Credit: Emma Reid '20

Latkes and Dumplings

When I stand in front of the grey door on the seventh floor of my grandpa's apartment complex in late December, I know what is coming next: a massive flood of people who don't look like me will pull me across the threshold in an embrace, exclaiming how big I've gotten and how much I've grown. An invisible force controls me from that point on. Like a puppet my right foot steps forward, followed by my left. Out of love and respect for my family, I nod and smile, the corners of my mouth straining upward into an expression that conceals my uneasiness.

Don't get me wrong: I love my family. Celebrating Hanukkah is one of the few times during the whole year that I get to see my dad's side of the family together in the same room. But sometimes I feel out of place. Sometimes it's hard—not having anybody in my family who looks like me. When I was younger I used to say to my mom that my eyes looked like dolphins jumping into my nose. The downward shape of my eyes resembles the tail of a fish. When I look at my relatives' eyes, I see no resemblance. I see eyes with no deep curve to their shape.

The delicious smell of sizzling potato latkes fills the air, pulling my focus away from everyone around me. I get myself a plate and push away the plastic multi-colored dreidels scattered on the dining room table, making space for my food. You can never be alone at one of these parties. Trust me. I've tried it. I sit down and look around the brightly lit room and then, the next thing I know, one of my aunts is beside me. Thoughts of my physical differences vanish when I turn my attention toward her. My family is always interested in what's going on in my life— sometimes even more interested than I am. Every year they ask the same questions—literally you could record my answers and play them on repeat.

"How are you?"

"Good."

"How's school?"

"Good."

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No."

It's always been my tendency to give information on a need-to-know-basis. The consistency of my responses both disappoints and reassures them that everything is fine.

Sometimes I wonder how holidays would be celebrated if I were still living in China. I wouldn't speak English; the room would be filled with the aroma of fried dumplings, and I wouldn't notice anybody's eyes because they would be identical to mine.

I take a seat on the couch and look around. I ponder, If I were Caucasian, would my family interact with me differently? Does my eye shape affect the repetitive questions my family asks me? I take comfort in the certainty that my aunts would still ask me the same questions. I don't think my race impacts how they interact with me. While I do question this from time to time, I see how my aunts treat my cousins. They care about and love their children the same way they love me—by asking questions and being affectionate. My external differences don't make my relationship with my family members any different than their relationship with any of the other children in the family.

When I was in middle school, I used to help my mother with the week's laundry on Sundays. I would quickly shove the darks and the lights into two separate washers, and then wander from the laundry room to the building's communal library down the hall. Residents signed up to care for the space; they organized shelves and restacked books. The library was set up by genre, and contained a children's section. One morning when I was in sixth grade, I wandered over to the biography section and scanned the shelves for one that looked interesting. Landing on Chinese Cinderella: The True Story of an Unwanted Daughter by Adeline Yen Mah, I grabbed it from the shelf. One of the first things I noticed on the middle of the front cover, located next to a black and white photograph of Mah as a child, was the subtitle. "The True Story of an Unwanted Daughter" gives teenage readers a firsthand clue as to the emotions this memoir explores: this is not a happy story. As the daughter that caused her mother's death during childbirth, Mah always felt out of place with her siblings. Her father remarried after he was widowed. Mah didn't have any siblings she was close to. Her brothers teased her and played mean tricks on her. Initially she was close to one of her older sisters, but her stepmother, Niang, quickly put a stop to it. She took the older sister under her wing, isolating the sister from Mah so that they rarely saw each other. The stepmother bedecked the sister in jewels and exquisite clothes so that, in comparison, Mah looked like a member of the lower class. Mah carried the feeling of being disowned by her birth father and stepmother throughout her life. Her siblings broke off any ties to her, which left Mah with many lonely days to herself.

Throughout Mah's story, I connected with her need to belong in her family. Although our circumstances were different, we were both on a journey to find a way to feel accepted in our family. While I do feel that my family loves me as who I am, I cannot help but feel self-conscious that I am the only Chinese person there. Through tight hugs and juicy kisses on my round cheeks from my family, I feel their love for me coursing through their body. I hope my physical response conveys the same feeling toward them. My grandfather's living room symbolizes unity at this party. While our whole family can't squeeze around the dining table (even with multiple leaves in it), we sit on cushioned chairs set up by the window and a light brown embroidered couch. This is a very special time of year, as we get to catch up and hear about all the interesting events that have happened since the last time we spoke. For the majority of my family, that would have been since the party from last year! I explain my high school commute to my suburban relatives, and how I take two subways and transfer at Times Square at rush hour every morning and evening. I listen to my aunts when they tell me about my younger cousins' transitions from elementary school to middle school to high school. Through clinks of silverware and bites of homemade latkes and noodle kugel, I lean back and smile as I hear laughter overlap bits and pieces of multiple stories. I am now used to the loud noise that comes with celebrating Hanukkah. The stories that I tell my family add to the noise in the room, and make me a part of the tradition that is carried on year after year.

*

Throughout Mah's education, she received multiple awards for her achievements. Mah was placed as head girl of her school, Sheng Xin, which was a major honor. Her friends from school decided to bring a surprise party over to her house to celebrate her feat. Unbeknownst to them were the stakes for Mah, if Niang found out. Ah Sun, her grandmother, tried to console Mah by saying, "'They mean well'" (113). Mah was scared that her friends would find out about her difficult household life. The young girl was greeted with great exclamations of congratulations from her peers. Their excitement overpowered Mah and she became silent, terrified that Niang would come downstairs and yell at everyone to leave.

There were times in my early teens where I struggled with feeling secure in my family. This emotion continues to show up in large family gatherings such as the annual Hanukkah parties. I mainly feel this way at the start of the celebration. I don't see the majority of my dad's family on a regular basis, let alone in the same room, so it's very overwhelming when I first enter the room. Although I know my family would never want to hurt me, the bits of conversation on top of each other makes me feel anxious because we all converse in one general vicinity. There are also times during the evening when I look up from my plate of food or the person I'm talking with and scan the room. I know that I am the only Asian person there, but sometimes it feels like the reality has just hit me.

