russian? Was she embarrassed? Had my grandmother offended her in some way? The answer to all those questions will forever remain a mystery to me. It was certain, however, that if I dared to ask one of those questions, her reply would not be pleasant.

But as we say in mother Russia, when there is nothing good to be said, keep your tongue behind your teeth. I guess she was more Russian than I gave her credit for.

For the reading I chose the story of Larry Sultan.

 

What I really enjoyed about Mr. Sultan’s piece is that he talks about the difference between perception and description in photography. Perception is how things should be, while description is how things actually are. Larry Sultan gets into an argument with his dad over a picture of his mom. Larry took a picture of his mom holding a turkey on a silver platter (descriptive). Larry’s dad complained that his son was stereotyping on how people age. Larry then started to point out that all of the photos his dad took of him mom looked “like a model selling one thing or another” (prescriptive).

 

Then Larry looks at his father. He started taking pictures of his father’s reactions. He makes it clear that his father has been laid off and this causes his father great pain. Not only because of him losing his job, but also because of the social implications of the time. Larry makes clear these were the Reagan years and the main image of this time was “perfect family” also known as the prescription of the time. No one has a perfect family and Larry uses his own as an example to show “what happens when we are driven by images of success.”

 

It was a truly powerful piece and Mr. Sultan does a superb job showing the judgments photographers need to take before taking a picture: to photograph the representation or the thing itself?

 

UNDEREXPOSURE: Failure to expose correctly because not enough light has struck the film or sensor to faithfully render the color and brightness values.

 

UV FILTER: A clear, colorless filter that stops most ultraviolet rays from recording on film.

 

SATURATION: In color, a vividness, or intensity.

 

INCIDENT LIGHT: The light that falls on a subject, rather than that which is reflected off it.

 

HIGH CONTRAST: A scene where the range between the brightest and darkest areas is extreme

 

 

 

 

Photography is a method of viewing objects and other common things we see in a new perspective. That’s the challenge for a photographer, says Alexander Rodchenko. He discusses in his article the cliché in photography and how he takes the modern path less traveled on. He explains the history, the past path, of photography and paintings, how most objects and subjects are viewed from the eye level or the belly button level. Many artists have potentially tried to portray their subjects in a different angle; the objects would be on top of each other but each object was still drawn in its front profile. A camera doesn’t change the perspective; the photographer can manipulate that. Why not challenge the mind and take photographs in a different viewpoint to make things appear more interesting? I think he made a valid point in his article. I enjoy taking photographs in my free time and often times I find myself trying to capture a view that no one would normally see that object in, because it looks more fascinating, new to our eyes. In complete contrast to Alexander Rodchenko, Larry Sultan describes that his drive to photograph is to capture the most familiar – the family. It also makes sense that one would want to photograph for keepsake purposes, and to glorify the loved ones.

Berenice Abbott argues in her article that the purpose of photography is “to recreate the living world of our time,” because photography captures “realism – real life – the now.” She reasons that a photograph is only powerful if the purpose behind taking that picture is meaningful. For this I also agree, because with a camera always readily available, I am able to capture the moment when things happen for a reason to have it as a memorabilia.

Ken Light shares that photojournalism, the documenting of important events through the medium of photography, can be powerful and hold a voice of the photographer, a “witness” of the world. Since photographs are physical documents, they provide a glimpse of the past to future generations. His interview with Susan Meiselas showed how important it was to document things, to share with the world what another person’s world is like.

 

Photography Terms

Latent Image – The invisible image left by the action of light on photographic film or paper. When processed, this latent image will become a visible image either in reversed tones (as in a negative) or in positive tones (as in a color slide).

Polarizing Screen (Filter) – A filter that transmits light traveling in one plane while absorbing light traveling in other planes. When placed on a camera lens or on light sources, it can eliminate undesirable reflections from a subject such as water, glass, or other objects with shiny surfaces.

Program Exposure – An exposure mode on an automatic or autofocus camera that automatically sets both the aperture and the shutter speed for proper exposure.

Overexposure – A condition in which too much light reaches the film, producing a dense negative or a very light print.

Vignetting – A fall-off in brightness at the edges of an image.

As I sit down to respond to the article regarding Berenice Abbott’s take of photography, Hurricane Sandy is knocking on my windows, breezing by. I think of the many aspects of photography described by Ms Abbott, and her explanation of what she thinks photography is. “It is or should be a significant document, a penetrating statement, which can be described in a very simple term – selectivity.” Rather than something that you have to envision and then put on a canvas, photography puts what you can see into a vision or a point of view. This is what truly separates photography from other forms of art. Photography puts a message that an artist may have, and shows that message captured in an exact moment, validating the point of view.

