It was already nearing 3 o’clock in the afternoon when I arrived at the corner of Grand and Chrystie. The afternoon sun still shone bright upon the clear, blue sky. All around, the markets of Chinatown emitted a vibrant spirit that somehow never seemed to fade. After a few minutes, my feet had guided me to Hester Street. As I walked further down, my surroundings began to change. There were less and less food stalls, and more and more restaurants. The store awnings seized to read Chinese characters, and soon were completely replaced by Italian words. I stopped, and found myself standing in the corner of Mulberry Street. Surrounded by dozens of white people, I now became the outsider.

Left and right, people were enjoying the great weather as they dined outside. I could not help but question the authenticity of these Italian restaurants. Do they still really serve Italian food? Do they even speak Italian? Why are there so many Hispanic workers? It was difficult for me to imagine what Little Italy was a century ago, but I certainly that it was not like this. The only feature that remained unchanged were the tenement buildings resting on top of the restaurants. These were the homes of the first Italian immigrants settling in New York City in the late 1800s. Surprisingly, the tenements still maintained their original façade with very little damage. Most of the buildings were made out of reddish bricks, each a maximum of five stories. Facing onto the street, the fire escapes still hang above the ground floor, serving more as an aesthetic than an emergency exit.

Focusing my eyes back to the street level, I began to walk past the seated diners. It was evident that most of them were tourists. The only New Yorkers on the block were the ones who were walking in a hurried pace. However, it was more to differentiate the real Italians in the neighborhood. The first few people whom I approached were either non-Italians or newcomers. Eventually, I came upon a restaurant called Il Palazzo. In front was an old man, with a full head of white hair. He was leaning upon a menu stand. He did not seem too busy, so I went up to him.

“Hello, I’m doing a school project on Little Italy. Are you interested in being interviewed?,” I asked unconfidently.

Beaming, the old man replied with a thick Italian accent, “YES! Of course! What do you want to know?”

And so the conversation started.

“Well, how long have you been in Little Italy? And how has it changed?”

“I came here in 1964. Big change! I worked here [points to the Il Palazzo] first. And then I worked over down Mulberry, Mott Street… I worked all over! Back then it was old fashioned. Most of the stores were street carts! Have you watched the Godfather?”

I nodded.

“Yes, we sold wine and cheese from carts. In ’75, Chinese move in and Italians move out. Then neighborhood changed. It’s all tourists. A lot of Italians moved to Brooklyn, New Jersey, Staten Island. I moved to Brooklyn with my wife. Where are you from?”

“Staten Island.”

“Ah, so you know. Italians move to Brooklyn, Chinese follow us. My block – all Chinese people. But I have respect for them. Real immigrants have dream, the American dream. It’s tough, but it’s possible. They [Chinese] work hard. My wife taught at a Catholic school. All my kids went to private school. It’s very expensive, but religion is important. You learn values. You leave school, but religion is still with you. It’s sad how they’re closing down. Private schools all over the city – gone – because of no money.”

I thanked the old man and shook his hand. But before I left, I asked, “What is your name?”

In a deep, thick Italian accent, he shouts, “GIOVANNI!”

I laughed, snapped a picture, and parted ways.

Crossing the street to Grand, I decided to explore a corner store. From afar, I thought it was a deli. Once inside, I was greeted with an assortment of cheese stacked on multiple racks and behind the glass. I made my way towards the back of the store where two men were conversing by the counter. Seeing me approach, one of them asked if he could help me.

“Oh, I’m just here to do a school project. Can I interview you?” I said more confidently this time.

“Yeah, I can help you get an A.,” the man said jokingly.

We both chuckled.

“Okay, so how long have you been in Little Italy? And how do you think it has changed?”

“I’ve been here for 35 years. Little Italy is smaller, but not much has changed. I mean, nowadays you have to be millionaire to live here. Most of the original Italian families have moved out, but they come back. Every holiday and Sunday they come back, and they bring their kids and grandkids with them. They show them around and stuff. The tourists are the ones that keeps the neighborhood alive mostly.”

