Painting the portrait of a neighborhood as vibrant as Flushing using a little over 1500 words is no easy task. However, Gautam and I tried to at least get a mental picture by strolling through the area and conversing with several of its members. The overall portrait described in words may end up being a bit blurry, but considering it’s a portrait of Flushing, it should still be beautiful and dynamic.

We can start sketching our portrait by looking at Flushing’s origins. Flushing was originally land purchased by the Dutch from a group of Native Americans called the Matinecocks. The settlers named the land Vlissingen, which translates to “flowing water.” Later, when the British took over the area, they Anglicized the name Vlissingen, giving the area its current name, Flushing. Flushing was one of the first areas to petition for and later obtain religious freedom. The petition, called the Flushing Remonstrance, was written in 1657. The petition was written in response to a law passed by Governor Stuyvesant that prohibited Flushing residents from receiving Quakers into their homes. At the time, the occupants of Flushing were primarily Dutch and English. Later, in the 1800’s African Americans, attracted by Flushing’s tolerance of Quakers, began settling in Flushing.

As time went by, Flushing’s development served to make it even more appealing to outsiders. In 1843, a local newspaper was put into circulation and a secondary school opened. The school’s population included students from other parts of the U.S., Europe, South and Central America. In 1854, a railroad was set up that connected Flushing with New York City. After the Civil War, the population of Flushing increased significantly. This increase can be attributed to trolley lines and railroads, which facilitated commuting in and out of the area. The population would see another increase in the early 1900’s. New developments in Flushing corresponded with this increase. A subway line was developed that connected Flushing with Manhattan and apartment buildings began replacing houses.

Later in the1900’s, large groups of Asian immigrants began making Flushing their home. Most of these immigrants were Chinese, Korean and Japanese. Their arrival at this time can be partially attributed to the 1965 Immigration and Nationality Act, which got rid of the quota system that severely limited the amount of Asian immigrants that could immigrate to the U.S.. A second wave of immigrants came in the 1980’s. This time, the immigrants came from a wider variety of countries, including China, Korea, India, Colombia, Afghanistan, Guyana, the Dominican Republic, Pakistan, the Philippines and El Salvador.

With our sketch of the past complete, we can begin adding some color using current demographics of Flushing. Flushing has the seventh largest immigrant population in New York. 67.7% of residents in Flushing are foreign-born. Of those foreign born, 80% are from Asia, giving Flushing the largest concentration of Asian immigrants in Queens. That means that about 54% of Flushing currently consists of Asian immigrants. This is a very different picture from 24 years ago when the largest population in Flushing was White Non-Hispanic, which made up about 58% of the population. The Asian population at the time represented only about 22% of the neighborhood. The current Asian population consists primarily of Chinese, Koreans and Indians. The immigrant population of Flushing also includes people from Colombia, Pakistan, the Philippines, Malaysia, Ecuador, the Dominican Republic, and Bangladesh, as well as other countries. While Flushing’s Chinese population has increased over the years, most likely taking in Chinese immigrants that left the Chinatown in Manhattan, its Indian population has actually declined by 23% since 2000.

To finish of our picture, we need to add a personal touch in the form of personal experiences. I had never been to Flushing before, so I was not sure what to expect. When I got off at the last stop on the 7-train and walked out into the sunlight, I was immersed in a raging sea of people. Everyone had somewhere to be and seemed to be in a hurry to get there. I felt intimidated, wondering how I was going to find the courage to stop such seemingly busy people for an interview. I went to the corner, and waited for Gautam, who lives in the area, to arrive. When he did, we went to a nearby public library to discuss our game plan. I was surprised to see so many people in the library on Saturday. It was so packed that we could not find a seat. Planning our day did not take long, so we departed soon after.

We decided to stay away from the busy Main Street and instead walk the less-crowded streets and visit several parks in the area. Away from Main Street, the residential houses brought a sense of calm compared to the congested buildings in the main street area. Something that surprised me as we walked was the variety of religious institutions we passed by while covering a relatively small area. We saw a Sikh temple, a synagogue, and a Korean Christian church. While walking along one street, we looked into one yard to see what looked like a yard sale. Several people, all Asian, were perusing a table covered in a vast collection of clothing, and pulling out what they thought they might like. A few feet away from the table stood a lady who appeared to be in charge of transactions. In front of her were several boxes, one of which said “Donations.” I decided to walk over and ask her what the donations were for only to find out that she did not speak English. Instead, she called over another woman who greeted us and asked us what we needed. I told her I wanted to know what the donations were for. She explained that they were collecting donations for the homeless. The yard they were in, and the building behind it was used to house the homeless and the clothes the people were perusing were meant for the homeless. Unfortunately, the owners of the building were no longer allowing the homeless to reside there. As a result, the people, who I found out were a part of the Jesus Love House Mission, were giving away the clothes, partially in exchange for donation. Essentially, the clothes were free and for anyone who needed them. However, it was deeply appreciated if those who took clothes could donate as well. The money used would go to help the homeless. I did not want any clothing, but I decided to put a dollar in the donation box. The woman was grateful that I did so and told me “You got good love.” I was honestly surprised. I did not expect that just a few blocks away from the bustling main street there would be a quiet community working to help the homeless.

