I decided to deviate from my original plan of creating a neighborhood portrait of the (Jewish) Lower East Side because I felt I had become too familiar with the territory and its history. It dawned on me that I knew more about a neighborhood I only visited a few times than my own. When Professor William Helmreich said, “You don’t know your neighborhood as well as you think you do” because you develop patterns of walking, I realized that I did not know my neighborhood at all. Because I live on the border of Dyker Heights and Bay Ridge and take the train on Borough Park, I have even more unexplored territory to uncover. Therefore, I decided to create a neighborhood portrait of Bay Ridge.

“To walk a city is not to run a city,” Mr. Helmreich said during his lecture. I realized that I had been running through New York this whole time. I quickly embraced the fast-paced New York City lifestyle and lost sight of the beautiful, culturally rich details that make each neighborhood unique. If I saw a woman sitting on her stoop, the most I would do is smile and hurriedly walk to my destination. If I saw a young man wearing a t-shirt that displayed the title of my favorite television show, I would not even consider approaching him and starting a conversation. If I saw an Asian man in his thirties dressed in a business suit, I would not dare ask him where he was going or what his occupation was. Yet, because of this project, I did just that. I learned to step outside of my comfort zone and submerge myself into Arabic/Muslim culture, learn about my neighbors (even if they are a few miles away), and explore semi-familiar territory in a new light.

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“Bay Ridge is Brooklyn’s hidden gem,” Diane enthusiastically says while sitting on her stoop on a hazy spring afternoon. Not even the foggy, cold weather could dampen her passion for her beloved neighborhood. Diane, a proud Brooklynite, has been living in the largely middle-class, southwest area of Brooklyn for over fifty years. While she celebrates her birthday with her beloved family each year, she also commemorates another wonderful year spent in her favorite neighborhood. “My family moved around quite a lot when I was younger, but I always called Bay Ridge my home. It’s filled with familiar faces and love. That is more than I can ask for,” Diane joyfully recounts. She is one of roughly 59,265 Bay Ridge residents in a family household—living with her husband of over forty years in a two-story house on 82^nd Street (2010 NYC Census).

Among the 57.5% of senior citizens living in the neighborhood, Diane notes that over the past twenty years, there have been plenty of fresh faces moving in. Slowly, young families and hopeful entrepreneurs are starting to see the beauty and convenience of living in Bay Ridge. “I have noticed a growing trend of expanding Middle Eastern restaurants and businesses—especially in 5^th Avenue,” the Bay Ridge veteran notes. Although the majority of residents are Caucasian, as accounted in the 2010 New York City Census, Asians are the second largest minority group—comprising of 13.3% of the neighborhood population. The largest minority group—Hispanic origin—account for 15.9%.

Ellen Freudenheim, in “Muslim Immigrant Communities in Brooklyn: From Egypt to Pakistan” corroborates Diane’s observations by noting not only an influx of Middle Eastern immigrants, but specifically Muslim immigrants since the 1990s. “This once largely Irish neighborhood [Bay Ridge] now has mosques, halal butcher shops, halal restaurants, and Muslim educational institutions,” Freudenheim reports. Perhaps Bay Ridge should be named “The melting pot of Brooklyn.” With at least seven churches, three synagogues, and two temples, Bay Ridge represents a community living in spiritual and cultural harmony.

The Islamic Society of Bay Ridge, located at 6807 5^th Avenue, is a safe haven and place of education and worship for many Muslim residents in what some have coined the “Borough of Churches.” (This one of Brooklyn’s many nicknames inspired Tom Seghini’s The Borough of Churches: A Novel About Brooklyn in the 1970s.) Right near the mosque and in front of the Alpine Cinemas stands a young Middle Eastern man with short, black hair, wearing a ‘24’ T-shirt. Considering ‘24’ was my favorite television show, I think initiating a conversation about it would be a good segue to learning about how he came to live in Bay Ridge.

After I boldly approach him and spark a conversation, I discover that Yousef is a native of Morocco and moved to the United States fifteen years ago. I tell him that I will be visiting Morocco in November with my “Jews of Morocco” class and ask him more about how he came to Bay Ridge. Although he was born in Fes, Morocco and seems interested in my trip, he is unable to tell me more about his birth country. After he moved to New York with his family, he never went back to visit Fes and only vaguely remembers it. Although he has lost ties to the location of his birth, he hasn’t lost touch with his culture and religion.

