As the D-train screeches to a stop, I step off onto the platform adorned by a tiled wall that once was pristine white. The words Grand St. were painted along the walls, announcing the destination of the passenger. Moving rapidly out of the station, the train blows a gust of warm air filled with a distinct odor that many Asian New Yorkers grew up with: a mixture of pollution and Chinatown. I am not of Chinese descent, or at least, not directly. Because of my physical features, I can probably pull off by saying that I am a crossbreed between Chinese and Spanish. The only thing that can give-away my lie would be my nose, a type that is mostly common in Southeast Asian countries. Despite being able to identify myself as a mix of two very different ethnicities, I am more comfortable with familiarizing myself with people of Chinese descent. This was especially evident in my high school as I collected Chinese friends of different origins; Vietnam, Malaysia, Guangzhou, and Hong Kong are just a few of these examples.
Of course my taste of friends does limit itself to only those of Asian descent; I expanded my connections and befriended classmates whose culture differentiated so much from my own. Even if this is the case, I tend to gravitate towards people whose origins are fairly close to mine. Upon arriving in New York nearly ten years ago, one of the first places I visited was Chinatown in Brooklyn. Just over the Verrazano Bridge, “8th Avenue,” as it is most commonly known in the Asian community, teems with the smell and noise that is only distinctive to Asian markets. Walking down the street in the midst of the Sunday bustle, I remember thinking that this was the closest I will ever be from my homeland. The aroma of fresh vegetable aligning countless stalls, the sound of customers haggling with the vendors over the price, the sight of no one flinching at the pungent odor of fish markets, and the shrill voices of food cart owners over the crowd. These aspects congregated together offers a place in which I can reminisce about my past, a life in which the energy of the people supersedes the poverty of the neighborhood.
Life for most people in the Philippines was impoverished if compared to the American standard. Thousands of people find their homes in small shacks that are made out of scrap wood and sheets of metal. One after the other, these homes sprung up across Metro Manila, the capital of the Philippines. Much like the current rise of gentrification in New York City, many of these inhabitants, called “squatters,” are being forced out of their homes because of the rapid increase of real estate values. Regardless of this, however, these Filipinos are resilient, remaining positive even in the midst of trouble. It is not difficult for them to build their shack homes in another place because knowing that wherever they go, they are welcomed by hundreds who share their same lifestyle. I guess this is why I have such a strong affinity towards Chinese people. They remind me of my people, the people who make the best out of what they have, no matter how little.
Just like New York Chinatowns, Metro Manila brims with life. The equivalent of Canal Street of Manhattan is the Divisoria Market of Manila, and by sheer comparison, it is still unparalleled. The main difference of the two is the layout of the neighborhood. Just imagine placing all the nooks and crannies of Chinatown streets and placing them into a very small space. It is similar to a street fair in the city, except the streets are half the size and the number of stalls are three times greater. Natives and tourists alike merge themselves between the vendor stalls, browsing through cheap quality-made goods and even cheaper price tags. On the outskirts of the market lie the food stalls; even from afar, one can smell a whiff of the nearby barbecue cooking on kerosene-ignited grills or hear the subtle pops of fish balls frying in oil that has been unchanged for too long. Local farmers and fishermen also try to make a living amongst the third-world country consumerists, laying out their daily haul for passing customers to admire and hopefully buy.
Although great in size, the vitality of these markets does not compare to the spirit of the people. It is the lifestyle of the people of Chinatown that I feel such a strong affinity for. Like my Asian counterpart, I have developed a mindset that is shared by lot of children of immigrant parents. The core of this mentality can be found in frugality. Although it is often categorized as an Asian stereotype, it is neither a lie nor truth, but rather a misconception. For me, knowing my family’s history and journey has taught me to value that what is less is truly more. I have a clear understanding of the difference of what is wanted and what is needed, and that indulgence should always be practiced moderately. And every time I visit Chinatown, these are the qualities I see in its people. Even greater than this is the sense of community, of belonging, an essence that can never be bought but can always be shared.
