Cultural Encounters: Arts in New York City

I had just gotten out of my Sociology class at 5:25 pm when I and one of my classmates met up to travel to the New York City Center. It was dark and raining outside when we left Baruch. So, we journeyed to the subway station because walking for too long in the rain would not have been a very enjoyable experience.

Waiting for the train to come took only a few short minutes and we were on the train and on our way. After two stops, a woman stepped on. She was African American wearing relatively tattered clothing. Five seconds after the doors shut, she spoke loudly for the whole car to hear, “Hello ladies and gentlemen. I am going to perform a song for you and if you like it then clap, and if you don’t then just ignore me. Thank you all very much.” And so, she began to sing. Now this is a relatively new experience for me, but it probably is not for any of you. Remember, I really haven’t taken the subway often…

Anyway, the woman sang “Someone Like You” by Adele. In my opinion, she sang the song better than the original… There wasn’t any more high notes and her voice was good, but not amazing. It was just the way that she sang that got me. I thought the woman was going to break down and cry at the end of the song because her voice sounded so heartbroken. It amazes me the talent that is lost in subway stations…

> (Sipkin/News )

Stereotypes in America accuse Asians of being horrible drivers, and I just think that Asian immigrant drivers are not used to the rules and driving etiquettes here in America. I actually think otherwise; that Americans’ driving skills are not at the Chinese level: the Chinese can maneuver through the busiest traffic given that their population is extremely large and perfect parallel parking.

I have been in China so many times before, but never have I ever realized or noticed how much their driving methods differ from ours. Firstly, there is no such thing as a One Way Street like we have in America. No matter how narrow the road is, cars are allowed to enter from either side of the street. I was surprised when I learned that first hand — when I sat in a car facing another car driving in my direction on a road I thought was too narrow to fit two cars side by side. To resolve the situation, I learned from multiple experiences, whichever car entered the street last, has to back up and allow the first car to pass, or the two cars, so professionally done, manage to pass each other side-by-side without scraping each other’s doors.

Secondly, it is normal to park with cars face to face. Refer to the image below:

I took that picture from the door of the hotel I was staying at. I spent a few minutes staring at those cars every time I exited and entered the hotel. It was supposedly a common method, because on this particular street, it was only allowed to park on one side of the street due to how narrow the street was. So it made sense. Kind of. In a way. In America, I usually take a quick glance for the direction the parked cars face, and I immediately know from which way the cars will be coming from when I cross the street. It definitely took me my entire stay in that city to get used to the fact that it was okay to park in whichever way possible. This encounter only left me more impressed of the Chinese’ skill in driving and parking.

Quick Relevant Fact: In some Chinese cities, to be more environmentally friendly by avoiding too much CO2 emissions and to eliminate frequent traffic jams, the government issued laws that cars with license plates that begin with an odd number can only drive on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Similarly, license plates that begin with an even number can only drive on Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Sundays. This encourages civilians to take public transportation or bike to work or school.  – I think this idea is simply ingenious.

There are hundreds of different Chinese dialects. Today, most people in China speak Mandarin but that doesn’t mean that Mandarin is the only dialect that still exists today. With all these different dialects that are spoken, sometimes it’s difficult to converse with someone of a different dialect.

I was going to the city with a friend who was visiting from college and his parents were nice enough to give us a ride over. Before we got to the city, though, we made a fuel stop and my friend got out of the car. I guess the atmosphere in the car got a little awkward and the silence didn’t help much, so his father started to talk to me. I didn’t realize he was talking to me partially because I was trying to avoid the awkward situation by pretending to be busy with my phone and partially because I couldn’t really understand what he was saying. When no one responded, I looked up, realizing that he was actually speaking to me.

A little shocked and nervous at the same time, in my broken Chinese I stuttered, “什么?” (which means “What?” in English)

He spoke again, it sounded like a completely different foreign language to me. When he realized I couldn’t fully understand what he was saying, he combined his Chinese and his broken English to ask a few questions about me. I answered in Mandarin slowly, hoping that he’d be able to understand me.

We continued our conversation during our ride to the city and by the time we got there, he no longer needed to speak any English in order for me to understand. I was actually able to understand his dialect to some extent, with a few words here and there that I’d need help with. I realized that although the Chinese dialects all sound very different, they still have bits and pieces that are very similar to each other, making it possible to understand other dialects you aren’t familiar with.

Like many other normal children, the only places I ever went were the places my parents brought me. It wasn’t until I was in middle school that I realized that one of my favourite restaurants was a little bit different than the rest of the ones my family usually eats at.