Although growing up as a Chinese Jewish American has made me feel isolated at some points, it's something that is unique about me. The majority of my friends are Christian, so we don't bond over celebrating the same religious holidays. I know that I am fortunate to be a part of a large family who not only introduced me to their religion and culture but allowed me to share mine with them. I take friends and relatives down to Manhattan's Chinatown in New York City, introducing them to my favorite bakeries and bubble tea cafes and dumpling houses. Every year my dad and I buy decorations for Lunar New Year, and we usually go to the New Year Parade.

Even though sometimes I feel like an outsider, I always know that I have a home and a family that loves me. Latkes aren't my new dumplings; they're a different part of me that symbolizes unity in my loving family, while dumplings connect me to my Chinese culture. Though I'm more than seven thousand miles away from the country I was born in, I only physically left; my immediate family celebrates my Chinese culture, reminding me of traditions that could have been. I can't leave my past behind; it will always be with me. Over time I've learned that though I don't have the same eye shape as the mother who raised me, I have the same love, and I'll take that over anything any day of my life.

Credit: Emma Reid '20

They're The Picture, I'm The Frame

Saunders Street looks decidedly pastoral after crossing Queens Boulevard underneath the Long Island Expressway. East of an overpass at the intersection of Woodhaven Boulevard is a sprawling expanse of dreary Robert Moses era apartment towers, shopping malls, and nondescript small businesses of Rego Park, Queens. Jazz drummer Jimmy Wormworth has lived in the same one bedroom apartment in this neighborhood for forty-nine years. The door of #2H bears a decal, demarcating the territory of the fictitious "Federal Jazz Commission."

"Hold on, let me unhook the bar on the police lock…you want something cold to drink?" inquires Wormworth with a grin.

He is wiry, and his features are angular and chiseled. Almost every available inch of wall space is covered with framed flyers and posters advertising concerts from various decades and locales— à la batterie, a la batteria, am schlagzeug, en la baterìa—all of which feature Jimmy Wormworth on drums. 

Since leaving his hometown of Utica, New York in 1957 to  move to New York City, this master musician's innate talent, generous spirit and nonpareil personality have found a welcoming home in the global jazz community and brought him a feeling of fellowship that was perhaps unavailable to him while growing up the son of an interracial married couple during  the 1940s and 1950s. 

"I didn't want to have a sense of belonging in just my family, I wanted to have a sense of belonging anywhere. Not just belonging but accepted." says Wormworth.

By way of the vast network of friends and colleagues that he has collected over a sixty-two year career, and the legions of fellow musicians that he has mentored and inspired, it seems that the progressive world of jazz—which spearheaded integration long before many major American institutions did—provided Wormworth, who was between two cultures while coming of age, both an emotional refuge and an outlet for an immense creative gift.

*

Utica, New York today looks like any number of economically depressed manufacturing towns still reeling from the gradual departure of industry. In the 1930s, Utica was Central New York's powerhouse of textile manufacturing, and such a stronghold of organized crime that it was known as "Sin City of the East." As in Capone's Chicago or Pendergast's Kansas City, Utica's "handshake deal" Mafia influence on businesses, combined with lax local government oversight on gambling and prostitution, led to a proliferation of nightlife to entertain the throngs of factory workers. In turn, a vibrant music scene thrived. 

"My father was a pretty well-known musician, he came from a black society family. He played with Billie Holiday and Helen Humes. My mother's brother was a saxophonist who was just as talented as my father. My mother went to gigs with my uncle and that's how she met my father." says Wormworth,  rapidly gesticulating with his arms and hands, like a whirlwind or a dynamo.

James Wormworth and Wormworth's Italian-American mother, Anne Mariani, met in the mid-1930s. They married soon after meeting, and had two sons. His father performed as a drummer and pianist all around Central New York, and the peripatetic life of an itinerant musician wasn't conducive to being much of a family man—in fact, the union only lasted two years. 

"After my father had two kids, he just totally went 'left', so I was left to grow up with my white Italian side of the family. They would occasionally take me to visit my black grandmother, or her sister and my black cousins, but I didn't relate to them at all."

Wormworth's saxophonist uncle left a console turntable and a handful of expertly selected jazz 78s with Wormworth's mother after returning home from World War II in January 1946, inadvertently laying the groundwork for his nephew to become enraptured.  

"It wasn't until I was nine years old and I heard Art Tatum, Nat King Cole, and Nellie Lutcher, that I went in another direction—the direction of black people's music."  

The young Wormworth sat spellbound for hours by the family stereo, transported by the sounds of the Nat King Cole Trio, piano virtuoso Art Tatum, and vocalist/pianist Nellie Lutcher. After practically wearing the 78s out (and learning to sing the solos therein note for note), his family was convinced that he was a precocious talent, and his aunt arranged for him to begin drum lessons. After two and a half years of study he was a working musician before he was even in high school.

"I worked my first New Year's Eve gig when I was thirteen. That was the latest I had ever stayed out, until two in the morning!" he recalls with a chuckle. After gaining more experience with youth dance bands, his mother instructed him, "If you want to play this (jazz) music, you might as well go see your father." 

The elder Wormworth had been a spectral presence in his son's life up to that point, but music served to connect the two, even if a filial bond was never formed. 

"I never got a birthday card, Christmas card, anything from him. When I played with him he never even used to talk to me, but he was quiet and didn't seem to talk to hardly anybody. Which is fine with me, except that I was supposed to be his son."

The chasm left by his father's emotional distance created a yearning for surrogate parental figures, the first of which was a brilliant African-American drummer named Gordon Smith, who became a friend and mentor to the teenage Jimmy Wormworth and recommended him for gigs in Utica with older musicians. 

"Oh I felt like I finally found a home! I was finally around people who I could not only relate to but who I could rely on to teach me stuff," he explains.

Though he wouldn't stay in Utica much longer, leaving at the age of nineteen in 1957 to go on a European tour, (settling in New York City afterwards) the tendency to seek surrogate family figures persisted for years. 

"I'm real curious, so I was always looking for stuff. Sometimes I looked in the wrong places and got hooked up with the wrong people, but a lot of times I was lucky to fall into the right places and get hooked up with people who taught me a lot; from Gordon Smith and some of those other guys in Utica, Lou Donaldson, Doug Watkins, Wilbur Ware, Al Haig, Peck Morrison…" he says, rattling off a laundry list of seminal figures from the golden age of jazz.

