Nona's House: After

What I remember is a small house with a large front and back yard. I remember playing with my brother in the backyard, where an old, light blue, rusting Cadillac sat. We would occasionally open the unlocked doors to pick at the peeling cartoon stickers that, for whatever reason, were stuck onto the dashboard. I remember the neighbor’s two little white dogs, yappy, matted-haired, smelly, and dirty, but fun to play with through the metal gate that divided the properties. I remember a small green plastic shed and a large garage with its four walls literally covered by various tools and odd parts of cars. But the front yard was different. I remember rose bushes and other flowers growing abundantly. I remember the signpost along a stone-covered path that spelled out our last name with the silhouette of a dog on top. I remember Chester, the dog my dad rescued but that he kept there because my parents did not want a dog at our house.

A few years later, Chester had already died and my Nona had a stroke and was bedridden. My brother and I had grown to the age where the weekly visits to the Bronx were something to complain about, which I regret now. We would not want to stay in the house because it was boring. My Nona stayed in her bed, my great Aunt Effie would usually be in the main room seated at a table, and often there would be a visiting nurse. My brother and I were restless, and thus the property surrounding the house was ours to explore. I remember feeling sad that my Nona was not able see her garden anymore. Weather permitting, my brother and I would pick the prettiest flowers and make a bouquet. That way, since she could not go outside to see her flowers, we could bring a piece of her garden in for her. She would get very emotional when we did this, probably because in our own way we were showing her how much we loved her, despite our absence in the house. My Nona spoke more fluently in Italian than English and it was hard for me to understand her well, especially after the stroke. Yet the one phrase that I can still hear echoing in my head is when she would say, very clearly, “I love you.”

My Nona died in 2002, and my great Aunt lived in the house until she died in 2005. After, the house remained empty. Throughout the years I have overheard my father and mother talking behind closed doors about how the house could not be sold due to the poor market, and how we were still paying utility bills there. Up until even today, the house seems to be a burden to my parents, which I find sad because of all the memories that we had there. A couple of years ago, my father was notified that the house was being vandalized. Not too long after, in October 2008, the house was set on fire. I know my father goes there sometimes to clean up the property, sometimes asking my brother for help. I have not been there since around the time my aunt died, six years ago.

Though I was fortunate enough to spend many years with my Nona when I was younger, the house in the Bronx is an embodiment of my relationship with my paternal family. My grandmother and grandfather, or Nona and Nono, were refugees after World War II, and were transported to various places. Originally from Italy, they lived in Brazil until my father was 12, when they immigrated to the United States. The rest of his family was dispersed, most staying in varying South American countries. His sister, brother, and aunt immigrated to the United States to join my father and grandparents at varying times. These few family members are the only ones that I would come to know. After living in Brooklyn for a few years, my father’s family bought their house in the Bronx in 1969. It is there that all of my memories of my paternal family are centered. This house remains to be my only connection to them, despite the ruin of it now.

Aside from my grandparents and great aunt Effie, my father’s sister also passed away. My father’s brother is still living in New York, though we very rarely have contact with him. From my father’s stories, the two were not very close early in life, as his brother stayed in Brazil for a while after my father came to America. Yet once he joined my father and his family here, the two became closer. I am not sure why they do not keep in contact, as he is the last relative that I know of in my dad’s family. The two only talk when necessary, currently the reason being if there is an issue with the Bronx house.

The last time I went to the house was when my aunt died. Coincidentally, she died six years ago in April, the same month I am writing this. My father and mother have warned me of the condition of the house. To even visit the property is not as easy as I thought – the city had my father erect a gate around the property, fitted with padlocks to keep it secure. My father has keys to enter, and therefore I have to go with him. His reaction to my asking to go there was rather negative. I wonder if it upsets him to see the house in this condition, and if going there brings back too many memories. My father is not outwardly emotional, and rarely do we talk about his family. To go back to see for myself what the place looks like is a way for me to remember my Nona, to allow memories to flood back upon seeing once-familiar things. I want to see if the yards still look anything like they used to, if the shed is still there, if flowers still grow, however unkempt.

Visiting

Six years later I find myself, though more grown up now, again in the passenger’s seat with my father driving, going to visit my Nona’s house. The twenty-minute or so drive used to seem so much longer when I was younger. The highways and bridge, once unfamiliar to me aside from being the route to the house, are commonplace, roads I drive on daily during my commute to school. It had been so long – perhaps not that many years literally, but in my mind – that I had forgotten how close the house was. Just after getting off the Throgs Neck Bridge, my dad took the exit for Lafayette Avenue. Before I knew it, he was pulling over to park and it took me a minute to get my bearings. We parked across the street from the house, and as I stepped out of the car and saw the property, memories started flooding back to me. Things that I had never appreciated suddenly were so clear, even before we entered the yard. The front yard of the house is so different from its surroundings. Between its neighbors, whose front yards reveal just the houses, my Nona’s property has a large front yard, with surprisingly lush, green grass. I was not expecting to see the garden look so full of life. The large magnolia tree, planted many years ago, is in full bloom, the light pink petals raining down and carpeting the grass and path below it.

My dad opens the padlocked chain link fence and I immediately notice how beautiful the garden is. To my left, the limbs of the magnolia hang down creating an incomplete arch of sorts over the path. To my right, a leafy oak tree completes the arch. All around the sides of the grass, flowers bloom. There is a circle of dirt formed by the remains of once whole bricks, where greenery and hyacinths are growing. Along the perimeter of the yard, red and yellow tulips grow in patches. As I take in the yard, I am reminded of when I used to pick flowers to bring inside for my Nona. Half with that in mind, half just wanting to bring a little piece of the house back home with me, I make a bouquet. I make my way up the stairs to the stone-paved patio. The house’s structure is intact, but the windows are boarded up and the white siding is mostly gone. Interestingly, the empty patches of the burned siding reveals dark red brick in good condition. I never realized how big the house actually was until I look at it now, forced to take it at face value, outside only.

My final stop on the property is the garage in the backyard, which is also padlocked. My father opens the door, and I begin to look around. As I remember from when I was younger, the rather spacious garage is home to tools, car parts, and machinery, most of which I would never be able to name. There are a row of tires perched up on a shelf on the wall, an air compressor, old stereos and phones. A few things my father points out to me, such as a car lift hook strung up on the ceiling, a large metal locker bearing his name on it that was once his from work. He tells me how he used to fix cars in here when he was younger, including racecars. I ask him why he does not take anything in here home with him, but he replies that “it’s just stuff.” He remarks, “the person who buys the house will get a garage full of tools.”

As we begin to walk back to the car, I replay that phrase in my head: “the person who buys the house…” After years of not thinking much of the house, aside from hearing my parents complain about it, the visit again instills in me the sense of sentimentality. This is my Nona’s house, a secret garden in its mostly urban Bronx neighborhood. It was my “second home” where I spent my so many days of my childhood until my teenage years. Those are my Nona’s flowers, that she spent years and years planting and tending. Unlike my father’s view of the material as “just stuff,” maybe I just get too attached to the tangible. Of course I would always have my memories if not the house, but I hate to think that one day this is going to be taken away from us.

