There’s not enough time! There’s not enough time!

More often than not, that thought runs through my mind.  There’s not enough time!  Every day is filled with way too many tasks to be done and not enough sleep to be had.  I’d like to share a few things with you, so please, if you have a few minutes to spare, follow me as I take you through a typical weekday in the life of a commuter such as myself. 

Mornings (Monday through Friday).  You’re going to have to get up at 6:30am and it will be a struggle because most likely you were forced to go to bed late the night before doing homework.  That said, you take a 15-minute snooze until 6:45am, and then you take another one until 7:00am even though you know it will make you late.  You will have gotten to a point where you don’t even care because no matter what, you’re still going to be tired.

You go through the humdrum of the morning, brushing teeth, eating breakfast (most likely not), etc.  This is going to take you an hour because you move like a snail.  You have learned to dread weekday mornings because you’ve been doing the early morning commute since the 6^th grade.  You would think that you’d be accustomed to mornings, but unfortunately you’re not, and it’s still a constant day-to-day struggle for you.

Hopefully you can get out of the house by 7:30am.  If not, kiss being on time for your 9:30am class goodbye.

Travelling (every day of the week, sadly).  No matter what part of Manhattan you need to travel to, it will take you roughly 2 hours to get there and another 2 hours to get back because, according to your friends, you live in the “boondocks” of Queens.

You first take the Q83 bus to the Jamaica Center train station.  It will be a 30-minute ride.  Monday through Friday, you will board the E train to either 7 Ave-53 St to get the B/D or 42 St to get the 1.  No matter which station or train you transfer to, you will pass a stop (either 59St or 66 St) that will forever remind you of your simultaneous love and hatred for Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School of Music, Art and the Performing Arts, of which you are an alumnus.  Continuing on the 1 train, you’ll get off at 137 St-City College and have to trek up that wretched hill to campus.  Sarcastically, you’ll enjoy every minute of it.  What’s even worse is if you take the B/D you’ll either have to walk what feels like forever from 145 St or if you’re bold and in the mood for some exercise, you’ll walk up ALL those steps at 135 St through the park.  Don’t worry though, whichever route you take, you WILL be out of breath.

Heading home is the same ordeal.  Two hours of travelling.  Mondays, you’ll get home at 7:00pm, if you’re lucky.  Tuesdays and Thursdays depend on scheduling.  Wednesdays, it’ll be 10:00pm, if you’re lucky.  Fridays, 8:00pm.  Saturdays, 6:00pm, not bad.  Sundays, you hope to make it home by 10:30pm the latest.

Mornings (on the weekend).  As much as you wish you could sleep in, 7:00am is the best you can do on Saturday because you will have work from 10:00am-4:00pm and 8:00am is the best you can do on Sunday because you will have homework to do.  The same humdrum of the morning applies here.

Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays: Joy! You have work!  It’s only 6-7 hours of standing on your feet, walking around helping customers who, often times, don’t want to be helped.  Not to mention, for all your hard work on the sales floor, you’ll be awarded a measly 30-minute break that feels like it’s over just as quickly as it begins.  When not being distracted by the throngs of people coming and going through the store or listening to your coworkers making jokes, you’ll wonder how it is that you function on so little resting time.

But is there a bright side?  The easy answer is no.  You’d have to do some real digging to figure out if there really is.  Besides the fact that you’ve been on just about every train line that exists today, the life of a commuter is not very peachy. The worst part of commuting is dealing with crowded buses and trains.  It’s definitely no fun when you’re extremely tired and you have to ignore all of the people who are pushing the boundaries of your personal space.  Everything you have to do has to be on a tight schedule because you have to constantly factor in how long it will take you to get from place to place and how long it will take you to complete your tasks.  What a life to live.  And God forbid you should ever want to do something fun.  There’s just not enough time!

Natalie Schuman

Macaulay Honors College: The Peopling of New York City University of New York

Assignment Three: An Immigrant Journey

Williamsburg: From Hasidic to Hipster

I am a fourth generation American and my most recent immigrant ancestors moved to the area around Philadelphia when they arrived from Poland, Lithuania and Hungary. My dad’s side of the family was Jewish and were very religious when they moved to America. Hasidic neighborhoods in different Northeastern cities are often similar so I have chosen to examine the neighborhood of Williamsburg.

This neighborhood is interesting for me to look at it because it embodies my past in that my great, great grandparents were once Hasidic people living in an urban area. But it also embodies my identity in that I have friends who live there, I often shop and eat there, and I can relate to the new people moving in – young, artistic people. I can find my identity represented in both sides of the great struggle of past decade between the Hasidic people who have been living in Williamsburg for years and the incoming “hipsters” who are gentrifying the neighborhood.

I was born and raised in Manhattan but much of my social life existed in Brooklyn and downtown Manhattan. Williamsburg was definitely a frequent stop for my friends and me. We loved the trendy cafés and the thrift stores.

If my Jewish great-great-grandparents had immigrated to New York City and not Philadelphia, they would have likely settled in a neighborhood similar to Williamsburg. They would have known people already living there and perhaps stayed with them until they got on their feet. They would join their synagogue and find jobs in the neighborhood. In a few years they would have been a part of the community and considered Williamsburg home.

However, as a half-Jewish young American woman, I would have little in common with my family members who lived in communities like that. Ironically, I would fit in better with the hipsters of Williamsburg than I would with the Hasidic people, even though they are technically “my people”. 

Walking around Williamsburg, I can feel the pull of both sides of my identity. I get off the L train at Bedford Avenue. I head South on Bedford Avenue towards the Williamsburg Bridge. For the next ten blocks or so, I am confronted by vintage stores, tattoo parlors and lots of hip white people on bikes. As I continue south, I can see the Williamsburg Bridge in the distance. This bridge acts as the dividing line between the two cultures that are primarily represented in this region.

As I continue down Bedford Avenue, I note the lack of a bike lane. For a short time, there was bike lane here that stretched fourteen blocks and garnered much controversy. The hipsters in the neighborhood were very happy about the bike lane. It allowed them to travel via bicycle to work and on trips to health food store. But the Satmar community was very upset as it ran right through their neighborhood. At community board meetings, representatives for the Satmar community spoke out against the bike lane as a disruption to pedestrian traffic and school bus routes.

While this reason was not mentioned in the board meetings, it is likely that the Satmar people were worried about more hipsters taking the route through the Satmar community. Many also claimed that the Satmar were worried that scantily dressed women would be riding through their part of town. In 2009, after Bloomberg won his campaign for reelection, the bike lane was removed. It is generally believed that the bike lane was a reward for the Satmar community’s bloc vote for Bloomberg.

Just before I get to the bridge, I stop in Traif for some lunch. Traif means “unkosher” in Yiddish and carries a critical connotation. Traif specializes in pork and shellfish – go figure. In traditional hipster sarcasm and irony, this restaurant, located right at the border between hipster and Hasidic Williamsburg pokes fun at the Hasidic dietary restrictions while referencing American’s own excessive obsession with pork. Traif’s logo is a drawing of a pig with a heart in the middle. The menu includes strawberry-cinnamon glazed Berkshire baby back ribs and a risotto of Maine lobster, spicy sausage, toasted barley, pistachios and mushrooms.