Wormworth's talent and effervescent personality served him well in ingratiating himself with fellow musicians on the New York City jazz scene in 1957, moving there after leaving Utica at the age of 19 when he organized a band for an extended tour of Europe. 

"Jimmy was so likeable and outgoing and just a fun guy to be with,"recalls saxophonist Frank Perowsky, who was his roommate during that time. 

While working with the hugely popular vocal trio Lambert, Hendricks, and Ross from 1959 until 1962, he often played on package tours opposite legends like Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Sarah Vaughan, Miles Davis, and Dizzy Gillespie. 

"We called him 'The Kid' 'cause he looked about 19, but he was one of the greatest drummers." said jazz legend and Wormworth's employer in this group, Jon Hendricks. "He was such a curious guy and everybody loved him."

While on tour, he made a hobby of snapping candid photos of the musical giants he would encounter on his Polaroid Brownie camera.

*

For the last decade, a monthly ritual for Wormworth has been to play an afternoon gig organized by the Jazz Foundation of America at the Lost Batallion Hall Community Center, just across Queens Boulevard from his apartment. A retinue of young musicians in thrall of Wormworth's deeply authentic sound is often invited back to his apartment on Saunders Street as he holds court for hours, showing off this priceless collection of photos and recounting stories describing the action depicted. Any one of these informal Wednesday salons in apartment #2H could be comprised of musicians from a wide-ranging swath of ethnicities and nationalities, such as Korea, Italy, Japan, Spain, Germany, and Israel, huddling around their elder in a small living room as he dispenses wisdom. The progression from eager protégé to fulfilling the same mentoring role is complete.

"He's always helpful to anybody, a lot of musicians ask him about the music, and just talking with him is a great lesson,"says Japanese drummer Ai Murakami, who is a frequent Wednesday guest at Wormworth's Federal Jazz Commission.

*

  "Pakistani looking Italian who fell in love with black American music" is how Wormworth mirthfully describes himself today as he sits nestled in Queens County, the most ethnically diverse county in the United States. This kind of diversity was scarce in the tight knit Italian American community of Utica in the 1930s and 1940s. 

"I would say that ninety percent of that community was pretty racist…Some contributed to Mussolini," he recalls with considerably less mirth then when he recalls his history as a musician. It is perhaps no coincidence that navigating in that particular setting as a person of color, and as the child of an interracial marriage, would cultivate in Wormworth a desire to be accepted, and to avoid confrontation. 

"I don't like conflict, I don't even like observing conflict. I find it disturbing and frightening. (When I was growing up) people assumed I was something that I wasn't by what they saw visually," he says before bounding up from his living room sofa with a speed that betrays his eighty-two years. He offers his guest some refreshments and then remarks, "My family, they were liberal Italians, not a high formal education, but highly intelligent and very honest. They were the exception in the Italian-American community (of that time)—they weren't racist. I want to belong, that's what it boils down to…I never felt like I belonged except within my own family, and they thought I was a little weird too!"  

He remembers this with a beaming smile and a  hearty laugh—both frequently punctuate his sentences in our conversation.

 *

In addition to  impromptu master classes in Queens, in recent years Wormworth has also conducted formal workshops on jazz drumming in Spain, Germany and Austria, discovering that he possesses the rare gift to inspire students with his joyful and empathetic personality. His humor, immense skill, and positivity serve to act as a binding force between students of disparate backgrounds and skill. Beyond his vast practical knowledge and endless supply of anecdotes (born out of a near photographic memory) and a lifetime of interactions with jazz giants, his greatest asset as an educator and mentor is his commitment to inclusion. Whether generously offering his couch to host students visiting New York from out of town, insisting on introducing his students to respected musicians and arranging for them to sit-in or substitute for him, or offering advice, encouragement and inspiration in one of his signature extended phone conversations, Jimmy Wormworth provides his friends the exact same thing that he has sought throughout his life: a sense of belonging.

"The most rewarding thing is seeing so many talented people from so many different backgrounds wanting to learn the same stuff that I love. They have admiration for me and that makes me feel really good. I've made some of what I would consider lifelong friends," he shares, illustrating the deeply symbiotic relationship between student and teacher.

Jimmy Wormworth's children bear the trace of his influence,  through the forces of both nature and nurture. Married and the father of five children by the age of twenty three, he spent much of the 1960s and 1970s working odd jobs and playing in clubs across the tri-state area, supporting his large family. Though his marriage eventually dissolved and he battled alcoholism until achieving sobriety in 2007, he can look with pride at the success of his children—all of whom are musically inclined, two being professional musicians. His son James Wormworth appears nightly as the drummer on the TBS television talk show Conan, and his daughter Tracy has toured the world as the bassist with Sting, Wayne Shorter, and the B-52s.

"They've been more successful than I have been, I'm happy to say. They've met and worked with some very influential people, travelled the world, and they did it on their own. A parent couldn't ask for anything more than to have kids like I have. I like to say—my kids are great despite of me, not because of me!"  

Jimmy Wormworth, for a long time, longed to feel connected to others—longed for a kind of connection that felt elusive. Jazz presented itself as a refuge during a childhood where he often felt ill at ease, one foot in the Italian-American family which embraced him, and another in the African-American culture he was estranged from. The very act of creating improvised music extemporaneously with  fellow musicians offered Wormworth an opportunity to experience the kind of egalitarian expression of fellowship that occurs so fleetingly in organized society. 

"It's a communal thing, it's a democracy. Everybody has to carry their own weight. If you impinge on somebody, you try to knock somebody else down, you try to carry their weight for them…all of sudden things aren't quite on the rails (anymore)," he says, explaining a philosophy central to his way of life. Jazz music, a medium where the practitioner must fit their personal statement within the collective needs of the ensemble, is a form where one is rewarded for both individuality and empathy towards those around them. 

"They're the picture, I'm the frame," is how he now characterizes his approach to musical accompaniment as a drummer. His generosity of spirit, curiosity, and originality have an outlet in music. In turn, this master artist, caught between two cultures for many years, finds the acceptance, kinship, and sense of belonging that he always yearned for.

Works Cited

• Miner, Neal. "Through the Eyes of a Drummer–The Life & Photos of Jimmy Wormworth." YouTube, YouTube, 12 Dec. 2015, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SuRdwt4KeXw.

