Every dish is unique to a particular culture, so it is safe to say that food is a big factor in defining a culture. Elements of these dishes help distinguish cultures, from the ingredients of the dish to the presentation of it on the table. In Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake, we often come across the mention of food. The curried lamb with potatoes, biryani and samosas Ashima Ganguli prepare come hand in hand with the Indian culture and define the childhood of her American-born son, Gogol. As Gogol grows up though, he starts to dislike many aspects of his culture, such as the food.

As a child, all I ate was Chinese food, with a couple of McDonald’s Happy Meals here and there. My Chinese parents only prepared food using a big wok situated on top of the stove, using the kitchen oven to store pots and pans instead of cooking dishes such as lasagna. I remember for one month, I refused to eat rice because I was sick of having it everyday. My friends with American-born parents had spaghetti for dinner one night, and some sort of meat with mashed potatoes another night. I always had rice with multiple dishes placed in front of me. A dish of steamed fish. Another of stir-fried broccoli. Another of who knows what. I remember wanting a dinner that was American, a dinner that was normal sounding. I grew sick of Chinese food just like Gogol with Indian food.

I feel silly thinking back on the younger me. Refusing to eat rice was sort of like refusing my Chinese culture. Sure, I am American-born but many of my ancestors before me were Chinese and not following their ways would be disrespectful. Now that I’m older and can go out on my own, I’m able to experience other cultures and their foods and still enjoy Chinese food at home. Because hey, who doesn’t like Chinese food?

Being a New Yorker, public transportation is a large part of my life, especially since I cannot drive nor do I own a vehicle of any sort. Dependency on public transportation can prove to be a problem at times, not only because trains and buses are usually never on time, but also because of my wild imagination; I would occasionally fear riding the public bus or taking the train because of atrocious events that occur in reality, such as the Upper East side groping incidents, and because of scenes in movies, such as the Final Destination series. After the 9/11 attacks, that anxiety did grow to a certain extent, but not to the extent that I would stop using public transportation. My apprehension was slightly similar to that of Oskar’s in Jonathan Safran Foer’s novel, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, who never takes a bus or train on his journey to find the owner of the key hidden in a vase. In the beginning of his adventure, Oskar travels to Queens for the first time; however, his extreme fear of buses and trains forces him to journey there by foot from Manhattan. He walks towards the bridge that leads to Queens, walks over it, and continues to his destination.
Similar to Oskar’s journey, there is a memory of mine that I thought was quite an experience. I remember a sweltering, sunny Saturday, and the feeling of the sun’s rays shining down on me as I squinted against the brightness of the sun. It was the last race of the day and I was ready to head home. With my pen and clipboard at hand, I prepared myself for the sound of the gun. In a flash the race was over and I had successfully jotted down everyone’s times.
It was finally time to go home. I remember standing at the bus stop with the team, shielding myself from the sun’s rays with a piece of paper, as we all chatted amongst ourselves. After a long period of time, the team had decided we would walk to the train station. And thus began our journey, walking to Manhattan from Randall’s Island.
I never thought I would ever walk over a bridge in my life. In the moment, all I remember thinking about was how blazing hot it was and how exhausted I was. I remember walking alongside speeding cars. I remember the shadows of the bridge covering the pathway and shielding the sun from our eyes. I remember observing the architecture of the bridge with all its bolts and hinges. And finally, I remember the cheers of the team for making the right decision of walking as we made it across the bridge before the bus.

Thinking back to this memory, it was exciting and memorable. The bonding and laughter shared with the team that day, and the fact that it was the first time walking over a bridge, and most likely my last time walking over a bridge, made a deep impression in my life.

In Jonathan Safran Foer’s Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close the main character, Oskar Schell, continually remembers the day of September 11th 2001, and the phone messages that his dad left. This really made me remember that day in my life. I was in 3rd grade and had the day was going as normal. Then suddenly the mood of every single teacher in the building changed and kids were being pulled out of to go home about every five minutes. Eventually our teacher told us that the twin towers had been hit by a plane and had collapsed. I didn’t know that much about the city but did remember my dad once telling me that he worked close to the twin towers. I immediately got extremely nervous and asked my teacher what happened to buildings near the twin towers. She told me that she didn’t know. About 5 minutes later I was called to go down to the office. I remember everything about the image of me collecting my bags and walking down to the office. I kept thinking my mom would be standing there crying and telling me that something happened to dad. I didn’t know what to do, I thought about just running away. The walk to the office from my classroom was about a minute to me on that day it felt like a lifetime.   Thankfully my father was ok and when I saw him later that night i hugged him for 5 minutes.

