by Ummer AliAs I walk off the train I’m confronted by the thing that every New Yorker hates: slow walkers. There is an army crowding the staircase, they offer no space to walk around, and to make it worse I forgot my headphones. Since I can’t tune out the world with an early morning symphony of Childish Gambino & Freddie Gibbs, I begin to hear snippets of conversations; a young boy complaining about the weather, an older man speaking very loudly in Chinese on the phone. To some this is just noise to be tuned out; to others it is the chorus of the city. I waited and walked and walked, and then I was hit by a second thing New York commuters hate; high school students. I try not to pay attention to them, I remember when I used to be like them; loud, obnoxious and ready to take on the world. In the midst of reminiscing over my adolescence, the word “nigga” catches my ear. This word can be horribly offensive, and at times it can be a term of endearment, or just an everyday adjective. Language is powerful; different versions of the word fuck can be either a part of attack speech, or just a way of talking to a friend (personally I’m guilty of talking to my friends like that). Nigga is a word that has been used in many different contexts, and by many different people; but this piece will focus on two very different people, and what the word nigga means for them. DG is first and foremost, a black man living in the USA. We have worked closely together for the past few months, and I think of him as a friend. DG used to say the N word all the time but recently he has made an effort to stop saying it, and the fact that he’s a teacher has made that all the more difficult for him. DG: Best way I can describe the N word from a black person’s perspective is that when I say it, I don’t get upset… I remember me and my best friend and my cousin were driving with my uncle, and I guess we were using it so much because he was getting upset and threatening us to stop. I remember thinking to myself that I don’t even hear it anymore; you know it’s so simple even in my thoughts. If I’m referring to another male it becomes; look at this nigga over here.... ...But if I hear a white person or someone who isn’t in my culture saying it, I can’t pretend I don’t get upset. It’s literally like knives in my ear. This feeling in the pit of my stomach; it’s a primal feeling like this is wrong, this is not right you’re taking it way past it being okay. DG then went on to an interaction he had on the bus in Jamaica Queens one time. He remembered it very well, and I could tell from the way he was telling the story that it had still stuck with him all this time. He was waiting at a crowded bus stop. Alongside him there was a man who was on the phone, and he kept using the word nigga. DG: At first I was tired, and said let it go, but I knew if I did I would be thinking about it all day. I made sure to stand right next to him [when we got on the bus], and he said it one more time, but this time he said it to me, and he was referring to the bus driver. I don’t know what he said, but I remember I said bro, ever since we got on this bus all I heard you say was nigga this, nigga that, and it’s starting to piss me off. And he apologized and said oh I'm sorry my fault. If his reply would’ve been anything other than sorry, than we would’ve fought and I knew that. Is it important for people to use the N word? Does it even really matter? DG: I think it is. If we use this word so loosely, that’s how you get other groups using it. I remember I used to have an Asian roommate and he said it all the time. One time he said it in front of one of his friends, while I was there, and his friend punched him in the arm like hey hey hey. And I didn’t even notice [that he said it] UA: So let me ask you this, I have a Cambodian friend who grew up out in California. He describes himself as hood born in bred. He grew up really rough in the projects in Oakland, his father was in gangs, his uncles were in gangs and he’s in a gang now. He uses nigga all the time, and he thinks that he can say it, he doesn’t think twice about it because he grew up so rough. Is it okay if he says it? What would be your response if you didn’t know him hearing that? DG: I need him to stop saying that. UA: What if you did know him? DG: I need him to stop saying that shit. You’re justification for saying the N word is that you grew up rough, which to me means that niggas grow up rough. So just because you grew up rough you consider yourself to be a nigga. UA: Do you battle saying it? DG: Every single day. ...Even when I go to insult people; I’d be quick to call someone a faggot, but now I’m more conscious of how hurtful that is, so I can’t expect people to be conscience of the N word if I’m loosely calling people faggots. If you want someone else to stop, then you have to stop, I can’t point the finger at everyone and say that I’m a great person, that I’m clean, [because] I’m not. Nas is my daily morning pump up. I bump his music first thing in the morning; I get hyped rapping along in my head; getting ready to take on the world. I rap every lyric from some songs flawlessly and without hesitation. The word nigga comes up a lot, and I never think twice to rap it. It also comes up in my conversations; I use it all the time. “Love committing sins, and my friends sell crack This nigga raps with a razor keep it under my tongue The school dropout, never like the shit from day one ‘Cause life ain’t shit from but stress, fake niggas, and crab stunts" Language is weird. I’ve never considered why I use it. I just use it. If I’m not allowed to use it then who is? Why are they allowed to use it? Who makes the rules? Who can say nigga, and what does it mean? There is a stereotype that exists; those who say nigga are “ghetto”. They’re the ones who listen to hip hop, who join gangs, who get into fights. They are the ones who live in bad neighborhoods. They’re the kids who you saw in school who never went to class; they’re the rough ones. They’re black or brown. But they aren’t the only ones, I have seen this word used by white kids from the suburbs, I’ve seen it used by Asian kids playing basketball, and I’ve heard it from my own mouth. I can’t speak for the others, but I never think twice about saying the word nigga. It’s a word so engrained