Walking through Williamsburg along Bedford Avenue, I can feel the sharp change. As I walk under the Williamsburg Bridge, I see no more trendy Thai restaurants or chic cafés. The number of people wearing Doc Martens and flannels sharply decreases. Instead, the streets are filled with people wearing traditional Hasidic outfits and shuls line the streets.

Walking through this part of the neighborhood, I don’t exactly fit in. I am Jewish but I am wearing a flannel and doc martens. I am what the Hasidim would call artisten. This is their Americanized Yiddish word for a hipster. Once in the Hasidic part of Williamsburg, I head west on Broadway and pass 60 Broadway. A huge building filled with condominiums. This building used to be the Gretsch Musical Instrument Factory but is now home to hundreds of apartments. The building was converted in 2003 as the neighborhood was changing to accommodate more affluent young people. The Hasidic people protested but it was eventually converted to the apartment building it is today.

Now we wonder, why couldn’t these two groups get along? Men in both groups are famous for sporting big, bushy beards. Hassidic fashion has been stable for decades and evokes style of the past. Hasidic men wear overcoats, t’fillin and Shtreimel, which is a fur hat worn by married men. The women are usually completely covered and some cover their hair or wear wigs.  Similarly, hipsters are always looking to the past to influence their fashion choices, finding overalls or a 50’s housewife dress hip.

Of course, I am joking. These two groups of people are extremely different. Hipsters are by definition progressive people. They tend to be very politically liberal, independently thinking, etc. These values are very different from the very conservative, traditional Hasidic people living across the border. On top of that, Hasidic people are very insular and would not be happy to share their neighborhood with a whole different group of people.

I think Williamsburg is not only interesting because of the ties it has to my own identity, but because it is changing so rapidly. In a few years, there may be no more Hasidic people left, all forced out by the high rents and lack of strong community. While I still feel connected to both sides of the struggle for Williamsburg, it is a shame that they cannot coexist. 

Michael Tirado

Son of Suburbia

“What am I forgetting?”  That question inspires one of my least favorite feelings in the world.  Why?  Mostly because it’s hard to forget something and remember it at the same time.  Regardless of my precision in packing four bags to last exactly four days, no more, no less, as I make the final trip out the front door, I know that something will be left behind in suburbia and never make it to the second location of my life split in two – upper Manhattan, Harlem, to be exact.  This week, it was my red and blue Captain America headphones.  Walking to class along the path of St. Nicholas Park is going to be brutal…

            Allow me to backtrack a bit and explain what it is I’m talking about.  To capture my situation perfectly in one sentence, I suppose I could say I am a student at City College in Manhattan and a resident of Staten Island.  Usually one of the first questions I get when I release this information in conversation asks if I live in a dorm at college.  My answer is short, but very specific – “four days, and I go home Thursday night.”  The reason giving such a specific answer is so important to me is related to my sworn oath to never refer to my dorm as “home”:  Quiet, residential Dongan Hills on Staten Island reserves that title until the day my family and I pick up and move.  However, in a given week during the school year, the time I spend at college is greater than the time I spend on Staten Island.  By now I’ve completely adjusted to living in two places, but when I began to do so it almost felt as though I wasn’t staying anywhere, I was only in an uncomfortable state stuck in between living at home and living at the dorm.  Yet, I still feel as though I have two separate lives – one as a student and one as a son/brother – but both undeniably New Yorker.

            Before I continue(in case it isn’t already clear), I should state that my preference between Staten Island and urban-style New York City is easily Staten Island.  Quiet and spaced out neighborhoods, having the choice to walk, drive, or take public transportation easily, and my favorite things, wide streets, are aspects of suburban life I never want to be completely withdrawn from.  This should explain some percentage of my desire to evacuate Manhattan and return home every single weekend.  I don’t hate the city, but I love Staten Island.

            Anyway, back to where I left off on my journey out the front door.  With my bag of clothes, supply of food, backpack of electronics and books, and guitar case, I feel ready to switch to life number two (minus that feeling of forgetfulness).  After answering a hundred questions from my worrying but caring mom, I say goodbye to her, a younger brother and sister, an enthusiastic dog, and a cat, if he happens to be walking by.  I mentioned that my familiar suburban neighborhood is on the list of reasons I look forward to coming back – these five are another reason, and they remain at the top of the list. 

            I shut the door and walk over to my sixth family member, who is graciously waiting in the car to drive me through three different boroughs to get to Harlem.  Being the oldest kid in the family means I’m the pioneer – first one to go to college, etc. – and my parents have spared no effort in ensuring comfort isn’t something I’ll be lacking.  We start off the shortest segment of the drive in Staten Island – we pass the park I used to play in as a child, which now seems so much smaller (and less exciting), drive up to the main street spanning Staten Island, Hylan Boulevard, and join the cars making their way to the Verrazano Bridge to cross over into the urban boroughs.  The bridge always has been a sight suggesting home for me – I can see it from my window and on my way back into my home borough from elsewhere in New York.  After gazing out over the water from the upper level, my dad and I enter our place of birth – Brooklyn.

                        E.B. White wrote that there are “roughly three New Yorks”:  There is the familiar New York of the born-and-raised New Yorker, there is the one-dimensional New York of the commuter, and there is the objective and larger-than-life New York of the dream chaser.  I was born in Brooklyn and raised in Staten Island, which are two of the five boroughs of New York City, but regardless my New York undoubtedly falls under the second category.  My family and I have traveled into the heart of New York City dozens of times, don’t get me wrong, but 99 percent of the time we do this with blinders in our peripheral vision – we take a car, drive to the Broadway show or comic convention, attend the event, and drive home.  What I mean by metaphorical “blinders” is that the way I’ve gone about traversing the city in past years blinds me to the true character of the city demonstrated by the people there rather than big events.  It’s almost as if I travel through a tunnel, a trip with only a beginning and end and nothing to see in between.  In this way I feel like a commuter in New York City, spending as little time as possible there to attend a given enjoyable event.  I wonder if it was Times Square that made me hate crowds…or have I always hated them?

            My mom says that if my dad and I were any more similar, we’d be the same person.  So, naturally, this never leaves us without something to talk about – the very thing that makes such long car rides great for me.  But this time his mind is preoccupied with our cat’s failing kidneys and the question of how much longer we’ll have our oldest and dearest pet.  So, I take the opportunity to look around a bit more.  Driving on an elevated highway in Brooklyn provides me not only with views of all the clever New York billboards intended for drivers – one of my favorites read something like this, “Welcome to New York, where we’ve got 9 professional sports teams…and the Mets” – but also with views in between buildings and views of the people down below.  I enjoy this position of looking in/down at Brooklyn until we reach the point of no return to suburban life, the medium between the end of familiarity and the beginning of grand urbanity – the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel.

            Nothing exists in the tunnel – no radio transmission, no human interaction, no environment other than the walls narrowly surrounding our large Ford Expedition.  I will always be taken by surprise by the massive metropolitan feeling that arises upon emerging and seeing the first collection of skyscrapers.  Thirty minutes from my house and technically in the same city, but this is definitely NOT home. 