Credit: Emma Reid '20

The Families of the Lower West Side

In his Lower West Side Series, Milton Rogovin showcases the many faces of Buffalo, New York. He chose this neighborhood because he wanted to present the ethnically diverse area that was close to his work, not only to better know his neighbors, but to display to the world what the Lower West Side means to him. This photo series is comprised of approximately 140 photos spanning from 1972-1977. Two family portraits, one of an Asian family sitting on a couch, and the other of a black woman sitting with her arm around a young boy and girl, similar portray families of people of color living in the Lower West Side of Buffalo in an intimate and comfortable light, challenging preconceived notions that those living in poverty are somehow dehumanized by their circumstances. 

The Asian family consists of a father, mother, and their two young children, on a cotton upholstered couch. The father wears a dark top, light pants, and white socks, and sits with a laid-back posture, leaning slightly on the arm of the couch as he gazes at the camera. Next to where his right arm drapes over the back of the couch is a lamp, still covered in its plastic wrapping, on a side table. The mother, wearing a white top and dark pants, sits barefoot and slouched with her hands resting in her lap. She holds a tired expression while looking slightly beyond the frame. The two children sit next to their parents, the younger one sits cross-legged with his thumb in his mouth looking blankly out of frame, while the other sits with his right foot propped up on the couch, glancing curiously at the camera. Behind them is a photo hanging on the wall of the two children sitting on the same couch as they are on now, when they were younger. 

Milton Rogovin, Lower West Side series, 1972-1977

This family portrait shows a charismatic father, seemingly eager to take a photo with his family, a mother, who appears tired, and the children, curious about the world around them. The photo that hangs behind the family allows the viewer to see the growth of the family over time. While only giving the viewer so much to look at, this photograph has a larger story to tell.

The second photograph shows a black woman and her two children sitting together on a concrete ledge outside their home. The mother sits with her right arm protectively around the two children, with the other arm resting in her lap. Wearing a turtleneck and pencil skirt, she stares directly at the camera. Next to her sits the young boy, who sports a black top and striped pants. He seems almost unaware of the camera, his attention focused on his mother's hand as he intertwines his own hand into hers. With her mother's hand resting on her shoulder, the girl gives a quick yet curious glance at the camera. She wears a striped top, skirt, and white bows in her hair, and sits with her hands folded on her knees. Behind them is a beat-up background consisting of graffitied bricks, as well as the front door of their home that has a broken window. 

Milton Rogovin, Lower West Side series, 1972-1977

The daughter, who at first glance seems to be mimicking her mother's gaze at the camera, actually chooses to look at it begrudgingly. Her mother's arm keeps her close, the body language between the mother and daughter suggesting the girl's restlessness, and how she may not want to have her photo taken. Her brother, on the other hand, proves to be more camera-shy, focusing on his mother rather than looking directly at the camera. This family portrait, unlike the first one, is taken outside the home in this family's neighborhood. Here you can see the contrast in  the family's clothing and the condition of the surrounding area.

*

Rogovin displays these families in a way that counters some of the negative connotations that have been pinned on the people living in the Lower West Side area. Looking at these photos provokes a similar feeling as revisiting old family portraits. The fact that we get to see inside their lives, makes us feel at home and part of the family. After taking a closer look at both photographs, one wonders what is not shown. What was it like to live in the Lower West Side at that time, and how did that affect the families portrayed in the photographs? In addition, what about Rogovin—what were his views on the conditions of the Lower West Side?

Milton Rogovin grew up in Brooklyn, New York in a Jewish family. After completing his degree in optometry he moved to Buffalo to pursue his career. Rogovin began his work as a documentary photographer at the age of forty-eight after he refused to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee, a choice that ruined his career as an optometrist. His voice silenced, Rogovin turned to photography. Through his photographs, he not only spoke up for himself, but for the people around him. Choosing to photograph the people of the Lower West Side, Rogovin wanted to focus on what he considered "the forgotten ones": people who were left underrepresented and underappreciated. 

* 

The photographers of Humans of New York carry a similar vision for their work. Vinson Cunningham's addresses the photography for HONY in The New York Times, "Photography has long been used instrumentally, if not to tell stories in this contemporary sense, certainly to call attention to various social realities." 

Rogovin decided to focus on the parts of Buffalo that are areas riddled with poverty, unemployment, drugs, and prostitution—but Rogovin saw beyond the cracks in the cement, focusing on the flowers that sprouted in between. Verlyn Klinkenborg writes of Rogovin in The New Yorker: "He found an openness in their faces, a directness, that says a great deal about his candor and empathy."  

Klinkenborg expresses admiration for Rogovin's empathy and his ability to see beyond the surface of a human being to see the real stories hidden underneath. We see this through his photograph of the Asian family sitting on the couch, or the African-American woman and her children sitting on their doorstep, both conveying family and togetherness. 

Although his initial career path was damaged due to forces outside his control, Rogovin was able to find a new medium to express himself and help others along the way. Rogovin chose to photograph people of the Lower West Side to tell their stories and encapsulate them in time so that they could never be forgotten. In some cases, Rogovin would photograph the same people over time, creating a triptych that would show the subject grow and change (Klinkenborg). 

*

Buffalo is unofficially segregated, with people of color typically in the city, and more Caucasian residents in the suburbs. Reading about Rogovin and his background, as well as his heartfelt views on the people of the Lower West Side, gave me hope for a better Buffalo. Rogovin not only gave us a window into his subject's lives, he allowed us to see past the judgment and preconceived notions that accompany such separations, giving us a clearer picture as to who they are. His photos are raw and truthful, embracing the challenges the residents of the Lower West Side experience, while also highlighting the people who undergo these misfortunes in a positive light. In an interview for his documentary, The Forgotten Ones, Rogovin expressed how the people he photographed cried when they saw their photos hanging in a gallery rather than a police department (Wang). Seeing past the negative aspects of this part of the Lower West Side, Rogovin truly believed that all people have great potential and wanted to show that in the most honest way possible: a photograph.