Similar to Diane, when I ask Yousef where he considers his home to be, he says “Bay Ridge”—not Brooklyn. When I ask him why he specifically said ‘Bay Ridge’ and not ‘Brooklyn’ or ‘New York’, he replies, “My brothers are here—right in this mosque.”

I was taken aback by his beautifully articulated words. As he pointed to the mosque, I understood that this neighborhood meant more to him than statistics and demographics. Yousef found a loving, tight-knit community that made him feel comfortable and accepted. “The population — from Lebanon, Palestine, Syria, Egypt, Yemen, Morocco and elsewhere — has mostly settled in an area bounded by 65th and 77th Streets to the north and south, and Seventh Avenue and Colonial Road to the west and east,” Kirk Semple of the New York Times notes. United by culture, ethnicity, and religion, these individuals have formed their Arabic, Middle Eastern, and/or Muslim identity in the upper portion of Bay Ridge.

As I pass by the Islamic Society of Bay Ridge, I smell shawarma and lamb soup from several Middle Eastern restaurants such as Yemen Café and Sally’s & George’s Restaurant. I see hookah lounges and tobacco shops, along with convenience stores with Arabic-speaking customers. Middle Eastern women are running ethnic clothing stores—selling decorative dresses and headscarves. Such surroundings and familiar faces make Bay Ridge residents like Yousef feel “at home.”

Despite the ethnic enclaves, ‘mom and pop’ shops, and close-knit communities, Bay Ridge is slowly succumbing to gentrification. “The median price-per-square-foot of new development in Bay Ridge jumped 7.4 percent over the past year, to $558 from $517, with the median home price jumping 14.5 percent to $655,498 from $560,037…” Amy Zimmer of DNAinfo New York reports. With the soaring housing costs, it is not surprising that chain-restaurants and big businesses are moving in. 86^th Street has been home to several large businesses, such as McDonalds, Century21, Starbucks and Payless Shoe Source. Over the past few years, TJMaxx has joined the corporate take-over, as well as the recent grand opening of a Wendy’s fast-food restaurant. In the past month, Thor Equities announced that Chipotle, the restaurant chain, would open its newest restaurant at 463 86^th Street in Bay Ridge (Real Estate Weekly).

Although Bay Ridge is not becoming the “new Williamsburg” just yet, its gentrification is attracting a younger, wealthier crowd. A young gentleman in his early thirties, William, and his fiancée are the perfect representation of this new demographic. As an attorney for a well-respected law firm in Midtown Manhattan, William recently moved to Bay Ridge in hopes of starting a family with his soon-to-be wife. Although money is not an overly significant issue in choosing a place of residence, the comparatively less expensive housing in Bay Ridge is a definite bonus. The neighborhood has a good balance of affordability, nightlife, and education for a young upper-middle class couple.

William was attracted to Brooklyn’s “more laid back” nature—in comparison to Manhattan. “There’s more room to breathe and relax from the stress of the cut-throat corporate world,” William claims, “it takes a toll on you after a few years.”

Bay Ridge is especially appealing to young couples due to its dining and nightlife. Along 3^rd, 4^th, and 5^th Avenue, there are numerous restaurants, coffee shops, bars, lounges, and dance clubs. With seven public schools and approximately eleven private schools in the area, the neighborhood makes finding a good school in the area much easier. With nine parks in close proximity, leisure activities and family outings become more convenient to host and attend. When considering what neighborhood to settle down in, couples like to William and his fiancée take similar factors into account.

While Bay Ridge is still accommodating to individuals who have lived in the neighborhood for an extended period of time, it is still welcoming to ethnic-based communities, and inviting to new, prospective residents.

Works Cited:

• Freudenheim, Ellen. “Muslim Immigrant Communities in Brooklyn: From Egypt to Pakistan” About.com

<http://brooklyn.about.com/od/brooklynneighborhoods/a/Muslim-Communities-In-Brooklyn.htm>

• Real Estate Weekly. “Chipotle to Open in Bay Ridge.” April 28, 2014.

