Cultural Encounters: Arts in New York City

Before coming to Baruch, I never really came to the city. I’m not sure why, it’s close to where I live. My family and I just seldom come. I probably only visited twice before coming to the city for anything college related. Now that I think about it, that is a very ridiculously small number. Anyway, my first visit to Manhattan was an eye-opener.

Walking the city blocks for the first time next to my dad was an experience I’ll never forget. As we were traversing our way to our destination (which was to go visit the Empire State Building) I saw something that changed the way I viewed the city.

Someone got pickpocketed. I remember it like it was yesterday.

A man with red hair and a red beard was walking down 34^th street. He was wearing a pea coat, jeans, and black leather shoes. With white earbuds in, he seemed like he was enjoying his music. Then, a man with a scruffy beard and a thick moustache followed him. He was wearing a black hoodie, light jeans, and a baseball cap. The bearded man pulled out a cell phone and began talking into it. Although he did not look at the caller ID or press any buttons. He just began talking into it, using so many words to say absolutely nothing. Right as the red-headed man was turning the corner onto 6^th Avenue, the bearded man walked straight into him. The black pea coat and the black hoodie seemed to fight with each other as the garments rubbed against each other. There was a mixture of black between the two men. Then suddenly, the chaos stopped, the bearded man turned and briskly walked away. About five seconds later, the red-headed man ran after him.

It happens often in the city but it changed my perspective. From now on, I am much more aware. I always check to make sure my wallet is in my pocket, I have much more street savoir-faire. I always had it, but it has been much better since I saw that attempted robbery.

http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/02281/pickpocket_2281276b.jpg

I always knew Times Square for its stores, lights, and sounds. I associated all the glitz and glamor of New York City with this one place- a place that excites emotion but does not create a lasting psychological impact. I never imagined that this place would be so close to heart after the encounter that I had there last Tuesday.

It was about 7:45 AM, and I had taken seat at a bench that faced Gap. I wrapped a quirky green and orange scarf around my neck, crossed my legs, and pulled out my little mirror and eyeliner pen. It was makeup time.

I sat for a few moments with my lips puckered, eyes “smizing” (as Tyra Banks would say), holding the mirror in my left hand, and painting a thin line onto my eyelids with my right hand. I must have been a strange sight amongst the surrounding hustle and bustle of rush hour.

Within several moments a man, who I reckoned to be homeless, approached me with a limp in his leg. He was walking with a little cart, filled with black bags of some sort. A knit hat was pulled over his head and an oversized jacket hung on his body.

Being timid and physically weak, I instantly became alert of this stranger; within a millisecond I recoiled in my seat as he advanced towards me.

“Are you in your twenties?” he spoke with an alarmingly high-pitched voice. I stared at him wide-eyed.

“No,” I managed to mouth.

“You aren’t in your twenties, girl? Are you in your thirties?”

“No,” this time I said with a slightly greater confidence.

“My God, you aren’t in your twenties or thirties and you are puttin’ on makeup?” he exclaimed.

“Yes?”

He shook his head violently. “Girl, don’t put on makeup. If they don’t want you for you, they don’t want you for your makeup. You see how beautiful and clean your skin is? There ain’t no need for you to ruin that.”  I couldn’t help but smile. I was relieved; this man did not pose any danger. “Don’t change yourself, stay beautiful like your mama made you”.

I put down my eyeliner. Blood rushed to my cheeks with the sensation of embarrassment. I looked up at him with tears in my eyes and shyly thanked him for his words.

“God bless you child. Have a good day,” he turned away from me and continued to walk along the street.

I remained sitting on the bench for a few moments, unable to move. This man’s words were golden. It is incredibly rare to encounter someone so brutally honest. Although he didn’t know me, my story, or where I came from, I felt that he genuinely cared about my well-being. He was not concerned about the impression that he made, but instead sought for his words of insight to be heard.