 

Another thing that stood out to me in this piece was the mindset with which photographers needed. For example, she explains how the “eye is no better than the philosophy behind it”. These words really spoke to me, as they are not true just of photography, but of basic human nature. Without developing an opinion or arriving to a judgment based on something we observe, we are simply absorbing everything, and it is not truly allowing us to discover how we perceive certain things.

 

Photography has changed a great amount since it became a popular form of art. With new technologies available, emphasis is placed on certain aspects rather than others. For example, with the ascendance of digital photography, there can be more focus on the creativity and technique rather than the actual processing of the photos. Photographers will focus more on “selectivity”; using what they deem appropriate to their respective motives and points of view.

 

Berenice Abbott focuses a lot on the realism of photography and why it is so different from other forms of art. Reading this inspired me to go outside and show everyone the realism of this hurricane from my point of view.

 

 

5 Terms:

 

1)    Slavish: (adj) Showing no attempt at originality, constructive interpretation, or development

2)    Aperture: (n) A space through which light passes in an optical or photographic instrument

3)    Pictorialism: (n) style in which the photographer has somehow manipulated what would otherwise be a straightforward photograph as a means of “creating” an image rather than simply recording it

4)    Moorings: (n) The ropes, chains, or anchors by which something is held in place

5)    Medium: (n) An agent or means of doing something

One word of advice: if you’re hungry, do not see Fall For Dance, Program III’s “Grand Pas” from Paquita. The ballet suits, which resemble peachy-pastel-colored pastries, topped with berry colored embroideries may result in your involuntary contribution of stomach growling to therecorded classical music.  Other than that, it was a tastefulintroduction piece from Ballet West.

 

Artistic Director, Adam Sklute’s piece opened the October 2nd on Tuesday with a panoply of Russian ballerinas, each painted with a smile (although many looked strained).There is quite the resemblance between the set and a classic Degas ballerina painting—the pinkish palette seemed to blend into impressionism. The two stars of the show made quite a not-so-subtle debut. Christiana Bennett, with her strikingly beautiful vermillion hair, plays the princess, with Rex Tilton as the prince. While there seemed to be a placidenergy current flowing through each of the dancers, there was an evident lack of being in sync. Calves and forearms slightly out of place were palpable against Bennett and Tilton’s fairytale poise and impressive strength. However, there was a lack of chemistry between the two—in one instance, he lifted her with great power, yet with daintycaution, as if she were made of porcelain. Otherwise, his figure was soft and suave. Bennett reached her peak, stole the show, when she delivered a remarkable pirouette of more than 10 consecutive spins on a perfectly arched, silk-clad foot. Roaring applause swept through the audience.  

 

“High Heel Blues” appeared in a quite contrasting atmosphere after a short break. The jazziness unfolded like a purple ribbon to the swaying and twirling and careless sweeping unpredictability of the dance. A shoe-obsessed woman, Yusha Marie Sorzano, and a cunning salesman, Uri Sands were the two sole characters. Dancing amidst a color palette of glum, earthy shades like an evening in a lonely city, Sorzano made herself the focal point of the piece in an unflatteringly chunky, below-the-knee skirt. A deep velvety alto voice narrated the scene (courtesy of Tuck and Patti); it drew me into the story more than the body language of the dancers did. The style of dance was sloppy and sluggish, giving off the notion that the woman was hypnotized by the charms of the salesman. However,the lazily curvaceous and weighty spinning was often not in sync with the jazzy, sultry rhythm that rolled off the voice.Uri Sands as a choreographer sacrificed the design of the dance by putting more emphasis on utilizing the full area of the stage. The audience did, however, get a good laugh from the whimsical lyrics.