For starters, this restaurant was in a location completely different from where the others were. And secondly, this restaurant spoke in a strange language I didn’t understand.It turned out that for years, my family has been going to a Colombian restaurant.

I wondered how my family even found out about the restaurant in the first place so I asked my dad.

I asked, “Hey, how come we eat at the Colombian restaurant so often?”

“Because I like it.” he retorted.

“Why do you like it?” I asked.

“Because I used to live there when I was younger.” he said.

I was blown away. I found out my father and his brothers grew up in Colombia before moving to the United States.

Its funny because we only order take-out from there now and whenever I go in everyone looks at me with a puzzled look. They’re probably thinking, “the chinese take-out place is next door. What’s he doing here?”

I also find it funny that when I take my order, the boss who recognizes me always calls me Julio because of a Spanish custom to name the first son after the father.

My typical Bandeja Montanera (Mountain Platter) that I always order to go!

It’s true what people say: The Ancient Greeks influenced our way of life. For me, it was in an indirect way. Last Saturday, I was brainstorming my idea of what Homer means when he uses mist in The Odyssey. After I got an idea of what I wanted to write, I put my ideas on paper. Only one problem remained. I couldn’t make this transition. Apparently, the pen ran out of ink.

It was no big deal. I had plenty of pens in my room. I took one. I started writing and once again there was no ink so I threw it out. After countless pens, none of them worked. The easy solution was to use a pencil, but I am a stubborn man. I want to write this essay with a pen.

I went downstairs and asked my dad if I can borrow a pen from him. He said, “No. I won’t give you a pen. I will give you something better.”

“Sure,” I said because honestly want can better than a pen?

We go into the basement and my dad takes out a box. He opens it and inside was a bunch of fancy looking pens.

“Dad, those are still pens,” I said.

“No. They aren’t pens. They are writing instruments!” he replied.

“What’s the difference?” I asked.

“Try it. Then you feel the difference,” he said.

I opened the cap and saw the tip of the pen. It was nothing I had ever seen before. Thanks to Google, I found out I was using a fountain pen. I went up to my room. Took out a piece of paper and started writing random things to get a feel for it. After a while, I was getting the feel for it and then the ink also ran out!

I went downstairs to my dad and proudly exclaimed, “Aha! The ink ran out. This isn’t better than my pens. Looks like I’m going to throw this out.”

“No! Stop. Do not throw away the pen. The whole point is to refill the ink,” he said.

I was even more confused now. I never knew that pens could be refilled. We went back to the basement. He took out a syringe and a bottle of black ink. He took my pen and opened it up to reveal a cartridge. There he used a syringe to fill the cartridge.

“There you go. I refilled it. No need to throw it out like your cheap pens,” he said with a smile.

I was in total shock. I never knew that anybody still has bottles of ink lying around their home. I thought it was an 18^th century thing…something of a shocker in the 21^st century. As I now using my new writing instrument, I feel different than when I do with a regular pen. It gives me a sense of originality and superiority because honestly, who uses a fountain pen nowadays? Thanks to my Dad, he introduced me into this world of writing elegantly with elegant tools. Now, off to Homer!

Earlier this year in April, my friends and I decided to attend the Sakura Matsuri (Cherry Blossom Festival) at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. The one that proposed the plan had already gone to one the year before this; but he was disappointed and somewhat frustrated at the fact that by the time the festival was held, all the Sakura leaves had already fallen. For me, the first time I visited Brooklyn Botanic Garden was back in middle school as a class field trip. It wasn’t during the season where cherry blossoms bloom, and I didn’t know that cultural festivals was held there. This event was a new experience, a new encounter.

That Saturday in late April was unexpectedly cold, but I was up by 8 AM, ready to leave whenever my friends were ready. Because we lived near one another, we decided to meet by Grand St. train station for the D train. Together, the five of us met by 9:30 AM and departed from the station around 9:40 AM. We arrived without much delay around 10 AM. The entrance was packed! Two long lines were formed on both sides of the entrance for ticket purchase ($10 per ticket for students) with security guards to check bags for any dangerous items. That was the least of my concerns. What excited me was that many people were wearing yukata and some were even cosplaying (dress-up). All sorts of people were wearing them: Japanese, Chinese, European, and American. It didn’t matter what ethnicity people were from, they were all here to attend events, observe cherry blossom trees, flowers and each other, share Japanese culture, and most importantly, to enjoy the day.

Though the morning was cold, the afternoon warmth soon washed it away. The flowers, responding to the warmth, revealed their liveliness as well.