<http://www.rew-online.com/2014/04/28/chipotle-to-open-in-bay-ridge/>

• Seghini, Tom. The Borough of Churches: A Novel About Brooklyn in the 1970s. 2011.
• Semple, Kirk. “Take the A Train to Little Guyana.” June 8, 2013. The New York Times.

<http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2013/06/09/nyregion/new-york-citys-newest-immigrant-enclaves.html?_r=0>

• United States Census Bureau. 2010 New York City Census

<http://maps.nyc.gov/census/>

• Zimmer, Amy. “Is Bay Ridge Poised to Become the New Williamsburg?” DNAinfo New York. April 17, 2014.

<http://www.dnainfo.com/new-york/20140417/bay-ridge/is-bay-ridge-poised-become-new-williamsburg#>

As I pass by Dyker Heights and see the elaborate houses decorated with Christmas lights and ornaments, I regress to an eight-year-old immigrant child. The first memory that vividly paints itself in my mind from December 22, 2002 is of the winter wonderland and bright lights of lavishly decorated Brooklyn houses. Yet, the same excitement and curiosity ceases to exist. The image of my eight-year-old self quickly disappears; an indifferent expression replaces the innocent, bewildered eyes. The culture shock has slowly faded over the past eleven years, as I have become desensitized to the “glitz and glam” of American culture. 

As I walk around 81^st and 82^nd street of Dyker Heights, Brooklyn, bundled up with my hat and gloves, I feel safe—too safe. I have seen these festive houses decorated for the holidays the past eleven years. I don’t feel the need to stop and stare in surprise. I don’t feel the need to even look up to wonder what the ruckus is about. I already know which houses place a blow-up Santa Clause on their front lawn and which one wraps multi-colored lights around its trees. This year is not any different. The garland, ornaments, and audience of this spectacle are always the same—I’m the only one who has changed.

 I nonchalantly walk past them, dodging tourists and visitors who are in awe with the inundating decorations. I wonder how silly it is for tourists to come from other states and even countries to witness this.

I was once that “tourist.” Oh how times have changed! I wonder if the city has made me heartless. Have I grown up too much to appreciate this? Can one ever grow up ‘too much’? These flashing lights, which once brought me the same thrill and amazement as these tourists, now only stir up feelings of confusion and frustration.  

Perhaps I have become ungrateful. Maybe this land of hope and opportunity molded me to be as durable as the paved streets. They’re definitely not paved with gold—just hard, cold, cement. Who would have imagined cement being an accurate reflection of my life? I wonder how my eight-year-old self would think of this newfound rashness.

 In Albania, I appreciated the slightest fortunes—when the power turned on or warm water was running. Now, not only do I expect those necessities, but also take magnificence for granted. I wonder, is that the New York bravado? The hectic, fast-paced lifestyle transforms people—for better or worse.

I forcefully shut my eyes, hoping to regain the same passion and spirit of the little girl who stood here eleven years ago—half confused and half excited to be in a new world. What I wish to have her back. Yes, she spoke no English, abandoned her family in Albania, and didn’t quite understand what severe impact this move would have on her life, but she was innocent. She was sweet and naïve and these pretty lights made her happy. They made her new world look beautiful and exciting. Of course she still had knots in her stomach and didn’t know what to expect, but in that moment, she felt whole.

She was awe-struck to see the colorful lights flickering on and off. Light was a luxury in Albania and these strangers were brightening the outside of their houses with it. Yet, that little girl sat inside of the car with her parents, sister, and “American” grandparents, and passed no negative judgment. She was reunited with her grandparents whom she hadn’t seen for several years, and that made the butterflies in her stomach settle down.

‘Ooh’ and ‘ahh’ filled her head, as she could not verbalize what she was feeling. The kaleidoscope of images inundated her mind, causing her to succumb to its beauty.

She seems like a distant image now—or a dream—not a part of me. I can’t whole-heartedly refer to her as “me” because she seems like a mirage. Perhaps that is the reason why I struggle with memory—because I’m quick to detach myself from the past. I’m quick to move on and forget. Sometimes it’s easier to repress the memories than admit that I have changed—for better or worse.