 

‘Whimsical’ was the opposite of the third performance of the first act, entitled “Tarian Malam (Night Dances).” A curtain rose, revealing men and women in roomy, red and black martial arts costumes—a decision that communicated a theme of “fight.” The stark, dramatic overhead lighting created a serious atmosphere in which there was minimal movement for much of the beginning. Not only was this piece—by Nan Jombang Dance Company—abstract, but it depended heavily on the actions of the individual dancers, instead of the collective frame, to communicate a message that seemed rather vague and curious. According to the program, “traditional dance and martial arts” was used “to create a contemporary narrative about the earthquake that struck the region [West Sumatra, Indonesia] in 2009, which explains the desperate shaking, the slow motion movement, the numbing vocalizations that resembled ritualistic chants. Without this vital piece of information, the act seemed unconnected and tense. Sudden jerking movements within slow episodes, such as when one female dancer quickly leaped onto the back of a male dancer and attached herself like a leech, did not contribute to clarifying the story. Most of the dancers delivered a passionate, organic performance more towards the end of the piece, when each pounded on different sized drums. The collective rhythms, accompanied by the dancers’ chilling howls gave off an aura of icy gray desperation; a muted, blunt energy. Paradoxically it was a clash between civilized and savage and the predominant emotion conveyed served as a symbolic, psychological view of the turmoil caused by the earthquake.

 

The second half of Program III was presented by MoiseyevDance Company, led by artistic director, ElenaShcherbakova was divided into four parts. “Kalmyk Dance” was the first, followed by “Tatarotchka”, “Dance of the Bessarabia Gypsies” and “Suite of the Moldavian Dances.” Moiseyev Dance Company outshined the others, as its acts were bustling with energy and marked by quick, meticulous footwork. The first act was a cultural visit to the nomads “near the mouth of the Volga River”, according to the program. Roman Ivashchenko was a powerhouse—his hands and shuffling feet, which fluttered effortlessly, conjured smiles across the audience. The costumes were elaborate and well designed, instantly giving off the “village” theme. Excellent posture, genuine smiles and precision were the ingredients that made this act spectacular. The last act, “Suite of the Moldavian Gypsies” brought the night’s performance to a close with its heartwarming unity and colorful disposition. This large group, diverse, folk dance is called “Zhok.” The curtain descended, and the act left the audience with a burst of energy to take home.

Throughout our lives, many tragic events shape who we are as individuals by affecting our cultures.  Coming from a family of firefighters, I can assure you that Septemeber 11^th, 2001 was one of the most horrific days that New York City has ever seen.  At 8:46 A.M., a plane flew into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.  17 minutes later, the South Tower received a similar blow sending New York City into chaos. Ten years have passed, and I still remember the entire series of events like it was yesterday.  Little did I know that this disastrous day would have an impact on my life for years to come.

Ever since I was 9 years old, I have played baseball under the Robert Curatolo Ranger organization.  Robert Curatolo was a first responding NYC Firefighter who passed in the tragic events of September 11^th.  Robert’s best friend, who was also a friend of my father, began the organization to honor the life of his childhood companion.  When I was asked to play at the time, I did not fully understand the significance surrounding the organization and saw it as just another opportunity to play travel baseball.

Mr. Caputo was my coach for many years and Robert’s best friend growing up.  Before every game, he would remind us that we represent something bigger than ourselves.  He used to always tell us, “Remember the name on the front of the jersey that you are representing.”  For years, these words have echoed through my head.  I finally understood the immense sacrifice that Robert Curatolo, along with 342 other firemen, gave on that wretched September morning.  “All gave some, some gave all,” was the slogan made to honor the New York City Firefighters who lost their lives.  With a statement like this, and the lessons I learned as a Ranger, I now strive to give my all in everything that I do.

To pay my respect to Robert and all those who lost their lives on 9/11, I decided I would do something I always wanted to do: visit the World Trade Center Memorial.  When I arrived, the first thing I noticed was the large crowds of people gathered around the memorial fountains.  It was amazing to see that even 11 years later, so many people still gather together and honor the lives of their loved ones.  I spent about half an hour walking around and reading the list of names beautifully engraved around the perimeter of the fountains.  Standing among the crowds allowed me to put life into perspective and realize what is really important.

Culture can be defined as anything that has shaped our values and practices, and I can assure you that this chain of events has altered who I am for the better.  Now that I’m 18, I no longer am able to play, but the Ranger mentality still lives on within me.  Whenever I can, I help coach one of the younger teams, which Mr. Caputo gave my father the opportunity to manage.  Now, when someone asks me about the name, or the 9/11 patch on my Ranger sweatshirt, I smile because I get to tell Robert Curatolo’s story and the impact it had on me.

You know how people tend to sit with their own ethnic group in public area? Although I’ve seen this many times, until now, it is still pretty ironic and somewhat funny to me. I’m not saying that I don’t do this myself. In fact, intentionally or unintentionally, I would try my very best to stick to “my own group” if I have a choice!