            Driving up the east side is a pleasant experience, whether at night or during the day – the lights, the water, the open highway.  It’s funny, though, because I think I’d prefer to only be passing through in a car rather than to be walking by to see the very same sights that I enjoy.  We cross over Harlem to reach the west side and soon arrive at the destination.  I make as many trips as possible from the car to my dorm room in order to see my dad and car as many times as I can and finally say goodbye until Thursday.  I am officially bereft of the feeling of home, save for the few things that I brought with me.

I did say that I don’t exactly hate the city, didn’t I?

Now I’m walking up the hill from the conveniently places deli that has my favorite Tropicana Strawberry Banana fruit drink.  As I reach into my pocket to text my girlfriend who makes living at school so much more than bearable, I surprisingly pull out my red and blue Captain America headphones.  Maybe the next four days won’t be so bad after all.

Everything changed so suddenly – one morning, as with many before it, I woke up to the warm, tropical air of Puerto Rico. Later on that night, I was tucking myself into a new bed, breathing in the foreign scents of New York. It was November, and the air was much cooler here than it was back in Guayanilla. I deliberately slowed my breathing, tasting the air on the back of my tongue, becoming more and more conscious of my breath with every inhale. Simultaneously, I became more conscious of my thoughts.

There had been so many of them scrambling in my mind the entire day. All of them competed for my individual attention, but instead their frequency and intrusiveness just threw me into a haze. My day felt like an endless blur, filled with excitement and nervousness. Distinctly, I recalled the lumps in the back of my throat as I kissed my mother and each of my siblings goodbye, eyesight blurry as I fought back the tears that threatened to spill down my cheeks. Yet there was still a reason to smile. Most of my family was going to stay behind in Guayanilla, but as I boarded the plane and took one last look at the country I called home for the past 19 years, I felt excitement gather in my heart. I was finally going to the best place on Earth – Nueva York!

I sighed deeply and rolled over, allowing my body to sink into the bed as the day’s events caught up with me. My eyelids, finally heavy with sleep, gratefully shut and in only a short time I felt myself drifting off. Half of me wondered if it was real, if I was truly in the place I had wished to be since I was a little girl. The other half of me dared to think hopefully of the future – the people I would meet, the opportunities I would be given, how perfectly I would speak English, how easily I would become a true New Yorker. I pulled the sheets around me a little tighter, and fell asleep thinking about the job I would start in just a day.

Back home, my father and I worked in a shoe factory. We decided to stick with our trade when we made the big move to New York, so just two days after my arrival in the city I started work at 8AM sharp at Palizio Shoes. My father was always on time, if not early, and so we planned to leave at 6:45 AM. I had woken up at 5:30 AM, body rested, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. I rose before the sun and began a routine I would go through for years to come. After a fresh shower, I put on dress pants, a blouse, heels, makeup, and jewelry. While I had worn all of these things before, today they felt new. My elevated mood made everything feel exciting, and I could feel the energy in my movements as I put on my coat and wrapped a scarf around my neck.

We took the 6 train from 116^th street and rode down the spine of Lexington Avenue. Past 110^th, past 86^th, past Hunter College on 68^th, and through Grand Central! Mentally I counted how many streets we passed between each stop of the train, and came to a total of 93 streets by the time we reached our destination – 23^rd street. My father and I ascended the stairs, side by side, and walked half a block to Palizio Shoes. It took about 7 minutes, and within those 7 minutes, I was nearly overwhelmed with everything I was experiencing. I heard the sound of cars passing, sirens honking, people talking, and yet the click of my heels against the concrete managed to stick out to my own ears. I studied the people that filled my environment in the fleeting moments before they walked past me, melting into the same anonymous sea from which they appeared. All of them looked busy and confident, as though they had a special place to be, to talk with important people about serious matters. I straightened my back and walked taller, realizing that in a city where no one knew your name or your background, I was just as important as them. I had a place to be, at a certain time, to do a particular task for very important reasons.

The position I occupied at Palizio was not a fancy one by any means, but I worked with pride. My job as a laborer required that I organize the shoes made at the factory. Working in a group of 3 to 4 people, I checked to make sure the shoes had no stains, no threads sticking out, and were paired together with another shoe of the same size and style. At around 11:30 I would break for lunch. It felt good to breathe in the outside air and experience the movement of the city as I walked down the block to a nearby deli. There, I would order a coffee to go with a sandwich, a granola bar, or a piece of cake brought from home. At around 12:30 I would return to my job, which, after a week or so, I performed with confidence.

While I frequently spoke Spanish, I took every chance to speak English – if someone was willing to listen to me, then I would be willing to try. It started off simple – I greeted my co-workers with “Good morning!” and bid them goodbye with “I’ll see you tomorrow!” I would say “please” and “thank you” when I ordered coffee at the deli, “excuse me” if I accidentally collided with someone on the street, “Bless you!” if someone sneezed. Every day I learned new words or phrases, repeating them over and over to make sure I wouldn’t forget. As the years went on, I spoke, wrote, and thought in equal parts Spanish and English.

My mother and my younger siblings arrived in New York a few months later in January. We quickly relocated to Coney Island in Brooklyn, and my commute was extended. I took the D, got off at Atlantic, and transferred to the 6, now riding in the opposite direction to get to work. In the few months that it was only my father and I working in New York, I felt that I had really grown. Other people in my position may have had their hopes dulled by the faithful routine of my job, the search to find their place in a huge city, and the struggle to bridge the language gap. But my personal progress served as the motivation to get me out of bed each morning. I became more skilled at my job, able to work faster and able to form personal relationships with my coworkers.  I could see a difference in my English now compared to when I first arrived on that chilly evening in November. And though I hadn’t been here for long, I had felt at home on the first day. My name is Sonia Gutierrez, and I was born to be a New Yorker.

“We all live in the traces of one another’s lives,” said Richard Rabinowitz.¹

 It’s a curious concept the idea of an area evolving over time, but those central themes and characteristics remain obvious to anyone who can decipher the evidence.  The Lower East Side was the primal homeland for most Jews, and although the neighborhood has lost so much of that palpable culture, there is still an existing connection.

Getting of the train at Grand Street, I pass through what has become Chinatown; Chinese groceries, small stationary stores selling origami and beautiful floral notebooks, dumpling and noodle bars.  This is definitely not a Jewish district anymore.

 But as I step into the century-old tenements, I can feel the history.  I see not only the physical artifacts, but also the preserved memories of a family that moved from their home to a complete unknown city and had to assimilate.  It was evident that circumstances were tough, money was tight, and sacrifices had to be made, but what was also clear was the vehement attempt to keep their old culture alive.  I can’t help but think of my grandparents moving to Mount Vernon from Israel; what if they had moved to New York City instead?  This is the place so many came in a similar situation; religious persecution, looking for a place of acceptance, opportunity, and a fresh start.  Wouldn’t they have moved into a tenement in this Jewish neighborhood, and lived in a similar fashion?  My grandmother is a seamstress; is that sewing table in the corner where she would sit all day and do her work while her husband went out into the city to work?  Is that shared cramped bedroom where my mother Ziporah and uncle Erwin would play and distract themselves between school and sleep? 