But as I pass by the ornate houses, I’ll choose not to categorize the change as ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ All the miniscule details that I can recall from my past serve as tiny, colored glass squares to the mosaic of my life. Although the fast-paced, repetitive nature of the city life has desensitized me, I don’t view it negatively. It is merely a motivation to search for something new and exciting, rather than fall back to a mundane life style. Although the streets are not paved with gold, you can paint them yourself. You can choose to walk in the same, worn down streets day by day or explore new territory. I choose to pave my own streets and see what the journey holds.

As I hurriedly rush down 82^nd street, I’m not interested in experiencing something for the twelfth time, but looking to explore something for the first time. I realize that it is not heartless or depressing to swiftly pass by these aesthetically astounding houses because I’m giving someone else the opportunity to experience it for the first time. I’m passing the baton to someone else, in hopes of filling his or her life with wonder and joy. 

Although I love the spirit of that bewildered immigrant girl passing by those houses in awe, I have to find other ways to quench my curiosity and stimulate my passion. I have shifted from experiencing life as a bystander, to actively and keenly living it. The rose colored glasses of the little girl and the kaleidoscope shattered to fit in my grand mosaic, which has barely taken form.   

In my poverty-stricken hometown of Korce, Albania, electricity, water, and heat were scarce. There were daily blackouts that lasted for several hours. Opportunities for a better future were granted to only those who had connections in the corrupt government. My parents, grandparents, sister and I resided in a small, two-bedroom apartment with no heat. Surprisingly, shortly after moving to the United States, where we had electricity and water everyday, I still wondered if my life would have been better had my family and I had stayed in Albania, rather than immigrating to a foreign nation. Many might find it absurd that I would contemplate such a thought. Who would want to go back to a place where there were no basic necessities? However, the drastic change from the familiar Albanian language and culture that was comforting to me to English and American culture, which was strange, brought me distress. Looking back, I am shocked that such feelings ever existed, as now, after living in the United States for approximately eleven years, I see that American culture has a great influence in my everyday life.

Having completed only one month of first grade in Albania, I was immediately put in second grade upon arriving in America. I failed to speak and understand a single word of English. I did not have any basic reading, writing, or math skills in any language. I felt as though everyone was talking about me because I did not look, dress, or act like every other student. I felt even more of an outcast, and that prevented me from obtaining a meaningful education. The stress, frustration, and humiliation built up rapidly so that I became physically ill. Every morning before school, I would have severe stomach pain, without realizing what was causing the problem. It was comforting to be home, where I did not feel like an outcast.

However, soon afterward, I started learning English, which was uplifting.  I realized that learning a different language was exciting, especially because it meant I could communicate with those around me. I began practicing my speech and writing. With my newfound confidence, I began to socialize more—making new friends. I no longer felt physical pain, but instead, felt as though I was a part of society.

However, while I became accustomed to American culture, I felt that my bond with Albanian culture was beginning to vanish. I learned English well and performed above average in school. Without realizing it, I distanced myself from my Albanian culture and grew less comfortable with speaking Albanian. At family gatherings, I would feel like a pariah because I had trouble understanding certain idioms and Albanian traditions. At school, I would sometimes feel isolated because I was not familiar with American sports, cartoons, and general culture. My childhood significantly differed from that of my friends because they were all born in the United States.

The two cultures clashed, created an idea in my mind that I did not truly belong to either.

I found it hard to accept that I belonged to two cultures and that it was acceptable to be different. Instead of trying to hide my uniqueness and edge, I started to embrace who I was. Different traditions, languages, and life-styles shape my current hometown of New York City; they make it memorable and irreplaceable, just as my different background differentiates me from the rest. Similarly, my culture and lifestyle as an Albanian-American influence my perception and point of view.

Clearly, I have gained invaluable experiences that have shaped my life significantly. I would have never guessed as a young, frightened immigrant that I would be diving into a course discussing the works of literature written by immigrants, depicting stories similar to mine. Perseverance defined who I am today rather than the difficulties I faced. The constant struggles led to my accepting of myself and achieving my dreams. I am grateful that I have had the opportunity to be a part of two incredible, yet distinct, cultures.

“I am American,” Gisella Dionio states when asked if she considers herself to be an immigrant. She doesn’t fit her personal definition of an immigrant, who she identifies as “someone born/raised in a culture different from that of America’s who comes to America.” Although she was born and raised in Elmhurst, Queens, New York, she still identifies herself with Filipino culture, considering both of her parents immigrated to the United States from the Philippines. While Gisella and her younger brother are first-generation American and do not speak Filipino, their parents’ native language, they possess a love and respect for the Filipino culture.