Rogovin wanted to showcase the people of the Lower West Side in a way that we can empathize with—a way that doesn't cast his subjects as "other." Rogovin creates a window into the lives of the families he photographed; there we rub our sleeves in circles on a foggy glass lens to find more to the story. We stare and analyze, trying to make sense of what we see beyond the glass— until we see our own reflection.

Works Cited

• Cunningham, Vinson. "Humans of New York and the Cavalier Consumption of Others." The New Yorker. 3, Nov. 2015.
• Klinkenberg, Verlyn. "Milton Rogovin." The New York Times. 5 Feb. 2011.
• Wang, Harvey. "The Forgotten Ones." Youtube, uploaded by Travelinglight56, 14 Dec. 2014, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HN5wm_Kxvi4

Credit: Emma Reid '20

Bound to Free 

When I tell people I hated high school, they usually believe that I'm exaggerating. It feels as though the anger, loneliness, and stress I felt during that time could be  overlooked since I had no bills to pay, no "real" job, and no children at home to take care of. For some people, high school is an eye-opening stage of life, and it certainly was for me, too. Sometimes though, I can't help but feel disappointed in the environment I was forced to learn in. High school was difficult, not simply because of academics, but because the community was socially and emotionally constricting. Since leaving that environment, I have been trying really hard to become more comfortable with myself. It is something I work on every day.

I went to high school in a suburban town called Brockport, just outside of Rochester, New York. Like many small towns, the people in Brockport were like-minded and shared  the same identity: white, straight, cis-gender, and conservative. Students of color only made up about one-tenth of the student population. We were already viewed as outsiders, and many white students made sure all of us knew it, too. Swastikas appeared on the bathroom walls and under desks in classrooms. Many students of color were called the n-word, and other racial epithets, and Latino kids were referred to as "illegals." Just about all of us heard the phrase, "Go back to where you came from," at least once. There were barely any consequences for this behavior. Time after time, my friends and I would report these issues to our administrators, only for them to take as little action as possible. The same thing would happen over and over again.

During my freshman year, one of our principals created the Instagram hashtag #bhsinspires, intending to highlight positive things going on in our school. Of course, this was not what happened. Soon, the hashtag was being used by anonymous accounts with random names. These accounts posted things like pictures of Emmett Till's mutilated body, Hitler and Nazi soldiers, KKK members, and many more unsettling images. There was even a picture of a white man morphing into a picture of a Klansman with the caption, "When the black girls are being loud at 7 in the morning #bhsinspires." That particular post scared me more than the rest of them. I felt like a target. 

My friends and I, all girls of color, would meet each other in the morning and just look at one another silently. There were no words to describe that kind of fear. I was scared to come to school for a long time, and I told my mom I wanted to transfer, but she wouldn't let me. It became hard to focus in class because that hashtag was all I could think about. Any of my classmates could have been behind the creation of those accounts, and I would never know. Students cracked jokes about it that made my stomach churn. To them, the whole thing was funny. I resented them, while in silence. When I reported the issue to the administration, I was told that there was nothing that could be done, since the accounts were anonymous. I was angry and frustrated, but just tired of trying, so I dealt with the fear in silence.

This is only a small fraction of the kind of hatred I had to deal with during high school. Being ostracized due to one part of my identity made it hard to be open and proud of the other parts—the ones I kept to myself. I struggled with coming to terms with my sexuality for a long time, and in some ways, I still am. My classmates were no better to queer and trans students than they were to students of color. I didn't want to be talked about even more than I already was, so I kept that part of me a secret.

*

My junior year of high school put me in a bad place physically, mentally, and emotionally. I had so much work, and instead of stepping up my work ethic, I procrastinated. Each night, I'd push off my homework until around nine or ten o'clock and finish very early the next morning. I slept in class constantly since I was so tired. I ate horrible food quite frequently and gained a lot of weight, which also had a negative impact on my self-esteem. I had a hard time finding things that excited me or made me happy about life, and it was really hard for me to share that with the people around me.

Sometime during that year, I bought a Young Adult novel called More Happy Than Not by Adam Silvera. I had read and loved another one of his books called They Both Die at the End, so I decided to read this one as well. Once I started reading, I couldn't stop. More Happy Than Not follows sixteen-year-old Aaron Soto, a Latino boy living in the Bronx. After his father's suicide, Aaron is trying his best to feel happy again and starts to do just that through his newly-developed friendship with a boy in the neighborhood, Thomas. As their friendship progresses, Aaron realizes that his feelings for Thomas are romantic, which causes his life to spiral out of control. It's hard for him to grapple with the realization that he likes boys, especially due to the homophobia in his community. When Aaron tells Thomas that he's gay, he feels scared, thinking, "This silence makes me uncomfortable, like I'll never be comfortable again. If I play my cards wrong, I'll not only lose my privacy, but maybe rob myself of my happiness too" (135). He then says to Thomas, "Obviously I'm scared for my throat being [gay] around here, but I'm not exactly rushing to tell everyone tomorrow" (135). This fear of coming out and being treated badly because of it is something I related to on a deep level. Reading this reminded me of my own school environment. The way I saw it, being open about my sexuality wasn't worth the possibility of being ostracized, and for a long time, I sacrificed my own comfortability to avoid feeling like an outcast.

Over some time I was able to gain a little courage. The first people I told about my sexuality were my friends, the ones I had been attached to since the sixth grade. I told them one day while walking to class that I found this girl in the grade above us (who had just walked by) really cute, following that statement with, "By the way, I like girls, I guess." I was so embarrassed to say it out loud that I couldn't even look at them. They reacted like I thought they would: kindly, happily, glad that I felt comfortable enough to be so honest about it. Like Aaron, I only allowed the people I trusted the most to know who I was in that way. 

Aaron's inner conflict only grows stronger as the story progresses. He even considers getting a "memory-relief procedure" done by the Leteo Institute, which could help him forget that he's gay in the first place, saying, "I don't want to second guess if my friends are going to be okay with me being me… I don't want to see what happens if they're not… I'm doing myself a favor in the long run if I can somehow book a Leteo procedure" (157). Later on, Aaron's friends overhear a conversation between him and Thomas where they talk about the time Aaron kissed him, even though Thomas doesn't feel the same way. When Thomas leaves, Aaron's friends all gang up on him. Even his best friend Brendan tells him, "It's for your own good," just before the group jumps him, punching and kicking, and eventually throwing him through a glass door leaving him incapacitated.