“So how did you end up here?”

“My great, great grandfather created this store. I’m the fourth generation to own this business. It’s the oldest cheese place in America – 122 years. This actually used to be a bar. We moved here from next door. Back the there was no refrigerator. Imagine they see all of this. They’d be amazed to see the invention of refrigeration.”

“How do you feel about the path Little Italy is going? Are you worried?”

“I mean, I think it’s great… to see shoppers, to see people my age coming in with their sons and grandsons. You know, all of the tiles and ceiling are original.”

I looked around. “Wow, they still look great.”

“Yeah, we make sure to take good care of the place.”

“Well, thank you for everything. What’s your name again?”

“My name is Bob. Bob Alleva, like the name of the store.”

I walk out onto the street. Immediately, I thought about how interesting it was to have two opposing perspectives of the changes going on in Little Italy. The more I thought about it, the more it started to make sense. The opinions of Giovanni and Bob differed because of one reason, and that is because each had arrived in different times of the 20^th century. Giovanni came here in 1964 while Bob came here 35 years ago, which was around 1979. According to Giovanni, this was around the same time when Little Italy started to change. Therefore it makes sense when Bob said that there has not been a lot of change because Little Italy already has changed.

The afternoon sun began to set, and the blue sky started to develop a yellow-orange hue. I walked around the block to Mott Street. I remembered what Giovanni said about once working here. The block was clearly not part of Little Italy anymore; it now belonged to Chinatown. Right then, I thought about the New York Post article that made me choose to Little Italy for this project. What it said was true. Little Italy barely covered three blocks.

I headed back to Mulberry Street, but this time I turned the other way. I came across another man standing in front of a fancy-looking restaurant. All suited-up in front of a restaurant with a wooden exterior, he looked up and down the street for potential customers.

Hesitantly I asked, “Hello, do you mind if I interview you for a school project?”

“Yeah, sure. What do you want to know?”

“Anything you want to say.”

“Okay. This is Il Cortile, which means The Courtyard. Established in 1975. Behind the restaurant, there’s little courtyard. You’re more than welcome to go inside and see it. But c’mon, let’s cross the street. I’ll tell you a cool story.”

We walked across the street.

He points at a name located on top of the restaurant building. “You see that? It says ‘Anna Espositio.’ That’s my great, great grandma. She had 23 kids.”

“WHAT? Whoa, 23!?”

“Yep. My name is Sal Esposito.”

“So, Sal. How do feel about the changes in Little Italy?”

“You know, changes are happening. There are plenty of stores for rent. You see this building behind us? We used to own this building, too. Neighborhood is changing. Little Italy is only two and half-blocks. Now, there’s this new neighborhood called Nolita, short for North of Little Italy. That’s where all the yuppies and younger people start to move in. Rent is going up because the wealthy is around us. They’re closing in more and more. New money is buying old buildings. They’re buying the little guys. The rent used to be 7k. Now they raise it to 17k. How can you expect people to pay?”

“Yeah, that’s a high price.”

“But you know what will end up happenin’? These stores of rent…they’ll end up being owned by an Italian. So everything stays Italian no matter what. There was this recent article in the New York Post about Little Italy becoming extinct.”

“Yeah, I read it actually!”

“They got it wrong. Little Italy is nowhere near extinction. They just did that for publicity, for money. Bam! Front page of the NY Post. You know, what people are saying about Little Italy… it’s not bad news. It’s just a bad story.”

“Wow, you’re right…By the way, can I take a picture of you in front of the restaurant?”

“Yeah, sure. Just make sure you can see the name of the restaurant.”

After I shook his hand, he gave me his business card for reference.