As my dad pulls away from the house, he says that he wants to stop by the cemetery, which is just a few minutes away. We pull up to Saint Raymond’s Cemetery, and we read the sign that says “Gates Close at 4:30.” It is 4:27. Paying no mind, my dad speeds through the gates and we park near where he thinks the grave is located. We walk through rows and rows of stones and have no luck finding it. The cemetery is right on the water, the Throgs Neck Bridge clear in the distance, and the wind is intense. I carry with me a red tulip from the bouquet of flowers I took with me, in hopes of putting it on the grave that we cannot find. Disappointed, we go back to the car. However, on a whim, my dad decides to take one last look. We separate, pacing up and down different rows searching for a black stone amidst many white ones. It must have been fate because, to my surprise, I find it, just a few feet away from where we were originally looking. Buried there are my Nono, my Nona, and my great aunt. There is a small primrose bush planted, which my dad remarks must have been put there by his brother.

It has been nine years since my Nona died, nine years since I picked a bouquet of her own flowers for her to see. Before we leave, I place the bright red flower in front of the stone. Though she is no longer here I feel close to her once again, and my emotional ties to the house in the Bronx feel restored and strengthened.

–

Angelica Bihary is a recent graduate of Queens College with a Bachelors degree in English and Sociology. She enjoys writing, literary analysis, and photography, and hopes to pursue a graduate degree in Journalism or further her studies in English.

Clyde L. Borg (second from left, second row) and the boys at El Mundo Bar, circa 1955

–
The Spanish words, El Mundo, mean the world, and it was the name of the bar that we redundantly referred to as the El Mundo. It was located on the northeast corner of West Street and West 12th Street beneath the shadow of the West Side Highway in Manhattan’s Greenwich Village neighborhood. For nine teenage boys growing up in the fifties, it was our little world.

It occupied the ground floor of a two-story brick building. Just beyond the front entrance were two double-swing doors that allowed entry into the tavern. A long mahogany bar dominated the inside area with a few scattered tables and chairs that rested on a checkered marble floor. It had a decorative tin ceiling and a large window across from the bar that looked out on West 12th Street. There was a back room that accommodated a kitchen and some large tables and chairs. On the second floor was an apartment that was occupied by the owners of the establishment.

We hung out on the southeast corner of Bethune and Greenwich Streets. Those of us who were old enough purchased thirty-five cent containers of beer from the El Mundo, and then we consumed the beer in a secluded area of the street. Once we had reached the legal age of eighteen, we started to congregate in the El Mundo bar.

The proprietors of the El Mundo became our surrogate parents. Acky, short for Aquilino, was a diminutive Hispanic man with sharp facial features that reflected his Spanish heritage. He was the boss, and he was held in high esteem by all and feared by some. His wife, Lucy, much younger than Acky, a little overweight, but attractive with large brown eyes and a wide small that offset her husband’s staid disposition, brightened the atmosphere of the El Mundo.

Lucy listened to all our problems, and offered advice and guidance. A New York City waterfront bar became a refuge, a place where we could talk about our troubles and be heard. Lucy was our guidance counselor, and Acky was the overseer, the stern administrator. They both consoled us when we were rejected by girls or suffered romantic break ups. Lucy would deal with us softly and kindly while Acky would be harsh; he held to the macho view of any relationship.

It was at the El Mundo where we made decisions, small and large. Should we go to the RKO 23rd Street or the Loew’s Sheridan? Should we enlist in the Armed Forces? What about college or technical school? The discussions ranged from girls to sports to the news of the day. Dien Bien Phu was an important topic. Would we have to go to war?

The El Mundo was, however, primarily a drinking establishment, and we certainly did much of that; we learned how to drink there. Draft beer only cost ten cents a glass, a can of beer only twenty-five cents. Rheingold was our favorite, and Ballantine and Schaefer were popular beers. We eventually tried hard liquor: Four Roses, Seagram’s Seven, Fleishman’s. Sometimes we did get drunk, but we never drank to get drunk. We attempted to stay sober while imbibing as much as we could; it was important to be able to hold your liquor.

The place was ours in the evening. Its isolated location on the waterfront provided a special seclusion for us. There were very few passersby on West Street. The bar made its money in the afternoon when the longshoremen came for lunch and drinks. At night we watched the fights or baseball games on a small black-and-white television that rested on a reinforced shelf at one end of the bar. The most memorable boxing event was the night that Sugar Ray Robinson knocked out Gene Fullmer with a tremendous left hook that is still considered one of the best left hooks ever thrown. Sometimes we played the electric bowling machine that stood near the entrance. We played the jukebox, and we were able to choose the records that were placed there. Rock and Roll was born during the fifties and we listened to Bill Haley, the Platters, an emerging Elvis Presley and many others. At closing time, Lucy would offer us sandwiches at no charge.

Nothing really exciting ever occurred at the El Mundo during those years. Lucy and Acky permitted us to have New Year’s Eve parties in the back room. Acky was the manager of a semi-pro soccer team, the Brooklyn Hispanos, and they would have after-game parties at the bar on weekends. The New York Police Department’s Mounted Division had their horse stables next to the El Mundo on West 12th Street. On occasion some of the cops would get drunk, and fire their weapons in the street.

There were some unique individuals who were habitués of the El Mundo. A man, known only as Johnson, was a frequently employed handyman. He could quote Shakespeare, and he had extensive knowledge of history. Scotty was an old man who just sat and sipped his ten-cent beers all night. He was rewarded with a free beer for walking to Seventh Avenue to pick up the early edition of next day’s Daily News. Manny, Toto, Che-Che, and Joe D. were close friends of Acky who were always around.

We finally graduated from the El Mundo. Some of us entered the armed forces, went on to college, or got good jobs and married. Lucy and Acky sold the business and moved to Florida, and officially brought to a close an interesting and memorable part of our lives.

–

Clyde L. Borg is a retired high school teacher and administrator. He has been writing poetry and nonfiction since 1998. He resides in Fords, New Jersey.

Liberty Enlightening the World, 1884, Root & Tinker (Library of Congress)

At approximately 4:36pm, the lights went out in the New Colossus Supermarket. My shift had started at 4:30, and I had the pleasure of training the new girl, Rochelle, on her first day as a cashier. The power outage came on gradually, first appearing in the form of a broken credit card machine. Two or three swipes and nothing happened, not even a blinking light. A few moments later the lights flickered on and off, followed by every other register crashing and half of the ceiling lights turning off. All of these were sure signs that the generators had kicked in.

“Attention New Colossus Shoppers, we are experiencing electrical difficulties. Please calmly proceed to check out, as the store will be closing early this evening,” boomed the Manager over the loudspeaker.

A stir of excitement buzzed through the employees. “Blackout,” whispered the stock boys with a smirk as they passed by our register. I responded with a similar smile as I quickly checked out the remaining customers. We all knew what was in store for us this evening.

“Does this mean I get to go home?” asked the new girl Rochelle, completely ignorant to the gift that had been presented to her on her first day on the job.