In my anthropology class, we begin to cover the topic “race”. In the chapter I read, the author, who is also my professor for the class, said that anthropologists believe “there is no such thing as ‘race’”. Ok, I think it is very true considering the historical background of this word, but then, “how do you”, or the question may even be “how can you get rid of the idea of ‘race’”!

Ok, I don’t mean that the word “race” didn’t exist or anything. However, people did not use the word “race” the way they use it today—to classify Homo sapiens, or the human population. Here is a definition of “race” from the Britannica Encyclopedia—“…the idea that the human species is divided into distinct groups on the basis of inherited physical and behavioral differences. Genetic studies in the late 20th century refuted the existence of biogenetically distinct race, and scholars now argue that ‘races’ are cultural interventions reflecting specific attitudes and beliefs that were imposed on different populations in the wake of western European conquests beginning in the 15th century”.

As you can see, the new meaning of the word “race” was installed for people’s own desire during colonial period. Yet, people, including me, seem to regard “race” as a very common idea. In fact, people accept this idea and use it in their daily life. We make races jokes; we classify ourselves as a part of the “________” group; we even stereotype people using “race”. “Yeah, so she is so good at math BECAUSE she is Asian”; “he is such a good basketball player BECAUSE he is black”—this person is “blah blah” BECAUSE he or she is part of a certain group. Do we really think that? Well, yeah! Why else would we say such things? But is it true? Well…

In a place like the New York City, I would think that problems like racism would not appear as often. Well, actually it is somewhat true. It is also true that, however, in a place where diversity of ethnicities has become a daily part of our life, people tend to stereotype the “others” even more because we like to think that somehow one person can represent a whole group! Isn’t it just easier that way?

But then, since I’m already this far, I might as well just spill it out: what is race anyway?

I didn’t grow up playing basketball; up until age 10 I hated the sport. But my dad made me play in a league for a couple years and at first I was just awful, as every beginner is. But I was really bad. I got some slack for it because I was still younger though. After playing for a couple years I got better and by high school, I was decent and could play in the leagues without getting destroyed. I was no superstar, but I wasn’t the bench warmer either.

But organized basketball is nothing like the culture of street ball. Yes both are forms of the sport, but street ball is a whole new mindset and I would learn that the hard way. If you’re bad, you get called out for it. There are no teammates there to pick you up; you have to pull yourself up. So my first times playing at the parks didn’t go so well. I got called out. I played my one game, lost with my team, and wouldn’t get picked to play again. I wasn’t used to the attitude you have to have and it didn’t help me that I was Chinese. The stereotype is that Chinese people, except Yao Ming, can’t play basketball.

What shocked me was that as I got better at the parks, I picked up some of the culture from the park as well. The way the other players talked and acted at the park stuck with me, and I subconsciously do it now when I play ball. It’s as if the court has some line, and once I cross it and get the ball, everything changes. What would be an off-court “Hey, how’s it going?” became a “yo, wassup?” My walk turns into this stupid strut, and I just turn bolder. Guys at the park are bigger than me usually but if they start talking trash, they get it right back. Any other time I’d shut my mouth because I don’t want to start anything. But on the court its “oh, no shot” or “he’s little, he’s a baby” when he is clearly bigger than me. It gets me by on the courts, but once I step off, that transformation ends and I go back to the quiet and reserved person I normally am. It shocks me every time and after I get home and think about it, I always ask, “What was I doing…I need to shut up next time.” But I never do.

You need an attitude to survive at the parks, and I learned that after sitting down for countless games. But once you get decent and can play, you get respected and all the trash talk becomes part of the culture. The names, insults, everything is just part of the game and it drives you to want to embarrass the other team by winning. Sometimes I get called “Chinatown” at the parks, but to me, its not a racial thing, its just me showing that Chinese guys can play basketball, and its part of the street ball culture I’ve adapted to.

Growing up, I guess I could be considered a spoiled child. Although I was given more responsibilities, I found myself slacking on my chores. I slowly ended up doing the dishes once a week or the laundry once ever two loads. Of course, my parents noticed that they were still doing just as much work, and lectured me about how I am old enough to do these basic chores without their help.

“When I was your age, I had to buy groceries and prepare meals for my family.”

“When I was your age, I had to climb up three flights of stairs just to get water from the well.”

And that wasn’t all. When I visit my grandparents, they would often ask my brother and I if we have started working yet. Although we’re still in school, our elders don’t really understand the idea that generations these days have it much easier than older generations. Back then, kids started working when they were still in grade school, something very different from now. They often learned how to cook when they’re still young teenagers. Now, the new generations are often spoon-fed everything they need.

