Who Am I?

When people ask me “what are you?” or “Where are you from?” I usually say “I’m black and from the Bronx” to keep the conversation to a minimum. However, I am a first generation American to two immigrants. My mother was born and raised in Maypen, Jamaica with African, Cuban, English and Syrian descent in her bloodline as well. My father was born in London, England and raised in Clarendon, Hayes, Jamaica from the age of four. Both of my parents immigrated to America in the 80’s in pursuit of careers in nursing and engineering. My mother achieved her nursing license in Houston, Texas and later reunited with my father and his family in New York. We still have the majority of our extended families, more than I know, in other countries including England, Jamaica, and Canada. Oddly enough, people mistake my mother and sister for Dominican, claim my father has a Caribbean accent despite him living in New York longer than anywhere else, and say I don’t seem to be anything besides American.

Having spent my childhood in Parkchester, currently living in Fleetwood, Mount Vernon, and going to school in Spanish Harlem since the 7th grade, I can confidently say New York City is the only home I know. There are definitely times when I am an obnoxious New Yorker and think my city is the center of the universe. However, there are times when I feel the urge to escape and never come back. One thing I like about living in the Metropolitan area is the easy access to transportation. In other states a car and a license is a necessity from the early age of 16 to get around. In New York, however, there is a subway, train, or bus that can take me anywhere I want/need to go. Another benefit of living in New York is the exposure to many cultures and kinds of people. It isn’t a rare occurrence to see a IHOP, a bubble-tea shop, and a Famiglia all on the same street. Everyone has the opportunity to eat food and experience music and festivities of different backgrounds in one of the five boroughs at some point in the year. Another bonus with living in NYC is that many stores close late or operate for 24 hours 7 days a week. Corner stores, convenience stores, and pharmacies are in close proximity for any emergency at any time of day.

Despite these benefits, living in NYC definitely has its drawbacks. Attending a CUNY has shown me that college can be very lonely and boring. The fast-paced hustle-bustle nature of the city is implanted in the college atmosphere. It makes it very difficult to make friends and the lack of campus eliminates the feeling of being college especially for the majority of the student body who don’t dorm. On that note, legally, there isn’t much for a broke college student, under the age of 21 to do in the city, so thus far my college experience has been disappointing. Another disadvantage is that many New Yorkers are so dependent on the MTA and the service keeps getting worse while the fares keep rising. I pay $117/month for train delays and signal malfunctions that are never fixed on the weekends when service is slow. Finally, dorming in NYC has sometimes made it difficult to concentrate with all of the traffic noise that is still loud through closed windows. There is never a day an ambulance isn’t blasting its siren or car horns aren’t piercing the air because of inevitable rush hour traffic.

When I tried to think of an exciting or controversial incident with law enforcement, nothing prominent came to mind. I do remember a rather odd incident from when I was about seven years old when my family still lived in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. From what I remember, it was evening time and my father was working the night shift. My siblings and I were at home with my mother doing homework when we heard a knock. It was the NYPD, and they were asking for a specific individual, whose name my mother did not recognize, nor could she remember when I asked her about this incident year later. She conveyed her confusion to the police with her limited communication skills. The officers asked if my mother was telling the truth, and asked if they could search just to be sure. The way my mother describes it, the officers were stern but polite, doing their best to not scare me and my siblings. The officers checked the rooms and once they were done they were on their way. Having immigrated quite recently, my family was uncertain of the rights that we were afforded. The officers did not present a warrant, and my mother did not ask for them to present one. This situation left my mother petrified. According to her, no clear explanation was given of why they were looking for this individual. Maybe a reason was given and was simply misunderstood. I wouldn’t view this encounter as either negative or positive, rather, it is reflective of the confusion that both my family and the country were facing after the September 11^th attacks.

Alissa Semple

MHC 250

Professor Clyde Haberman

February 7^th, 2017

Writing Assignment #1—About You

I’m a sophomore at Hunter College at the Macaulay Honors College, and if I someone had told two or three years ago that I would be where I am today, I would have believed them. I worked hard at my alma mater, The Mary Louis Academy, an all-girls Catholic high school in Jamaica, Queens. I had no choice but to work hard. My teachers held us all to high standards, and I tried my best, which landed me in honors and AP classes, which subsequently landed me with lots of late night panic attacks and frantic exclamations of “Wait—I got B!” after an important exam.