“Well, I guess you can if you’d like. But I have no idea why you would want to do that,” I replied coyly.

Blackouts are a cashier’s snow day. They are unexpected vacations in the midst of a hectic Saturday afternoon that provide the staff with a break from a tireless routine. Working as a cashier in a high volume supermarket requires the patience of a saint. Between the nagging customers, gossiping co-workers, and incompetent middle-management shouting nonsensical decrees every other month, it’s a wonder the term “going postal” hasn’t been changed to “going grocer.” In the four years that I’ve worked at New Colossus, I’ve witnessed more arrests and mental breakdowns in the store than in my entire life, and almost none of them were customers.

We’ve had deli managers throw frozen hams and scream about fascists, cashiers hold domestic disputes on register, stock boys taken out in handcuffs, and innumerable trips to the hospital involving meat department employees accidentally cutting off appendages. Yet somehow, between the outrageous events and repetitive tasks, we employees have developed a bond similar to war veterans and prison inmates. We’ve spent the better part of our teenage years together, and out of a lack of anything better to do, we’ve grown closer than family.

After all of the customers were herded out of the store, the store manager assembled the employees in the main office.

“I’m going to go home now. Since I can’t legally force you to leave, you have the option to stay. If you plan on staying, it is your responsibility to make sure the store looks perfect in the morning. That means: all aisles must be leveled, all stray items put in their place, and all expired food should be pulled from the shelves. The electrical company said that the power will go on before 11pm, and the generators have more than enough power for the time being. Nick is in charge for now, but the night crew manager will be coming in at 10:30pm. If you have any questions feel free to call my cellphone,” expounded the Manger, as he shook his phone in the air for visual aid.

Everyone shifted uneasily in place. It is a technique we’ve picked up over the years; the trick is to never let the Manger know that we enjoy staying in the store without him. We’ve led him to believe that we loathe the responsibility.

“Alright everyone, get to work.”

As soon as the manager left the store, we reassembled in the cookie aisle to reassign tasks for the evening.

Standing in a row amongst the Oreos, we were a motley crew. New Colossus is the type of place you work at for either weeks or years. There are “lifers” who have worked there for decades, students working during college, and the newer high school crowd who have yet to find their place within our community.

There is a high turnover rate amongst new hires, but those few that make it over the four month hurdle get indoctrinated into the subculture quickly. Many of us have worked there since we were sixteen, stopping by after school to make minimum wage, and have stayed for years. There is a common sentiment amongst employees: although the job is horrible and the bosses are incompetent, we’ve landed in shit. New Colossus is a union shop, meaning that we are entitled to yearly raises, time-and-a-half on Sundays and holidays, health insurance, dental plans, paid vacation and sick days, and an iron clad contract that makes it virtually impossible to get fired. Many of us have taken the union contract as a challenge, rather than a protectorate, by pushing the envelope; we’re almost daring the company to fire us.

“Okay guys. Louis, you’re in charge of bread and cold cuts. Francis, you’ve got condiments. Bill, we’re gonna need at least three pounds of macaroni salad. I’m starving over here. And last but not least: “Zoey, please show Rochelle where we grab the plates and cups from. I think I’ve got a 12-pack of Keystone out back but tonight’s a special occasion, so I’m chilling a Heineken mini keg in the walk-in freezers before they thaw. I’ve also got some sparkling cider for the younger ones and the drivers for the evening. Am I clear?” smiled Nick.

“As a bell, Nick. As a bell,” replied Bill as we all scattered towards our appropriated tasks to set up our makeshift picnic.

The lack of electricity eliminated the need to avoid security cameras. Upper management views the tapes on a weekly basis, vying for evidence of theft. Since we are not as sly as we believe, inventory levels always indicate shrinkage. Fortunately, the company cannot act unless they have solid evidence of our guilt, as per union contract. Therefore, we choreograph intricate plays akin to an NHL football team; we blitz, half-back pass, and Hail Mary our way past security cameras, towards the ultimate touchdown: free lunch. To a New Colossus employee, it’s not considered stealing if there is a craft behind it.

New Colossus is the anti-reality, where all social concerns and stereotypes are thrown out of the window. It acts as a sovereign nation, making its own laws in the midst of traditional society. It is the only place on earth where a straight “A” student would become best friends with the high school dropout, where the awkward video gamer befriends preppy girls who are half his age, and where the flamboyantly gay (but closeted) choir singer who was bullied throughout his teenage years can become Top Dog. I like to refer to New Colossus as “The Land of the Misfit Toys,” because each worker is odd in his or her own right, with awkward characteristics and quirky behaviors. The stock boys compare our kinship to survivors (either from a deserted island, a war troop, or a zombie apocalypse), in that, despite our differences, we’ve seen it all and those experiences have brought us together in a way that superficial friendships could never do.

“Imagine if this isn’t really a black out, but we’re just really in the midsts of a zombie apocalypse?” asked Bill, as he leveled the canned vegetables.

“Please, let’s not start this again,” Francis answered, obviously fed up with the drawn out discussion of how we would react if zombies attacked New Colossus.

“No. I’m serious. We haven’t seen anyone outside for hours. No one has even banged on our door asking if we were open. Zoey, Don’t you find that strange?”

“I don’t know, Bill. It might be because it’s 10pm and you can’t see four feet in front of your face in the parking lot. You are aware the blackout includes the parking lot also, right?” I replied sarcastically, while passing by with a cart full of expired items.

“Zombies again?” interjected Louis, from the next aisle, after overhearing the conversation.

“All I’m saying is that if zombies attacked we’d be in prime real estate right now. Unlimited food supply, nearby pharmacy, lots of running space…” Bill continued.

Occasionally, our outrageous conversations result in plans that we know will never happen. These ideas have culminated into the largest (and most bizarre) To-Do list that is hanging up in the back room of our store. We have plans to hold Dungeons & Dragons keg parties, embark on cross-country road trips, and to organize black-tie affairs. And, despite knowing that we will never do any of these things, we find comfort in the fact that we have each other, just in case anyone has the self-discipline to save up enough money for a trip to San Diego’s Comic Con and theatrical quality Avengers costumes. Although we live separate lives outside of New Colossus, we enjoy the fact that we have our store to meet back at when things go awry; we have a place where you can forget about reality and actually believe that you’re the last people on earth– stuck inside a New Colossus in the midst of a zombie apocalypse.

“So is this what we do all day? Hang out, eat food, and talk about zombies?” asked Rochelle, as she chomped down on a Godfather hero, complete with prosciutto de parma and extra virgin olive oil dressing.

“Sometimes we make forts out of paper towels,” replied Louis as he finished his third cup of Heineken.

“Do we ever do work?”

We’re asked this question a lot. And the truth is, we actually work hard. That is, during the day we do. There isn’t much work left to do at night, because no one comes into the store. After 7:30pm the cashiers read tabloids while the levelers and stock boys find ways to entertain themselves. The closing management is as sorry as the work force, with one assistant manager being an alcoholic and the other being too close in age with us to exert any formal authority. Therefore, as long as all of the work is finished by the time the Night Crew manager clocks in at 10:30 pm, we have free reigns. After the general manager switches shifts with his supporting staff, we are left to our own devices.