into my vocabulary, that it just comes up constantly. Since I’ve started this piece, I’ve been asked to contemplate why this is. Honestly, I don’t have an answer for you. I grew up around this word, it was never derogatory. It was just a word you called someone, it meant different things in different situations, but it was just there. Maybe its habit, maybe it’s me attempting to fit into the hip hop stereotype, or maybe I’m just trying to be edgy. This is an issue that I will have to contemplate on, much as many other people do. I don’t think it’ll leave my vocabulary, but after writing this it might be scaled back. I’ve seen what that word means to a close friend in DG; and I wonder how many of my other friends feel that way? Words can build bonds, or they can destroy friendships. They are the foundations on which good relationships are built; think about it, you don’t hang out with anyone who can’t hold a conversation with you. Everyone admires a great story teller, and I’ve grown up with some of the best storytellers in my own personal life. A friend of mine who constantly said the word nigga in his life once told me a beautiful analogy. He told me that a storm is the devil’s blade. Storms are violent, they are powerful, they destroy and they cause chaos. Storms are a reminder that at the end of the day Mother Nature doesn’t play any games; and we are but a mere speck of dust in the vast jungle of Earth. If Mother Nature so chose, we would be dead tomorrow. Such a realization should make us forget about the hate we have for each other. About the animosity; it should make us forget what the mean kid said to you in the 5th grade. Wasn’t that beautifully put? This is from a guy who listens to that Nas verse up there all the time. If the previous paragraph brought out any emotion in you, then you realize the power of language. If it didn’t, then maybe your emotions are brought out by other forms of language. Whether it’s a song, a conversation, a poem, or the word nigga, Language is a part of our daily lives. It’s time we acknowledge its strength and its power. It’s time we start to be aware of what we say, and maybe for some, begin to change that language.
But who knows, this is all just words anyway right?
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by Erick GarciaImagine you and your friends are talking about what you all plan to do with your lives after you all have graduated from college. You all start talking about what kinds of careers you all want to have. One friend may say he or she wants to be a doctor, the other a police officer, and so on. Then it’s your turn to say what you want your future career to be, and you say you want to be a writer. All of a sudden the conversation comes to a screeching halt and everyone is looking at you in a way that makes you feel as if you did something wrong. Then the first thing you hear from one of your friends is “You won’t make any money doing that!” Maybe this is something you’ve heard before or is a variation of something you’ve heard before, or maybe this is your first time hearing this from someone. The question you’re probably asking yourself now is “Is that true, and if it is, how does it affect me and do I care?” The scenario you just read is something that I feel happens to a lot of young people when talking about their future careers, and this is a situation that is usually imposed on them by parents and by friends. If you’ve ever had this same conversation, depending on your career choice, the kinds of comments you might get from other people will be that “There’s no future in that” or “You’ll never make any money in that” and so on. In my opinion, people should have the freedom to decide on a career that makes them happy, even if it means going against the expectations of friends and family and even of society as a whole. But I can also admit that it does feel ugly when even those who are closest to you don't want to support your decisions or have little to no faith that you can be successful in a field that they consider to be pedestrian. Although I think it’s kind of funny that the careers that they consider pedestrian, such as writing, acting, playing music, and so on are the very same careers that produce that which they find so entertaining and are more than willing to spend their money on! In my experience, I have been lucky enough to have parents who want me to do what makes me happy. However, the best advice I have gotten is that if I’m going to do something that makes me happy but that isn’t so financially secure, it’s always a good idea to have a backup plan. Personally speaking, my dream is to be a musician, but because I know that the landscape of music business has dramatically changed over time, I know that I’m not going to be the next Paul McCartney overnight anytime soon. This is where the backup plan comes in. I’m currently pursuing a master’s degree in forensic psychology in college. I picked this as a backup plan not only because I know that it could provide me with financial stability in the future, but also because it’s also something that I truly love and could actually see myself doing in the event that my first choice doesn’t work out. It’s something I’m truly interested in and it’s something that is just as big a part of my life as music. Now I’d like to offer this same advice that my parents gave me to anyone reading this article. If you’ve decided on a career that makes you happy but isn’t so financially secure, have a backup plan, but make sure it’s a backup plan that you’re happy with, not just a backup plan that you feel you’re obligated to have. While some people do have a backup plan, they might settle for something that is expected of them by family and friends or something that may provide financial stability but not satisfaction. This is why I stress that a backup career must be something that makes you happy and not simply your safety net. Another piece of advice I’d like to offer is just as important as the first, and that is to stand your ground. Even if your friends and family don’t support you, even if others mock you for your career choices, even if no one believes you can make it and be successful, stand your ground. Be fearless, dare to defy expectations, but most of all, be yourself and pursue what makes you happy. Granted