I was touched that day in the most unexpected way.

Photograph by Michael Kenna

This summer, I had the opportunity to work on the re-election campaign for NYS Assemblyman Steven Cymbrowitz. The Assemblyman needed was facing a primary challenge against Ben Akselrod, a relative newcomer in politics. The Assemblyman needed me to reach out to the Russian community because Ben was a Russian-speaking candidate and could easily communicate with the community. (Just to let all the readers know that in South Brooklyn there is a huge Russian speaking population and this group of people helped elect relative newcomers before.) I thought that my job would involve translating dialogue about issues between the Assemblyman and constituents, but what I got instead was a whopping dish of racism.

It first happened in an Adult Day Care Center. The Assemblyman was to speak and give out tickets to a senior luncheon. After he was done, I was walking with him out and then a man in his 70s stopped us and said, “Hello Mr. Cymbrowitz, what do you think of the schvartzer in the White House?”

Schvartzer is a derogatory term for black people in the Yiddish language. I was in awe. Not because he said the word, but how he said it with such conviction and emphasis.

Mr. Cymbrowitz replied, “That isn’t nice to say about him, but I believe he isn’t doing a good job, but it’s a hard job.”

It was a generic answer, but it was good enough for the man so he walked away.

A week later, I visited a community center with the Assemblyman. We went inside an ESL program for adults. It was filled with Russians, and then a black man came in with a notebook. The room lit up with gossip in Russian.

“What an idiot?” said one person.

“Of course, black people don’t know how to speak normal English,” said another.

“The room started to smell the second he came in,” said one person to her friend.

The black man dropped the notebook on a desk went to the front and said in perfect Russian grammar, “I understand you all. My wife is Ukrainian and I lived there for 10 years. She is the one studying English. She left her notebook at home and I came here to give it to her.”

As the man was talking, the faces of all the Russian immigrants turned pale white, as they were embarrassed. Me on other hand, I turned bright red because it was hard to control the laughter.

2 weeks before the primary, the opponent released a new flier, which talked about crime in the neighborhood. The only problem was that the flier didn’t say the word “neighborhood”. Instead it said “negrohood”. There was uproar everywhere. Before you know it, this story went from being on a local blog site to the NY Times. Everyone was shocked and disgusted. How can someone get the word negrohood from neighborhood? The opponent said it was a typo, but one of the comments said it was a Freudian slip and I believe that error was due to some unconscious train of though.

In my three months of working for the Assemblyman, I encountered racism in 3 languages. This experience showed me that even though everything America faced in terms of civil rights, people still have pre-existing beliefs in racism whether it is in a diverse place such as Brooklyn or a very homogenous place such as West Virginia.

P.S. Last Thursday was the Primary and we won by 200 votes! Now it is time for the General Election.

The Assemblyman and me at a community event!

http://www.sheepsheadbites.com/2012/08/in-flubbed-campaign-lit-assembly-candidate-says-crime-is-up-in-the-negrohood/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Freudian_slip

I didn’t believe it. They always told me the subways were newer, cleaner, and overall better there, but I always thought to myself, “How clean can they possibly get?” The streets of the city itself didn’t give me any reason to believe something so similar to the NYC subway systems would be a hundred times cleaner.

The moment I stepped into the subway station in Beijing, I understood what everyone was talking about. The station had just been constructed a few months ago so it was very new compared to the ones we have here. The floor was still shiny and the ticket machines had no visible residue or marks on it. It was incredibly clean even though there weren’t any garbage cans; there weren’t any papers, bottles, or any other type of junk thrown on the ground. The train itself is a whole different story; the train was just as clean and extraordinary as the station itself; there was no dirt on the window sills, drinks left behind, or stains on the floor. I was able to talk at a normal volume since I didn’t have to compete with the sounds of the trains running on the tracks. Furthermore, cellular devices still had connection even when the trains were in motion. Fares are also much cheaper and fairer because you pay for how far you are travelling.