The closing crew consists of twenty various employees. We are almost all students who come to New Colossus after school to pay for various expenses, but have found for ourselves a makeshift fraternity. New Colossus allows for a lapse in time where maturity is delayed and teenage angst can dissipate among aromas of half-eaten bags of potato chips, potent french onion dip, and ad hoc piña coladas. Our automated door opens for all, with the white florescent lights beaming from inside like a beacon, as if to say “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

The lights beamed on slightly before 10:30pm. At that moment, we had just finished all desired tasks and had disposed of our picnic’s evidence. Each of us clocked out using the fingerprint scanner, to ensure the company that we aren’t leaving work early and stealing their time, and we moseyed our way into the parking lot. Our goodbyes were short, for we knew we would see each other the next day, and we waved to Rochelle as she hopped into the backseat of her parents’ SUV.

“What do you think of her?” I asked Francis, as I rubbed my hands together for warmth.

“I like her,” Francis replied, “She’s got spunk. I think she might stay. I mean, would you leave after tonight?”

I started my engine, looked back at Francis, and replied, “Not a chance.”

"Hanging Trees and Flying Geese" by Andrew Bardwell

It was strange. Well, maybe just unexpected. I slowly made my way into the car-jammed parking lot at 2:33 pm the Friday after Thanksgiving, hating myself for choosing to do a story on shopping malls, or America, depending on how you look at it. I was hoping to catch a fight with crazy ladies to prove to the world that this is not cool, but I didn’t.

October 25, 2008.

I. The urbanization of an un-urban (therefore un-cool) generation.

I walk past the hanging outfits, or pieces of such. You know, the collared shirts, the pants with the holes, the sweater that appears to be incredibly short for the length of the sleeves, the want-to-be-bowling-shoes. I walk past, but not without touching that incredibly soft-looking shirt.

I end up at the bookshelf located in the back of the store. It is stocked with books that urban folk would think are cool look cool reading. Sprawled on the floor is a teenage couple, she with Andy Warhol pink hair and he with Barbie blonde. The two laugh and whisper and laugh some more as they turn the pages. Being incredibly curious, I stand behind them pretending to look at the books on the shelf instead of the one in their hands. At the time I thought I was discreet but looking back, I can see I wasn’t. The couple closed the book and walked away holding hands. But before they did, they placed The Handjob Handbook back on the shelf.

While waiting on line to buy Chuck Klosterman’s Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs , a low culture manifesto, I overhear a mother argue over the purpose of the item she was buying for her pre-teenage son.

“But it lights up!” the boy says.

Thank God it lights up, otherwise the bowling pin would have been a silly purchase.

Beck  is playing as I walk out of Urban Outfitters.

What are you going to do
When those walls are falling down
Falling Down on you.
-Beck, “Wall”

Compilation of research October 2008- December 2008.

II. The writings on the wall.

The following are statements, rhetorical questions, random words, etc. written on fitting room walls. Note: the responses are also by anonymous wall writers.

I’m sorry mom. I’m sorry we can’t all be size 2 like you. I’m sorry I weigh 130 lbs instead of 125. I’m sorry you think I look fat in everything I wear. I’m fuckin sorry.
You’re not alone

Kuwait

After you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, and so on – have found that none of these finally satisfy, or permanently wear – what remains? Nature remains- Walt Whitman

You’re a hipster

C’est commence maintenant
You don’t speak French well, obviously

Christina was here 6.13.08
No one cares

www.myspace.com/girlwithoutfear
Or Girl without life

November 11, 2008.

III. Of dogs and bears.

I first heard the squeaks of the mice. Then I was able to distinguish the chirps of the birds, the…whatever noise it is guinea pigs make, the barks of dogs, etc. Under normal circumstances, I would purposefully try to deafen myself to the sounds of the caged animals, but for the purpose of this story, I didn’t and entered the Pet Center.

I counted 44 – 44 blue, white and yellow parakeets jumping up and down in all directions in one cage. In another cage, a more subdued atmosphere prevailed as two baby mice fed from their mother as their roommate ran on a wheel.  A sign read: MOM AND CHILDREN NOT FOR SALE. THANK YOU. And then there were the cages behind a wall of glass. The whole wall was filled of such cages occupied by dogs, but I could not get myself away from occupant 143817. He was alone. His body jerked up and down as though he had a bad case of the hiccups. 143817 is a Basset Hound: born on July 14, 2008.

“Where is the Basset Hound from?” I asked the fat, young woman with greasy hair.

She pulled out a beat-up black binder and began flipping through the pages of Pedigree Certificates.

“It’s from Missouri,” she finally said.

“I noticed there is a sign that I should buy him because he is 50 percent off. How much is he?”

“One thousand and thirty dollars.”

I guess she didn’t have anything else to say because she closed the binder and began putting it away. So I left.

And entered Build-a-Bear. “Fuck,” I thought, “there are more choices in clothes for stuffed animals than for real people.”

You can choose everything from the profession of your bear to its skin color to the shape and size of its heart. The bear, the bunny, and the moose dressed in winter hats and mittens have the luxury of going ice skating, ice fishing or skiing, depending on which accessory the soon-to-be-mother-or-father-of-a-new-bear chooses.

“During Christmas the line goes out the door,” said an employee of Build-a-Bear.

“Giving homes to animals is a good thing, especially around the holidays,” I said.

November 28, 2008.

IV. Piecing together Black Friday.

While driving home, Stealer’s Wheel came on the radio.

Trying to make some sense of it all,
But I can see that it makes no sense at all,
Is it cool to go to sleep on the floor,
Cause I don’t think that I can take anymore

I don’t know if I was physically exhausted from the day, too concentrated on singing along to the song, or too occupied by recalling the scene from Reservoir Dogs, but I could not piece together a larger picture of my day. All I have are notes.

A fucking coat check booth in the center of the mall and kids sitting on the floor resting against each other, like tired newsboys from a Jacob Riis photograph. And the sound of pop corn popping and the smell of butter and cinnamon pretzels and “It’s always Christmas in my heart” is playing as I notice myself in the glass of a store window behind which a man is spraying a woman’s hand with water as a woman talks loudly into her phone to a person who is probably holding the phone away from his/her ear because this woman’s voice is about two octaves too high for a cell phone conversation. A tree is planted in the floor. And moving through the food court is like playing Frogger except it’s real life and I was the frog, dodging and moving and witnessing a woman pushing a baby carriage with lots of bags hanging off both handles. She turns. No baby, only bags. I laugh and walk away, and a pretty girl hands me a scratch-and-win card for Steve Madden, “Everyone is a winner,” and I wish I needed a new pair of shoes, but re-think that wish as I walk past a packed Steve Madden, and then I go to the bathroom. A man pressures his ten-year-old daughter into going into the men’s room because the woman’s line is too long, and he doesn’t want to wait, but the girl wins, and the man waits and I do some more research for the writings on the wall section of this story and find a Bukowski quote about God creating poets but not much poetry, which makes me happy, not that God doesn’t create poetry, but that people read Bukowski. I’m getting tired. I wait in line for a coffee, and a woman, another loud cell phone talker, is complaining to the phone that she is going to be spending her entire break waiting on line for a burger and fries: “Its ridiculous. They only have two people working register on Black Friday.” Three people are working. The woman who took my order for a cup of coffee is wearing her name tag upside down and figurines of American’s favorite icons come free with a kids meal.