After hearing stories from my parents and relatives, I’ve always wondered what changed. When was the turning point? When did generations begin having everything handed down to them?

Annie and I coincidentally spotted each other the day the Korean Student Associations’ first general interest meeting poster was tacked in the sea of other flyers. Caught up with the student media trends, their flyer showcased the signature dance move of Psy, made famous by his recent song and music video, Gangnam Style. Although printed in black and white, Psy’s silhouette stood out of the motley chaos of student textbook advertisements and club meetings flyers. Note that the flyer had said somewhere along the lines of “Everyone is invited to come – does not have to speak Korean.” It immediately sparked our interests. As big fans of the current Korean media, the both of us flew over and asked one another in unison whether or not the other could accompany in attending this meeting. It was a mess of murmurs to any stranger passing by, but we understood each other perfectly.

“Welcome to Korean Students Association. Nae ileum-eun gim syalon ibnida. Wa jusyeoseo gamsahabnida….” The lady in front of the room thanked us for coming and shared with us her Korean name.

At first it all sounded like English to me, because I have been so used to hearing Korean from watching Korean dramas (with subtitles). I was able to catch a few words here and there, but nothing made sense to me.

I looked and Annie. Annie looked at me.

I whispered to her, “don’t you wish a line of subtitles were playing across the room?” She replied, “Exactly what I was thinking!! I hope we aren’t the only ones who don’t understand.”

We looked around; everyone there looked Korean, and of course understanding every word, they smiled and nodded. Two seats down sat an African American young man. We smiled, thinking, “good, we’re not the only ones.”

Sure enough, after all the members of the E-Board introduced themselves in completely Korean, they asked us each to stand up to introduce ourselves. We only knew that was what they had asked of us when they pointed at a gentleman in one corner, and asked him to stand up and he said his name. Phew, only name. I can do that. These elementary lines are often used in Korean dramas.

“Annyeonghaseyo, je ileum-eun Nancy ibnida,” which means “Hi, my name is Nancy.” – I quickly recited in my head.

The president then announced in English as well, “When you introduce yourselves, please tell us your name, your age, your major, and hobbies! Thank you!” And the gentleman continued in Korean.

Annie and I exchanged surprised looks. “You want to just run for it? The door is right there.”

Too scared to rudely interrupt the meeting, and still interested in what the club had to offer, we watched the dominos fall onto us as it was up to our turn to speak. She spoke first, blushing, she says, “annyeonghaseyo, je ileum-eun Annie ibnida. I am Chinese, so I’ll speak in English. My hobby is listening to Korean music and watching Korean dramas, therefore this club interested me.” She sits down.

It was my turn now. All the eyes were on me. I was glad I wasn’t the first between us to speak, but I was still extremely nervous. I stood up.
“Hi, my name is Nancy.”
I paused. “Ugh, why didn’t I say that in Korean? I haven’t been listening to the others’ introductions so I can recite it in my head.” I thought to myself.

I continued the rest in English, similarly to Annie, explaining myself that I am Chinese and I also have interest in Korean culture. I felt my face reddening with every “uhm” I said.

Two other people presented themselves in Korean, and it was up to the African American’s turn. To our surprise, and everyone’s surprise, he spoke in fluent Korean – no uhms, no blushing, no nail biting, no signs of nervousness. Our jaws dropped in awe, and everyone applauded.

It was amazing how he subtly shocked everyone. With the diversity in our age and place of New York City, one just really can’t judge a book by its cover.

After all the introductions, the vice president came over to warmly welcome us in English, expressing that he was glad we still decided to sit through it respectfully and invited us to attend their upcoming party KSA was hosting. Embarrassed, we smiled, and thanked him for his offer.

Club Hours was over soon enough; it was time for class, and our humiliation was over. We exited the room to re-enter into a realm of English speaking students with English side conversations that we could perfectly understand if we wanted to eavesdrop. But of course, that’s none of our business. We were just simply glad and sighed a breath of relief. Life was back to normal.

 

Psy’s infamous Gangnam Style
http://openclipart.org/people/jeeeyul/gangnam-style.svg

My family usually travels to India every year to year and a half. Every time we go, it is amazing to see how much the country changes in terms of development. There are new malls, an ever expanding metro line, and of course, the most traffic you’ll see anywhere (for those of you who think driving in NYC is bad). The biggest reason for us going so often is to see our family. My grandparents from my mother’s side and my dad’s brother’s family live there. Seeing my cousins and how they are growing up compared to my sister and I have been very interesting to me over the last couple of visits. Every time I think about our differences in growing up, the concept of language always comes up.