“Why didn’t I learn to treat everything like it was the last time. My greatest regret was how much I believed in the future.” (Jonathan Safran Foer) 

I remember. I remember when she called. I remember hearing the phone ring exactly four times, announcing in a matter-of-fact manner “call from Grossmami”. I remember walking out of my room, downstairs, and across the kitchen to grab something to eat. I remember the chatter coming from the living room, where my mom and sister were speaking to my grandmother over the phone. I remember being irritated and not in the best of moods- not wanting to go out of my way to say a simple “hello, how are you Grossmami?”. I remember thinking I will be seeing her very soon and will have all the time in the world to mingle and tell stories. All the time in the world- as if the clock of life would never stop ticking or as if the human heart would never stop beating. I could not have been more mistaken. Within 2 weeks, 14 days, 336 hours, 20,160 minutes, 1,209,600 seconds, my grandmother’s clock took its last tick and her heart pumped for a final time. Just like that. I remember feeling my own heart swell to the size of a melon, and just like a balloon with too much helium, burst; anger, disappointment, and shame swept over me and lingered for many weeks. “Hello, how are you Grossmami?”. I remember the phone ringing, my grandmother trying to reach out to me, not realizing that it would be the last time. I remember…

As with many of my friends, I am a first generation American. My parents immigrated from Asia to the US primarily to lead a better life. Like in Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake, my parents and I had to accustom ourselves to the American culture. Gogol, like myself, was more persistent on “fitting in” with the others kids rather than upholding his parent’s traditions.

I was born in the United States and was named Raymond at birth. Interestingly enough, I had an English name before a Chinese one. My parents explained to me that they had a long list of names. However, many of my father’s coworkers said that Raymond is a good name. Over the years, I have grown to like my name very much, unlike Gogol. It doesn’t appear too often to make it almost cliche, and appears enough that people have heard of it.

Ironically, English was my second language and I had to take ESL classes in elementary school. My parents, keen on my success, decided to hire a tutor to teach me English. I grew to become the same as every other kid on the playground. My family began celebrating American holidays as well. Much unlike Ashima and Ashoke, my parents were encouraging of assimilating with the American culture.

To this day, I have always appreciated the name that was given to me. It has never been a burden that I had to concern myself with. “For by now, he’s come to hate questions pertaining to his name, hates having constantly to explain. He hates having to tell people that it doesn’t mean anything in “in Indian” (76). I believe Gogol should appreciate his name as he discovers the significance behind it.

Countless first generation Americans find themselves caught between holding onto their family’s culture and assimilating into an American lifestyle. In Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake, Nikhil Ganguli demonstrates this point. Lahiri, being a first generation American herself is able to accurately express the yearnings and emotions felt by children of immigrants across the United States. I am able to relate to Nikhil’s inevitable conformity to the American culture.

My family expects me to carry on the traditions of their culture. I find some of the habits and mentalities of my parent’s culture irrelevant, and even limiting.  Chinese culture teaches introversion, keeping my feelings and emotions bottled in. During my english class this year, my teacher, Ms. Brown assigned us to read and discuss a controversial article called Paper Tigers. It discusses how Asian-Americans deal with their lives in their post-education years. In the article, Yang writes that Asians are known to be “devoid of any individuality,” and are “a mass of stifled, repressed, abused, conformist quasi-robots who simply do not matter, socially or culturally.” Yet he does not wish for people to label him as such. Ms. Brown knew this article was relevant to our class, largely composed of Asians. I rose my hand, distressed at the sight of my fellow students staring straight back at the board with blank looks. Simultaneously, I am conflicted because people others cannot understand the Asian culture. I realize the advantage of maintaining a balance of both Chinese and American values.

Growing up in an Indian household, the Indian culture is entrenched in Nikhil and Moushumi. In their Gramercy Park apartment, they rarely eat Indian food. “But sometimes, on a Sunday, both craving the food they’d grown up eating, they ride the train out to Queens and have brunch at Jackson Diner, piling their plates with tandoori chicken and pakoras and kabobs” (229). Usually when my stomach growls, Chinese food hardly comes to mind. Instead, I’ll go to my favorite French café or burger joint. Yet like the two of them, when my parents home for dinner, I’ll whip up some ginger-fried rice and top it off with a fried egg, sunny side up.

Making strawberry soufflé at home.