SCENE
(Gray folding chairs have been arranged in a clumsy circle. Despite the chairs, the room is nearly empty. The white walls lie vacant except for one or two small framed photographs; in each picture a group of men looking festive in matching jackets are gathered together in several rows, a banner strewn across the bottom row that reads: Foochow Village Association No. 5. The hardwood floor has no finish and has been scuffed and scratched beyond recognition, even though the apartment is less than a year old. A group of Chinese men and women enter the room, followed by two young American girls in their twenties. The meeting, conducted almost entirely in Chinese, begins.)
MR. DENG
Hello everyone. Thank you for coming to the board meeting. We have several issues to discuss. Do you want to start?
(He motions to the young women sitting in the corner. Mr. Deng is dressed in a cheap pinstripe suit, probably made by a local knockoff tailor. A loose gold chain dangles around his wrist. He is the manager of a restaurant down on East Broadway.)
SHIRLEY
Yeah, basically we’re tired of strange people coming in and out of the building. They buzz our apartment at all hours. They leave trash in the hallway and smoke and spit in the elevator. It’s disgusting.
NEIGHBOR
I still find people smoking in there even though we have a sign in the elevator that says “No Smoking, No Spitting.” We should make the sign even bigger so that no one can miss it. Read more…
Years ago, when I lived in Shanghai for a summer, my family came to visit me. On one humid morning we wandered through Fuxing Park in the French concession (a park that was originally built for foreigners and banned Chinese locals from entering). Despite the heat, the park was brimming with life. Elderly Chinese stood on plots between bushes and shrubs practicing tai chi, bird enthusiasts swung teak cages back and forth with colorful birds perched inside, couples waltzed and ball room danced to music pumping from a small boom box, and a group of patriotic men sang impassioned renditions of old Communist tunes, their fists raised. My family and I took in the scene with a sense of awe. It was just a bunch of old people hanging out in the park, but to us it became one of those moments that travelers sometimes have–a memory in the making–that sticks with you forever and becomes indicative of a time and place.
One of the things that makes New York’s Chinatown distinct is that many of the routines from daily life in China have been carried over and preserved thousands of miles away from the mainland. A month or so ago I found myself around the corner from Columbus Park and decided to take a quick stroll. The park was filled to capacity with elderly Chinese men and women enjoying the fresh air and some good company on a Sunday afternoon in the park. People were huddled around tables playing cards or Chinese checkers. Two motley crews of musicians–a squeaky saxophone, a rusty clarinet, several erhu players and a singer or two–clustered on benches near the entrance. Each group played songs from traditional Chinese operas, competing for a share of the park’s onlookers. The old feeling returned: a kind of wonder at having discovered something quite remarkable hidden within the everyday. Read more…
I can’t remember a time when strange men didn’t come in and out of our building at all hours of the night, but I know they weren’t there when I first moved in. And when I tell people that there are two–not one, but two–mahjong gambling rings in my Chinatown apartment, they usually respond with a comment like “How cool!” or “That’s awesome!” I assure them that it is most certainly not awesome or cool to live with Chinese ruffians.
It began quietly. Our building is small with 10 units, two per floor spread across six floors total. Two men bought one of the third floor apartments. We know these partners only by sight: the younger of the two walks with a cane and has an ominous limp that hints at a violent past; the old man has a head full of gray-streaked waves (a perm, at his age?) and an ugly face, he’s usually smoking in the elevator in spite of the sign and likes to make a point of remembering which floor we live on.
Then a group venture bought up both units on the second floor under the auspices of a Fujianese Village Association. They claimed the space was to be a community center. They even applied for a special city permit. Legit, right? Read more…
好久不见 [hǎo jiǔ bú jiàn]: 1. Long time no see. 2. A greeting for someone you haven’t seen in a while.
I have always been interested in the origins of words and the stories behind them, even though such stories are often farcical, if not totally absurd. In high school, my AP History teacher Dr. Onderdonk–a name that itself merits a linguistic examination–told our class the story of the Mexican-American War. American troops marched down into Mexico by way of Texas, singing a nettlesome little diddy that went something like, “Green grows the grass…” Not only did the Mexicans know full well that the Americans were coming, but they also couldn’t stand the racket they made. And in that moment, the word gringo was born.
Whether you believe the story or not, it illustrates the fluid and ever-expanding nature of languages. The strength of the English language, in my mind, is its ability to borrow and ultimately coopt words and phrases from foreign tongues. Read more…
Chinese people are scared of black people. There, I said it. I can already hear the accusations of “gross overgeneralization” murmuring out there in the blogosphere, but it’s kind of true. Every good Chinese daughter knows better than to even think twice about bringing a black guy home to mom and dad. If a Chinese person sees a group of black people together (a group being more than one), they will be sure to mention it: 哎呀。你看，这么多黑人。
But like any form of racism, which stems from the misconception that people who look and talk differently must therefore be fundamentally different and nonhuman, there are two sides to this coin. Curiosity about the “other” is always entangled with the initial feelings of fear.
These two conflicting feelings of awe and anxiety come together in Darlie, a brand name toothpaste popular in China and Southeast Asia. The logo is indeed a blackfaced minstrel flashing his bright, pearly whites. But wait, there’s more. Manufactured by the Hong Kong-based company Hawley & Hazel since the 1930s, the toothpaste was originally called “Darkie“–inspired by blackface performer Al Jolson–and retains its Chinese name, 黑人牙膏 or Black People Toothpaste, to this day. Read more…
There are many things I can sleep through (like earthquakes), but a Chinese New Year Parade is not one of them. I woke up this past Sunday to the sound of beating drums and muffled cheers. So I stepped out onto the roof to take a peek. Turns out I didn’t have to look very far. The Lunar New Year Parade was marching sprightly down my very own street. Luckily, I had my camera in tow. Here are a few highlights from the festivities.