this is much easier said than done. Dayna, a good friend of mine, was talking to me about being a writer because it’s one of the many things she truly loves doing, but at the same time she showed some hesitation. I told her to go for it since it’s what she really wants, and in response, she told me something along the lines of “Would you rather make money or would you rather be happy?” My question would’ve been, “would you rather dare take the risk and know for sure whether it was worth it or not? Or would you rather take the safest route and prefer to live your life thinking about what could have been?” It always boils down to choices and the fact that only you have the power to decide. In a similar conversation, my fellow Zine writer and classmate Connor Gilligan told me he wants to be an archaeologist, but that a lot of his friends would rag on him because he wouldn’t make much money. He would tell me that even if that was true, he didn’t care because he’d be happy doing what he wanted to do, which is more important to him. He even went so far as to give me examples of famous people who lived a rags-to-riches career, such as J.K. Rowling and Chris Pratt. In his opinion, if they could achieve their dreams, why not him? And I absolutely agree. Never be afraid to pursue your dreams, even if everyone and everything is trying to convince you otherwise. However, not everything in life is a guaranteed success, so be prepared to struggle and be prepared to fail every now and then. But most importantly of all, have a backup plan that makes you happy. Work hard, enjoy yourself, and if you succeed, tell everyone who doubted you “I told you so!” by Linda Cheriyan “How would you describe yourself?” is a common question asked in elementary school and middle school. Back then I would have described myself as “cute, bubbly, funny, and talkative.” Now I would be able to confidently describe myself as a feminist; in fact a proud feminist. Growing up in an Indian household was not easy, especially with an older brother everyone bowed down to. I desperately wanted to be like him; smart, athletic, and outgoing. The one thing stopping me was my sex. A female born into the Indian culture can risk her family to be impoverished by the dowry system and the damage caused to the family name. Although my family was not much like the stereotypical Indians, they were proud to have a girl, as I was the only girl in the entire family so they were happy. Living in a traditional Indian household my life consisted of gender roles and gender norms that I had to follow; “Get up when an elder man walks in through the door,” “Stop sitting with your legs up, it’s not lady like,” they’d say over and over again (or more like a broken record at that point). I mean, I was four years old, what did I know about being a lady or if I even wanted to be a lady at all? In India when my brother’s friends came over, I was not allowed to play with them because I was a girl. So I would watch them from a distance and feel jealousy and resentment within myself for not being born a male. I loved playing with my brother’s race cars, I loved playing in the dirt and walking around without a shirt. But all of these activities, to my surprise, were thought of as not lady like. I felt my childhood being taken away because of the gender roles that were imposed upon me every time I seemed to step over some “no longer a girl” line. When I was nine I remember asking my mom if I could join the school’s soccer team and without hesitation, she shut me down and said: “Sports are for men.” As young as I was, I felt angry, and wondered, "how could joining a team be considered manly? I questioned, “What’s the difference between a male and a female, what makes a man better?” I remember getting slapped for not obeying the rules and proposing these questions time and time again. When I was in the fifth grade, I witnessed one of the first physical fights between my parents. My father was furious because my mother was raising her voice against his, a taboo in my culture as a man is supposedly to be respected and treated as an almost “godly” figure. My dad did not feel masculine with his wife yelling at him so I guess he had to “put her in her place.” Anger constantly rushed through me as I realized how women were in no way equal to men. Sometimes, I felt sorry for myself and the other millions of females who are too afraid to speak up. Years later in the ninth grade, I asked my parents if I could go out with a few friends as I witnessed my brother going out the night before. They responded “a woman should not be roaming around, their place is at home, nowhere else.” I began giving voice to the questions that roamed around in my head instead, letting them out into in order to take up the silence. Fights broke out in my home, and my father was determined to put me in my place. But, I refused to stay silent any longer; I had kept myself shut for so long that this new power of having an actual voice felt so good. As I got older, my relationship with my father deteriorated because I always took a stand and insisted that I have a voice. The older I got, the more my father would bring up marriage. I thought to myself, my parent’s marriage was a bust, I will never submit to a man, and my rights will never be taken away. I began preaching feminism into everyone’s ear, not in hopes that they would become feminists, but somehow that they would eventually believe in the idea of gender equality and abandon the stereotyped ideas of gender roles. I wanted them to know how harmful gender shaming was, to do something to stop rape culture, and to turn around the idea that rape was a woman's fault. I spoke and spoke out in the hopes that maybe one more female would be unaffected by rigid cultural norms, a female who would no longer be too afraid to speak up. I did everything I was told not to do: I spoke against men even though I was told I was lower or less significant than them. But I made my voice higher because I believe I am equal to men and I deserved to have my voice be heard. I played sports precisely because it was not “lady like,” and it turned out that I was better than a lot of my peers even though I was a woman. I started picking at everything that’s wrong with our society, the imbalance between genders, the hatred woman face for not wanting be a housewife and especially the way in which people give more value to men and boys than they do to women and girls. I’ve heard many complain about having to grow up as a girl. And although I felt hatred and anger towards me just because I grew up a girl, I am proud to call myself a woman and even prouder to describe myself as a feminist. I beg to live in a world