I remember reading this part of the book in the dark of my room with only the flashlight from my phone to help me see. I was crying so hard. It was too real for me. This reminded me of all the stories I'd heard in the news about queer and trans people getting assaulted and sometimes killed for kissing their partner in public or dressing a certain way. Aaron, though he is a fictional character, suffered a fate that is not unlike a lot of LGBTQ people in real life. Many of us are terrified to exist as we are because the world will not accept us. I felt this way about my school, and about certain members of my family. I knew the people who mattered most wouldn't care, but the fear of knowing that someone at any moment would call me names or hurt me in any way was too scary for me to even care about what I'd gain from being my most authentic self. It wasn't worth it.

I think my connection with Aaron speaks volumes about how much oppression dictates the quality of one's life. Though Aaron was from an urban community, and I went to school in a suburban one, both of us lived in communities that were very constricting, where claiming our identities led to ridicule or attack. 

"Happiness shouldn't be this hard," Aaron says in the book. 

And he's right, it shouldn't. Treating people kindly should not be conditional, but universal. This is why it is so important to have spaces that are judgment-free, where everyone is accepted no matter what they look like, who they love, or what they can do. I often wish I went to a school that was more accepting, where I didn't have to hide who I was or water down my very being. But I can't change that. I am very much a product of my experiences, positive and negative, and they have made me stronger. Reading More Happy Than Not helped me realize that despite external factors that may impact certain aspects of my life, it is my job to define my own happiness and assure that I reach it.

One of the main reasons why I chose to attend Purchase College was because it felt like everyone was accepted there, no matter who they were, or how they identified. The strange part is that even now, at a place like this, I still don't like talking about my sexuality, or who I may be attracted to at the moment. In writing, I have managed to, for the very first time, put all of my deeper, intrusive thoughts into words. I am still afraid and still uncomfortable— but I don't want to be this way forever. My hope is that being in an accepting, loving environment will help me reach a point where I accept my whole self for who I am, and refuse to whittle away at parts of my identity for the sake of others.

Credit: Emma Reid '20

How Presumption Prohibits Connection in
Alexis Arthurs' "Light Skinned Girls and Kelly Rowlands"

Kimberly, the narrator from Alexia Arthurs' short story "Light-Skinned Girls and Kelly Rowlands," has difficulty adjusting to collegiate life. Young, black, and feeling alone at a largely white school, Kimberly is also set apart from her peers by being a commuting student with a very tight budget, and being exceptionally sexually repressed compared to those in her friend group. However, her struggle with loneliness is ultimately largely self-imposed: her attitude towards her peers is heavily influenced by the race-based marginalization she expects, but does not receive. Kimberly's actions throughout the story indicate that she is unable to form lasting interracial relationships because of preconceptions that she cannot abandon, even when presented with a myriad of evidence that challenges her biases.

Kimberly is initially separated from her fellow students in two ways, by physical proximity and financial stability. She perceives herself as an outsider; she is a commuting student who grew up in Brooklyn—in Manhattan's shadow. In response to fellow classmates who seem to "think that New York is heaven, or close enough," Kimberly rolls her eyes, out of envy. Additionally, Kimberly is poorer than her classmates, unable to take out a loan for a dormitory, despite living an hour away. Shopping at Trader Joe's is a rare treat, and the sandwich shops that her peers, namely Cecilia, the only other black girl in her class, like, are significantly more expensive, for smaller portions. Kimberly would more likely opt to catch a train home than attend social events on campus, a circumstance that further impacts her ability to find common ground with her classmates. It is not until Kimberly hangs out with Cecilia twice outside of school hours, and is then invited to hang out with Cecilia and her friend group some time after, that the two become friends. This connects Kimberly with an established friend group, and allows her more freedom.  Eventually, their friendship deepens enough for Kimberly to feel comfortable enough to "…sleep in Cecilia's dorm bed with her … when it got too late to go home" (8). As she can now stay at Cecilia's dorm instead of being catching the last train back, Kimberly's world begins to steadily open up and fill with new experiences.

Although Kimberly's friendship with Cecilia supports more frequent social interactions with her peers, Kimberly remains largely inexperienced in navigating romantic encounters. This contrasts Cecilia's steady interest in men. Kimberly voices her belief that attraction to blue eyes by black women is problematic as it implies attraction to "the single most oppressive entity in the world" (8). She is personally disinterested in white men unless they have "the swag of a black man, like Justin Timberlake." Even once she gets to know them, she has very few positive things to say about the two white men (Adam and Ryan), with whom she begins to regularly interact with in the story. She is new to romantic pursuits, and at one point recalls that during a brief crush on a boy while in high school, she became "intimidated and turned off by the fact that he was also interested in men," and quickly abandoned her pursuit of him. This distaste for men, particularly white men, follows her well into her college years, and heavily influences how she communicates not only with her male peers but with their girlfriends, by proxy: "One time [Kimberly] saw [Cecilia] holding hands with a white boy, who was a little bit handsome when [Kimberly] crossed [her] eyes, but mostly ugly" (2). Even as she gets to know Cecilia and her boyfriend, Kimberly frequently expresses distaste for the interracial relationship and doubts its authenticity. These judgmental thoughts reveal just how bitter and jealous Kimberly is of those more familiar with sexual intimacy, and that she is reluctant to work to change that.

Kimberly also does not prove capable of separating romantic and platonic relationships. Once the two girls go on their lunch date and become friends, Kimberly is quite explicit in how picturesque and close their relationship became, describing it as "the way some people forget other relationships when they fall in love" (6). Although she is not admitting to any distinctly romantic feelings towards Cecilia, she readily compares their presumably mutually platonic friendship with what she sees and expects in romantic relationships. Although it is entirely possible to forge deep platonic relationships quickly, such a description of their friendship suggests that Kimberly may be repressing feelings of desire under the guise of looking for a female friend. Therefore, compared to her peers, not only does Kimberly have significantly less dating experience, she also seems to have little experience with platonic relationships, and could possibly be disconnected from her real sexual interests, or her own desires. The inability to examine her own inner feelings eventually leads her to project her own fears and insecurities onto Cecilia: "I envied her for reasons that weren't even her fault," (14).

