Category — HKiang

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As I walked down Allen Street on my way back to the Ludlow dorms, I couldn’t help but look up.  I’d never really thought to do so before, until Richard Price, dressed in a yellow and black gingham button down, jeans, and comfy loafers, said that was the place to look and where one could see the history of the Lower East Side.  Having watched a Lush Life promotional video beforehand in which Price describes how it used to be the red light district where “truck drivers would come by and see some, you know, Jewish lady in a bathrobe and they’d go inside the tenements” and the street developed in order to “shed light” on the area, made it so much more interesting just to stop and look.

In the rooms of the dorms, there are floor to ceiling windows in which one could see up and down Delancey Street from the Williamsburg Bridge to the left and a few streets to the right; and with Price’s descriptions I try and imagine what the crime filled streets, the dirtinesss, the poor.  I imagine the ghosts he describes that suffered and his description: “the Lower East Side is vast and shallow; you could scoop up [history] with a teaspoon.”   His knowledge and observations of the LES were related to us in such a fascinating way; I think it was in part because he didn’t talk down to us and he was at ease with what he decided about the neighborhood.  He was just so laidback and engaging that made his presentation so much more exciting.  In contrast to his laidback character, it was amusing to hear his process in deciding to write about the LES: “And I’m an OCD writer, you know, so I had to find out how people in 1912 wiped their butts and if they used napkins and if they used napkins what kind they used…”

He was such a quotable yet unpretentious character and made the whole room laugh when he wanted to.  But this comedic quality didn’t show in his demeanor; he delivered his statements so matter-of-factly.  From his explanations that “the smell of cappuccino…kills a neighborhood” and that he pretends he’s James Joyce at times to his cultural descriptions about the stereotypes associated with different parts of America, one can tell that he is just genuine and so attuned to the world around him.  After spending so much time describing the LES and his history there, this is my favorite quote of the evening:  “And now I want to write a book about Harlem…because I’m black obviously.  Just like I’m an Orthodox Jewish Dominican.”

Living in New York City, I never realized just how culturally diverse it is compared to other parts of America.  I grew up with it, and it was never a big deal or something I actively noticed.  Last weekend, my friend who emigrated from Korea to America, starting in California then moving to New York, visited me because she was on break from the University of Notre Dame in Indiana.

She didn’t fit in with the Korean club because they claimed she was Korean-American, and not “Korean” enough.  She was telling me about a girl from Kansas who had never met an Asian before she met my friend.  She explained that it was like moving from one bubble to another, where there are different norms and stereotypes associated by race and cultural identity.

When I was eight, I went with my family a Chinatown bus tour that ended in Tennessee.  The restaurant complex we stopped at included a large Chinese restaurant where everyone on the bus flocked.  However, my Americanized family, who didn’t want to wait in long lines went to a local diner, where we were stared by the other customers and the waitress.  The waitress was polite enough, but they stared as we ordered and ate our home fries and pancakes.  My brother and I were young and didn’t realize it, but our parents rushed us in eating our food.

My friend’s visit reminded me of the one time I went to the “South” and it made me wonder people’s perspectives from middle America or anywhere away from cities and ports.  It interests me to hear how their perceptions are formed because now I feel like I’ve taken for granted the immigrant culture of New York.

at the “World’s Largest McDonald’s” in Orlando, Florida

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As the curtains drew open and fell into an elegant drape, they revealed vibrant colors and pure merriment that accompanied the mood introduced by the orchestra.  Watching the scene unfold was like watching a masterful painting reworking itself seamlessly and beautifully.  There was a feeling only the Metropolitan Opera could give a person, that they were transported somewhere completely different to enjoy an art of a different age.  I’ve never truly appreciated opera and have often fallen asleep during them.  The smooth movement and seemingly never-changing singing used to wear on my eyes and ears and draw me into a deep lull.  When I was young, I would be woken up with the sound of my aunt’s voice (a choreographer who took me to some shows and rehearsals); the night of Rigoletto, I was determinedly staying awake helped by the gentleman snoring loudly next to me.