Where there exists no murders, where there is justice being served Where there are no more paternal tears of having to bury their child. The world where... My color, Gender, Sexual preferences Won't matter. Where I can walk down the street Without getting cat called. Where I won't be blamed for the rape That was committed by a man filled with testosterones, But instead I am blamed for my choice of clothes, Drinking habits, And my outgoing personality that provoked a man. I want to live in a world where... Black Lives do matter Instead I'm stuck In a world filled with white supremacy, where the rich melanin of my skin does matter. In a world Where I don't have to beg for my human rights. I wish to one day see the world in colors Instead of black and white by Cindy GuiracochaOn September 11, 2001 New York experienced four coordinated terrorist attacks that took the lives of 2,977 people. I was only five years old. Although very young, the attack would affect me, my generation, and the generations after. From that moment to the present, American life adapted in particular ways—on the level of the individual and on the social level. After all, it is a general truth that people transform their society while at the same time society changes the individual. I came to understand how some people perceive 9/11 by observing and listening during a visit of the 9/11 memorial and museum. I may never be able to understand the feeling of melancholy and grief of those who lost a loved one on 9/11 but as I matured I have become more aware of what it means for Americans to go through such event. My father urged our family to pay our respects to those who were suddenly taken away, to at least show our condolences, by taking some time from our lives to visit the 9/11 memorial. Even as I respected my father’s wishes it was hard to be reminded of the harsh reality of life. I remember how much sadness, fear, and loss was felt as a result of the 9/11 attack. In 2016, I took a psychology class that used ethnography and anthropology to help understand death and dying. This class motivated me to search for a personal and larger meaning that went deeper than just knowing that 9/11 was a sad and tragic event. As I walked to the 9/11 memorial museum with my family, I felt anxious because I did not know what to expect upon entering it. The scene outside of the museum was boisterous--people were loud, laughing, taking photographs, while children were running around playing, fighting, or crying. Everything outside felt “normal” for a busy New York city street. Entering the museum, I felt I was no longer on a busy Manhattan. Instead, I entered a place where everyone seemed to feel a common sentiment--a sense of being afraid. Upon entering, guards instructed us to remove our personal belongings. I felt as though I were being told to remove the things that make me, me, as if my “nakedness” enabled the security guards to ensure the safety of those inside. At this moment everyone had the shared experience of walking into a hallway where the darkness of September 11 could be felt all around them. The room is dimly lit; all you can see are images of the scenery and people surrounding the twin towers. Visitors began crying listening to an interview of a 9/11 survivor that was being played on a big projector. The room held a different scent; for me, it was as if I could smell the sorrow and loss. In the large dark room, people divided themselves into those able to tolerate peering at death and dying, and those who would need to leave. No electronic devices were permitted to be used in the room, enabling the possibility that visitors come into a place where to become one through shared thoughts and feelings. The dark room illuminated the recovered personal belongings, and photographs and timelines that documented September 11, 2001. To capture my feelings at the moment of being in this room, I took out pen and paper to write down what I felt, what I saw, and what I heard. As I walked around, I jotted down my deep feeling of sadness seeing what the victims went through on September 11. I wanted to know if I was the only one that felt this way. I began to observe the other visitors, noticing the diversity in gender, age and ethnicity. There were elderly people, middle-aged people, teenagers, and small children. I noticed how differently the people of different age categories responded. There was an elderly couple; I saw the sadness in the old man’s face. Trying not to be obvious, I listened in on their private conversation. Letting out a few tears, the man said, “I remember the way I felt the moment I saw the towers falling.” Looking at his wife, the old man said, “I feel that same way now, only it hurts so much more now.” He turned to her, hugging her as if he were protecting her and himself. I moved away and walked around the room. I noticed the stands that held tissues boxes with the message, “feel free to take one.” I walked into a small room. It was silent except for the taped voice of an on duty police officer at the 9/11 scene, “I kept looking up, saying, I want to help you guys, hold on, please hold on. But I knew there was nothing I could do,” said Officer David Brink. You can hear the officer’s fear. You can hear his urge to find survivors. At the point when he said he knew there was nothing for him to do, we are left to imagine the scene he was in and what he saw. A scene with only cement and dust. One survivor, Michelle Wiley, put it this way: September 11 “…went from that bright crisp morning to just total blackness and then it felt like an earthquake.”In seconds, people were left in total blackness where personal survival meant being naked, exposed to anyone who could help them. Amidst the chaos, people called the police, their wives, their husbands, their children, their parents to say what might have been their very last words. With death approaching, their last