 As I depart, I walk along Orchard Street, the shops morphing into their previous layer; bohemian cafes and pricey boutiques fade into Russ & Daughter’s, Ezra Cohen Overstock Emporium, and Gertel’s Bakery.  I think as if I were Esther in this new world…

The smell of fresh breads awakens memories from home, and it’s comforting to know authentic challah could be found right next-door.  I miss being in Israel, but I’m not alone, and knowing that our culture from home is recreated in this new world assuages the wistfulness.  Maybe I’ll pick up some baklava for Ziporah and Erwin as a treat when they get back from school. 

I leave and walk over to Houston Street.  Practicing the kosher diet was one thing we all feared would be difficult when moving to America, but the delis like Katz’s and are a haven.  In the Lower East Side, they understand the predicament, respect the need, and support it.  Jews from all over the city can come here and find multiple places to buy high quality kosher meats among other foods.  Some of the restaurants are quite progressive; Schmulka Bernstein is a kosher Chinese restaurant.  I feel welcome here.

 A few blocks more and I find J.S Hosiery.  I want to compare their supplies with the ones in my own store.  The storeowner and I chat in Yiddish about their children and school, and going to the synagogue.  Just speaking the language again makes me feel more like myself.  I walk to Eckstein’s on the corner of Orchard and Grand, a store stocked with affordable clothing.  Many of the local clothing stores understood that the circumstances of poor immigrants; there is no shame; everyone scrambles around looking for Levi jeans, Mary Janes, and stockings.  You have to haggle for lower prices and be smart enough to play the back-and-forth game.  The salespeople don’t reveal the cheapest price right off the bat, but the Jews are known for being skilled at the sport of bargaining.  It’s a talent I’ll never loose.

Next stop; Guss’ Pickles.  Founded by a fellow-Pole, Isidor Guss, this is one of eighty or so local pickle shops in what is, no surprise, known as the “pickle district.”  Guss’ pickles are authentic, New York Style, and gaining notoriety.  He is an archetype; an immigrant who came here for opportunity, and found lasting success.  He is an inspiration to the community, and with business growing as it is, maybe he will be here some ninety years from now…

 Guss’ Pickles opened in 1910, and closed about twelve years ago.  It is one of the more well known Lower East Side Jewish businesses, but I personally find Gorelick’s more inspiring.   Gorelick’s clothing store is one of those old-time places, like Louis Kaplan’s or Levine & Smith, that were run by master tailors that sold extremely well made articles, but also did beautiful repairs.  That kind of craftsmanship is lost on today’s generations; why go invest in these small stores, why even bother getting a nightgown patched when you can just go to a big-name and get a three-pack for less?²

Bernard Gorelick has owned this store for seventy years, and today, it’s windows carry signs that read “Going Out Sale.”  The steel shelves carry cardboard boxes packed with underwear.  No computers, paper bills, a calculator.  It feels exactly like my grandmother’s store in New Rochelle.  She had mannequins that looked like fifties housewives with their hairdos and postures.  The ceiling was adorned in the same style that I saw on the ceilings of those tenements, there were paper and plastic boxes of garments with index-card descriptions, a massive cash register with buttons that looked like those of a typewriter.  All the elderly customers that came not only bought something, but also stopped and had a full conversation with Esther about life.   Some of them speak in Yiddish, and all I understand is their laughter. 

My walk through the Lower East Side has deepened my understanding of Esther and her struggles, but my understanding of Esther has simultaneously deepened my understanding of Jewish immigrants in the Lower East Side.  Like Bernie Gorelick, she built up a life inspired by a culture, and thus created a business that is more sentimental and deeply connected than one would realize at first glance.  However, peel back those layers, and it becomes a major key to the past. 

 Citations

1. Rasenberger, Jim. “Searching for Charles.” The New York Times. The New York Times, 19 May 2001. Web. 12 Mar. 2014. <http://www.nytimes.com/2001/05/20/nyregion/searching-for-charles.html>.

• Berger, Joseph. “Crisscrossing Generations on the Lower East Side.” The World in a City: Traveling the Globe Through the Neighborhoods of the New New York. New York: Ballantine, 2007. N. pag. Print.

The first time I took the train from Buffalo to New York was about one year ago. I came up with my mom to make sure that City College was the right school for me and to see if I could handle New York. However, this was more of a courtesy for my parents since I already knew I was made for the city. There has always been something about New York that drew me here. I knew since I was little that this is where I would end up and when I visited in the forth grade, I vowed to go to school here. 

            Every train ride to New York starts the same way. My mom drives me to the station and we always run a little late. I catch the 7:41 train from the Buffalo Depew train station. I find the strongest man in the vicinity to heave my luggage onto the rack above my head. Then I spread out across two seats and enjoy the eight hours I have to myself to do absolutely nothing.

            Doing absolutely nothing is actually my favorite thing about the train. It isn’t very often that I have the time to relax and think without rushing between one thing and the next. So many people dislike the train because it takes so long, but I love those few hours of relaxation. I put my headphones on and watch New York State go by out the window.

I watch the abandoned buildings of old, decrepit canal towns pass by. I’ve always considered everything between here and Buffalo to be “the woods.” Farmland and the occasional one-stoplight town can be seen out the window between stops.

I think of all the places I could have gone to school. Places where I could have the traditional college experience. A school in the middle of “the woods” where everyone is the same and the most diversity you encounter is which beer you drink that night. Sometimes I envy the simple party lifestyle of my friends at those schools; at least they have more of a community than City College. However, then I have moments where I remember why I chose to come to school in New York anyway. Moments like when I went to Chelsea on a Thursday to go gallery hopping with my friends, or that time my roommates and I danced in an empty C train car. I realize how special my experience is when I spend my weekends at the Met or go to Carnegie Hall with my uncle. My college experience may not be traditional, but it sure beats getting blackout drunk at a frat party every weekend.

We stop in Rochester, then Syracuse; the biggest cities until Albany. It’s so amazing to see all of New York State, since so much of it is farmland. I think a lot of people born and raised in New York City forget that. The world is so different outside of the city’s borders, but it’s home to millions of people. Those who enjoy the slower pace of life outside a major metropolitan area.

The trouble now is that I’m not sure which home is home for me anymore. I guess that’s the trouble with moving away from the place you grew up. Buffalo is where everything I know is. My whole family, the house I grew up in, my friends from preschool to high school; they’re all there, suspended in memory when I’m not around to witness them changing. Yet each time I return, my siblings get older; my little brother starts kindergarten, my sister starts dating a boy who can drive. New stores open where there was nothing or my old neighbors have moved away.

My friends from my high school mostly stayed home for college, or if they did go away, it was only far enough away where they could still go home every weekend. They all hang out with the same people they knew and spend their time doing exactly what they did in high school. Chances are, they will never move away. They will marry each other and send their children to the same schools. They will live within their small cliques, even in their nursing homes sixty years from now. They’ll be happy with their lives, but I can’t live like that.

The Hudson River always seems to sparkle no matter the weather or what time of year it is.  The trick to riding the train is to sit on the right side of the car so you can watch it. If you leave the city in the evening and head towards Buffalo, you can watch the sun set over the river. Small mountains cradle enormous houses that overlook the river. There is even a decaying castle on a small island that I always watch for. I wonder how it got there.