Unfortunately, this confusion also actively influences how Kimberly feels about interracial romantic relationships: "[Cecilia] could want to sleep with a white man and that desire came as a clean feeling," (14). By refusing to address her issues with intimate interracial relationships, Kimberly actively limits how well she is able to relate to her peers (even those of her own race), and is frequently blindsided by Cecilia's openness. 

Considering Kimberly's unique situation of being largely friendless at this school and a commuter, it makes sense that she prioritize seeking companionship from those who she perceives would be able to relate to her. However, unlike most who aim to meet people through mutual interests, Kimberly chooses to introduce herself only to the other black girl at her college orientation, and no one else. She does not try to befriend fellow commuters, or Brooklyn natives, or lonely-looking people. Instead she focuses on Cecilia for one reason only: she is also black. Before even any introductions, Kimberly passes judgement based on Cecilia's appearance, mannerisms, and even her name, implying she is not even truly black; "…a white girl trapped in a black girl's body – an Oreo" (1). Even though she perceived this as a character flaw when it was applied to herself years earlier, Kimberly pats herself on the back for being ready to overlook this perceived flaw within Cecilia. And, when Cecilia is not drawn to Kimberly based on their shared race, Kimberly almost takes it as a personal affront. When they come across each other in Trader Joe's almost a year later, Kimberly admits to feeling hurt that Cecilia does not seem to even remember their brief meeting at freshman orientation (3). Despite exchanging a mere handful of words, Kimberly acts as if she expected a relationship to already be formed between them simply because of their shared skin color. When Cecilia compliments her photography, Kimberly feels particularly good because the compliment came from someone of mutual race. She is also secretly ecstatic when Cecilia follows up on her offer to grab coffee; Kimberly has finally been noticed by a fellow person of color (5). This friendship with Cecilia opens Kimberly's world to a variety of new experiences: dating, partying, socializing…She even begins to kind of like New York City, leaving her "believing that the city really is as magical as people are always saying" (6).

Even so, Kimberly is not able to shed her beliefs regarding white people, particularly men, and their role in the historic oppression and gentrification of women, minorities, and their communities. Whereas, before it was arguably the commute or her finances that made Kimberly feel like an outsider at her school, now it is exclusively Kimberly herself setting up barriers between herself and potential new friends. Although she found common ground with Cecilia over their shared Jamaican heritage, she cannot find commonality with anyone else.

Every conversation the reader is privy to, even most of those had with Cecilia, is heavily politically, socially, or racially charged. University is a wonderful place for self-discovery and the forming of one's opinions, however, time and again, Kimberly exemplifies a distinct inability to internalize and reflect on the deeper meaning of the experiences she has that challenge her preconceptions. She is dead-set in her expectations of white men and black women, and is in general incapable of letting go of her misplaced resentment in favor of forming positive relationships with people she seems to genuinely like. Even when presented with solid counter arguments, such as, "what are [white people] supposed to do when [they] can't afford the rent in other neighborhoods?" Kimberly is unable to respond directly, and instead deflects to avoid processing the question and adjusting her perceptions (12). Even after she and Cecilia become relatively close friends, Kimberly still directly accuses Cecilia of bringing a black date to a party specifically to show up Cecilia's ex, Adam. And, not just to show him up, but specifically to "use a black dick to make a white man jealous" (13). With this accusation, Kimberly shows that not only does she believe in the stereotype that black men are more well-endowed than white men, but that Cecilia's interest in her black date could not be anything more than superficial because of Cecilia's prior history of dating white men. This is also quite hypocritical, considering that early on into their friendship Kimberly had pointed out and expressed concern about Cecilia allegedly dating exclusively outside of her race. Yet as soon as Cecilia shows interest in a black partner, Kimberly cannot seem to fathom that the interest could be genuine. Kimberly's difficulty in recognizing Cecilia's new relationship as legitimate exemplifies just how biased she is—when Cecilia admits that she came up with a date to make Adam jealous but categorically denies that her plan had "anything to do with [the date] being black," Kimberly makes it very clear that she does not believe that race could not have been a factor for Cecilia, because race is always a factor for Kimberly (13). Only in retrospect, after their friendship has ended, does Kimberly admit that she "envied [Cecilia] for reasons that weren't even her fault" and that she is "too stubborn and maybe even too stupid to make any attempts at winning back [her] friend's favor" (14). It is these rare periods of introspection that show just how close Kimberly is to finding more common ground with her peers, and just how easily she lets the opportunities slip away in favor of preserving her pride and not having to confront her long-held beliefs.

Despite already being disadvantaged by living far away from the school and being poorer than her classmates, it is Kimberly who shuts each open door into the collective she so envies. This stubbornness keeps Kimberly feeling like an outsider during her college years. Even if readers cannot relate to Kimberly's background, upbringing, her confusion over her sexuality, or the events that challenged her racial preconceptions, many will recognize Kimberly's dismissal of Cecilia's experiences as a way to avoid confronting her biases, and to protect herself. While Kimberly's circumstances obviously present numerous challenges in making friends in a new environment, the toughest barriers are self-imposed, due to her fear of confronting or criticizing—or letting go of—her beliefs.

Works Cited

• Arthurs, Alexia. "Light Skinned Girls and Kelly Rowlands." Shondaland. 23 July 2018, www.shondaland.com/inspire/books/a22504170/alexia-arthurs-how-to-love-a-jamaicanexcerpt/, Accessed 1 Aug. 2019.

Credit: Emma Reid '20

 American Desi

The word "desi" comes from the ancient Sanskrit language, meaning "country."  Much like the words Latino, Hispanic, and Black, Desi is now used to describe a group of people that identify with a specific race. The word "Desi" is now a loose term for the people in India, Bangladesh, and Pakistan, as well as the rest of the Indian subcontinent and the diaspora around the world. I never really felt a connection with that word as a kid, as I was simply a brown boy growing up in the melting pot of New York City. The subway system fused the cultures all throughout the city, with ideas from countries all across the world. This was what American culture was all about in New York City—my friends and I were first generation children of immigrants from countries all over the world. We were all finding a sense of identity of our American-ness, but our cultures made us blossom with different tones, where we questioned who we were. Was I American or was I just another desi? Was I neither one of them?

*

I had not been to India for over ten years.