words were like confession, freeing them just before their moment comes. I observed middle-aged people start to cry and either place their hands over their hearts or hug the person next to them. Some couldn't bear to hear the whole audio; they left the room with the tissues provided by staff. The teenagers were different. Some were completely focused on their surroundings. Others looked as though they were forced to be there. Some were horse playing with their younger siblings; others sneaked a peek at their phones. A few laughed while listening to a recording of a passenger of one of the hijacked plane. I wrote down how much anger I felt towards them. In that moment, I realized it was just my assumptions to imagine all would or should feel as I did. I understood that people are human beings with different sensibilities. I want to understand the reasons why people behave and think differently. Looking back at the different reactions--the way the elderly and the middle-aged people acted as compared to the teenagers, I realized that older people would more likely feel a certain connection to the event of 9/11. They saw it, heard it, and felt it. The teenagers and the children did not necessarily have a personal connection or were not closely affected by the 9/11 event. They weren't there to experience it in the same way as the older people who likely remember that day in intimate detail. Still, some teenagers I observed seemed keenly interested in being there with parents who were also deeply engaged. One example was the Latino father and son studying a missing person photograph of a Latino family’s son whose body was never recovered. The visitor hugged his teenage son, then looked at him and said, “Te amo mucho mijo, y siempre te amaré” (I love you son, and I will always love you). I can't express how much pain I felt even as there is beauty hidden within the sadness. Suddenly, I felt vulnerable, like a child again. Although my mother was right there next to me, I felt like I could lose her at any second, a lost child. I held her hand as if it meant that she was protecting me from getting lost and I was protecting her from losing me. My visit to the museum helped me find meaning that I felt had been missing in my life. I saw how important it is to be intentionally attentive to your world because as the seconds pass the world, and with it, individuals change. September 11, 2001 occurred in the United States, but it is not just a part of U.S. history, it is part of each individual’s history. It is part of my parents’ past, my present, and my future children’s history. Such tragic events can be told by those who live to tell their story. There are also hidden stories, those who remember but who do not tell their story and those not able to be told by the people whose lives are taken away. by Samantha SheetsDuring my second year of high school, I was forced to take a foreign language class. I was assigned to Italian 1. Most of the students seemed to grasp Italian rather quickly as it was similar to Spanish; the language most of them spoke at home. Making the class fast paced. We jumped from learning the alphabet, to full sentences within a week. Between that, the pronunciation challenges and the accent marks, everything I was being taught went straight over my head. I was confused and felt lost. Each day, I was terrified that I would be called upon to answer a question that I did not know the answer to. The unpleasant memories of my remaining two years in that class flood back easily; I can recall how on more than one occasion when I was called on and tears filled my eyes. I was embarrassed. Everyone else in the class could form essays from the words they learned while I could not even ask how someone’s day was. My Italian teacher pitied me. He figured I was never going to learn the language at the pace of the rest of his class. Rather than help me, he avoided calling on me. That’s when I got my new nickname: “The American.” The nickname came with many perks. I was excused for not understanding an assignment and was graded less harshly than the rest of the class. At the time, I was grateful for the special treatment. All I had to do was attend class every day and he would give me a passing grade. Looking back however, I am appalled. Fast forward to last Thanksgiving. I am sitting across the table from family members who I rarely see; everyone is eating turkey and a variety of side dishes. We are talking with one another in only one language: English. It is the only language any of us knows. Sure, my siblings were also forced to take a language class back when they were in high school, but after they floated across the stage at graduation the language vanished from their minds. Being the antisocial person I am, during the Thanksgiving meal my eyes turn to my phone. I scroll through and see photos of friends how they are spending their holiday. Aside from complaints about having to work on Black Friday, I see that most are with family eating dishes I’ve never seen or heard of. These are not the foods I view as typical Thanksgiving dishes, but dishes that originated from different cultures. Foods with myriads of spices my family would never dare to use from recipes that have been passed down through generations. Dishes like pozole and cochinita pibil. I could neither pronounce the food, nor name one ingredient. As I study the photos, it becomes more obvious that these people know their heritage and are proud of it. Meanwhile, I sit with my family not knowing my own. Sometimes people ask me, “What’s your nationality?” I shrug. I do not have a concise answer to provide. I know that my last name, “Sheets,” is German. So this is the only aspect of my heritage I have some idea about. I do know I am from the United States, as are my parents. My father was born in Brooklyn and mother in Boston. I think my grandparents were born in the U.S. as well. Aside from that, the only roots I’m familiar with are the ones growing out from my dyed hair. My family has offered guesses. They say we likely have Irish and French Canadian origins. But those are just guesses. We have no firm knowledge of our heritage. My “origin” nation’s flag is not hung up in the family car, nor can I return there for summers to visit extended family. I am American. This nation has