Although her mother and father share the same occupation in the medical field and both immigrated to the United States at roughly the same time, their backgrounds and upbringings vary tremendously. Born to an upper class family in the Philippines, Gisella’s mother was the first of her family to come to America. Her family members were very successful—working in politics—and established a reputable name for themselves. Growing up in a financially stable and well established house hold, one would assume that everyone in the family would be content with that life style and would not seek change. Yet, Gisella’s adventure-driven and strong-willed mother wanted to make her own money and establish her own identity. She always stood out from the rest of her ten brothers and sisters, whom were more conservative and reserved. As the adventurous, fearless, and strong-minded one of the family, at the age of twenty-two, she emigrated from the Philippines in search of a journey for vast opportunities.

Gisella refers to her mother’s journey as the “typical American dream”, one seeking greater prospects and change from the traditional and conservative Filipino culture. At the young age of twenty-two, her mother immigrated to New York right after finishing college in her native land. She wanted to pursue a career in nursing because she wanted to help people and was passionate about that field. While in the Philippines nurses are looked down upon and belittled, she recognized that nursing was a promising and respectable career in the United States. She knew that if she was to remain in the Philippines, she would be looked down upon because of her chosen career path, and not be content with her life in such a setting. The highly esteemed and well paying job of a nurse in America appealed to a young, educated woman from the Philippines who saw a bright future for herself.

Although assimilation is often difficult for immigrants, what placed Gisella’s mother at an advantage was her knowledge of the English language. Although the official language of the Philippines is Filipino, English is considered the “professional language”, Gisella notes. Her mother already knew how to speak English and obtained her nursing degree in her birth country, therefore, she did not have to start from scratch—on a professional note—which was very beneficial in her journey of finding herself and succeeding in a foreign country.

Although she was familiar with the language, she was far from accustomed to the culture. In relation to the United States, the Philippines is more conservative and reserved, in terms of tradition, customs, and dress. Group and social norm engulf individuality in the Philippines, whereas the Unites States is generally the opposite. Gisella’s mother initially experienced a culture shock and fear of diversity, as she was accustomed to seeing only one race of people, whom largely shared the same religion, beliefs, and culture. In New York, she became exposed to eccentricity, liberal views, revealing dress, and individuals of differing sexual orientations. Although the change was initially shocking, she doesn’t believe she can move back to her native country because she has become familiarized with American culture and appreciates the opportunities this country has given.

Unlike his wife, Gisella’s father was not born to an upper class family. His family in the Philippines was very poor and even education was deemed as a luxury, as they could not afford it. Although the economic status of their families differed, both Mr. and Mrs. Dionio came to America for the same objective: to live out the American dream. Mr. Dionio met his wife at the nurse-training program, while he was seeking to obtain a managerial position at a hospital. He too was cognizant of the condescending nature of the Filipino culture toward nursing positions; therefore he immigrated to the United States in hopes of a more promising career and successful future. It’s interesting to see two individuals from differing socioeconomic classes and backgrounds that share similar career goals and ideals find love among one another in a foreign country.

Gisella reflects that her parents have realized their dreams by coming to the United States, carrying out their career goals, and establishing a family. Although Gisella and her younger brother, William, are first generation American, they appreciate their Filipino roots and their parents’ culture. Their latest visit to their parents’ country of birth and land of their heritage was this past summer. Gisella proudly states that “it’s honestly such a beautiful country and I love the people and the culture.” While she can understand the language, she cannot speak it, which sometimes makes it difficult for her to join in family conversations and communicate with family members in the Philippines who solely speak Filipino. It hasn’t proved to be severely problematic because most of her relatives speak English as a second language, as they were taught in school. She would like to teach her future children about Filipino culture because she is proud of her heritage and it will become a part of who they are as well. Her neighborhood will likely make it easier to introduce the culture, as there is a large Filipino community in that Queens region. Filipino residents compose the majority of the tenants living in the apartment buildings surrounding her. Although she doesn’t attend any cultural services, she knows several established Filipino youth groups, which make it easier for her to get in touch with her roots.