After leaving the yard we walked on to visit several parks. In total we visited about five. Of those, the three that I remember the most are Bowne Park, Kissena Corridor Park, and Kissena Park. As we traverse to and from each, I notice that the areas between displayed trees blooming with exquisite flowers, all pink, but of three different types. The buildings looked fairly modern. We passed by an elementary school, which Gautam told me had not been there six years ago, and soon we were at our first park. We were looking for people who had some spare time for an interview. It was interesting to see the different activities that took place at different parks. Some boasted large jungle gyms where children tried to enjoy their weekend as best as possible while their parents watched, relaxing, but keeping an eye out to make sure their children were safe. Other parks were smaller, and rather than children, had groups of elderly people playing, or watching others play go (a Chinese board game). Others still included baseball fields, cricket fields, basketball courts, and tennis courts.

While visiting the tennis area of Kissena Park, we stopped to watch some of the residents play. Each court had players of various skill levels. We decided to watch the group we considered to be most skilled and began discussing our own experiences, or lack of experience, playing tennis. While we were talking, a gentleman a few feet away from us came over and gave us some tips on how to become good tennis players. His name was Jack Amiot. Of the many helpful tips he gave us, one that I found most interesting was that he said the Flushing sector of the USTA (United States Tennis Association), a tennis instruction institutions based in Flushing, “sucks”. Apparently, if one wants to get good tennis lessons, they need to head over to Randall’s Island. He told us that if we wanted to play at this particular court we would need to pay $20. Apparently, a tennis permit at the park used to cost $60, until Mayor Bloomberg altered how pricing works. Now, a permit costs $20 for students and seniors, but $200 for everyone else.

After discussing improving our tennis skills, we started talking about his life. He was born in Cuba and came to the U.S. when he was two years old. While he is Cuban by birth, by heritage he is a mix of races, none of which include Cuban. His father came to Cuba from London when he was three years old. His mother came from Spain to Cuba when she was four years old. Both wanted to immigrate to the U.S., but due to the immigration process, it took some time to actually make it over. In Jack’s case, as he said, it took “an entire generation” to do so. Jack was raised Irish Catholic, but when he researched his heritage a few years back he discovered that he was a descendent of one of the first Jewish families to live in France and later England. As a child he went to Catholic school, though he apparently did not learn much there, became an artist after attending Adelphi University, raised a family, and gave tennis lessons. A severely sprained Achilles tendon ended his tennis instruction career, but his art career continues and he is currently trying to open a non-profit organization with the goal of helping people of all ages learn to read and write in English.

After bidding Jack farewell and departing from Kissena part, we walked to Sangas Pizzeria. Sangas is different from most pizza places I’ve been to because they sell snack-sized whole pizzas as opposed to slices or large pies. There were several families there. While they ate, or waited for their orders, they attentively watched the movie displaying on the T.V. screen in the corner. After eating, we went to Gautam’s house to go over our findings.

Flushing is a diverse area not only when it comes to ethnicity, but also culturally and historically. As with any neighborhood in New York, painting a portrait that captures all the important aspects of Flushing, while also adding a few interesting little details, is not easy for an unskilled artist. However, I hope that the portrait I painted does justice to the intricate design and vibrant color that defined my experience of Flushing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Works Cited

 

“Flushing: Queens Neighborhood Profile.” About.com Queens, NY. N.p., n.d. Web. 07 May 2014.

“History of Flushing Meeting.” History of Flushing Meeting. N.p., n.d. Web. 07 May 2014.

“The History Of Flushing.” The Peopling of New York 2011. N.p., n.d. Web. 07 May 2014.

“Leaving So Soon?” Security Alert:. N.p., n.d. Web. 07 May 2014.

“The Peopling of New York 2013 W/ Professor Berger Macaulay Seminar 2 @ CCNY.” The Peopling of New York 2013 W Professor Berger RSS. N.p., n.d. Web. 07 May 2014.