been my only home. I do not even have a passport because where would I go? All the family I know about are located in different parts of the United States. I never had the incentive to learn another language because I couldn’t imagine who I would be able to communicate with. I’m now in my second year of college and I’ve been strategically avoiding the required language credit. I fear taking a foreign language will lower my overall GPA. I fear that learning another language will be an immense struggle and what I learn will be forgotten after being unused. This piece is not a boo-hoo article about how I do not know who I am because I’m white. I am grateful my family did not have to immigrate here under difficult circumstances. I am grateful our family is not split up between borders. I am grateful I do not have to question when we might see each other again, especially in light of recent threats to make moving across borders even more difficult than it already is. All this does not change the fact that my culture is limited. Our food has not been passed down through generations. I do not have stories of what it was like back in the “home” country, because this is my home country. America was founded in 1776, built from the ground up by people who immigrated here and brought their own backgrounds into their new lives. American history itself is relatively new and its traditions and foods originate from other countries. America celebrates different nations and the people who have migrated from there. But when you have not emigrated from anywhere you aren’t a part of the celebration. I cannot fully enjoy the Pulaski Day Parade because I do not know what life is like in Poland and I am not Polish. I can take part in the event as a supportive bystander, but I am not a part of their community. My family and I are not religious either, so even religious holiday’s that bond families and friends together through commonality are not present in my life. Like our food, we are bland. When asked my nationality, I am not ashamed to shrug and announce that some part of me is German among other guesses. I am not ashamed to state that the nickname “The American” is bona fide. But I am very aware that having no other culture to look back to makes America feel more like a location rather than a culture itself. That being said, I am not unpatriotic. I may be German, but I am truly American. This uncultured culture is my culture. by Katherine SantanaIt was a warm sunny day in the month of November when my best friend and I decided to go to Staten Island in hopes of finding Fresh Kills Landfill as extra credit for a group paper. We were excited, as neither one of us had ever been to Staten Island before, so we took it as an opportunity for an adventure. Little did we realize, we were about to experience a very different culture and feel in New York City: namely the borough of Staten Island. My best friend and I, grew up knowing only the Bronx. A place where, we were exposed to all of its diversity and richness, but at the same time struggling with the living conditions and violence in the area. We rode the D train to Wall St. walked around a bit and finally arrived at the x17 bus station where we waited and rode the bus to Staten Island. Immediately upon arriving on Staten Island, the differences between there and the Bronx were at once obvious and significant. First, there were the homes. On Staten Island, the homes were big and beautiful. These homes, I noticed, were more of a colonial style, mansion like houses with warm neutral colors. We even saw rowhomes, while similar in style to those in the Bronx, they seemed to be more well put together. The stores in the area looked polished, with tons of space. The streets were clean, as there was not a single piece of trash in sight and a silence consumed the area, almost as if no living beings actually lived there. The area felt desolate as very few people roamed the streets. There were beautiful pathways that would make anyone excited. These pathways were covered in fall leaves as were the streets of Staten Island. I found myself thinking about how different this was from the Bronx in the Bronx, I am used to seeing large apartment buildings lining streets and trash on the ground. I am used to seeing crowds of people, buses and trains in every corner. And bodegas and supermarkets are everywhere no matter where I walk in the Bronx. Staten Island, however, is different. In the area of Staten Island where I was, there were no bodegas in the corner of each street nor were there any buses in sight other than the ones going from Manhattan to Staten Island and vice versa. The people there mainly drove cars to get around, whether it be to a store or to work. This reminded me of Albany as the look and feel are very similar. In the Bronx, most people take the bus or the train to get around. If we want to go to the store, or to work, we either walk or take public transportation. It is normal to hear your next door neighbor blasting bachata or the new music craze of the year in the Bronx, but there was no music to hear in Staten Island. There were no people to see. In fact, there were no signs of life. At least of the kind of life I was used to. It felt so strange to me and made me want to learn more. For many people, it’s hard to walk along the streets in the Bronx, because they fear that they will get robbed or hurt. A person can’t have a nice night stroll without worrying if something will happen to them. This problem doesn’t necessarily occur as frequently in Staten Island, it is so calm and quiet that one can walk about freely without feeling worry. When I walked out of the bus and walked around the area, it felt so serene and relaxed. I thought to myself, how could there be such a difference between two boroughs? I looked around more closely and realized one huge factor in this difference was the population. The Bronx has a huge diverse population, many different cultures intermingle. Staten Island however, has a large White population and there is very little diversity. During my walk, I came across only two Latinos and one Black person and I felt uncomfortable realizing that people knew that my best friend and I didn’t belong to the area. They knew based off of our race, not so much ethnicity. I stuck out more