Proximity to a REAL Chinatown
Today, I spilled bubble milk tea on an unsuspecting young man between the E.59th and 86th stop on the express 5 (yes, now I get to sound all badass New York, citing streets that have #s instead of names!). He was wearing a nicely starched white shirt…so lucky him, the milk tea only went on his jeans. He was even nice enough to attempt at a joke. Him: “coffee makes me melt – haha” me: “it’s actually bubble tea”, him: “oh – that stuff is so good!” I really appreciate these small moments of grace on the New York subway, where the usual response is eye-rolling, grunting, pushing and moving away. I could write a book about the New York subway system. I’m disheartened by the number of desperate, possibly homeless people who wander into the subway cars telling stories of lost jobs, homes and hungry children. People usually avert their eyes. On a brighter note, New York’s range of subway musicians is amazing – some of them even accompanied by explanatory signs because they’re commissioned by the city! Today, I saw that I was being entertained on my brisk walk from the Time Square Shuttle (I like to call it a little worm because it’s so cute and short) to the 1/2/3 train (I call it “the Red Line”) by “The Ebony Hillbillies” – three happy-looking African American men playing banjos.
I really shouldn’t have been balancing 2 banh-mi (Vietnamese) sandwiches, 2 bottles of sweetened soy milk, duffle bag (which says “graduate school, Northwestern University – always makes for good conversation killer, considering I never went there), ipod, smaller tote and bubble tea near the Canal Street stop during rush hour. This is also the 2nd time I spilled something on a total stranger in a month. I never learn. But where did I get these delectable banh-mi sandwiches, which I’ve been dreaming about ever since I left Boston? From a jewelry store on Mott Street (off Canal) that doubles as a bakery, which has been recommended and rated on Zagat. The man behind the counter hollered into the phone in fluent Cantonese, Mandarin and Vietnamese. The secret behind the rave? All the meats in the sandwiches are marinated in a secret barbecue sauce, which, in addition to the crispy French rolls and spicy sauce (available upon request), make all the difference. Still, I have to say that while these sandwiches do not disappoint, the best banh-mi I’ve ever tasted can be found at the hole-in-the-wall place near the McDonalds on the intersection of Washington and Kneeland in Boston’s Chinatown.
On the way to this “bakery”, I passed a variety of vegetable and fish shops – the pungent smell coming from the river of water running from these shops almost keeled me over in the heat. I started to get the feeling that I was not Chinese enough to be shopping in the real Chinatown (which, barring some moderate gentrification, is as genuine as they go). 1) I could not speak Cantonese 2) I had no idea how to buy vegetable or fish 3) I only had 3 dollars in cash and credit was clearly not an option and 4) My outfit was too California hippie to pass off as Chinese. Perhaps I should wear more Hello Kitty, brandish my red Snoopy metal pencil box, fry my hair, dye it orange and don pastel pink shades watched with denim, like the teenage girls I see standing on corners sipping bubble tea. Okay, maybe all of these done together is a bit of an overkill.
We never lived in Chinatown and over time, my parents have gradually turned away from the Chinese community, preferring to expend all their energies on the kids (Ada and I may not look like it, but we’re a handful) and the grandparents. My mom wanted nothing to do with the gossip and the comparison of children that came with the company of these communities. Besides, the Chinese in America has always been self divided by issues of class, dialect and education (all related in intricate ways) – most of Chinatown’s residents fell on one side of one of these many divides and our family fell on the other side. Whenever I wander around in Chinatown, I can’t help wondering whether I may have passed one of my distant cousins on the street without knowing him or her (an example of the class/education level divide). So, as a consequence, I never learned how to haggle at a fish market in Chinatown. The overwhelming, jungle-like quality of New York Chinatown makes me acutely and uncomfortably aware of these small setbacks.
One of the reason I’m interning at Asian American Legal Defense and Education Fund (AALDEF) this summer is to understand the Chinese immigrant community better, albeit through a different lens. Of course, part of becoming American means inevitably letting go of the Chinese aspects of myself. It’s a very gradual process which has chipped away at my cultural foundation – I only notice the erosion of my Chinese-ness in spurts. Like the time when I was twelve and woke up to realize that I was dreaming in English instead of Chinese. When I told my 6th grade teacher, Ms. Kaye, about it, she asked, “Is that good or bad?” “BAD!” I wailed.
These days, I don’t live in Chinatown, but as part of my internship, I have conducted surveys there. Carrying an oversized clipboard, I’ve stopped old ladies hurrying about their grocery, young women standing on street corners, unemployed men sitting on benches in the park where old men come to play chess. “Have you noticed an increase in rent in the past few years?” I ask in hesitant Chinese, accompanied by my partner in crime, a happy-go-lucky law student named “M” from Queens. I like to pretend that I’m a community organizer, but really, I’m just collecting the last of the housing surveys in order to stare at the data on Excel, hoping I can find some compelling patterns for a report we’re publishing on the housing needs of 6 low-income Asian immigrant neighborhoods. More recently during the course of my surveying, I found myself struggling to recall words that were once at the tip of my tongue, much less being able to remember the translation for “rent controlled housing”. Survey FAIL.
Another project that I’m involved in is a pilot that will attempt to measure the rate of gentrification in New York’s Chinatown through block-by-block land use surveys. In the long run, both of these projects will become reports that will generate some concrete facts that will inform future community based advocacy. In the short run, we get to annoy a lot of people who don’t want to be bothered to talk about their housing issues, immigration status, income…etc. As for me, I will get to know one genuine Chinatown on a first name basis, before it becomes a touristic show horse of a street, like Little Italy.
Speaking of Little Italy. I got to watch at least 1 soccer match this World Cup. Showing his Italian pride via blue jersey, A brought me to a crowded restaurant in Little Italy to watch the Italy v. New Zealand game last Saturday. It was owned by a big bear of an Italian man from Rome with long graying hair who stomped around shouting and running his poor Latin American waiters to the ground. Inside, ways of blue jerseys and a few Italian flags draped across shoulders, accompanied by a lot of shouting, shaking of fists and cursing (in general, great atmosphere for a futbol match).
The game was surprisingly fun to watch, but the service grew increasingly annoying. The owner turned out to be a dictator who went around threatening to charge anyone who ordered drinks but no food a $20 minimum, even the ones who were standing. “You gonna sit in my restaurant and not eat my food?” he shouted at the couple across from us. After that, I secretly started to cheer for New Zealand, which drew with Italy after a lucky goal early on the game. After waiting half an hour for our check, I went up to get it myself and was informed that a tip was included in the price. A 20% tip, no less! This is at a moment when I was angry enough not to tip at all and give the owner a good, resounding kick (but I reconsidered…it’s perhaps safer not to kick people who behave exactly like the stereotypes of mafia bosses) Of course, I took all this frustration out on poor A by saying smugly “this would never happen at a Chinese restaurant!” with a flounce with a variety of other snippy comments that I will not repeat. Good thing he’s a much nicer person than me (and plus, A just turned 27 yesterday and received a bunch of cool presents that partly made up for aforesaid immature comments). In short, from a * totally unbiased * perspective, when in New York, go to Chinatown but avoid Little Italy!