We pass under the Tappan Zee Bridge. We’re getting close now.

The train makes a small turn and there it is. My beautiful city outlined against the sky. It’s like seeing an old lover again, the one you never really forgot. I’m immediately filled with nervous excitement, ready for my new adventure. Everyone aboard can feel that we’re close, it’s as if there’s a completely new energy now, restless and excited. The passengers shift impatiently in their seats.

Just as the train enters the city, it dips underground. The lights go out and there’s an air of anticipation around us. Since I take the subway, I won’t see the city until I’m already where I need to be. I love this part since it makes going above ground at your destination even more exciting. There’s nothing quite like running through Penn Station and seeing everyone living their lives, off on some new adventure, just like me. It’s mind blowing to think that everyone there has a life and a story and a home. I’m just one of those stories in New York, the small town girl here to follow her dreams, and although it’s cliché, I know I belong.

After leaving Morocco, my family lived in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. Bay Ridge is home to many Arab-Americans. Every time I walked around the Bay Ridge Avenue subway station, I felt less nostalgic to Morocco. The presence of Arabic words on store signs and the friendly Arab voices made the new atmosphere a lot more welcoming. The large Arab population in the nearby zones schools helped my three siblings and I make new friends. Outside of Bay Ridge, my family struggled to understand non-Arab cultures.

Just three stops away from Bay Ridge Avenue on the R train is 95^th Street. I worked there every weekend at a small pharmacy to help my father pay the bills. The surroundings of this station are totally different from what I am used to seeing twenty-five streets away. The people spoke unfamiliar languages, dressed differently, and ate differently. Right across the street from the train station stood a Roman Catholic Church. That was the first time I saw a church up close. Being predominantly Muslim, Morocco has very small numbers of Christians and churches. On Sunday mornings, a dozen people entered the church as I watched them from the other side of the street. I questioned why other Americans from the neighborhood did not join them inside the church. If many Americans are Christians, why do more people attend the small mosque on Bay Ridge Avenue than people attend this church? The small mosque on Bay Ridge Avenue was very crowded that I always struggled to enter it. The church was approximately three times the size of the mosque. This means that more people can easily fit inside the church. This question baffled me for a long time. It was later in school when I learned that urban areas have less religious people than rural and suburban areas. This did not answer my question. Before coming to America, I lived in Casablanca, Morocco. Casablanca is a very large and technologically developed city. Despite its urban setting, Moroccans prayed five times a day at the call of the Azan.

During my first school year in the U.S., I visited Times Square and Rockefeller Center with the rest of my history class. That trip marked my first visit to Manhattan without my parents and siblings. On the train, I was amazed at how different ethnic groups coexisted in the same space. In North Africa, it is unlikely for Moroccans to coexist with Algerians and indigenous Sub-Saharan people. My observation agreed to the relationship between setting and liberalism. However, it did not explain why urban Americans are tolerant towards those who are different.

The teacher told the class to exit the D train at Rockefeller Center. While the other students just followed the teacher, I was walking around myself in circles. I started to think that my definition of “an urban city” might be different from the American definition. In Morocco, I never saw that many people use mass transportation. The only time half of these people were gathered was either at a street festival or a parliamentary election queue. In Morocco, people seemed to know each other very well. In New York, everyone seemed anti-social and unwilling to start conversations. Is this because New Yorkers have a lot on their mind? Or is this because not all New Yorkers speak English?

When I left Rockefeller Center station, a whole new world opened to my eyes. I was surprised to find so many cars and people on the same block. People did not have a chance to talk to one another. There was no space for two or three people to gather in a corner and start a conversation. Everyone walked down the street at different speeds without paying attention to others around them. Taxi drivers were either waiting for a green light or were racing each other down the avenue. Everything was very dynamic. As I walked to Times Square, I got dizzy from the bright lights on tall buildings and the noises from the cars rushing past me. It is unfair to consider Casablanca an urban city after coming to NYC. Even Brooklyn was very distinct from its neighboring borough. Brooklyn was a lot quieter and had less people on its streets. Brooklyn did not have as many people, cars, and tall buildings near its subway stations. Brooklyn was just a dead borough if I had to compare it to Manhattan. When I returned back to Brooklyn, I was very fatigued. I did not ask my family members about their day. I was sure their day did not involve as much action as mine. After silently eating, I went to play basketball with my friends in Leif Ericson Park until dusk.

Brooklyn was home to about two million people. Since Brooklyn was mostly residential, many people from Brooklyn went to Manhattan for work. The commute from Manhattan to Brooklyn was very tiring, slow, and long. Many people from Bay Ridge took the R train and transferred to an express train to reach Manhattan. Most of them worked five or six days a week from morning till evening. By the end of the day, many people sleepwalked on their way home. Friday was the only day when people had a dull smile on their tired faces. The weekend was a time for people to restore their energy and be ready to return to work on Monday. This dry and monotonous lifestyle gave a more logical explanation for the lack of miscellaneous activities. At the end of the day, everyone was more concerned about having food on the table. People had no time or energy to show their dislike towards other ethnicities. Everyone lived in New York just to make money. Money was the only thing people lived for. 

            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. 

I leave my Writing for Science class at 12:15 pm. I walk out of Harris Hall and out into the mid-March sun. I begin my lunchtime walk to Remas Deli on Amsterdam Avenue. I quickly arrive on Amsterdam Avenue, a Toyota Prius is parked to my right. I see Policemen standing in line with students at one of the many Halal food trucks littered about the campus. I hear, to the left of me, a Hispanic woman with her two children, a boy and a girl, frantically talking on the phone in a melodic mixture of Spanish and English.

I walk across the street, sit down on a stoop, and begin rolling a cigarette. Absorbed in my task, I don’t notice a Vietnamese man quietly assume a position next to me. He asks in broken English, “Can I roll cigarette, please?” I promptly finish rolling my cigarette and hand him the rolling machine and pouch of tobacco.  He refuses the rolling machine, and seems insulted. “I teach you how to roll,” he proudly says, his eyes beaming. I find this friendly man’s proposition hard to refuse. upon my acceptance he sets about teaching me the art of rolling a cigarette. His geniality is infectious, and I can’t help feeling a certain comradery with this jolly and strangely insistent, middle-aged man.

The man begins instructing me, but struggles to find the right words for each step in the procedure. He becomes frustrated, tormented even, and the situation takes a dark turn. In him I see a slightly defeated man, tortured by demons unbeknownst to me. I absent-mindedly listen to his disjointed instructions until he finishes. He looks at me and the proud glow returns to his weathered face. I politely thank him, stand up, and continue my walk.

Right before I arrive at Remas Deli, I pass by a damply-lit Chinese Restaurant. Hordes of students have collected inside, and a delivery man emerges from the mass of people. His pale, thin arms are lined with delivery bags. Each bag has Thank you and below an unconvincing smiley-face, Have a good day, printed on it. The man walks quickly, masterfully balancing the bags with a grim determination as he dons a dilapidated bike. His indifferent, focused look contrasts sharply with the jovial and well-meaning message that lines his two arms.

I finally arrive at my destination, Remas Deli. I enter the small, inviting store and a familiar smell reaches my nose, that of chopped ground beef frying on a griddle. It is invigorating. 