How was all this possible? All this was so shocking to both my family and me and we were definitely unaccustomed to it. But hey, I wouldn’t mind commuting around the city on a train as clean as theirs everyday!

When I was in the fourth grade, one of my friends who was Hindu, invited me to the Festival of Lights. We were good friends and while I knew nothing of the celebration, I was excited to attend. When I arrived I saw many foreign foods that his mom was making in preparation for the ceremony. His mom was always cooking and their house always smelled of spices. First he and I went upstairs and we put on what I assumed to be traditional Indian garb. It was so long ago so I cannot recall exactly what we wore, but it seemed to be a type of tribal Indian vestment that was white or tan in color. After we dressed we went downstairs for the ceremony. It lasted around thirty minutes if I recall and I cannot remember all that was done. I do remember receiving a red dot on my forehead and a piece of rice was placed in the middle of the red pigment.

Looking back I remember the excitement I felt going through the ceremony. It all seemed so mysterious and the stories of the four-armed god, Vishnu were deeply intriguing. I received a silver commemorative coin with the god Vishnu depicted on it. After the ceremony ended, it was time to eat. There was much exotic food that I didn’t dare to try. At 11, spicy food was not appealing. His mom made macaroni for him and me while the grandparents and relatives ate traditional Indian food. There was a tray of Indian desserts that looked more inviting to a young child and so I tasted one. It was soft and sweet, a type of pastry. The entire experience was so different from anything I had ever attended. It was a mixture of a religious and cultural experience, and I would love to attend a Festival of Lights now, as I am more aware of different cultures.

This July, my family decided to make our annual family vacation to Disney World in Orlando, Florida.  While in Disney, we explored the various amusement parks, one of which particularly stood out in my mind: Epcot.  Epcot is known for its futuristic atmosphere on one half of the park.  This side of the park gives insight as to what the future may hold for us globally.  The other half of the park highlights a world showcase, which contains eleven different countries that one can “visit” that are all within a mile of each other.

The first country my family wanted to visit was Mexico.  One of the first things we saw when arriving there was the massive Mexican pavilion containing various restaurants and attractions.  After touring a few attractions, we decided to get something for lunch.  My dad decided we would eat at La Hacienda de San Angel.  The first thing that came to my attention was the zesty smell coming from the kitchen.  My family is familiar with Mexican food, but we never experienced Mexican cuisine such as this.  The ingredients they used to make the various dishes such as quesadillas and enchiladas made dinner both fiery and delicious.

As the day progressed, we made our way to a few more attractions.  Sure enough, a few hours later many of our stomachs were grumbling again.  This time, my cousin happened to notice a rather elegant and foreign looking restaurant.  It turns out that we were in the part of the park that was replicated to be Canada.  The name of the restaurant was Le Cellier Steakhouse.  One of the first things we noticed upon our arrival was the extravagant collection of wine cellars throughout the restaurant.  While dining there, we had some of the finest seafood, prime rib, and of course filet mignon.  My uncle and father even had some Canadian wine, which they said was some of the sweetest wine they’ve ever tasted.

While I have only been outside of the country once, I can assure you this may have been the next best thing to experiencing a particular country’s culture.  Although I only was able to taste the spicy Mexican cuisine and the elegant Canadian steakhouse, I would love to go back some day to explore the remaining countries represented in Epcot.  I hope to use the stipend, provided by the Macaulay Honors College, to actually visit one of these foreign countries and better my understanding of culture in a global perspective.

I went to Stuyvesant high school, where at least 70% of the students are Asian. This was nothing new to me, after all, my family is Chinese and I grew up with the culture. I met friends easily because we shared similar experiences growing up. However, once I made the baseball team, I was one of five Asians on the team. We carried a team of about twenty-five players, so that 70% Asian population dropped to 20%.