Kimberly Ruth is an MFA candidate at the School of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. She is the author of one poetry chapbook, Said The Oyster To The Fly (Pudding House Press) . You can view samples of her work at: http://kimberlyruth.blogspot.com/

Jimmy's father, Lin Lam, as a teenager

“Jimmy, you think I’m like an American?  Do you think I went out every day to waste away my life fooling around?  I told you, my life was simple.  If someone asked me to explain my life, I could explain it in one sentence: I worked.  There is nothing more to my life. When I was your age, I did nothing but work, work, and more work.”

Introducing Myself
My concave navel and my chunky earlobes indicate that I am guaranteed prosperity in life.   Also, if my ears ever turn red it means that someone is gossiping about me.   One time I almost had my ears chopped off by spirits because I pointed at the moon.  This is what I was told as a child growing up in a Chinese family.  Chinese people dwell upon superstitions and like to ramble on about them.  When I was younger, I passively agreed to everything my parents had to say.  Their superstitions altered my perception of fallacy and reality and I soon became a skeptic of any story they ever mentioned.  In particular, I ignored my parent’s recollection of family history. Now that I am away from them, for months at a time, I only wish they would retell their stories to me in every minute detail.

And so I began my journey, questioning my family about our history.  My ability to speak and understand Chinese has waned over the years from lack of practice, so many of my translations here are the closest to my family’s words that I can offer.

Memories of a Visit
Over five years ago, on June 7th, 2003, I visited Fuzhou, China for the first time.  My family from my mother’s side traveled along with me. Complaining was my primary language at the age of 13.  My child-like perceptions were focused on the horrid weather, while my family focused on their memories of growing up in Fuzhou.  I complained about how the air was so stale, musty, and humid that my XL white T-shirt latched onto my body, drenched in sweat.   I dreaded the tours around the city in the blazing sun where my cheap Styrofoam-like sandals fused with the scorching asphalt with each step I took.   I whined about my vision being obscured by the stinging sweat seeping into my eyes from the corners of my slanted lids.  On the other hand, my family reflected on the struggles they had faced in Fuzhou and the tensions they had felt journeying to the United States.

Fuzhou is the provincial capital of the Fujian Province, located on the Southeast coastline of China.  The temperatures fluctuate above 100 degrees Fahrenheit during the summer seasons (mid May through October), and the humidity insulates the body even more. Torrential rains frequently inundate the area, giving rise to much agricultural labor, and mountains spread like pimples in Fuzhou.  If you Googled “Fuzhou”, pictures of swanky urban areas and modern architectural technology will come up on your screen.  Images of mystical oriental gardens will swarm over the page.  The true image of Fuzhou is not shown. Instead, you see one fabricated by tempting brochures created to lure tourists.

On my way to the house where my mother lived three decades ago, I witnessed street after street lined with families living in huts, many of them raised chickens for profit. Before long, starving families will eat these chickens when profits does not meet their needs.  An overall lack of commodities elucidated the reality of their poverty.  Diapers, for example, were mostly unheard of.  Without diapers or sewage systems in the suburban areas, the warm air created perfect breeding grounds for cockroaches and other insects.  I remember many occasions when my family and I passed through alleys that were crawling with one-inch-long cockroaches inconspicuous under the low wattage of flickering amber street lights.  As soon as my family and I stepped within close proximity, all of them scurried beneath the piles of trash bags. Another flicker of light and these menacing creatures would reappear. According to my mother, the economic conditions had improved greatly since she emigrated to the U.S., but Fuzhou still seemed to lack the opportunities that U.S. offered.

I do admit that as a kid I frequently felt as if my parents were trying to hide something. I believed that they were bitter, and unconsciously jealous of American society and how spoiled it was.  They used “hard work” to elude being identified as Americans.  Up until I was about 12 years old, I do not recall seeing my parents except on the weekends.  I now see their “hard work” as a way for them to evade memories of the past.  Even during the weekends, their worries took priority over the acknowledgment of my existence.  Their eyes focused mainly on the unopened letters sitting on the kitchen table.  Trepidation at the negative digits that might appear within was apparent in my father’s pale expression, and his frustration at not being able to read English was apparent in his frown.  My father would make a silent sigh before opening the envelopes with his thrifty knife.  The satisfaction my parents long sought in the U.S. was elusive.  Nonetheless, they prospered and persisted, thinking that wealth and gaining possessions would make their transition to life in the U.S. worthwhile.

The city of Lianjiang, which lies northeast of Fuzhou, is the city where my mother grew up.  The unscathed archaic house that mother lived in is still there today.  I remember walking into the house lit only by the filtered light emanating from the 1 x 2 foot windows.  Before entering, the weakly hinged Japanese Shoji doors were kept closed by a simple lock.  When unlocked, both doors simply gave up and fanned the ground.  As we entered, the wooden floors no longer creaked with spirit as they did years before.  Instead, softened from years of humidity, with each step taken, a slight imprint of the foot was molded.  The house lacked furniture.  It had never had any.  Something about the right section of the house lured my parents to it.  My mother told me later that the bathroom-sized cubicle used to be their kitchen.  It was the place where the family would gather to warm up by the crackling leaves during winter.  I remember looking at mother, but making no eye contact with her for her long hair covered her profile.  As she reminisced about the old days, she looked down at the burnt ceramic pot placed on the floor in the center of the room and fell silent.  Mother softly spoke, “You know, this is where my three siblings and I sat most of the time, just as quiet as we are right now.  No one ever spoke, but we all knew we were thinking about the same thing: The United States.”

Left to right: Hiu Lam (my mother), Xian Lam (my uncle), Wong Lam (my aunt), Sai Lam (my uncle), Chai Lam (my grandmother), and Ling Lam (my uncle). The picture in the background is of my great-grandmother.

It was a childhood fantasy to get out of the hopeless pit of Fuzhou. The idea was that you either work hard or go to school.  But no one could afford school.  Life was therefore defined by work, especially for women.