Behind the counter stand two welcoming Yemeni men. One of these men, Al, stands eager to greet me. “Hello my friend,” he says under a thick Arabic accent as he reaches out his hand, fist clenched. I bump it, I wouldn’t have it any other way. “How many girlfriends you have now?” he asks inquisitively to which I cheerily respond, “None.”

This question is recurring, and although it may be seen by some as offensive, I see it differently. The question is Al’s big joke, his making sense of the flurry of conflicting American ideas that assault him everyday. I can’t tell if he is sarcastic or not, but it doesn’t really matter. Either way the question represents the same thing.

I ask for my sandwich, a Chopped-Cheese, and Al resumes his place at the griddle. He throws the hamburger patty on the griddle, and after a while he starts chopping at the beef patty with his spatula. The movements are frenzied, staccato in nature, and violent. Al enters a zone, the dark rings under his eyes become even darker, he is somewhere else…

I open my eyes, hear the sub-bass throbbing underneath me, and am reminded almost immediately that I am not back in Yemen. Outside of the window there are two dogs fighting and two men trying to separate them. My apartment is small, tiny in fact, and my amenities are few. I remember that there is some saltah in the fridge and I throw some khat in my mouth before I go to reheat it. As the saltah heats up, the smell of fenugreek and lamb drenches my kitchen. I am hit hard by this odor, it reminds me of Yemen, and that I am nine months away from my return. It reminds me that I am here, on 117^th Street, and not back in Sana’a. It reminds me of my future wife, and the money for the mahr, I must earn.

I pass a man begging for money on 120^th Street. His coat is torn in multiple places, and it reads Adidas in faded-white letters on the front. His glasses are crooked and his mouth is puckered. He looks out into space as if he were blind, and mutters, ”Can ya’ spare a dollar?” in a withered, raspy voice. He reminds me of a man in my old neighborhood in Sana’a, the Shu’aub District. The man’s name was Harbi, and as a child I would examine the man as I walked past him after school. I would say to myself, “I don’t want to end up like this man, I want to escape this man,” and then I would look briefly into his eyes. His stare was forlorn, and his face was mangled. He bled sadness, and I sense that the man next to me on 120^th Street bleeds sadness as well.

On 127^th Street I pass a mosque, Muhammad’s Mosque Number Seven. A friend of mine, Phillip, stands outside. He greets me, “Hello my brother! Will you be in the Mosque tomorrow morning?” I stop and respond, “Maybe, I don’t know yet.” I was never the most devout Muslim but Phillip is nice and part of me wants to take him up on his offer. I don’t know.

I finally arrive at work, Remas Deli. Ali, my coworker, gives me a nod and tells me As-salamu alakykum or, “Peace be upon you,”  as I walk in. Above the cash register I see Yemeni currency, rial, bearing messages such as   bit-tawfiq or, “Good Luck!” I stand and stare for a moment before Ali interrupts me, “You’ll be home soon enough, don’t worry too much.” He is right, I will be home soon enough, I shouldn’t worry. He continues, “Only nine months,” only nine months…

At first, my trip to Greenpoint is the same as my commute to school. However as pass through the stop where I usually get off and I start to get butterflies in my stomach. It is the same feeling like during take off on an airplane where your body rises but your stomach stays in place. Soon I transfer on 4 Ave. – 9 St. for the G train and my world slowly begins to change. The train itself changes, being only half the length of a normal change. I know that soon enough I’ll be back in Greenpoint where I have been dozens of times before but with each time being different and unique. There is always something changing, for better or worse, in Greenpoint just like everything is changing all over the city. These changes are already visible as the G train pulls into the station. The train that would usually be crowded with older men and women with a majority being from Poland is now crowded by younger, up-coming, people that are from a wide variety of countries.

However, as I get off the train at Nassau Ave. I realize that some things cannot possibly change. For example, the street of Manhattan Ave. is so narrow yet always filled with cars, bikes, and buses brings me joy because I know that there is no way it can change. As I walk down the street, I see the same situation that happened on the train where when once the sidewalks were always filled with many dialects of Polish but now they are few and far in between each other.

There are still a lot of shops that bring back old memories. There is the candy shop that sells a many old Polish candies. I loved being in that shop as a kid because of all the cloyingly sweet smell of chocolate and sweets. Now, I love the old fashioned set up of the store where all the candies are in bins and you can bag them up and are charged based on weight. Not many stores do this in the USA with many candies being prepackaged, however in Poland this is a common practice and I loved being able determine how much candy I want. As I continue walking I pass the old church where I used to spend major Catholic Holidays. Most of these memories are from Christmas Eve and Easter where mass was held at crazy hours, 5:00 am and 12:30 am, respectively. When there is no mass at church it is filled with older women, usually praying for the well being of themselves and their families. The church has a cool feeling to it with a light draft caused by the windows open near the ceiling. The ceiling, high and vaulted, covered in a mosaic that I remember constantly looking up at as if I was looking at God.

Further down Manhattan Ave. there is Greenpoint Ave., what I consider to be the life of Greenpoint. I turn to the left and find the main branch of the Polish-Slavic Federal Credit Union or just PSFCU. Looking at it, I notice that it has remained untouched throughout all these years. It is still supported by its white stone columns that make the entire building seem important, like it’s the White House. Right next to it is my favorite Polish restaurant, Karczma, which translates simply to inn or pub. This is my favorite place to eat because of the atmosphere. The walls are bare brick and dimly lit by lighting fixtures in the wall meant to look like candles. The tables are made out of old, gnarled wood and surrounded by benches instead of chairs. The whole place looks old-fashioned and I love it. Everything in the place reminds me of Poland, the appetizers come out on thick wooden cutting boards instead of plates just like how my grandma would make me lunch. I also remember how this is the first place I thought of when my old girlfriend asked me to take her somewhere Polish; “It doesn’t get more Polish than this”, I told her.

Next place I walk to is an old bakery, Syrena, where my grandfather used to work at when he came to America in the 50’s to make some extra money to send back home. I don’t know how it looked 50 years ago but I like to pretend it did not change. I look at the place now and imagine that is how he saw it when he was coming in to work at 4 and bake the bread for the morning masses. I hope that the only thing that changed are the faces, however I don’t know how if this is true. All I know is that whenever I ask anyone inside about my grandfather that they never heard of him not even the managers. It is a strange feeling knowing that he was there at one point put left no trace, similar to a ghost.

Walking back to the train, I feel prideful of what I saw that day. I am proud that Polish people have set up a small part of the city where I can feel closer to Poland than America. I know that many immigrants strive toward assimilation, however I am sad about the culture they leave behind when they “become American”. I remember streets in Bensonhurst that would be lined with small Italian businesses that now have been replaced by a lot of chain stores and the old businesses are a dying breed. It makes me proud of the Polish people in Greenpoint for sticking around for this long even though they are also slowly dying out. I hope that my children will be able to experience the same memories as I in Greenpoint.

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.   

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. 