Before Mary Louis, I had lived in Guyana, my parents’ original country, for my form 1 and 2 (seventh and eighth grade) years. Guyana is a South American country adjacent to Brazil, Venezuela, and Suriname—the only English-speaking country on the continent. There, I learned how to climb a mango tree, hop fences, and developed an accent thicker than molasses, which I discovered I hated. I lived in the capital, Georgetown with my aunt, but on most weekends and holidays, my older cousin and I would hop in the minivans at the station at Stabroek Market, the main form of transportation in the country, and take the bumpy two hour drive up to my grandmother’s house on East Demarara, Calcutta—the deep countryside, where the accents got more raw and cows often stood smack dab in the middle of the road and the driver would have to come shoo them away. My grandmother herself had at least twenty cows and fifty chickens, as well as 2 dogs, Maggie, and Spot, who I adored, and a cat, Rosie, who I named myself. My cousins and I would climb the tamarind tree in my grandmother’s backyard by the chicken coop, eating the sour fruit and tossing the shells to the mud past our dangling, slippered feet.

Living in Guyana was a 360-degree turn from living in Rosedale, Queens, where at twelve, the deli a couple blocks up was the farthest I’d venture out on foot. The Q buses took me everywhere I was allowed to go, and highest thing I’d ever climbed was the jungle gym at the Brookville Park a few blocks away from home. In fact, the only jungle I had ever known was the concrete kind, but after my years in Guyana I became familiar with Madia and the Amazon.

Moving back to New York shortly before high school proved to be another stark change for me. First, I lost the Creolese, abandoning it for New York slang that bounced block to block around my Southeastern Queens neighborhood. Then, I began to explore. I fell in love with Manhattan, as confusing as it was. Sometimes I’d simply walk where the crowds led me, nowhere in particular to go, just hoping to stumble on something memorable. I loved the street performers in the train stations, the smell of Halal food on a Long Island city street, the welcoming rush of an air-conditioned train car on a hot summer day, the way the bright lights lit up the streets at night, the hole-in-the-wall restaurants where the food was always the best.

As I got to know the city better, the novelty wore off. I began avoiding Times Square like it was the plague. I hated the E train during rush hour, I hated the thought of how many hands had touched the pole before me and how many of those germs were now on my own hands. I hated the feeling of rushing to an appointment and being forced to walk at 0.2 miles an hour because of the tourist gawking at your average, everyday bodega. The grinning train performers lost their charm, and on days when schoolwork left a burning hole in my brain where I wanted peace and quiet to fill, their boom boxes, twirls, flips didn’t impress me. I developed an irrational yet, at the same time, strangely rational crippling fear of pigeons.

However, I’ve learned to find a balance. On some days, I stop and stare at a sign, alongside a tourist with her floppy hat and Polaroid camera, just as interested and unashamed as she is. I smile back at the train performer and clap even when no one else does. I buy the ridiculously overpriced bottled water even though I can get it for fifty cents cheaper in Queens. I run for the bus. It’s not very New Yorker of me. On most days, I walk quickly without glancing for a second behind me. I don’t ask for directions and keep going confidently even though I have no clue where I am. I complain about the MTA raising fares yet again. It’s what New Yorkers do, and as I force myself unto the crowded express train, muttering, “Can ya’ll move in?”, a little bit of the Guyanese Creolese not completely buried rearing its head, I’m happy to be able to call myself one.

“Live every minute as if you are late for the last train.”
― Colson Whitehead, The Colossus of New York

Writing Assignment #2–Transit Experience

Upon the sight of the long-bearded, unshaven man with the large black laundry cart, which was positively overflowing with plastic bottles of all shapes and sizes, and the usual assortment of colorful plastic bags, I slowed my quick walk through the train car, hesitant to continue walking. I suddenly became uneasily aware that all of the passengers had settled at the back of the car, as far away from the homeless man as possible. He was wearing a denim jacket with worn brown shoes, and the benches closest to him were empty. I stared at the commuters around me, wondering if my nose was stuffy and I wasn’t detecting some smell coming from the estranged man. After several long sniffs, I made my way to the end of the car where he sat alone with seemingly indifferent eyes, and sat on the bench directly opposite him.