In order to sustain the oversized family consisting of four siblings, in addition to her own parents, my grandmother walked at least eleven miles daily just to fish for oysters and clams to sooth the cries of her malnourished children.  Quite often disease and poverty overwhelmed my grandmother, forcing my mother and her siblings, who were barely teens, to fend for themselves.  Each of the four children would gather and cook congee (porridge) after digging for sweet potatoes.  In the mid-1900s, only the wealthy could afford white rice.  The only way mother and her siblings obtained rice was by standing outside the rice parlor and picking up each grain of rice that had fallen out of perforated rice bags.  My mother and her siblings were frequently beaten by the owners of the store, but were quick to return to grab the last scraps of fallen rice and sometimes the owner just looked upon them aloofly.  Mother and her siblings often found other ways to find rice.  As my mother recalls:

The feces of horse often contain undigested grains of rice, so the four of us would rummage through horse feces to get foul pieces of rice.  I remember following behind horses, waiting for the horse to defecate.  A days worth of scouring for rice would get us about a child’s handful.  The handful of rice and half of a sweet potato would serve the entire family for the day.  [With an uneasy laugh] These were the lucky days.  When my family ran out of food and starvation was too overwhelming, we resorted to feasting on tree barks of willow trees.  Really, there were so many people who fed themselves tree barks of willow trees.

As much as my family wanted to earn income in Fuzhou, work was rarely available.  A primary reason why my family strove to emigrate to the U.S. was to avoid destitution and to find prosperity.  My parents had heard about the great opportunities in the United States to find jobs.  Nevertheless, jobs and affluence did not give the “push” my family needed to emigrate away from their sense community.  Instead, it took the Sino-Japanese War for my family to realize that emigration was crucial to surviving.

Japan’s search for open markets and other resources exploded into open warfare with China from July 7, 1937 to September 9, 1945.  While it is the intention of every economy to expand its horizons, Japan failed to consider the necessity of keeping long-term relations with China.  Ultimately, Japan’s invasions and casual bombing around China, including the Fujian Province, boiled into a long-term resentment against Japan that exists to this day.

In October 1938, goods that had previously been exported to Japan were banned from being shipped to avoid assisting Japan’s attacks.  Since agricultural job opportunities were being restricted by the government, the citizens competed for the already limited jobs that were available. By the time World War Two had started, my grandmother was still working, but found it increasingly difficult to market her oysters.   Everyone was selling, but no one was buying.  Supply simply overwhelmed demand.  My grandmother felt helpless and trapped by the economic conditions.  My aunt Hiu Yok Lam recalls:

It was so strange seeing her like this.  She didn’t talk to us very often.  I would often ask her questions but the questions didn’t reach her.  She over-thought things.  She seemed brainless and spineless at times.  She was weak and tired from all the grief.  The only way I can describe her is by comparing her to a mouse trapped by its tail.  No matter how hard you try to pull yourself out of that trap, the results will be the same—you’re stuck.  She was stuck.  As a result, we were stuck.  The longer the mouse lies trapped, the more he gives up trying to struggle his way out.  Day by day, she became unmotivated.  There was no drive to do anything.

My grandmother (Chai Lam) and my grandfather (Fing Lam) on my mother's side.

Stoicism would not free my family from their misery, but the war certainly did.  May 5th 1940—The Sino-Japanese War rained terror.  Dozens of bombs were dropped in Lianjian, the city mother lived in.  My grandmother was outside that day sweeping the stone pavements with a cheap broomstick.  An airplane flew by in the red-orange mist of a typical warm morning.  From a distance, it seemed like two ant-like pellets were dropped from the plane.  Before my grandmother could fathom the circumstances, she dropped her broom and leapt into the house.  My grandmother grabbed her children, slipped under her mattress, reached above to pull down her quilted blanket, and covered her entire body, while clutching onto her four children.  Her graying eyes peaked through a tiny puncture hole in the quilt.  She stared hard, not allowing the burning sensation in her dry eyes to force her to miss even a moment.

Not a blink went by before everything went up in flames.  My grandmother was buried under several layers of flimsy debris.  She would have gotten out easily had not a bronze silicon wood screw pierced her left leg.  Her yelps for help were to no avail.  Everyone was too concerned with grasping onto the last seconds of their own lives.  People walked around aimlessly with flesh hanging off their bodies.  These images of citizens walking around with their flesh burned and melting, just as an ice-cream melts from overexposure to the sun’s rays, scarred my grandmother’s  memories.  In the midst of the conflagration, mother recalls grandma tearfully promising to find freedom in the Americas as she huddled over my mother and her three siblings.  Panic assisted grandmother in pulling herself out from the debris along with her children.  Her tears of agony would be the last in that city, for my grandma escaped with my mother and aunt to Hong Kong on August 15, 1954.  They lived there for several years before immigrating to the U.S.  My two uncles were smuggled into the U.S. by the notorious “snakeheads” (gang members who smuggle immigrants into the U.S. for large sums of money).  Upon arrival, each of my uncles had to pay around $20,000.

Their move to the U.S. would change their lives.  Their material desires would be met.  However, connections with Chinese tradition would prove difficult.  The term melting pot was a nonexistent ideology, and mother could not rely on it to transition into the U.S.

Unlike many other immigrants before her, my mother emigrated to the U.S. with relative ease.  A payment of $5,000 to the Travel Agency of Hong Kong helped her obtain both her visa and her ticket to the U.S.  She remembers the plane taking two days to go directly from Hong Kong to Korea.  From Korea, the plane made a stop in California, another popular destination for Chinese immigrants.  Finally, mother arrived in New York on June 8, 1979; she had been traveling for a total of seven days.  As soon as she got to New York, mother headed for Chinatown to reconnect with fellow Fujian citizens.  For the next eight years mother worked in Chinatown.

Work was plentiful, unlike in China, but my mother found no satisfaction in the U.S.  She was used to the harbors of Fujian, the farms in the country, and the Chinese traditions.  But Chinatown was a safe haven for my mother.  Chinatown not only allowed mother to escape from the hatred against the Chinese community, but it also allowed her to find a sense of community.

Mother 2008
Recently, on a typically gloomy New York City day, my mother arrived from Virginia (where she currently works) and headed for Chinatown to revisit familiar places.  The two of us sat in my father’s car, my mother in the front passenger’s seat; I sat directly behind her.  Her head was placed slightly to the left of the head-rest.  Her hair is the definition of straight with a natural waxy shine and a few subtle brick red colored highlights.

I asked my mom to take me where she first lived when she came to the U.S. for an NYU writing assignment.  My dad insisted that I take some random picture and pass it off as the place where my mother had lived.  His frustration indicated that he did not want my mother to remember the days when she first arrived in New York.  With my apt ability to argue back, I got my way.  Mother flinched unconsciously each time she gave directions to my dad.  She only flinches in anger or when strong emotions run through her.  Father purposely made two wrong turns to evade the destination.  Finally, my dad saw there was no point in trying to further evade the neighborhood.

Between Rivington Street and Bowery is where my mother first lived. The little red apartment is at the center of Rivington, and it has about sixteen windows facing the street.  Around it are ill-maintained apartments with graffiti tainting the otherwise insipid street.  There are mostly building material equipment stores on the block.  Mother recalls:

When I first came to the U.S., I shared that apartment with a friend of mine.  Actually, it was not really an apartment; we only had one room that was able to fit one bunk bed and a two-feet wide space to walk to our beds.  The rent was cheap, around $100 or $105 dollars a month.  It was well worth it, but no one wanted to live there at the time, except for Chinese immigrants. I remember walking—running—back from work each night in the lonely streets of New York in the 1980s.  At that time, it was really scary you know?  There were a lot of hopeless people, and many nights they would line Delancey Street, crazy and drunk.  If I didn’t run home, they would always ask for money.