I remember waking up some days not knowing where I was, to the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the distant sound of Tom and Jerry on the television. These were the summers of my early childhood, the lazy mornings spent in Kathy’s apartment. Standing at 5’ 6” in heels, tights, a grey pencil skirt, a white knitted cardigan over a cashmere sweater, pearl earrings, and an auburn updo, Kathy looked like one of those old Hollywood actresses who simply refused to let age touch her. She’d see me walk into the kitchen, give me a kiss on the forehead, and make me a bowl of Cheerios while I joined my brother to watch cartoons. In her living room, I was transported to a whole ‘nother world, traveling back in time to the 1940s: the dark wallpaper, that antique smell, the plush, soft brown carpet. There were these lamps with these weird diamond-like decorations hanging from them. I loved taking them off and observing how shiny each one was, almost like if I stared hard enough, I could see into the future. I wish.

As I stroll down the block of my old apartment building, I think of her, the life she lived, and the selflessness she exuded. When my father had been diagnosed with brain cancer, my mother had to work longer shifts to provide for our family, visiting him at the hospital whenever she could. Because of this, she had to find someone who would watch over her two young kids during those absences. Seeing her dilemma, my mother’s long time friend and next-door neighbor, Kathy, offered to look after us, practically becoming our second mother. After breakfast, we’d wait for her to get ready and then follow her out into the street with a grocery cart, latching on to her wrinkled hands. On the nicest days, she’d take us to the Toys R Us on 82^nd Street, saying, “Now ya can each get somethin’ fuh five dollas!” with a warm smile on her face. Sometimes I’d see a toy that cost eight or ten dollars—something that I’d really like—and ask her if I could get it. And even though she was retired from her job, she’d buy us what we wanted every time.

Overhead, the 7 train roars by, and Colombian pastries from the bakery to the left saturate my nose. I pass by electronics and shoe stores; in front of one of them, a lady selling churros rings a bell every couple minutes. Making a right at Roosevelt and 82^nd, I see the pharmacy’s big bold sign that once read “Genovese”, though Kathy still called it Genovese even after it was renamed Eckerd and later Rite Aid. The Toys R Us is gone, replaced by a T-Mobile store, and a City Jeans has opened up where Hallmark used to be. Going further down the street, I reach 37^th Ave., and make a left towards the corner deli, passing by one of the few restaurants that’s been around since before I was born, Jahn’s. Briefly peering into the diner, I remember the countless summer afternoons spent sharing a sundae with my brother while Kathy caught up with the waitress. Though most of the staff has changed, the restaurant seems to look the same from what I can tell. Now, as I go into the deli and order a lamb gyro, I recall Kathy’s voice asking Sal for a pound of salami over the counter, back when the store was known as Italian Farms, or Sal’s, as she called it.

Like most of Jackson Heights’ earliest immigrants, Kathy had completely lost her original British accent, mainly as a result of being married to an Italian man and immersing herself in his family’s culture. She’d have coffee for breakfast, tea and biscuits for lunch, and spaghetti for dinner. On her dresser were numerous black and white photographs of her husband in his Navy uniform. In her bedroom closet was a faded American flag, about five feet long and four feet wide when unfolded. I’d often wrap the flag around myself when playing pretend with my brother, or use it to make forts. I was always amazed by the sheer size of it, as well as the rarity of such an object. Colombian flags, Ecuadorian flags, and Mexican flags were everywhere in the neighborhood, even then. But American flags, you had to look for.

At the time, Kathy knew many of Jackson Heights’ other longtime residents and storeowners by name, and through her, they came to know us. I barely see any of these people anymore, their friendly expressions replaced by indifferent and unfamiliar ones, the large family businesses taken over by smaller ones of the recently immigrated. In a short period of only twelve years, everything has changed, and as I take a bite out of my Middle Eastern meal, I find myself struggling to find a connection with my surroundings. The part of her that lives on in me misses the old Jackson Heights, where corded phones were bought from RadioShack, rather than iPhones from T-Mobile; where toy stores were always crowded and birthday cards cost less than a dollar, plus a free lollipop from the man at the cash register.

I walk on, making my way home, all the while picturing a Kathy in her mid-thirties walking these very streets. I glance at the Asian restaurants that begin to appear on 78^th St., wondering if they were once ice cream parlors or barbershops that she knew when she was younger. And as I look more and more into the glass windows of places such as Aruni Thai and Spicy Shallot, I start to realize that my reflection is not too different from the faces of the workers inside, that we share the same role in shaping a newer, more diverse Jackson Heights—a role I was given the moment my mother stepped off the plane from the Philippines. Coming to the entrance of my building, I hold the front door open for an elderly Indian woman and go to the elevator, where I am greeted by one of our neighbors. She talks to me in my mother’s tongue, forgetting that I can’t speak the language, and we get off at the 5^th floor, where a mix of Filipino and Indian cuisine leaks out from under every door. We say goodbye as I turn the key to our apartment, suddenly welcomed by the mouth-watering smell of chicken adobo. I think faintly about Kathy and her strong coffee, about flags and the power of time. And while I still don’t know which roots to call my own, I look out the window at the great mosaic of the city, finally feeling like all of me is where it belongs.

I’ve always loved walking down 31^st avenueand Ditmars Boulevard in Astoria, Queens. It’s the one place in New York that makes me feel like I’m back home again. It used to be that no matter what direction you turned your head to, you would always see an elderly Greek man smiling at you, or a typical Greek scene where his wife is yelling at him, and telling him to hurry up

The winds of change though pass through every single place on earth. Astoria was no exception.

I was always extremely proud of my heritage while growing up. I thought (and still do) that being born Greek is probably the coolest thing that could happen to a person. I mean. Come on. If you ask any Greek they’ll tell you that we invented civilization. What could be cooler than that? This is why these next few words that I’m about to write, are quite honestly the hardest words I’ve ever written in a paper The Greek community, or at least the Greek community that I’ve always known (in Astoria) is slowly dying.

            While I have no doubt that the Greek people in New York have simply moved to different locations. Many have relocated to Long Island. It hurts me a bit inside seeing that an area that used to be almost exclusively Greek now has hints of other cultures such as Indian, and Middle Eastern. AlthoughI am in no way against this cultural diversity, it’s disappointing  that I can’t stand in the middle of the street, close my eyes and let the smell take me away and make me imagine that I’m in the middle of Athens. Within five seconds of closing my eyes I’d hear the most typical Greek thing of all: me getting cursed at in Greek to get out of the way. But now things are different. I wouldn’t get cursed at in Greek anymore.  Now there’s a good chance that the person that yells at me does so in English but it just isn’t the same.

            I usually take little walks in the neighborhood, just to get to enjoy the sights and smells of the area. I’d pass stores that have been there for what seems like forever. A few examples consist of, Stamatis, Telly’s Taverna, and Kyklades. But now, I see newer restaurants as well. Restaurants that are more modern. More American. In the infamous corner of 23^rd Avenue and 31^st Street, there’s now a Bareburger. It wasn’t always a Bareburger though. This corner has probably my single fondest memory of Astoria.

            It was in 2004, but to me, it feels like yesterday. Greece had just beat Portugal 1-0 in the finalof the European Cup in soccer. In that moment, when the final whistle was blown, I, along with every other Greek person that happened to be in Astoria at the time ran out into the streets. People were cheering, and singing. Cars were honking their horns, but for once not to tell someone to get out of their way. The whole area seemed to have been instantly painted white and blue. And then there was my dad. In the corner that had the Barebuger was the restaurant that he worked in. At the time it was called Anna’s Corner. It was there that I remember seeing my dad outside of the front door jumping up and down smiling at me. This was paradise. It is pretty safe to say that I wasn’t the happiest person in the world seeing that restaurant close, even though my dad didn’t work there anymore at the time of its closing.