“Repeal of the Chinese Exclusion Act, 1943 – 1937–1945 – Milestones – Office of the Historian.” Repeal of the Chinese Exclusion Act, 1943 – 1937–1945 – Milestones – Office of the Historian. N.p., n.d. Web. 06 May 2014.

“U.S. Immigration Legislation: 1965 Immigration and Nationality Act (Hart-Cellar Act).” U.S. Immigration Legislation: 1965 Immigration and Nationality Act (Hart-Cellar Act). N.p., n.d. Web. 07 May 2014.

“A Walk Through Queens . History | Thirteen/WNET.” A Walk Through Queens . History | Thirteen/WNET. N.p., n.d. Web. 07 May 2014.

“The New New Yorkers: Characteristics of the City’s Foreign-Born Population, 2013 Edition”, 07 May 2014.

http://www.nyc.gov/html/dcp/pdf/census/nny2013/nny_2013.pdf

            Exiting my parent’s house, I turn left and walk down East 40^th Street to the end of the block and make another left, onto avenue D. I realize that in just turning the corner and walking down about three blocks, I’ve already passed by three different churches. Three churches within three blocks of each other, and another two several blocks up in the opposite direction. Each one approaches God in its own unique way. I’m reminded of all the churches I’ve been to in my life: lively and musical Pentecostal services, reserved Jehovah’s Witness services, and once, an even more reserved Catholic service. That’s how my family saw church. It didn’t where you went as long as you could feel close to God. There were exceptions, such as my aunts, who went to two different churches and joked that the members of the other church were going to hell, but generally, the most important thing was faith. As I make my way down the street, I think about how important religion used to be, and how different things are now. My mother is still very religious, but rarely goes to church because of work.  The rest of us barely go because of lack of interest. After walking down a few blocks further, I make a left left onto Nostrand Avenue.

            Nostrand Avenue stirs up a strange mix of emotions for me.  It’s noisy, and not very appealing to the eye. At the same time, however, there is so much to enjoy: a variety of restaurants, clothing stores, game stores and more recently a Caribbean bakery that makes small, soft, delicious beef patties for only one dollar. I have a feeling they’re Haitian beef patties, because they’re nothing like the Jamaican beef patties at the Golden Krust across the street, which I often ate while growing up. Seeing Golden Krust honestly creates a feeling of disappointment in me, not because it tastes bad, but because it reminds me of when my Aunt Tully and Aunt Sharon would visit from Jamaica and bring real Jamaican beef patties. They were frozen, but after a little time in the microwave, they came out better than any beef patty I’ve ever had before. To me, they were even better than “Juicy Beef” patties, which the rest of family consistently says is the best in Jamaica. She also brought sugar cane and fried fish, (made the good way, by frying it with vinegar, sweet peppers and onions) the memories of which only makes seeing Golden Krust even more of a disappointment. The taste is similar, but definitely not the same, and it brings back the nostalgic memories of when my aunts used to visit. Aunt Sharon passed away and Aunt Tully hasn’t visited in some time now, but I still remember how much fun it would be when they did visit, and how amazing the food that they brought tasted.

            Aunt Tully and Aunt Sharon were businesswomen who bought shoes in America to sell in Jamaica. As I approach the Newkirk Avenue train station, I’m reminded of when I took the train with them one day to visit the man they bought their shoes from. It was one of the few times, when I was younger, that I took the train in a direction that would bring it above ground at one point, and I remember being surprised as I saw light entering the car I was in as it was coming out of the tunnel. When they met with the man, they were always very happy to see each other. Then the heckling began. No matter how “good” things were going back home, or how the family was doing, when it came to buying shoes, both parties suddenly became broke. Each had kids to feed. For my Aunts, it meant they couldn’t afford to buy the shoes for too high a price. For the salesman, it meant that he couldn’t afford to sell them for too low of one. One way or another, after some complaints, bargains, lowest offering prices, and deliberation, shoes were bought in bulk to be shipped back to Jamaica. I’d been to the store in Jamaica as well. It was essentially my Aunts and their business partners sitting near the entrance of a rainbow colored tunnel, trying to avoid the heat. The entire tunnel, containing every color of the rainbow along with blacks browns and grays, was filled with shoes. Every color to match whatever dress or purse you could have.