It is no coincidence that mother lived a reclusive lifestyle.  The little apartment resembled the small personality that mother held away from society.  Despite finding plenty of jobs in the U.S. and a slight sense of community, culture shock enforced mother’s closeted lifestyle.  I struggled to pry into her life.  I had a challenging time asking the right questions with my poor understanding of the Fuzhounese language.  Secondly my self-made language, consisting of gesticulations, half English, and half Fuzhounese, further confused my mother.  I gave up asking specific questions.  Instead, I asked mother to recall specific moments that were especially interesting.  She denied having any.  I kept asking her; I knew there was more.  But she insisted her life was simple and nothing was worthy of taking note.  My temper boiled and the irksome language barrier overwhelmed us.  The only thing my mother told me was:

Jimmy, you think I’m like an American?  Do you think I went out every day to waste away my life fooling around?  I told you, my life was simple.  If someone asked me to explain my life, I could explain it in one sentence: I worked.  There is nothing more to my life.  When I was your age, I did nothing but work, work, and more work.

Silence fell between us as I strolled along Mott Street with my mother.  I was irritated at not being able to get anything accomplished.  While walking towards father’s double-parked car, I passed by two historic statues in Chatham Square, located on Mott and Bowery.  One statue is of Confucius and the other is of Lin Ze Xu. The Confucius statue was built in 1984 by Chinese immigrants.  Lin Ze Xu was a Fujian patriot who led a resistance against British imports of Opium.  I remember as a kid that I would frequently pass by these two statues with my mother.  Each time we did, my mother mentioned the history of the statues as if she had never told it before.

During my family research, I finally realized why my mother habitually repeated the history of the statues—she longed for traditional Chinese culture.  She greatly wished to return to Fuzhou, but admired the U.S. for the chance to live the “American Dream.”  My mother was sober-minded and goal-oriented, but she failed to assess her reasons for coming to the U.S.  She was here to find happiness and a different lifestyle.  Yet, her dreams were only partially fulfilled.  She found a different lifestyle, but happiness was far from attainable; to this day she works overtime and rarely finds the time to enjoy the greater things in life.

A Final Word
The American dream for immigrants is about prosperity and happiness, a dream that is only partly accomplished.  While prosperity is generally not an issue for immigrants, the overindulgence in the time and labor invested in their occupations results in a hollow life.  Furthermore, a dream is not as promising if the dreamer is ostracized by the community.  Immigrants like my mother often find themselves longing to return to their home countries, yet their decisions to remove themselves from their countries for an unattainable dream places them at a loss—a loss in transition.

Jimmy Lam was born in 1989 at Saint Vincent’s Hospital in Greenwich Village.  He graduated at the top 5% of his high school and has a strong interest in Chemistry.  This past summer he spent time in Peru working with the medically-deprived indigenous Andean community of Peru.  He speaks Spanish and Chinese and hopes to continue to improve his ability in both languages. His hobbies include pet keeping, learning strange words, exploring nature, and playing tennis.  During his free time…well, he is currently taking a 19 credit course load which includes Organic Chemistry and Physics, and that does not grant free time!  Jimmy’s parents, born in China, were both forced to drop out of school due to China’s financial crisis. When Mr. Sai On Lam and Mrs. Hiu Tan Lam came to the U.S., they entered the only job market catering to Chinese immigrants at the time—the restaurant industry, and remain working in that industry to this day.  Jimmy’s parents met by arranged marriage. They have two children. Jimmy’s sister Stella is 21 years old, and has recently received three interviews to medical school.  Jimmy wrote this essay at NYU and is now a student at Cornell University. He intends to pursue a career in medicine.

“In East Indian families, what children want is not important. East Indian parents use “guilt and shame” to scare children from developing into their own individual. East Indian parents are afraid that their children will pull away from their culture. I feel that all parents should have more faith in their children, and they should also have faith in their parenting.”

When I was thirteen and about to start high school in the South Bronx, I asked my mom, “Why did the family come to the U.S. in the first place? Couldn’t we have gone to school in Guyana, or even India?”  We live around the Bronx River Parkway, and there is no Indian community here.

“We, Guyanese people, come here for you children, so you can make the best of yourselves through the opportunities that the U.S. has to offer,” she replied.

I sensed there was something more to her answer.

At the age of eighteen, I learned that in 2000 the United States Bureau of the Census reported that East Indians were one of the fastest growing immigrant groups in the U.S. with a population that exceeded one million.  East Indian immigrants in the U.S. are usually from India, Bangladesh, and Pakistan. Many also come from countries of the Indian Diaspora such as: Dubai, England, Ghana, Trinidad, and Guyana like my family.

During the 1940’s, when India was under British control, my grandparents struggled to feed their family, and it became increasingly difficult for them to create a stable place for their family to live.  There were constant riots in the streets. People were burned, and killed. Dead bodies were lying in the streets. People were losing their homes.  My grandparents discussed leaving the country with their other siblings.  This world was not for them anymore. They decided to go Guyana, an Indian Diaspora country in South America.

After arriving in Guyana, they had to adjust to the English language, so that they could communicate.  Both of my grandfathers found jobs fishing in the rivers for shrimp, snapper, catfish, and many other kinds of fish.  Soon they were able to buy their houses. They were able to eat every day. They ate a lot of fish, which was either “curried,” a sauce made with curry powder, or fried, with rice or “roti,” which is a traditional Indian bread, made with wheat flour, salt and water, cooked on a flat griddle called a “tawa” and is similar to a tortilla. Along side the fish curry and “roti,” they would have a yellow pea soup called “dhal.”

They had a place to live.  It was a one-level house with three bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living room and an outside bathroom. Still my grandparents told me, “Something always seemed missing or incomplete.” In 1985, after my own parents got married, the family decided it was time to move again. Their destination was New York because everyone agreed upon going, and the family did not want to split up.  My brother and I were born in New York City. Though I have never visited Guyana or India, I feel close to both countries. The food we eat, the movies we watch, the wedding ceremonies all come from our culture in India and Guyana.

My family’s religion is Hinduism, and the majority of our values and traditions stem from our belief in Hinduism.  In traditional East Indian families the father is the family’s breadwinner. The mother stays home and takes care of the children.  In my culture, immigrant women usually defer to their husbands’ wishes, demands, and decisions.  My parents follow this tradition.  In 1988, when my parents came to New York, my father found a job at a clothing company in Manhattan.   My mom stayed at home; she cooked, cleaned, did the laundry, and took care of my brother and me. My mother and father both agreed upon this system. They thought it was best for the family.  I think they made the right decision because both my brother and I grew up with good values, morals, and manners.  Unfortunately, my parents did not allow us to become independent.