however, in terms of appearance than my best friend as I am darker skinned than she is. We felt pierced by stares, by people that seemed to interrogate us with their eyes asking: What are you doing here? To a certain extent I felt slightly envious of the people there, I thought to myself wouldn’t it be nice if I lived in such a calm area in a beautiful home with my family. Yet here I am, living in a broken down apartment with no heat, no hot water, a broken elevator and a broken front gate. I longed to live in a beautiful home, where hot water and heat is accessible. Where I could roam around freely without cowering in fear and live stress free with my family. As soon as my best friend and I got tired, we walked to a nearby target and explored the store as well as the other stores that were in the area. They seemed to be more organized and clean compared to stores in the Bronx. Every single item was organized, the atmosphere was very calm and inviting. The people were very polite and more willing to help than those in the Bronx. Now, not every single store in the Bronx is unorganized or dirty, but most are. Often times I see items thrown around and it takes employees a lifetime to get it organized. I have encountered extremely long lines because there weren’t enough people at the register. However, this was not the case in Staten Island. Everything was so different that I even didn’t know what to do at certain times. The culture between these two boroughs were very different despite two parts of the same city and not being too far apart from each other. I found it to be an amazing experience and hope to go back again soon to see more. In the end, my best friend and I never found Fresh Kills Landfill, however, we earned the experience of a lifetime. To physically experience these differences I believe is an eye opener to a different way of living and a different culture. It made me appreciate more the different styles of living and the uniqueness and impacts of each one. by Amerra BukhariIf someone were to ask me what New York City is? My answer would be a city full of different culture, people and languages, not the Empire State Building, Central Park or Times Square. These attractions might be what makes NYC an attractive city but it is the 8 million people who live her, make the city adventurous, enjoyable and breathtaking. I intern at the Mayor’s Office of Immigrant Affairs – We Are New York. This program is designed to help 1.8 million immigrants whose English is limited. We Are New York is an Emmy award winning television show, it is a 10-episode series that centers around immigrants living in NYC. Through the episodes, they are able to learn how to get access to services such as: education, health, and employment. It also teaches them that they are not alone in this city and that there are many sources of help. This program is linked with organizations across the five boroughs where volunteer conversation group facilitators provide English language support. The conversation groups meet for 2 hours a day for ten weeks. I was placed at Queen Satellite High School for Opportunity, where they have a program called Pathways to Graduation, where students have the opportunity to get their high school equivalency diploma for the ages 18 – 21. I worked with 26 students every Friday from 9 – 11am. I was very nervous about my first day because I am not a person who stands up in front of large groups and teaches. The one thing that kept me going was that I was helping immigrants while being an immigrant myself. I once went through what they are now going through. My responsibility was to lead conversation groups with the students, show them the We Are New York episodes, go over the episodes and ask them questions. After that, I explained to them in detail what they saw because some students had trouble understanding what was being said. The students in the classroom were from India, Bangladesh and Haiti. When I introduced myself to the students, I told them that I, too was an immigrant and came from Pakistan and spoke Urdu. The students from India got excited because they were able to speak to me in Hindi and/or Punjabi, if they did not understand something I said in English. After the introductions, I felt a little more comfortable standing in front of the room. The fact the students were close to my age, made it even comforting. I was able to converse and help the students as if they were my friends or classmates. We would joke here and there, sometimes they would ask me things like how to open up a student bank account. There was one student Gurmail Singh, he asked if I had a student bank account and how I had opened it. I sat down and explained to him what he needed to bring with him to the bank, such as: a school identification card, social security card, a minimum deposit and a government issued identification card. Every Friday, I would go early to class, around 8:30am. The class would begin at 9am and I would set up for the morning with the in-class teacher Mr. Sanders. I would go over the lesson for the day with him, show him which episode I would be showing and the exercises I would have the students do. Mr. Sanders knew his students’ strengths and weaknesses well and would printout worksheets to address their educational needs. I would have them do the exercise that related to the episode of the day right before I showed the episode. I would ask them what the episode might be about and what would happen. During the viewing of the episode, I would have them take notes and pay close attention because they would be responsible for finishing the exercise afterwards. I would walk around, watching them do their work. The students were an eager bunch and loved getting their work checked. They would call me “Miss! I’m done” and I would go over to them and check it. But, there were some students who did not do their work and would talk to other students in the class. I would walk over to them and ask if they needed help because they weren’t doing their work. The majority of them did their work and were happy to call out the answers, then I would have to ask them to raise their hands. They often got very chatty and would talk across the room in their own languages. Mr. Sanders was very strict about talking across the room, especially in