Not long after, people started to gather in a large tent-like platform. And so, my friends and I decided to see what was happening. It was definitely the main course for the day. First, they had a rock concert performance, singing in both Japanese and English. That lifted the calm, sightseeing atmosphere into one filled with loud claps and cheers. I thought the music they sang was classic or old compared to the ones I heard; nevertheless, I enjoyed listening to it. My friends also seemed to have liked it as well and said with a mellow comment, “Not bad.”

Following the concert was a Japanese folk dance, a Samurai play (Samurai Sword Soul), and lastly before we left the stage area, another concert whose songs were sang and composed by Yuki, a Japanese-American who lives in Brooklyn. The Samurai play was amusing in a way, but I didn’t quite understand the context. It was amusing solely because the Samurai who slayed about ten people and died together with his last enemy came back to life along with those who were all killed by the power of a god. I was confused but since everyone was happy and started dancing in the end, it really didn’t matter. Here’s the video, recorded by the user latiasfan2004:

Samurai Sword Soul

I loved the final performance that we saw before we left by Yuki. She sang the song 一緒に帰ろう (Issho ni Kaerou, meaning Let’s Go Home Together). It was different from the first song performance that we heard. It was relaxing and nostalgic, a perfect ending for our departure.

Yuki and Cuties performance of Issho ni Kaerou:

Yuki and Cuties performance – Issho ni Kaerou

Beauty, relaxation, excitement, and fun are only a few words that described my first experience of a Japanese festival. I am certainly looking forward to visiting it again next year!

Everyone has their own unique culture that defines who they are as a person.  But has anyone ever questioned where their origins of their culture came from?  A few days ago, a friend and I ventured to the Museum of Natural History on 81^st street.  As a child, I was never a fan of museums, but I decided to give them another shot.

Upon our arrival, we mapped out which exhibits we wanted like to see.  The first one we observed was “Human Origins.”  I particularly enjoyed this exhibit because it showed the beginnings and evolutionary process of human beings.  All around us, we could see various emaciated remains of archaeological findings.  Thousands of years ago, human beings did not have a concept of “culture,” rather people socially constructed it over time.  Our various languages, tools, and styles of art and music define who we are as people today.  While spending time in this exhibit, I could not help but wonder what in fact actually makes a cultural encounter, and how do we know if we are experiencing one?

This exhibit also contained the remains of Lucy.  For those who do not know, Lucy is one of the most famous skeletal remains that archaeologists have uncovered. Due to many years of erosion and decay, Lucy has only small fragments of bones left, leaving her with large chunks of her skeletal structure missing.  Supposedly, archaeologists named “her” this because when they discovered the bones, they were listening to “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” by the Beatles.

Lucy

After wandering through the vast number of exhibits, we stumbled upon the exhibit known as “Central and South America.”  While poking around, I discovered a recreation of Aztec musical instruments.  Since they did not have stringed instruments, the Aztecs had to make do with rattles and bones to create their own type of “music.”  These rattles seem to be made out of clay with a plethora of holes that allowed the Aztecs to create their own type of rhythm.  It is amazing to realize that music has evolved in such a way with the countless instruments and genres that exist today.

Aztec Instruments

Even though I was not particularly enthusiastic about going to the Museum of Natural History, I am glad I made the trip.  While I did not have a typical, modern cultural encounter, I experienced much of ancient culture.  Without observing ancient culture, we would not be able to figure out what makes our own cultures unique today.  Just as we continue to enhance our understanding of culture, I believe we can continue to further understand ourselves, as individuals, through new experiences such as this.

A few weeks ago I went to Times Square for the first time. I was told that it was overrated before I went, but I decided I needed to go as it was THE place that all tourists visit when they come to the city. Although I was told it was crowded, I didn’t expect it to be anywhere near as “packed” as it was. It was very hard to maneuver though the crowds and I uttered a quick “excuse me” every few seconds after bumping into numerous people. I’ve never really enjoyed being in crowds and instinctually I always try to find an empty space to walk through. The lights of the billboards and neon signs lit up the area.

You could feel the energy of the crowds, lights, and sounds. It was like you were in an amusement park. Never have I been to any place similar. In the suburbs of Saint Louis, our only lights are street lamps with their dim yellow bulbs. Here, there were red, green, blue, and yellow lights; all in various shapes and sizes. Some were formed into letters making up company names. Others were entire advertisements on huge big screens. The sound of taxis honking was almost constant. The experience was a little bit stressful with the commotion and bustling so intense. The culture of Manhattan is epitomized by Times Square. It seems the appeal of the city is how much fun the chaos is. It seems ironic, but it’s true.

http://www.trekexchange.com/tours/74

I couldn’t believe it, but this actually happened. I wasn’t sure if I should post this here because instead of culture encounter, I think it is actually shocking and somewhat scary.