There was a lot that was different between me and the other players, most of them being white. At first it was things like what we did during the weekends and how we acted, but the culture shock came when we went to Florida for a week for spring training.

Living together for a week, there were many things that my roommates did that I wasn’t accustomed to. Of course I didn’t say anything because the differences were subtle, but it made me realize things that I do in my culture that other cultures do not do. Even when we walked through the door of the condominium, I spotted the first difference. My shoes came off at the door, and theirs did not.

The foods we wanted to buy at the Publix differed too with me trying to eat a little healthier than hot pockets, fried foods and frozen chicken strips. In Chinese culture, these foods are considered “yeet-hay,” literally meaning hot air. The belief is that too much of this type of food will make you “too hot” and sick with a sore throat and cough. You have to balance this out by eating food with cooling qualities like fruits and vegetables. So my friends eating nothing but junk confused me. These cultural differences shocked me, but did not have an effect on our play on the field; we played well and as a team no matter what race we were.

Baseball is always considered America’s past time and is as American as hot dogs and apple pie. Growing up playing baseball, I never thought that an Asian playing baseball was so rare (that was also a culture realization). But I learned and grew with my team, and I’m glad that I got the chance to live with them for a week and appreciate our cultural differences.

The french do not seem to take the drinking age seriously. Walking through the streets Paris at night, looking for a decent place to eat is a relatively simple task. Choosing a place is the difficult part… If someone is a vegetarian, or if they do not have a particular taste in a certain type of food, it can make deciding difficult. Finally, we found this humble restaurant tucked between two shops on a cobblestone street. It looked perfect. So, we went inside and found a table. We were sitting, waiting a few minutes for the waiter to come to our seats, listening to the woman playing upbeat music on the piano and singing in the corner. Then, the waiter came around to us. We chatted for a little as he asked us where we were from, being very social and welcoming. Then, he asked us what we wanted to drink. We all said water. He, politely, said no. Puzzled, we asked why? He asserted that we were all to order the wine if we did want an authentic dinner in Paris. We told him that we were underage (most of us by only a few months.) He said without pressuring us, “Underaged? As long as you are over two years old then it is legal to drink here,” So, we agreed and ordered wine and enjoyed it with our dinner. I thought, in America, there is no possible way that would have happened. It is absurd to think about. A simple drink with dinner can set two cultures apart and that interested me greatly. 

BEEEEP! I glanced at the speedometer, which read 60 mph. I felt dirty looks on me as drivers raced past the car. Sixty miles per hour was right below speed limit, I thought to myself. Why are these people horning? I was very confused. However, I did not have enough time to contemplate the matter any further. “Drive half mile and exit at Santa Ana South,” my GPS announced. Taking a quick look, my mom changed to the right again and again. “Six, five, four, three, two, one,” I slowly counted the number of lanes we still had to cut before we were in exit lane. A dimly lit lane appeared and the car drove down it. “Preparing to reroute,” the GPS declared almost too clearly- a dreaded moment that occurred for the fifth time that night. We were lost. Again.

I was under the impression that New York City would not be too different when compared to Los Angeles because NYC was also a fast-paced city. This is not true! Because people need to drive everywhere they go, California has designed freeways with seven lanes; whereas NYC has an average of four. Multiple signs line up side by side while more signs are posted next to the highway. How are these drivers able to choose a route when they are driving at 70 miles per hour? California is very different compared to New York in that driving has become second nature to residents. In NYC, a person is able to navigate everywhere within the city with the metro system, which runs all day. I had difficulty wrapping my mind around the idea that cars have become a necessity in some cultures. How would someone without a driver’s license navigate around the city? How difficult is it to find parking spaces in a city where every family owns a car? These questions remain unanswered. After this trip, I appreciated the metro system in NYC a lot more. I cannot imagine a day going by without having to run to the train station to catch the next train that will bring me to a new neighborhood in the city.