It was already past 6PM when I finished my last interview. The three hours I spent in Little Italy has left me brimming with satisfaction. Hearing the stories of the three men has given me a new hope for this New York neighborhood. Although very small in comparison to the neighboring Chinatown, it still thrives. It is still filled with a rich history, which can be found in the lives of its inhabitant and the bricks of its buildings. People, such as the men whom I met, are the very reason why Little Italy will continue to prosper for many more years. The foundation of Little Italy is based on the American Dream, and just as long as this dream never dies, this neighborhood too shall never die.

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, “8^th 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. 

From Rice Fields to the Concrete Jungle

            My name is Reylyn Krizzel Aloag Roldan, but you can just call me Reylyn. I was born in Quezon City, Philippines on July 29, 1995. To help you understand, the capital of Manila is like New York City; it is made up of different “boroughs.” Just as Brooklyn is to New York, Quezon City is to Manila. Another comparison I want to point out is the weather. Yes, I know that the Philippine Islands are located in the tropics and that New York simply does not match up in terms of great weather. Although this is indeed true, the Philippines also has its downs. Just like the American East Coast experiences hurricane season, the Philippines also has a tropical storm season of its own. Because the waters are much warmer in the Pacific, these storms are called typhoons, which have stronger winds and heavier rainfall. Can you see where I am going with this? If not, I’ll just tell you. You see, typhoon season starts around May and by the end of July, it is at its peak. So now, do you see the connection I’m trying to make? My goodness, the trip to the hospital must have been terrible. Well actually, my parents have confirmed this assumption already when they recounted my birth story to me. One good thing did come out (no pun intended) from all of this though. ME!

Bored yet? Hopefully not, so please bare with me. WE DIDN’T EVEN GET TO THE BEST PART! When you read the first sentence of this essay, did you wonder, “Wow, she has a really long name!” C’mon, don’t lie. We’re all friends here. Okay, I’ll just assume that you agreed with me since I’ll forever be incapable of knowing your response at this very moment in time. If you haven’t realized yet, I’m basically talking to no one except this paper. Gosh, you must think I’m crazy. But that’s okay! We’re all a bit crazy, right? So going back to my name. The reason why my name is so long is because in the Philippines, we consider our mother’s maiden name as our middle name. Pretty cool, eh? For me, my Filipino middle name is Aloag (Al-oh-huag). The history of my surname is even cooler. The Roldan name originated from Scotland and Spain. According to Google, I even have family crests from both countries. Following the guidelines of history books which the public education system has bestowed upon me, I am certain that my genealogy traces all the way back to Spain. Plus, the influence of the conquistadors was definitely inevitable. Although I highly doubt that I am a descendant of the Scottish line, it’s still quite cool to ponder about. You know what they say: anything is possible!

I bet you had enough of me already. My life can be a bit dull sometimes. So moving onto the real story. I currently reside in New York City, more specifically in the borough of Staten Island. I know you’re probably like, “Hahahahahaha, you’re from the dump!” Jokes on you because I’ve already heard it only about a hundred times. Staten Island is seriously not that bad; it’s the suburbs of the city. So if you plan to raise kids in an urban setting but without all the corruption that the city has to offer, Staten Island is the best place to do it. I promise, your kids will turn out perfectly normal. C’mon, look at me. I’m great! But fair warning, there will be occasional teasing when they grow up. Don’t worry though; it will build their character and make them a tough nut to crack. On the bright side, it definitely won’t be as bad as Long Island kids. Ooh, shots fired. If you’re from LI and reading this… sorry not sorry!

So how did my family get to the greatest city in the world? The same way everyone else in the United States did (excluding the Native Americans, of course) – through hard work and dedication. My family wasn’t born into wealth. In fact, it all started in the farmlands of the northern provinces of the Philippines. Coincidentally, both sides of my family are from there and neither knew what kind of future lied ahead. Funny how fate works, right? Anyways, my grandparents from my dad’s side were from a province called Ilocos Sur (Ee-loh-kos Soor). My grandmother has three other siblings, all of whom are women. The oldest, Felicitas, was striving to be a biochemist, which was a profession unusual for women to pursue. She was the first to leave the province and earn her degree in a college in Manila. Now this achievement was massive back then. She was actually the first woman to ever receive such degree in all of the northern provinces. She was and still is a big deal back in Ilocos. In a way, she’s kind of my idol in a sense.

