Back in AP US History, I vaguely remember my teacher’s pet theory. “No site in New York City remains unchanged for more than ten years.” At the time, I threw that statement into the recluses of my brain to save room for the upcoming Calculus BC final. Three years later, I could hear that statement slowly echo inside my skull as I walk down Grand Street in Chinatown.
At first I wondered whether to continue along or see a therapist. For what reason did I remember that specific statement. But my nostalgia began to drown out my worries. It has been exactly 4 years, 32 days, 2 hours, and 6 minutes since I have last been in the setting of my childhood. The trip to the tenement museum was quite literally a trip down memory lane. Every little store in Chinatown had its part in the intricate web that is my childhood. Back then Chinatown was Grand Central for Chinese Americans. Every immigrant family made weekly trips for groceries or family gatherings. My parents spent their adolescence in this neighborhood and returned weekly, with me in tow, for groceries. However, after moving to Queens a few years ago, Flushing became more convenient and trips to Chinatown became scarce. A few steps into the block, I could tell something was off, even with my nonexistent shaman powers.
The air still reeked of car exhaust. The streets were still congested. But the sight of college students perplexed me. I never seen college students venture this far into Chinatown before. But I continued along. Staring intensely at a group of college students is not usual public conduct. I saw that the Bowery Savings bank was still under lock and key. I always referred to it as the “Bankrupt” as it is eternally closed. Nothing to my knowledge was different. My brain may have regurgitated that memory in desperate attempt to stay awake from the lack of sleep.
When I arrived at Mott Street, I decided to take a detour to Big Wong Restaurant as my stomach now declared it was dinnertime. Under command, I turned towards Canal Street and saw the Mott Street Marketplace. The iconic fish and vegetable markets were exactly as I remembered. The Cantonese shouting, the human saturated walkways, even the mysterious green puddles lined the streets were still there. I used to joke with my mom that the puddles are secretly radioactive; at least I hope they were not. Out of curiosity I walked into one of the stores. My mother and I used to buy groceries from this marketplace every Sunday. The Chinese, and especially my immigrant family, are obsessed with fresh ingredients. She instilled in me the “family knowledge” of the markets. For example, the first vegetable stand at the corner near Grand Street sold plump bitter melons during the early months of summer. However, as I walked into the store, I could only gasp as I saw the ghastly site, the bare wall. It is not that I am scared of bare walls, but of what was not there. The massive hundred-gallon tank that had ten koi fish was gone. I spent hours watching the koi fish. It was my television for when my mother would drag me to go shopping with her, this piece of my childhood was simply erased from existence.
The disheartenment did not last long, as my hunger urged me to find nourishment. I continued down Mott Street onto Canal Street. The streets were still congested. The cars and humans still had little respect for the traffic laws. Perhaps, some things will just never change. When I arrived at Big Wong, I ordered my typical roast pork over rice. However, I noticed that Yi Yi was not at the counter. Yi Yi is a Cantonese term either used to refer to the youngest maternal aunt or to a close female family friend. In this case I mean the former, and she was a waiter that always served us on my family’s Sunday night restaurant outing. Big Wong had food closest to out immigrant origins. We never had to order, she knew our usual and would order them ahead of time. According to the owner, she left a year ago to return to China. I left with my dinner and my broken psyche. Nothing in the city stays the same for long. I hate it when my AP US history teacher is right.
I looked at my watch. There was forty-five minutes before I have to be at the Tenement Museum. Immediately I turned and headed towards my childhood haunt, Win’s Tropical Aquarium on Elizabeth. It was humble pet fish store with a humble old man named Win. However, when I arrived I found a clothing store. At first, I thought that perhaps I was on the wrong street. But a quick visual scan of the area said otherwise. Mere words could not describe the pure rage I felt. That store was the very crux, center, and origin of my childhood. I learned Cantonese from the owner Win from talking about fishkeeping with him. I became interested in biology from raising the fish I bought from there. I spent approximately four fifths of my childhood there. Instead of being greeted with nostalgia I am greeted with coupons and bargain bin sales. How is clothing more important than fish. After a few minutes, the rage eventually subsided enough that I could walk without clenching my fist.
The rest of the walk along Delancey to the museum was a blur. I was too dejected to think about anything. However, as I walked along I noticed there was a bar or a clothing boutique at every block I passed. Each and every one of them replaced a store that I was accustomed to seeing. I began to realize that all of these invaders had the unmistakable “SOHOian” flare: modern designs and appeal aimed for college students. I could not help labeling this intrusion as a “SOHOian” tumor. All of my childhood has been replaced with “hip” clothing outlets and bars. Of course, on top of my brain screaming, “I was right”, it also began to present more rational view of the situation. Yes, the childhood sights will never be back but this was to be expected. In the city that always changes why would one neighborhood not change. Now this new present scene can be etched in someone else’s childhood memories. But the “real” Chinatown, without the “SOHOian” infection, of my childhood is now a figment of my memories. All in all, teachers are usually right.