 

When I was 12, we went for one of our annual summer visits. Before heading to a family dinner out one night, my dad asked my cousin to call the restaurant in advance to make sure that they would have space for a large party of ten people. My cousin called while I was in the same room watching TV. The conversation was only a few seconds in length.

 

Cousin: “Hello, yes, I have a party of 10, will there be room for us tonight?”

Waiter: (I assume this is what he said) When will you be arriving?

Cousin: We will probably RETCH in 20-25 minutes.

 

I remember I just started laughing at this. For me, English had become second nature, and I could catch minor mistakes quite easily.

 

“Don’t you mean “reaching”? I remember saying.

“Yes, I made a mistake, so what’s the problem? I’m sure you had difficulty learning the language as well.”

 

I never thought hat my cousin would, at this point in MY life, be learning English. I had been under the foolish assumption that because I knew English it was obvious that the rest of the world would know it as well.

 

Now when I think back to that conversation, I relate it back to my current situation. I live in the most diverse city in the world. Surely not everyone can speak English perfectly. We have to realize that even though we may have understood a certain culture, culture is something that is constantly being adapted by people everywhere.

 

 

I scribbled words across my notebook and then suddenly, a new friend I just met at Baruch blurted out in surprise, “YOU’RE A LEFTY?!”

So I’m a lefty. I did my research and apparently I am not the 99% but instead I am the 10%. Give or take. Being a lefty isn’t really a big deal but as I think back on it, my left handedness was an issue that definitely irked my grandpa. My grandpa was a man who grew up with the Chinese mindset that the correct hand to use was the right hand. At the dinner table, he would stare me down until I remembered that he wanted me to move my spoon to my right hand.

As a child, I never fully understood why being left handed was wrong. In school, my friend wrote with his right hand but did everything else with his left hand. He told me that when he was younger, his grandma forced him to make the switch when it came to writing. This sounded awkwardly familiar and then I remembered my failure to convert to being a righty.

That night, I did some research and found out that the left hand is considered dirty and evil. Various cultures associate the left hand with demons, the devil, and bad luck. It was also just annoying for people since the world is a right handed world. Many times I’d end up poking a family member with a chopstick because our arms fought for table space.

But with all the negative stuff thrown aside, being a lefty is also considered quite good. Apparently some people say that being left handed has ties to increase intelligence and creativity. That’s because the left hand is controlled with the right side of the brain which is known for creativity and languages. So even though I’m not using my right hand, I’m definitely in my right mind.

Each year, thousands of people immigrate to the United States. Regardless of what country they come from, they all carry the same luggage: a unique culture, a religion, and a way of thinking.  Some people safely store these three things as their carry on items, but others lets their bags be placed with the rest of the heavy luggage in the storage compartment of the plane.  Sure, JKF tends to loose bags every now and then, but the majority of these bags slowly disappear once the immigrants settle in. Some traditional values fade away, but the fact that they aren’t innately American stays with them forever. It is this social identity that unites all immigrants, regardless of what country they come from.

My mother, an immigrant from Belarus, recently had a very heart warming encounter with a patient from India. The woman came into the office utterly distressed. She had given birth and her entire mouth mysteriously ached. She didn’t have any dental problems, yet multiple doctors told her to have all fillings replaced. Two things were for certain. First, the procedure would be costly. Second, it was an obvious scheme for dentists to profit from a naïve but otherwise healthy patient. As my mom discerned, there was no need for the dental work.

The woman, at a loss for what to do, told my mother about her difficult pregnancy. She admitted that life after the delivery wasn’t any easier. She had a body that hurt and a baby that she didn’t love.

Carefully contemplating the information, my mother told her that all those symptoms derived from stress. The magic remedy to fix her problems? No, not an operation, but instead, more rest.

The woman returned to my mother’s office a few months later, smiling and fully recovered. She thanked my mother for her non-traditional advice. Encountering a dentist, one who had a foreign culture and mindset, treated the woman in the most unexpected of ways. Perhaps, the woman was even more willing to listen because my mother was an immigrant like herself.

Whether it was the common distrust of capitalistic American dentists, or a need to be heard, the two immigrant women created a bond.