Upon graduating from college, she decided to take a leap of faith and go to America. Airplanes weren’t that popular in the Philippines in the 1960s, so my great aunt had to cross the ocean the old fashion way – by boat. She first settled in Hawaii for a year or so until she earned enough money to settle in the mainland. Like most Asian immigrants coming to the United States, she entered through California. Now how she arrived in New York, I completely have no idea, but if I have to guess she probably used her brains to do it. Using her biochemistry degree, she was offered a research job in Rutgers University where she worked for about five years. Remember when I told you she was a big deal? Well, her “big-dealness” spread amongst the biochemistry community. Columbia University asked her to work in their lab, and she accepted. It was during her time as an instructor in the biochemistry department in Columbia where she met her husband, Elias Naum Bobrow. To make their love story even more cliché, he was actually her student. Mind-blowing, eh?

Of course by this time, my great aunt already accumulated a large sum of money. She used that money to bring the rest of her family: her sisters, my grandmother, my three uncles, and my father. The cycle of hardships continued once they all settled here. My grandmother worked two jobs, one at Carnegie Hall and the other at INC. My grandfather, on the other hand, worked in a Sheraton Hotel. My father and uncles were job-hopping, ranging from McDonalds to JFK Airport. For a while, they lived in a small apartment in Woodside, Queens. Overtime, my grandparents and their children saved enough money to buy a house in Staten Island.

So let’s go a few years back and return to the motherland. It was in the late 70s when my parents met in college in Metro Manila. Unlike most college dormitories in the United States, various colleges shared dormitories in the Philippines. Both my parents were studying accounting in their respective colleges, and once again fate worked its magic and brought them together. Now that I think about it, does that mean that I’ll meet “the one” in college, too? OMG, that’s scary to think about. Where were we? Right, my parents’ love story. After a year together, my mother gave birth to my eldest brother, Ray. A few years later, my brother, Ralph, was born. And you already know that I came after him. Oh, fun fact of the day! All our names start with “R.” My mother’s name is Rosalina and my father’s is Reynold. Speaking of my father, he left for America after my first birthday. It took nearly seven years for our family to be reunited. SEVEN! Can you believe that?

I came to America when I was seven in May of 2003. Similar to my family members who came before me, I experienced a major culture shock. Language was definitely my biggest barrier. Ironically, the older members of my family knew more English than me when they first came to the States. I guess it was because of their education; my grandmother was a teacher and she passed her knowledge to her sons and husband. Another big difference was definitely the weather; we only knew one season in the Philippines – summer! So moving to the United States, and experiencing my first snowfall was a life milestone. Should we talk about food next? It’s true when they say that everything in America is BIGGER! The portions are simply incomparable. Some types of food definitely took time getting used to. I remember I wasn’t that fond of mustard when I first arrive; I thought it tasted disgusting. Both my mindset and palate eventually changed, and I’m now more open to try different kinds of cuisines. And NYC is the best place to do it!

This essay is getting too long. How did I even write so much? Wow, it’s almost midnight. I should really wrap this up, so here’s the jist of it. Although change can sometimes be frightening, it can also be very rewarding. If my Aunt Felicitas did not muster enough courage to move to America, my family wouldn’t be here right now. I wouldn’t be here right now. The most important advice I have ever gotten came from my grandfather on the day of my high school graduation. He said to me, “Don’t ever forget where you came from. Remember all the sacrifices and hardships we’ve made to get you where you are now. Always remember.” I carry these words with me everyday and for the rest of my life. Saying thank you isn’t merely enough to convey my gratefulness for everything my family has done for me. Because of this, I am letting my actions speak for themselves. Just like them, I too will work hard to not only provide for my future family but for them as well. And in the words of Ray Bradbury, sometimes we have to jump off cliffs and build our wings on the way down. This is truly the best way to live.