Perhaps it was because I actually knew the plot of the opera that made it more interesting to see; knowing what’s going to happen allows one to be entranced by the costuming, set, music, and emotion.  From a vibrant set in Act I to the darker set of Acts II and III, a warm, burgundy material was prominent in the costumes of the Duke, Rigoletto, Gilda’s nurse Giovanna, and Countess Ceprano.  The color seemed to be symbolic of the curse and the pain the Duke causes; the Countess Ceprano is representative of the Duke’s disrespect for women, their significant others and relatives and Giovanna is representative of her inability to successfully care for her charge.  Rigoletto wears quite a bit of the burgundy in his jester outfit, but in the next scene where he meets Sparafucile, he only wears a small cape of the color.  As soon as he enters the house, it is removed and alternately placed around his daughter and himself.  Maybe it wasn’t intentional, but an interesting detail to explore.

Aside from the costuming, George Gagnidze’s portrayal of Rigoletto was so powerful and I was unaware of his illness during the performance.  The voice and acting of the Duke was quite commendable as well.  I was pleasantly surprised by Gilda’s piercing voice which by the end had an eerie but enjoyable ring.  I found Sparafucile’s voice to be the most impressive; it had power but sweetness to it that fit his cunning and vicious role in the play.

I stayed awake the whole opera, my eyes following the subtle movements of the dresses, then the exchange between father and daughter, and the final bit of the curse as the actors ran around the set; if only I could have heard the music without the accompaniment of deep inhales and exhales.  However, the grandeur and feeling provided by the orchestra, the set, the singing, the actors, and the entire production made it worthwhile.  The curtains were drawn down as gracefully as they were opened to mark the end of a picturesque production.

Shoes.  There’s so much you can infer about a person just by looking at their shoes (or if they’re wearing them at all).  Are they clean, are they dirty, are they creased? Are they sneakers, high heels, platforms, boots, wedges, or sandals?

Most people I know put a lot of thought into what kind of shoes they wear because of how they want to be perceived.  There are those that are Nike or Puma or Converse loyalists, and there are those that will choose heels over flats because she thinks it looks better.  I confess myself to be shoe obsessed but nowhere near Imelda Marcos (who owns over 2700 pairs!).  Although I own shoes from my Adidas Samba Vintage’s to 6-inch hot pink heels, I am very particular about the shoes I wear.  In the end, they have to feel good and look good.

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However, after years of dance and soccer, the bones in my feet have shifted, and it made running for an extended amount of time painful.  So I looked up some shoes that would replicate barefoot running and I found Vibram FiveFingers.  The name is not exactly appealing and at first glance, I thought: “People actually wear those things??”  But after reading reviews for a while, and continued pain while running in my regular sneakers, I bought them.  When I got home and showed my family, they all laughed and said I would look ridiculous.  I’d seen them on some other people and they did look a bit odd; but if I could run comfortably in them, I wouldn’t care.

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I didn’t have a chance to run in them before going to New Mexico in a program where we would be doing water testing, a perfect opportunity to wear them anyway.  My roommate, a student from Puerto Rico arrived wearing the craziest looking sandals I’d ever seen.  She told me that she calls them the “amphibians” and that they were the most comfortable sandals ever.  When she wore them out, everyone commented on them; some were positive responses, but most people thought they were just weird.  A few days later, we went water testing and I brought out the Vibrams to which I was also questioned on my choice of footwear.  My roommate and I laughed at the interest in our shoes and everyone whether they liked them or not, were intrigued.

I wear them on all my runs now, and people stare sometimes, but I could care less.

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Balkan Beat Box – Cha Cha

Cock-a-doodle-doo!  The sound of a rooster marks the beginning of Balkan Beat Box’s “Cha Cha” to which an upbeat, fun story is performed by a couple from the Gallim Dance Company.  It was the kind of high-tempo music and engaging expression and dance that makes the watcher want to jump up and join the dancers on stage.  It was the kind of happy wake-up call necessary to follow the abstract and highly conceptual performance of the Merce Cunningham Dance Company.

Set to John Cage’s “music” and with Rauschenberg as inspiration for the backdrop, the piece, titled “Xover,” features dancers in minimalist white unitards.  Alternately prancing around the stage in pairs and individually and finally altogether, the dancers show they are technically sound and practiced in the timing of their movement to the silence that occurs in the “music.”  Followed by a screech or some random French musings, dancers appear or exit the stage with no coherent fluidity.  Where there should be strength in movement, especially when partnering, there seemed to be a lack of conviction; there was no feeling given to the physical motion nor was there a perceived emotional connection between partners.  Sure there was a theme, but the only feeling elicited was annoyance; sure the John Cage’s challenged conceptions of music, but use of traditional steps and technical dancers left the watcher in confusion.  There was no movement or motion that challenged conceptions of dance nor was there anything to add interest.