When people fall into a routine, they often lose their inquisitive nature, and in turn, transform into running horses with partly obscured vision. Today I decided to pull off my blinders and see the magnificent city in which I study, and to my surprise, I found something amazing with alarming speed. A few blocks from the Baruch library I stumbled upon one of the most grandiose works of architecture that I have seen. There, proudly sitting on 27Madison Avenue was a piece of history so rich, so beautiful, and so breathtaking. What I later discovered to be the Manhattan Appellate Courthouse, I immediately recognized as a form of Beaux art, modeled after ancient Roman architecture. With two stories, five lofty pillars, gleaming windows, and an assembly of marble heroes, this building shone with a godly radiance against the gray backdrop of generic skyscrapers. I approached the front of the building from its left side and in front of me I saw a finely sculpted masculine figure. Clothed in the apparel of a Roman general, he was sitting erect in a masterfully carved throne. His muscular arm, with well-defined veins and tendons, grasped the side of his throne, which was shaped into a winged lion. Below his feet, engraved into the marble of the platform was the word “Force”. Power, strength, and force; they were all words that crossed my mind as I stood below this statue with my head raised in awe and respect. The beauty of New York, I realized, is its appreciation for not only the new and improved, but also its dedication to honoring the ancient and legendary.

Whenever I hear someone speaking Chinese in the city, I usually hear the dialect used most around the world; Mandarin Chinese. But this wasn’t always the case. There was a time when Cantonese flourished among the streets of New York City. However, my story lies in a dialect of Chinese called Taishanese. It is the older breed of Cantonese that was once used by many of the first immigrants in New York City’s Chinatown and predates both Cantonese and the currently popular Mandarin.

About two weeks ago I was standing on the crowded 6 train. Arriving at the Wall St station, I finally had room to move my legs freely. It was then when an elderly woman approached me. As she came closer I couldn’t help but notice the piece of paper she was holding in her hand. From the looks of it, it seemed as if it would be like one of those times when I would need to give directions. If it went the way it normally did, the woman would ask me in Mandarin if I was Chinese and I would reply by saying I know a bit of Mandarin. Due to my limited use of the Mandarin dialect, we would eventually go on with our lives albeit in a manner that took forever due to the difficulty in trying to understand the differences in our dialects. However, this time was entirely different. The lady approached me and started speaking in a Cantonese dialect with a hint of Taishanese. I picked up on this discrepancy and spoke to her in Taishanese. She said nothing, she simply smiled. We were both amazed that we were from the same village back in China and she told me that, she was glad that I spoke Taishanese as her Cantonese was mediocre and was unable to speak any Mandarin. I ended up helping her by leading her to the building she needed to go to. Although in this great city, theres so many different cultures that make my own feel insignificant, it was nice to have a cultural encounter with my own culture for once.

It was time for dinner, but where were the chairs? And why was­ the table only two feet off the ground? It was my first time being a guest in a very traditional Korean household. I was cause by surprise when everyone sat on his or her legs on a cushion on the floor. As I sat down, I noticed right away that a Korean dinner is far more different than a Chinese dinner. I first noticed the air; it smelled savory and spicy, which I assumed to be coming from the kimchi that was sitting in a big bowl on the table. Then I noticed the way the rest of the meal was prepared. Each dish on the table was portioned much smaller compared to what I was used to. As if to make up for the amount of each dish, there were many options ranging from the Korean-styled stir fried noodles, spicy rice cakes, to marinated beef. The piquant flavor and burning of all the spices made the food even more appetizing and made me crave for more.

Thinking back to my experience that night, there were so many things that I haven’t done at my dinner table at home before. Back at home, it was always expected to be sitting properly at the dining table, with both my feet flat on the floor. Instead of having so many small dishes, my parents prepared two or three larger dishes for the family. The flavors of the food, needless to say, was far from similar.

Although we are of the same ethnicity, the two cultures have very different traditions and I thought it was a really nice and refreshing experience.