Other than the cart he had placed in front of his lap, the man was dressed fairly neatly, with no obstructions on the seats, his cart taking up less space than a parent’s stroller would. He seemed to be in his late 60’s, had not shaven, yet he did not smell, and he held a paperback book in his hand. I did not read the title, but overcome with fatigue from the previous night, drifted off to sleep. Fifteen minutes later I awoke with a start, discovering that quickly, as express trains often do, the train had filled. There were people all around me, but stunned, I realized that the man was sitting on his own subway island. People stood all around him, holding on to poles, while two empty seats lay open and ready right next to him. People even avoided standing in front of him, and he looked around blatantly at the unmoving faces of the passengers around him. He looked straight ahead, where his eyes met mine for a brief moment before I felt the sharp pang secondhand embarrassment and pity, and turned away.

After about ten minutes of a shaky silence, filled with slightly accusatory stares, he addressed the entire train car. “Is there something wrong? Why won’t you sit?” He looked at the man closest to him, who was holding on to a pole overhead, navy blue suit cut perfectly. “Why won’t you sit?” The man didn’t answer, just stared straight ahead with a poker face seemingly carved out of marble, and just as I thought all hope was lost, a woman, not taller than 5 feet, pushed her way through the crowd of people, a barrage of “pardon me”’s falling from her lips, dignified as a queen, and sat next to the old bearded man.

“Is something wrong with me, ma’am?” he asked her, almost a whisper.

“No, something’s wrong with them.” Her soft lilting accent and reassuring smile seemed to appease his discomfort, and the people around them shuffled around in what seemed to be shame. A young woman with dark hair took the seat next to him, and the remainder of my journey was spent in pensive silence. I glanced at the old man again, his blue eyes as pointed as a child’s, and left the train.

I’m Maria Volpe, a computer science major who lives in Manhattan. I spend my free time visiting museums and stuffing myself with pork buns, two hobbies that New York enables. The first thing I like about New York is how accessible the entire city is on public transport. While our subway system is far from perfect, it does run to most corners of the city, and where the subway doesn’t reach a bus often will. It also runs all night! The second thing is the diversity of neighborhoods, especially in terms of food. I love having practically every culture’s food available to try or to hold dear. The third is the heavy presence of art. While NYC is definitely not the top city in this regard, in comparison to a rural town, it does shine. Seeing museums and off-off-off-Broadway experimental theatre are fun and enriching.

What I don’t like about NYC  is the flaws apparent with the transit system. MTA keeps raising fares, making it less accessible for the working class which defeats the purpose of public transport in my opinion. If they’re going to keep raising fares, they should focus more on improving the quality of subway service in neighborhoods that are less well off. Secondly, I really don’t know how to feel about the trendiness of certain foods in NYC. On one hand, the ramen and poke bowl explosion means that people are finally accepting that “ethnic” food can be worth more than an overpriced bowl of pasta. On the other, it seems eye roll-worthy that your average white New Yorker somehow previously failed to realize that foods from outside of certain European cultures are edible. Finally, I wish Donald Trump had cursed some other city with his presence.

About Me

My ancestors came to America in the mid-1930s just before WWII. My family tree is laden with Eastern-European Jews who emigrated through Ellis Island to escape the Nazi regime. I grew up in Somers, NY a primarily white catholic town in Northern Westchester. My school district was exceptional and I am grateful for all the opportunities my hometown afforded me academically, but the lack of diversity and the abundance of wealthy entitlement is one of the biggest reasons I chose Macaulay at Hunter. I am so appreciative of the diversity I get to experience in this city and my ability to learn about the world from my peers in a way I could not have prior to college. I also love the passion in New York City. There are so many people who are committed to so many different crafts and fields of study, it’s empowering to get to join the ranks. Finally, I love my proximity to home. My mom and I are extremely close so I love to be able to go home and spend time with her and my dogs. But I am far enough away that I am living on my own and getting to experience the pseudo-adulthood that is college in Manhattan.
One thing I don’t like about the city is how easy it is to be lonely in New York City because almost everyone is so consumed with their own busy lives that they don’t pay attention to those outside their circle of peers. This leads to my second non-favorite thing about the city: the pace only exacerbates my tendency to stress myself out. I am naturally a fast talking, multi-tasker who needs to be constantly busy and living here only pushes me to do more faster, instead of slowing down every once and awhile. Finally, I don’t like that Artichoke Pizza hasn’t made a gluten-free slice yet. Artichoke is a right of passage for Hunter students who live at Brookdale and my Celiac Disease prevents me from partaking. Other than that I love living in the city and I am proud to call New York my home.