The aforementioned Gallim Dance Company swooped in like a tornado of fresh air and a bubbly mood that was inescapable.  All the dancers were featured at some point, and the boldness of each individual was expressed in their bright and varying costume and consuming movement.  Everyone on stage related to each other well in emotion, partnering, and technical strength, but what made the performance especially gripping was the way the audience was engaged.  Sometimes it would be mouthing the words or giving a little smile or nod to the audience, inviting them to show emotion; this piece is fittingly entitled “I Can See Myself in Your Pupil.”  There was power and interest in the movement and it very well related to the eclectic music chosen.  Every dancer was special, there was control and energy from head to toe, and there was a great group dynamic.  This performance left me with an inspirational sort of feeling that still hasn’t left.

What followed was a traditional Indian performance from Madhavi Mudgal.  It started out beautifully in movement and one was transported into a melodic style that was easy on the eyes.  However, what started out promising didn’t continue that way.  The composition was choppy in movement on the stage and in formation and moving out of formation and the tempo and style started to put me in a sleepy lull.  The performance focused on one dancer while the rest felt like backup dancers but shouldn’t have been.  There was more energy created with all the dancers moving as one rather than the appearance of subservience to one.  The result was a thoroughly uninspiring piece.

However headache-inducing the show started, it ended with a delightful presentation of Twyla Tharp’s “The Golden Section” by the Miami City Ballet.  There was an ease and confidence into the jumps and motions of the dancers and simplicity yet intensity to the composition of the dancers and the piece.  The only criticism I can express is what felt like a lack of conviction for the emotion at times.  But the dynamism and strength of movement made up for what the dancers’ faces didn’t provide.  There was subtlety in the warm feeling to be elicited, and the beauty was in the vigor yet tranquility of movement.

The medley of performances provided a well-rounded variety for the night; from conceptual to modern, people continue to fall for dance because there are so many different styles and interpretations that can be conceived.  Movement and dance is available to anyone, and Fall for Dance serves to showcase what can be made of it; even if not every section is enjoyed, one can question why they didn’t.  The show was like a day where the morning was mind-numbing and painful, the afternoon took a huge upturn and was exciting, the evening mellowed out, and there was a nice dessert before sleeping.  And when the next day starts (no thanks to a rooster), there is an uninhibited desire to dance.

The best things in life are free, or at least nearly free.  There is the conception that quality is compromised when something is offered for free but I learned otherwise a few months ago.

I used to take yoga classes to supplement dance classes but stopped because I couldn’t see why I should pay to stretch and decided that I could just do it in my spare time.  After a few weeks of self-taught yoga, I stopped because I didn’t really know how to organize a session

One random day in February, my friend tells me that there’s free yoga at St. Mark’s Place.  Without any expectations, I go to yoga with her.  She has a mat, gym clothes, and water at the ready; I have two bucks to rent a hopefully non-infected, slip-proof, decent smelling mat, the dress that I wore to school, and no drink to hydrate myself with.  To my surprise, I came out feeling lighter, energized, and relaxed.

I laughed my way through a good part of it: at this place, they encourage you to breathe with a loud sigh or hum if it feels good and let’s just say some people are loud.  Then there’s this pose that you lie on your back, and grab for your feet called “happy baby.”  It’s possibly the most awkward pose ever but then you realize that everyone else is doing it too, and nobody’s looking at you.  Then you start hearing the “goo-goo ga-gas” and gurgling noises and you think you that you’re in a room full of absolute nuts.  Then you try it yourself.  And you know you’ve become a part of it.

There are no mirrors, and anything you change you have to feel if it is right or wrong.  Yoga is something I do for myself and when I do my practice I’m completely involved in my own world, but there’s something about the collective breathing that’s calming even if it’s next to the most hipster-y hipster, the graceful dancer, the uncoordinated boyfriend who was dragged along, or the old couple that decided they needed to exercise and are less than a half of a foot away from you or even if you’ve had the worst day and you decided that you hate the world.  The practice, the teachers, and the people have transformed me in some way; yoga has helped me realize things I want to pursue and things I want out of my life.  It’s strange because yoga really just leaves you to your own thoughts; so I guess I’ve taught myself what’s best for me and it didn’t cost a thing.



“Just choose one,” said my mom.  I was four and stared wide-eyed at the selection of flavors for Dunkin’ Donuts donuts.  The most appealing and colorful was the vanilla frosted with sprinkles, and every time we went on a weekly walk to the Dunkin’, that’s what I picked.