I remember stepping out of the Emirates Airplane to the fresh scent of Mumbai in the beginning of July. The smell was overwhelming for me. For as long as I could remember, the smell of India was a distant memory, as I'd been only once, when I was six. The memories began to diminish as I grew older, and I slowly forgot about this nostalgic scent. Of course, I would get an occasional reminder every time I entered the Indian supermarkets in Queens, but it was never quite the same.

Ten years later, there I was again, in the city where my mother grew up. I took it all in with a big, deep breath. The smell of Mumbai came with feelings I'd only felt when I was six years old. The smell is difficult to describe; it mimics the aroma of an Indian jewelry store, where the gold is polished to a crisp. Spice and flavor, and the humidity of monsoon season. We landed right in the middle of monsoon season, where the rain pours heavily every day after months of it being completely dry. It was not an ideal time to arrive, but it was the only time my whole family was available to go on this trip, so we didn't care. We were prepared to navigate the rains of Mumbai with our family in India. Coming back to the country of my heritage made that more special. To me, the air alone seemed to have more history; the land of my ancestors, after a long absence. I was much older now, and I was ready to appreciate everything I would experience for the next 30 days. 

As we made our way through the airport, Mumbai looked especially gloomy. I helped my mother gather our belongings from the baggage claim. It was the first time in a long time that I had been around so many Indian people; while that may sound a bit unusual, I was so accustomed to being one of the only "desi" in the room. But now, I could easily blend in with everyone else, without looking like an outcast. Outside I saw my two uncles waiting for us. One teared up upon seeing us. I was now taller than him, and almost a man myself. The meeting was emotional, as none of us truly realized that so much time had passed, and how much had occurred in the ten years we had been gone. Wiping tears away, we loaded the car and began driving back to our home town of Thane, a small city outside of Mumbai. I was still jetlagged from the eighteen-hour flight, but somehow I managed to stay awake and admire the sights while driving by during the thirty-minute drive. India is indeed a very crowded place, and I found it to be very beautiful, and much like New York City— millions of people living, breathing, and living busy and vivid lives against the backdrop of a historical city. The small food vendors, the rickshaws zooming by, and even the random cows on the street; there was something going on in every direction you looked. Perhaps that was why I was able to fall in love with that city so easily, you could never be bored in an area so full of culture and with so many stories to tell.

*

I never realized how absorbed I was within American culture until I arrived in India that summer. I listened to Hip-Hop, dressed in streetwear, and did not uphold cultural traditions as much as I should have. I feared I'd become "whitewashed", a phrase used by many to describe a first generation child who has lost touch with their cultural identity. Maybe it was half true, and I was ignoring a significant part of who I was. I realized that in order to grow, I had to let India inside of my heart.

The thirty days I spent in India in the middle of my sixteenth year of life truly humbled me. I woke up to dozens of mosquitos every morning, and walked in the pouring monsoon rain in order to get breakfast. My great aunt offered me a hot cup of chai and freshly made Indian bread, known as chapati, with an omelette every morning. It was a very modern version of a classic Indian meal, made for a more westernized generation. It was interesting to see how Indian culture had become such a hybrid between American and Indian ideologies and traditions, and how things have changed since the last time I was there. I was used to stop signs and traffic lights back in New York City, where that system seemed to work flawlessly. In India, overpopulation has caused traffic to be intense, and most streets lack traffic lights, which made walking in town pretty hectic, to say the least. In spite of all that, we managed to endure the large crowds, the cows, and the lack of space in order to see the country. The street food was absolutely beautiful, made in the daily heat of a busy Indian sidewalk everyday. The flour, vegetables, and spices all mixed and combined in a blanket of centuries worth of Indian history. Pani Puri is a common Indian snack, as the fresh chips with flavored water either met you with sweetness or intense spice. Some streets were so locally popular for their street food, traffic would often come to a halt until the drivers would get some food. Even the McDonald's in India is a combination of the regular American cuisine with Indian culture, with items such as "Maharaja Mac" (King Mac, or the Big Mac). That was one of the small things I fell in love with while I was in India, to see how a culture changes, over years—to see a culture seemingly absorbed inside of itself integrate westward notions and reassert itself in a new way.

In America, where the combined cultures are mixed and complex, it is so very different than India. The culture in India has taught me how to perceive my own identity, how I should combine the innate Indian aspects about myself and the culture where I've absorbed American traits. Instead of choosing one or the other, I should accept both and create something unique from it, much like the food I ate in India.It sounds silly, but I imagined myself like my own version of an Indian McDonald's—American made, yet everything about me had the accents and outlines of Indian culture. Growing up is perhaps about not choosing either American culture or Indian culture, but rather accepting and learning ways to combine these two ideas and seeing how they can coexist inside of me.

Visiting the places of poverty in India opened my eyes to the life my parents had worked so hard to give me. I was driving towards my father's childhood village in the countryside for five hours, looking for a small settlement that was located in the middle of nowhere. Looking out the passenger side window, I saw miles of rice fields and the workers who tended them. Many of them resembled what my father looked like when he was young. The sun beat down as they continued their labor for the day. Men and women wore worn clothing with holes, and children ran around in the mud with no shoes on. This sight was enough to move me, as I realized how privileged I was to grow up in my neighborhood in Queens. It was also another thing to recognize the conditions where my parents grew up, as I finally realized the life they had gifted me. My father moved from a rice farm in the middle of the vast countryside in India, and through what seemed to be like magic and a little bit of luck, he ended up in the global capital of the world, New York City. He did not know much, and like my mother, he only knew how to work hard. That is what all it took to make it, and that idea brought me to tears.

On my last night in India, my uncle took me on a late night ride on his motorcycle, where we cruised the local streets of Mumbai. I sat behind him as he sped through the streets, passing by the town. I closed my eyes and I bathed underneath this vibrant Mumbai moonlight. I enjoyed my time in India, and spending time with other Indians. I realized that growing up, that was a feeling I never really appreciated. I was glad to connect to it again, and it helped me embrace my culture. As we continued our ride, I realized I would miss the smell. I took a deep breath. I left for New York the next day. I knew the next time I visited India, that comforting smell would be there, as would stories to tell, food to eat, and lessons to learn.

I learned to love being an American Desi.