            As I enter the train, I look around, searching for a seat, but also for interesting characters that might give me a story to tell my friends later. Fortunately or unfortunately, it’s a quiet train, so I take a seat and pull out a book to pass the time. Time passes, slowly but surely, as do the stops. Eventually I’m at Nevins, where I wish I could get off and go to Junior’s Cheesecake, where my parents used to get cheesecakes for my brothers and I on our birthdays. To my stomach’s discontent, I actually get off one stop later, at Borough Hall. As I walk towards the escalator, not in the mood to walk up the three different sets of steps, a woman with an accent that I can’t quite distinguish stops me and asks how to get to the 4-train. I explain that they have to walk all the way to the other end of the platform and then take the stairs. Even though they look like they understand me, I still feel a slight urge to take them all the way the 4-train platform. I think about how many times my mother and grandmother got lost on the train, and how much easier their lives might have been when they first came if they’d had someone to give them directions. At the same time, I remember how afraid I was to ask for directions when I first started taking the train, and how many times I ended up missing stops or getting lost as a result.

            I exit the station onto Court Street and begin walking toward Atlantic Avenue. I see vendors seeing organic fruit and pastries and question whether I should buy some apples for my mother. My mother’s always liked all types of fruits. While sugar cane and mangoes probably top the list of her favorite fruits, she has always really liked strange fruits, or just fruits from other countries. I remember how she told me that one of the best gifts my dad ever got her while she was still in Jamaica were some American apples. Not only did they taste good, but their rarity in Jamaica also brought prestige with them. While I’d like to get her something, there isn’t anything I think she’d find interesting. I’ll try Sahadi’s on Atlantic Avenue instead. Similar to Nostrand Avenue, Atlantic Avenue has a plethora of interesting restaurants and shops to see. Sahadi’s in particular imports all kinds of sweets, nuts, and vegetables from around the world and somehow manages to sell most of it at a reasonable price. My mother loves to buy cashews from here, and I decide to buy a pound for her before I head to my real destination. After paying for my purchase, I exit, walking down Atlantic until I reach Henry Street. Crossing the street and turning left, I walk down until I see it. Cobble Hill Health Center: My mom’s former job and where I currently volunteer in the Recreation Department. It hits me again, as it often does, just how hard my mother had to work to get where she is today, and just how little I tend to appreciate it. All the long hours she had to work just so that more than 19 years later, I could volunteer here for fun. I’m glad I bought her the nuts, because I realize even more at this moment just how much she deserves them. 

Sara’s description of my family’s immigration story accurately sums up how my family came to the U.S.  Those who’ve read it know that I am not an immigrant and don’t have a true immigration story. However, I do have experiences from being the child of immigrants. Therefore, rather than regurgitating what Sara worked so hard to put together, I think it might be best to discuss my own personal experiences from having grown up in a Jamaican-American household.

When I was younger, there were essentially two worlds: the world inside my house, and the rest of the world. They seemed like two completely separate entities and, consciously or subconsciously, depending on where I was and who I was with, I could be one of two different people. At home, I was more Jamaican. I ate Jamaican food, understood how Jamaican’s spoke (it’s not as simple as just putting “mon” at the end of every sentence), sang Jamaican nursery rhymes, and knew Jamaican jokes and superstitions. At school, and when I wasn’t with my family, I was American. I ate American food, and learned American jokes, nursery rhymes, and superstitions. It was rare that the two worlds ever crossed because when my parents left the house, they became more “American” as well. Today, things are about the same, but I think that I’m more willing to show my Jamaican side to others than when I was younger.

Even though I felt as if I lived in two worlds, that didn’t mean that the world of my house was like the real Jamaica, and my parents often reminded me of that. They told me that my life was boring- that had I grown up in Jamaica, instead of spending all day watching T.V. and playing on the computer, I’d be climbing mango and guinep trees, running around with friends, and playing more active games. I never understood why they told me this, as it only made me feel like my life was less than it could have been, but eventually I decided that I was glad to not have lived that life. Yes, I didn’t spend as much time outside, and didn’t climb as many trees, but I’d also never been chased up a mango tree for not doing my chores, kicked by a cow for I forgetting to tie its legs before I milked it, or beaten by my teacher in front of all my classmates in school. The same could not be said for my parents. I figured that my life was, while different, equally as good.

My visits to Jamaica confirmed that I was content with the life I had. While some of my family members in Jamaica are just as well off, if not more, than we are, many live or have lived impoverished lifestyles. Not all have or had indoor plumbing, financial stability, or even proper education. In Jamaica, one must pay yearly school fees to enter their child your child in school. This is not just for college, but also for all other levels of education. Not all Jamaicans are able to continually afford this. As a result, I tended to feel bad for some of my family members and appreciate my American life more.