I was five, at the corner store, and confronted with a mosaic of brightly colored candy wrappers.  There were just so many colors to choose from and I chose different ones every time we went inside.

I was six and at the Barnes and Noble, searching for a Roald Dahl book.  When I found that he had written so many, I couldn’t decide which one.  I got The Witches that day and when I finished it, I wanted more an asked to go back.  So I eventually ended up with six.

Then I was sixteen.  I ballroom danced, was a member of a dance company, did ballet, played varsity soccer, managed boy’s basketball, swam, and held leadership positions in school clubs.  As the work load got heavier, I slept less and less, but I still finished all my school work and participated in my extracurriculars.  I love all the activities I did and couldn’t imagine leaving them; I met so many interesting and talented people, was given so many opportunities, and couldn’t cope with the idea of missing out.

That was sophomore year.  My parents told me not to play soccer junior year for fear of injuries and not enough time devoted to studying.  I had stopped managing basketball and I had swimming as a class instead, so I thought it would be fine to continue all the extracurriculars that I did.  I was expressly told not to join soccer but I couldn’t help myself.  I told my parents I had some extra club meetings after school or went running but instead went to practices and games.  I tried as hard as I could to make sure that the clothes and equipment were concealed in my bag, and I went into the laundry room at midnight when my parents were sleeping.  I hate lying to my parents but it was something I really wanted to do; there was just something about the open field, the team, and the fun that I needed.  I’m fairly sure my parents figured it out by the end of the season, but they never said anything to me.

I could never “just choose one.”  There’s too much to do, too many places to see, and to many things too enjoy.  There are the things that just stick, some things you need to have or do.  And what I want right now, is a vanilla frosted donut with sprinkles.

Behind the Gare St. Lazare

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“The photograph itself doesn’t interest me.  I want only to capture a minute part of reality.”  Those were the words of Henri Cartier-Bresson, considered by many to be a pioneer in photojournalism.  After discovering an interest in photography after receiving a camera as a souvenir from Japan, Howard Greenberg spent much of his time in a dark room to print what he had captured.  “There is a thrill of printing…especially with multiples…I played with layering images so that there was something there that could not be seen in reality,” he said with a slight grin.  “There’s a freedom to work and play within that world.”  Greenberg, much like he developed his own insights into the world of photography, paved his own way to meeting artists, learning history and culture, and building himself a career that he loves.

He has a very calm demeanor as he tells his biography, sometimes letting the corners of his mouth raise a bit.  His face becomes more animated as he describes the photographers of the images around the room; he has met most of them personally which gives the photos another dimension.  Though clearly knowledgeable about his field, it is his commitment to his passion and emphasis on human interaction that makes him memorable.  He said, “If you’re engaged in what you’re engaged in, things will happen.”  He told us how it was lucky that the small image of Cartier-Bresson’s Behind the Gare St. Lazare was found after it fell out of a book—a hidden gem.  Some events are serendipitous, but it is passion and drive that turn “minute parts of reality” into a continuing journey of thrills and inspiration.

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“I NEED STARBUCKS.”

There is manic glint in my friend’s eyes.  They’re slightly bloodshot and she tries to open them wider but her eyes are restricted by a droop in the upper lids and abyssal black circles underneath.  I begin to chuckle a bit as I go to grab my coat from my locker.

Another friend slumps to my side and says, “No, no, no. Go to Dunkin’ Donuts. They have that ninety-nine cent coffee deal today.

To that statement, there are shouts of excitement and people jump out the door.  But Dunkin’ Donuts doesn’t serve real coffee, they serve a watery, oddly colored, noxious concoction.  (And the one near our high school had a cat running around in the kitchen at the Dunkin’; sometimes there was an odor.)

The Dunkin’ argument had been gone over so many times, that the Starbucks friend, just rolled her squinted eyes over at the Dunkin’ friend and glared at him without saying a word.

“I’m not going to learn some special lingo or whatever just to order my coffee. A small is a tall? That doesn’t even make sense!! Extra hot?  Skinny?  Double?  All those macchiatos, lattes, whatever—they’re just all the same thing! Coffee and milk!”

The three of us go out and they settle on the Colombian coffee at the café that gives us student discounts.  Cheap, tasty, and heartwarming.

I sat there, sipping blissfully away at my home brewed, French-press made Costa Rican coffee as I had been the whole morning.