It was a Wednesday. I don’t remember why, but we had that day off (it was just for our school). The day before, several friends and I wanted to go shopping at Queens Center Mall, so we decided to meet up at the 34^th Street M train station the next day morning and go together.

On Wednesday before 10 o’clock, our meeting time, we all arrived at the platform of the Queens bound M train. Since there were some people I never met before, we started talking about random things in Chinese while waiting for the train to come.

While I was talking, I heard some mumbles on the other side of the group (we had a group of eight, so it was a pretty big group for morning on a weekday). I broke away from my conversation and realized that there was an African American talking this way. He held an almost empty glass Vodka bottle on his left hand, and his right hand was busy doing different kinds of hand signals to us, including the middle finger. At first, I couldn’t understand what he was talking about because he seemed to be swallowing his own words. In fact, the whole time he was talking, I only heard several key words like “counterfeiting”, “fake clothes and bags”, “taking over America”, “taking all the Americans’ jobs”, and so on. It was obvious that he didn’t like Chinese people, but I didn’t understand that in the beginning. I heard the words “skipping school”, so I thought he might had the wrong idea and tried to explain to him that we were not skipping school. He ignored me and went on anyway. In the end, he even pointed at one of my friends and started telling her how Asian she looked and told her directly “Asians are really ugly”. That’s when I realized I encountered a racist. Although there weren’t as much people, all of them were looking in our direction. Not surprisingly, none of them helped us. Just when I thought that I had enough and wanted to talk back to him, he walked away in a “take two steps and slide back one” manner, still yelling out the same words he said to us.

It all happened really quickly. He only stopped for about 30 seconds, but it felt like a whole century. After he left, we stared at each other for about 5 seconds, still not knowing what’s going on, and finally one of us said, “我们好像被歧视了。。。(It seems like we just experienced racism)” We suddenly broke into conversations about that man. We tried to recall what just happened, but the memory seemed so obscure but at the same time so clear for the language he used. After several discussions, we decided to view the man as a lunatic and started laughing so hard all together. After the laugh, we went back to the conversations we had before like nothing had happened.

I don’t know about the others, but that laugh was the bitterest laugh I ever had.

How a Victim of Racism Became a Perpetrator

It’s Thursday night. As I approach 5^th avenue right before central park, I see the inevitable crowd. It’s a sea of faces-some illuminated with delightful anticipation, some crusting with a lack of sleep. Some nestled under cozy quilts. Some bubbling with energy. The perpetual chatter lights up the avenue with all kinds of crazy stories, questions, deep dreams, partyers, crowd-pleasers, drunkards, nerds, black people, white people, beige, orange, purple and the occasional shameless dancing-lunatic-weirdo. “Party Rocker” boomed out of a stereo system, competing with the sound of two 20-something girls near the back violently barking at each other about who was ahead of who. A reporter and his camera man hover around the bustling crowd. “How long have you been waiting here for?” He asks a group of guys. “Seven hours.” A bystander walking down the block turns to her friend and says, “Wow. All this for a phone.” Within 10 minutes, the line had wrapped around several blocks. I can’t think of a more interesting way to learn about business, sociology and calculus than to stand and watch thousands of people lining up for the iPhone 5.

1. I learned how marketing makes people feel that they “have to have it first”
http://www.apple.com/iphone/videos/ – tv-ads-physics

2. I learned how technology brings thousands of strangers together
http://www.blogcdn.com//media/2012/09/applefifthave92112.jpg

3. And most importantly, I learned “at what rate, in people per second, is the crowd accumulating when f(x) = (25cos(x) – 60pi (tan(4x))/(5.328x – sqrt71)

Just kidding.

Welcome to the technological revolution. We are dots and numbers on a timeline that will go in a history book to eventually represent ‘the generation of iPeople’.  Yes, I envy the people who got to live through the ‘bodacious 60’s’ and the Disco Decade, but nothing compares to seeing first-hand the phenomenon that’s taking place in the dawning of the 21^st century. iPhones, iPads, MacBooks are everywhere. In Starbucks you’ll see people writing their novels on their laptops while nonchalantly sipping an iced Caramel Macchiato. No offense to anyone who uses address books, but who uses them anymore? When someone asks for your number, they will most likely hand you their phone. And then you see 5-year-old kids on the train keeping busy with Angry Birds as their mothers read 50 Shades of Grey on the Kindle or iPad. Even in our very own Baruch BUS1000H lecture hall, a sea of silver MacBook Pros light up the room, all aligned like windows of a building at night. A few years ago I read an article about an author whose handwriting became completely illegible because he wrote everything with the keyboard. It makes me wonder—how long until pencils and paper become totally obsolete?