In conclusion, while my immigration story isn’t as interesting or inspiring as that of my parents, it still reflects some of what one has to deal with when they live in a culture much different from that with which they were raised.

             Sara’s (Saranya’s) tale of immigration starts with her father. He was a college graduate working for the BHC when he decided that he wanted to go to the U.S. in order to continue his education and further assist his family. Prior to this, he met and married Sara’s mother, who later gave birth to Sara’s older sister. When the time was right, Sara’s father came to the U.S. on a student visa with several of his college friends. While there he obtained his masters degree at NYU and began working for the DEP as a civil engineer. After getting his job with the DEP, he began sending money back to his family in India and wrote what his daughters call “love-letters” back and forth with his wife. This lasted for about 8 moths to a year.

Over time, Sara’s father was able to bring his wife and daughter over. After obtaining a visa, her Sara’s father was also able to bring his parents and a brother over. His brother worked for a while, but eventually returned to India. They’d been living in a friend’s basement, but later moved into a 1bedroom, 1 bathroom apartment in Jamaica, Queens. Eventually Sara was born.

Sara’s mother was excited to come to the U.S. She wanted to study, get a job and be a career woman. Her husband’s parents did not support this however, as it was more traditional for women to become stay at home wives and mothers. In spite of this, she studied at NYU the same way her husband did and became a certified accountant with a CPA. She worked at a travel agency for a while, then later for Urbani Goods Company.

While working, Sara’s mother sponsored three of Sara’s aunts so that they could come to the U.S. They all stayed with her for a while, and then went their separate ways. One now lives in Colorado, another in Queens and the third in New Jersey.

While in Jamaica, Queens, Sara’s father saw a beautiful red house that he’d have loved to make his own. He liked it so much that he would purposely walk home on a path that allowed him to pass by the house. When the house became available, it was his wife who saw that he liked it and convinced him to buy it. He’d told her that it was far too expensive, but she said it’d be fine. In the long run, it was, as they paid off the mortgage on it just last year.

Life in the U.S. had both ups and downs. For Sara’s father, obtaining a job in the U.S. meant prestige for his family back home. For her mother, it meant having opportunities that most women back in India would not. The down side was that they had to be far more independent than they did back home. In India, family was a key component of everyday life. If one ever had a problem, he or she could always find a family member or family friend that they could talk to and confide in. If one had to raise children, but needed free time to attend to other matters, there was always an aunt, uncle, or other family that could babysit. In the U.S., however, Sara’s parents were mostly on their own. This made working and raising children at the same time more difficult. As a result, when Sara was born, she had to spend a year in India with her grandparents.

Other troubles Sara’s family faced included communication, subway issues, slowness or lateness of transportation in general and, for Sara’s mother, trouble travelling while pregnant. When it came to communication in particular, Sara’s parents actually did know English, as they’d been required to learn it in school. However, they still had strong accents that made it difficult for others to understand them.

Cultural changes for Sara’s parent were not as severe. There was a temple in Jackson Heights, which allowed access to traditional religious experiences. Food was able to remain unchanged as all necessary spices could be brought over from India whenever someone visited. They were also able to celebrate cultural holidays such as Diwali: an Indian national holiday in which they invite many friends and family over for a big party.

In spite of separation from culture not being a problem for Sara, there was still a loss of culture from her parent’s generation to hers. Sara does not consider herself to be an immigrant. She does consider her parents and sister to be immigrants. However, she thinks that she is actually more Indian than her sister. She believes this because her sister came to the U.S. when she was only a year old. Thus, her sister didn’t have much of an immigrant experience the way her parents did. While Sara’s parents sent Sara on many trips back to India to maintain her cultural roots, Sara’s sister was in college, and couldn’t always go.  As for Sara herself, in spite of her many visits home, she doesn’t speak her family’s language, and as a result, there is a slight language barrier between her and her grandparents.  She also feels pressured by them to get in touch with her culture more, but she’d prefer not to do so.

Overall, it seems that the immigration story of Sara’s family ended in success. Sara’s father’s standards and work ethic earned him respect within the workplace. When he first came to the U.S., white people mesmerized him, as they were highly respected in India. Now, he has white people working under him. He also obtained and slowly paid for the home of his dreams. Sara’s mother was able to balance working, studying and raising a family and has a career and two beautiful and intelligent children to show for it. Both parents were also able to assist their family members back home and allowed them to experience the U.S. for themselves, whether permanently or temporarily.