If I walk up 31^st street, then I’ll come to the one place, that hasn’t changed. Agora Plaza. This translates to “Market Plaza.” In this little plaza is where my parents used to, and still do most of their food shopping for Christmas. There’s a Mediterranean Foods, Aphrodite’s Bakery, and of course my favorite store of them all, the butcher’s shop. My dad’s a well known person in the plaza, having worked nearbyfor so many years, thus causing me to become well known in the area as well. Of course I’m still just “Peter’s kid,” but it’s better than nothing.

It’s at this plaza that I decide to turn my walk around. There isn’t much to see up farther. Just houses. I’m only eighteen. I want to be in the middle of everything, not looking at houses. As I turn around I take a long look at the plaza, and at what used to be Anna’s Corner. For all I know they might be completely changed the next time I come to Astoria. As I walk farther I pass the local coffee shop, Lefkos Pyrgos, I greet the elderly men that are sitting around playing backgammon, and they smile and wave to me,asking me how my day is. Then I come around to the best pizza place in the world. Franky’s Pizza. Okay, it may not be the best in the world, but its pretty darn good. I eat pizza relatively often and I must say, this is the one place I’m actually willing to wait twenty minutes for a slice. It may not be a Greek restaurant, but it’s been there so long (since 1958) that it’s embedded into the community.

Suddenly I hear the roar of the train above me, which wakes me up, from my little fantasyland. I then begin to realize that I’m nowhere close to Greece. Even more importantly I realize that I have to go meet my friend for her birthday. But I really don’t want to leave Astoria. For about half an hour, I forgot that I was in New York. At the same time though, I knew that my walk couldn’t last much longer. There aren’t many exclusively Greek locations left in Astoria. Most have a mixture of other races that live and own stores amongst the Greeks As I walk up the stairs to the N train, I think to myself: I’m not sure how much more change I could take to Astoria. I still think it’s perfect. Maybe a bit less than it was ten years ago, but it’s still close to perfect in my heart.   

Every weekday morning, I walk along St. Nicholas Terrace to the City College campus on 135^th Street and Convent Avenue. I often listen to music, call my mother, or finish up a reading assignment, but sometimes I let myself think. I smile, too, because I think of my maternal great-grandfather, Bruce Mackinnon Iles, who lived here in Harlem for most of his adult life.

Bruce was born in 1902 to a wealthy family in Port of Spain, Trinidad. His father, Henry Mackinnon Iles, was a prominent attorney and owned quite a bit of land around The Savannah, a beautiful centerpiece of Port of Spain. The Savannah is like Central Park in New York City. It’s where world class cricket is played and where Carnival is hosted annually before Lent. Henry also owned the land in which the famous Hilton Hotel, also called “The Upside Down Hotel,” stands today. The lobby of the hotel is on the top floor and guests travel down the elevator to reach their rooms. (My mother and I stayed at this hotel on our recent trip to Trinidad.)

My great-grandfather Bruce spent his early childhood in Trinidad. For a wealthy family, the eldest son goes into his father’s occupation and the second son is destined for the military. Bruce was the second male child. His older brother Julian, though, left Trinidad for law school in London. He left at the right time for their father, Henry, had many mistresses and illegitimate children. Bruce’s mother, Julia Grace, had enough and packed her whole family’s bags to accompany Julian to London. Henry Mackinnon Iles was left in Trinidad with all his mistresses and children. He eventually died there.

Once in London, Julia and her children were living lavishly through Henry’s money. Unfortunately, after myriad bad decisions, Henry succumbed to debt, lost his license to practice law, and also lost all his assets. The family in London no longer had adequate funds to stay in luxury. My great-grandfather Bruce decided to move to New York before his family were to accompany him. New York, to them, was a land of opportunity.

I walk through Central Park every Friday afternoon. Sometimes I close my eyes and dream of The Savannah in Trinidad. I see old men playing chess, university students bickering over politics, cricket players, children, young women swinging to calypso during Carnival. I see Bruce, a child, crying over melted ice cream and my great-great grandmother, Julia Grace, saying, “Baby, that’s the way the cookie crumbles.”

Bruce came to New York City on a ship from London, England. He had long ago abandoned the idea of a military career and was too distracted by the potential opportunity to be found in New York. Immediately, he met my striking great-grandmother Olga Carew and after a quick courtship, he married her. They started a family of three children: my grandmother (or my Lala) Gloria, Grace, and Horatio (H.O.). They all were born within a six-year period from 1924 to 1930. Bruce’s family, including his mother and sisters, eventually made their way to New York. They all lived together in an apartment in Harlem.

For them, and for most of the families at that time, money was an issue. Bruce could never hold a steady job. He worked as a floor finisher, a photographer during the WPA (New Deal) period, a laborer in the Brooklyn Navy Yard during World War II, and even as an actor. He had a booming voice and British accent. But of all de special talents dat we Trinis possess is de way we talk dat ranks us among de best. Although he could never hold onto a job for long, his most impressive positions were brief stints as a staff photographer for Life and Look magazines. My Lala always talks of her father’s photography talents.

In all the photographs I’ve seen of my great-grandfather Bruce, he always looks angry. He was at odds with everyone; Bruce was abusive to his wife Olga and his children. My Lala says he was “a spoiled brat, but could never afford to be one” and she talks of his terrible temper. Although Bruce was bad-tempered, perhaps I understand why. I think of all he had to deal with: constant moving, family drama, problems with money, missed opportunities. Bruce was undoubtedly a violent and angry man, but he was also a frustrated intellectual and photographer who could never rise to his potential. He was unhappy. Of course, his unhappiness can never be an excuse for his behavior and the damage to his family that ensued.

Bruce led a solitary life; he read alone in his room despite the large size of his family. In 1956, the year my mother Diane was born, my great-grandmother Olga left Bruce to live with my Lala and help with her first (and only) granddaughter. Bruce finally knew what it felt like to be truly alone. Now, we laugh when we talk of Olga leaving Bruce. We say that she embodies the old Trinidadian saying: Better fish in di sea dan wha get ketch. The saying means that there’s always a better lover than your current one.

My great-great grandfather’s life was sad for he had promise, but could never overcome his own disappointment. He let frustration run his life. In 1983, Bruce died from a combination of arthritis and complications caused by consuming too much aspirin over the years. He was eighty-one years old.

I asked my grandmother Lala if he was ever content. She answered, “You know, he was sometimes. I only remember him smiling when he was taking pictures or organizing his materials. He was a brilliant photographer, Alexis.” I finally saw some of Bruce’s photographs. My favorites are those taken of my grandmother in Harlem in 1942. I look through them on my way to class at City College. My Lala, beautiful and eighteen years old, smiles and stands next to Shepherd Hall in one of the pictures. In another, the light catches the left side of her face as she sits on the quad near the Compton and Goethals building. And for a moment, I think it’s me.