Technology fascinates me.

Technology fascinates toddlers too, apparently. Whenever I babysit my cousins, I have to make an extra effort to hide my iPhone from my four year old cousin. Otherwise, she will hog it for literally two hours and spam my camera with photos from Camwow, an app that distorts photos to make them look funny. So if I hear perpetual hysterical laughter for an abnormal amount of time, it is a certain indication that my phone has been hijacked.

The first time I babysat Joey (from a different family), he pulled me over to look at his dinosaurs. He took his daddy’s iPad off the charger and pulled up a picture book of dinosaur diagrams with no words. “That’s Brachylophosaurus. That’s Stegosaurus. Giganotosaurus….” And he continued to leave me in awe as he pronounced the names perfectly from his memory. Oh, and he’s about six. That moment lowered my self-esteem to a sad level.

Fact of the matter is, this 21^st century American culture is immersed in the technology era. It’s interesting every now and then to take a step back from the hustle and bustle of the city to simply observe how connected we all are. And how silly we are.

I was sitting on the train coming home from school one day doing my French homework and minding my own business. At one stop, a middle-aged African American man came onto the train and sat down next to me. There’s nothing different here, so I continued my homework. The train leaves the station and everything continues on normally, I do my work, people talk, I move my bag away from the spilled coffee. But then out of nowhere I hear:

“Parlez-vous francais?”

I glance over and he’s talking to me. He must have looked over my shoulder and saw my homework with all its scribbles and terrible grammar. Of course in a mix of shock and me not being great at French, I start stuttering.

“Uh, ummm.. oui un peu.”

Yes, saved myself for a little I thought. But then he continued to talk and I would quote him again but I have no idea what he said. I thought to myself that this is going to be a long and awkward train ride. Why didn’t I just sleep instead of trying to do work?  Instead I just responded in English that I was only in my second year studying French and wasn’t very good at it. He then started to help me with my conversational skills, giving me tips and advice on how to be more spontaneous with conversation. We continued talking and he ended up helping me finish my homework.

After some talk about verbs and studying, we moved on and talked about French culture. I specifically remember talking about the controversy over the burqa ban in France and learning a lot from him. He was really easy to talk to, even though he was a complete stranger. We talked for about 12 stops until I had to get off. As I was getting off the train, I thanked him for everything and wished him the best. With a handshake he replied:

“Bonne chance!”

“Wo bist du?” I couldn’t help but overhear a German lady ask for her friend’s location over the phone.
“Roosevelt? Wo ist Roosevelt Avenue?”
Pause –
“Roosevelt Avenue und neunzig Straße?”
Pause –
Her face appeared so lost, looking left and right and in every direction possible.

I was in Jackson Heights, home to majority Hispanic, Indian, and a bit of Korean culture. Jackson Heights is the last place I’d expect to hear German.

Although I had learned German in my first three years of high school, I only remembered fragments. I felt hesitant.

“Uhh … “ I approached her.

“Entschuldigung? Excuse me? Sind Sie versuchen, für Roosevelt Avenue und neunzig Straße finden? I asked, hoping I got all the verb conjugations right and the proper etiquette for speaking to a stranger.

“Ja! Wissen Sie?” She said in excitement.

“Ja. Uhm. It’s 2 blocks down this street and left another. So Sie gehen zwei Straßen und dann gehen Sie nach links.” I tried, translating my own English. In my head, I was more concerned over my grammatical syntax than the idea that I was trying to help a stranger with directions. It was like a mini pop quiz in my head, and my heart started to pound. I felt embarrassed to butcher the beautiful language in front of a native speaker. I never really spoke German outside of the classroom other than playing around with my friends. At the same time, I felt knowledgeable and helpful.

“Danke schon!” she thanked me with a puff of air in relief to finally know where to go.

“Bitte,” I smiled, and huffed a breath of air to realize the “quiz” was over, and I succeeded.

“Ein süßes chinesisches Mädchen hat mir geholfen,” I hear her telling her friend as she crossed the street in a hurry.

“A sweet Chinese girl helped me,” she had said. That cultural encounter made my day.