languages other than English. Sometimes, I would not understand what they would said and feel out of the loop, like Mr. Sanders does most of the time. I felt a personal connection with them because I am an immigrant as well and I understand their confusion in a new place. When I first came here, I didn’t know English and it like “blah blah blah blah” to me. I had teachers in my schools help me with and now I am able to help other immigrants. The number they remembered as most important was 311. If someone needed an interpreter for a school meeting or to find out information about high school or programs they were able to call that number. The funny part was when I went to say “you should always call-“they called out “311, yes we know”. I spent every Friday morning with them for ten weeks, so when it was time to hand out their certificates for completing the program, it was bittersweet. Working with these students made me want to do more work with immigrants in NYC. Immigrants are who make NYC a wonderful place to live in and create and recreate its cosmopolitan vitality. by Leslie RomanAlice falls into the Abyss, the depths of a deep world she never knew about. She awakens to find that everything is abnormal: the clock, the walls, the people, the animals etc. Alice is not in College though. We are. Education is just one of the many obstacles we have to overcome to get a better future—but some agree with the idea that it is not necessary to go to College. To me, College hit so hard, it got me thinking about questions like; “What have I been doing with my life? Why didn’t I do better in high school? All the time I wasted I could have used to prep myself on what major I wanted or even where to go to college, to decide whether to go out-of-state or to commute. This is my experience on my journey to College starting from high school to present. I was the girl who got along with everyone, literally. I had no problems with any of my classmates. I was the type of person that never interfered with other people’s business, nor did I want to know their business—unless with my best friend, which is something completely different. I always passed my classes with high grades, but math and science were not my favorite subjects. In parent-teacher conferences, I was always getting great comments like; “She does all her work”, “She does not give any trouble” etc. I became the good student who focused on all the assignments she needed to do. But then everything changed when the fire nation attacked [Avatar Joke]. When I became a senior, I was excited to leave. I didn’t have to take anymore regents. I thought about all the sleep I would get. What I wasn’t doing was going in-depth on my research for College. It was not that I did not want to go College. I felt like I was not ready. My idea of College was, “This is the most important decision of your life. What are you going to do? Where are you going to go? Do you really want to leave your family and friends behind?” Various questions raced through my mind. I was not thinking clearly. On top of this, there was more a rush to apply to TAP, PELL, FAFSA, and supplements so I could go to the College I wanted. I was so unfocused I was not even looking for my prom dress, until I literally bought it on the day of. Anyway, I only had one college advisor, who only came in to help the senior class apply to colleges. Through my eyes, I saw as my friends constantly came into her office during lunch, afterschool, and mornings getting applications done—but I felt like I was not doing enough. I had completed my own paperwork, my own applications, yet I was caught up with the idea that the college I chose is the final place where I can take my college experience. Everyone, and I mean everyone, during that spring time began to get receive letters from different schools. I saw the smiles and the frowns from people’s faces whether they got in or not. Then there was me, the “good student”, who has not received any answer except one from the 10 different colleges I applied for. But what I guess you can say that what finally damaged my hopes of going to College was that my supplement forms never got completed due to a miscommunication of the advisor. I was able to get an appeal though, and I arrived to the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. Great I thought, another school for law after I just graduated a high school of Law and Government and Justice. Needless to say, I was a lazy-ass freshman. I thought I was going to get away without doing all my work, and participation? LIES! At this point, I was like “Why did I treat high school like it was so important?” I ended up having all C’s except one A for my freshman year of College. And I bore the consequences of it. With a GPA of less than 3.0 I could not apply for anything I would have wanted to do. I kicked ass though next semester but I realized something. Your life, who you want to be or what you want to do with it, lies in your own hands. I had a wake-up-call in my first ever Anthropology class. This is not to hype my professor or to make it seem like everyone should take him—unless you are ready for a challenge. He gave me an awakening about how life is, how college is, and made me think about what I want to do. I can get all my assignments done, and be on time, but he made the class engaging. Through his lessons and charisma, I will put it simply, “Time is of the essence”. Life is too short not to see what is in front of you. You can die an instant, but would you be happy with the life you have created for yourself? The courses I have taken were not easy. But who said that life was easy? We have to deal with that professor, who is sarcastic, the students who think that everything someone else says is funny and the load of work that we need to do to pass the class. We have those moments where, we say, “I’m a broke college student,” when we do not have money for food or things we need. But I wanted to involve myself with the John Jay community, so I went and volunteered for community service and currently for this Zine. I took the steps, and got the motivation. I even changed my major to Anthropology. To put it bluntly, College is not a Wonderland. But there’s exciting stuff out there if we look. |
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