My Transit Experience

Because I didn’t grow up in the city, I didn’t grow up riding the subway. So when I moved to Manhattan I paid a lot of attention to the people I saw on the subway. Because really, New York City subways are a pretty accurate sample of the city as a whole. You get to see every data point on the spectrum, and who you see depends on where you’re going. I also know that we see a lot of not so great things on the subway. Things that make us sad, angry, or guilty of our indifference. But I pride myself on being optimistic. I am the self-proclaimed queen of silver linings. So sometimes I take note of the things I see on the subway that make me happy. That give me faith in the world and the goodness of people. So here’s not one, but a few of my favorite subway experiences.
1 Train, northbound. Sunday 10:15am. Little girl handing out birthday invitations to everyone on the train. She’s turning 6, her party is in Central Park, and she insisted to her mother that everyone gets to be included.
6 Train, southbound. Tuesday, 7:00 pm. A young man gets on the train in a suit carrying a bouquet of flowers. As he gets on he says into his phone, “I gotta go man, I’m finally gonna tell her how I feel. I’ll let you know how it goes after.
S Train, to Times Square. Saturday 12:50pm. A gay couple holds their small child, completely enamored with her. Nothing remarkable about the couple, but the two other mother on the train watch they trio and their mutual understanding was palpable. I could almost hear the love and well wishes being sent from the mom’s to this small family.

About Me

A little over 30 years ago, my parents both immigrated from Malaysia to New York City. There they both began new lives in Brooklyn, where they met, and eventually went on to work and live in Elmhurst, where I was born. Growing up in New York City, I was raised with traditional values but an open mind. It is with this mindset that I thrive in the city with both its pros and cons.

I like the convenience of the city and having the ability to walk out my door and have all kinds of stores within a short walking distance or a short bus or train ride. I also like the diversity that exists in the city and the resulting cultural influences in some neighborhoods. Cultural hubs such as Chinatown and Little Italy are filled with authentic products and restaurants that are great to see and visit. A third thing I appreciate about the city is its various landscapes. From the skyscrapers in Manhattan to the quiet parks in residential areas, there are various environments to be in depending on my mood.

As many things as I enjoy about the city, there are some things I do not like such as the crowds and traffic that make it hard to get around, especially in some parts of Flushing and Manhattan. In addition, I dislike the high cost of living in the city that makes it difficult to survive on minimum wage. Another thing I do not like is the filthy state of most Subway stations, which makes commuting unpleasant. Although the Subway is useful for transportation, it is not always a nice place to be.

Transit Experience

I have been taking mass transit to school for over seven years now, and during this time I have had many interesting experiences. During high school, my commute to Bronx Science involved a half hour ride on the R train followed by about an hour on the 4 train. One time I was commuting up to school during midterms week and there was a snow storm which caused the 4 train to be delayed for over an hour. Everyone crowding the station was cranky and eager to get on a train.

When the trains started running again, people piled onto the first train to come, shoving and squeezing into the tight train car. Halfway to my stop, the car had emptied out considerably, but people were still irritable, and a fight broke out. Several students I recognized from my school accused a man of pushing a female student, and insults were being thrown back and forth. Not long after, things escalated into a physical fight and bystanders scrambled to get away from the action.

There were so many people in that train car but only one man stepped in to attempt to calm them down. He was able to reason with both parties to an extent and deescalate the situation into insults instead of punches. However, even when the man in the fight arrived in his stop and stepped out, he egged the students on to come out and face him. They did not, and once the doors closed, it was as if the fight had never happened.