According to the way, my family interprets Hinduism, authority flows downward consistent with a hierarchical order of position, meaning from father, mother, brother, and sister, and so on and so forth. I have always paid close attention to how things operate in my family, and have come to the conclusion that there is no need for this order. Individuals should be taught to respect each other, not only because someone is younger or older than you are.  My parents always said, “We take care of you children, so you have to respect us and do what we say.”

In East Indian families, what children want is not important.  East Indian parents use “guilt and shame” to scare children from developing into their own individual.  East Indian parents are afraid that their children will pull away from their culture.  I feel that all parents should have more faith in their children, and they should also have faith in their parenting.  Parents do not have to force their children to do or learn something. They just need to show them why they feel things should be a certain way and discuss it calmly.

When I was applying to college during the fall of 2006, I assumed that it would be my decision whether or not I wanted to go, and where I wanted to go.  All my friends were doing what they wanted to do, so why not me?  My friends were from Puerto Rico, and the Dominican Republic. Some were from the place as me.  My parents forced me to go to Lehman College (a city university in the Bronx) because it was inexpensive and close to home.  They were afraid that if they let me go away or make my own decision that I would go out late, and drink, and party, and that I would forget about school.  They should have taken some time to get to know me.  If they had done this, they would have found a mature young woman, who was ready to explore the world, who was responsible and trustworthy. I had no intentions of hurting my parents, but I wished to make own decisions.  I did not want to follow a plan made by someone else.

In my family the focus was on what “we” were supposed to do, instead of what “I” wanted to do.  My parents wanted me to succeed educationally, occupationally, and financially, so they could feel honored.  This was their purpose for coming to America.  They failed to understand that I also wanted this, but I did not want to be forced.  I found myself thinking only about making my parents happy. I forgot about myself.

The cow is the most sacred animal to the Hinduism religion, which is why we do not eat beef.  When Lord Shiva, the God of destruction, took the form as a human and descended on Earth to destroy the demons, he rode on a cow named Nandi. Without the cow, he would not have been able to get around, so Hindus worship the cow as a God. When my brother and I were about ten and about to bite into a burger, our grandparents and parents used to tell us, “Eat what you like, as long as your bellies are full,” but immediately afterward they would criticize us.

“Don’t you know we are not supposed to eat beef, we are Hindus.” This is one of the main reasons I always felt confused on what it was I should be doing. My parents said one thing and did another. As a child wanting to please your parents (because that was what you were supposed to do) I felt as if I was never good enough.  They didn’t let me learn some things on my own, I became a stick that had no life, no experiences. No one should have to live like this. Life should be filled with sorrows, happiness, and experiences.

My parents always thought my brother and I were doing something wrong. This is why we were never allowed to go anywhere with our friends. They didn’t even know my friends. They did not care to get to know them.  We weren’t allowed to go to the movies, park, or out for lunch; we couldn’t participate in any school activities or programs. We always felt disabled in a sense.  Early on we understood that an important part of the American experience was to keep an open mind about people and sports.  I wish I could have been allowed to go to an after-school program. I wanted to be able to go to the library, borrow books, and read in the park. I wanted to go to lunch, shopping, and to the movies with my friends.

My parents always failed to accept American culture, except when they helped pay for college. That was the only time I remember them being supportive.  My parents’ way of solving the cultural difference was by force.  I told them that forcing their children to be a certain way, they are pushing them away, which could lead them to do wrong things.  However, we were never bad children. I told my parents that they were lucky. They always said, “You’re lucky to have good parents.”

“No you’re lucky to have good children,” I talked back to them in my mind.

My parents have changed a lot since they have been in New York. When they were living in Guyana, they were allowed to go to the movies on their own, along with their friends. They would go to their friends’ houses and would go home whenever they liked. I believe this is because my grandparents instilled good morals, values, and rules. They made sure their children understood them, and that they followed them. Why did my parents change? Why didn’t they do the same as their parents did? They grew up in a different country from their parents, just as I did, but they had freedom and a chance to develop their own character. So why am I being so restricted? Even though I am in college. It is still the same. Many people tell me that I should just rebel, but in my heart, I do not feel that is the right way to solve the problem. I feel torn about what to do.

I think that East Indian parents need to open their eyes and find the connection with their children that already exists.  I often feel unhappy and confused because my parents are pushing me to do things their way.  I want to be given some space to develop my own identity. I plan to marry the boy of my choice. That is something I definitely will do on my own.

My twenty-year-old brother is two years older than I am.  Amit Ramprashad is 5’ 11”, weighs about 150 pounds, has black hair, brown eyes, and is fair skinned. Everyone always asks if my brother is adopted because he looks Chinese.  Actually, he looks just like our father, only my father is dark skinned.  Amit goes to Technical and Career Institute College in Manhattan. One day while we both were home, I was reading and he was on the computer, doing some research for a paper, I asked quietly, ” Do you think I could ask you a few questions?”

“Sure,” he replied.

“How do you feel about the way mom and dad raised us?”

“Do you mean how I feel about never being allowed to go out with my friends? Never being allowed to make my own decisions?”

“Exactly.”

“I feel like a prisoner, never being able to do anything. Like for instance, when I was getting ready to graduate from high school. Do you think I wanted to go to college? Because I didn’t. Not everyone is cut out for college. This wasn’t for me. I hate going every day, especially because it wasn’t my choice.”

“Have you ever thought about telling mom and dad how you feel?”

“No, it’s not like it would make a difference. At the end, it has to be their way or no way, you know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. How do you feel about your life right now?”

“I obviously hate it. And it’s not my life, I am not making the decisions.”

I never knew that he had all these feeling piled up. I thought I was the only one, but I was wrong.  I had a brother right next to me who I failed to see.  To really see a painting you have to understand it, and because I didn’t understand my brother, I couldn’t really see him.

I woke up the next morning feeling like new woman. I realized that although bottling up all my feelings is not good, I am not the only one doing it. Now that I know, my brother shares the same feelings as I do.  I have someone to talk to.  I hope we find away to deal with the issue. Who knows maybe one day we can help other teens going through the same issue.

Why am I writing about this now?  I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I know that I am not telling anyone really close to me, so there is no harm that can come from this.  My way of dealing with the issue is simply dealing with it on my own.  I keep everything in my mind and sort through all my issues in there.  All these years I have been balancing this issue with my parents and my school work, a little longer will not hurt, I hope. The only way that I’ll be free is if I find my future husband, someone who will always love me for who I am.  Until then, I am stuck in this life where it often feels like I’m not really living.

Andrea Ramprashad‘s mother, Latchmin and her father, Mahindra were born in Guyana, where they both began working at a young age and were unable to get an education. After marriage, they came to America for a better life.  Andrea Ramprashad was born on December 5th, 1989 in the Bronx, and here her parents raised Andrea and her brother, Amit.  Andrea graduated as the first female valedictorian at Samuel Gompers Career and Technical High School, in June of 2007.  She is active an active volunteer in her community, participating in Earth Day, and Jump Rope for the Heart events.
She is now studying at Lehman College, in the Bronx where she majors in Economics and minors in Philosophy. Andrea is determined to make a good life for herself in America and to always make her parents proud of her.