C H I N A T O W N
S A M A N T H A L E E
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Push through the stagnant tourists, step aside for the rush of New Yorkers, and admire a cultural dichotomy located in Southern Manhattan, lodged between the strict and still governance of City Hall and the endless stream of polished restaurants in Little Italy. Turn away from the colors and dig for the emotion, personalities, and lives of those we tune out when we step into what is seemingly another world. Dig for Chinatown and its true grit; dig for the atmosphere hidden under a thick cloud of complaints about the smells and what is deemed as odd food. Embrace what is real. This is my Chinatown.
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Labor
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Haven
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Phoenix
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C O N T E N T S
Life
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“Life.” Chinatown is my home away from home. It is my only connection to what makes me inherently “me”: the culture, language, family, history, and the way of life. I learned about my ethnic background walking hand-in-hand with my mother as a child, seeing her stop and chat with unfamiliar faces who chose to settle in New York City as she had. Distantly related or not, the men were considered my uncles and the women were my aunts. At that age, I did not have the attention span to focus on their discussions so my eyes would look around. All five of my senses were on high alert, examining and taking in the environment which oddly felt like home; everything was familiar. My mother and I would weave through crowds of people, her hand tightly grasping mine to avoid losing me in the abyss of bodies. Her other hand would hold several bright red grocery bags, a signature symbol of Chinatown. My sister and I wanted to look strong as our mother and would ask to have a bag as well. Our bags usually contained a single item and that item was almost always a bag of candy or some kind of rice cracker snack.
One of many fruit stands on the corner of Mulberry Street and Canal Street. | 4
Tourists from around the world visit Chinatown to see the foreign, the odd, and the lives that reside there. They come to taste the flavors, hear the sounds, and inhale all the unforgettable smells. Though this is good, it has become a sort of zoo for others to come and stare, to comment on and critique. Sometimes I find ignorance in action as I walk past a person murmuring “ching chong� just loud enough for me to hear. I see pointing fingers, faces of intrigue, faces of disgust and disbelief. I see covered noses, covered laughter, audible and infuriating behavior for the unknown and unfamiliar. I see and hear ignorance, ignorance of my identity.
Walker Street
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Mott Street
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The men and women I see working (and roaming through) herbal stores, grocery markets, old fashioned salons, and restaurants remind me of my parents and their interactions with people in Chinatown. The thick atmosphere of various Chinese dialects, drown out any plaguing thought of mine as I walk past one conversation only to find myself in another. I catch bits and pieces of small talk, gossip, venting, and casual conversation – all things I unintentionally eavesdropped on as a child, but now as a young adult, have a better understanding of.
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Salon on Doyers Street
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Intersection on Elizabeth Street and Bayard Street.
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As a child, the open fish markets were my favorite places to be. I would touch the fishes’ eyes and play with the bed of ice their still bodies laid on. I often claimed the live fish, lobsters, soft-shell turtles, frogs (yes, frogs), crabs, and other shellfish within the tanks as my friends, oblivious to their ultimate demise. I would find every reason to feel everything I came across and to jump and splash in every puddle of fishy water, much to my mother’s embarrassment and to the disgust of others. The fish market smells never bothered me as a child and has become a smell that makes me smile when others pinch their noses.
Mott Street
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Sun Gai Restaurant on the corner of Walker Street and Baxter Street
“It’s grueling.”
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My mother’s name is Li Ju Deng. My father’s name is Woon Chiu Lee. Both settled in Queens, but spent most of their time working in Chinatown. Both Chinese immigrants adapting to New York City. My mother was a garment factory worker, earning a few cents for every piece she ran through a sewing machine. After having my sister and I, she left the factory in Chinatown and purchased an industrial sewing machine to work from home. Over a decade later, I still remember it as if I were the curious child watching from behind my mother: the whirring of the monstrous machine, the taps and snaps as she placed her foot on the pedal, and the streamlined movement of scissors to thread, thread into
needle. It was in the kitchen of the home I grew up in on 46th Street and 48th Avenue in Woodside, Queens. Bags of clothing were delivered to our apartment every other day and she would juggle motherhood while earning some money for us to live. The rapid fire of the needle piercing into fabric always fascinated yet frightened me whenever my mom’s fingers would come close. Chinatown’s garment business eventually faded out, only to be remembered as a part of the enclave’s early history and by those who have lived it. My mother no longer sews, but she, like many former garment workers, have transitioned into the health industry as home health aides, taking care of the elderly in order to ensure we have a roof over our heads.
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My father was a restaurant worker, specifically a kitchen chef. He would leave before I was awake and come home when dinner time came along. His hands were calloused and his eyes were almost always bloodshot and fatigued. Despite this, he would find time to settle down and bond with the rest of the family over a rerun of Walker, Texas Ranger or a VHS copy of any Chinese action movie dating back to the late 1980s and early 1990s.
Man working in New Kam Man located along Walker Street
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A worker chops up fish in Hong Kong Supermarket located on the corner of Elizabeth Street and Hester Street.
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In recent years, I found comfort in Columbus Park, where a lot of older Chinese immigrants come together to play traditional music, sing classic Chinese songs, and play rather aggressive games of Chinese poker or liar’s dice. The songs were usually sung in Mandarin and, though I don’t understand that dialect, I unconsciously hum tunes that I grew up listening to.
Men playing Chinese poker in Columbus Park as a musician plays a mellow tune on the erhu.
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Men playing a game of Chinese poker in Columbus Park.
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“Life is short; indulge in what you love.�
Chinese poker and checkers in Columbus Park.
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“Even if you are separated from somebody by great distances, there is always a chance that you may bump into them someday.�
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High rising apartments, hotels, and modern businesses have since begun to plant its roots on the streets of Chinatown. I fear that in time, what I grew up with will no longer be there. I will have no place to feel at home without the need of a roof, no place to feel in touch with my ethnicity. I fear that I will no longer be able to surround myself with an ocean of dialects and will eventually lose the ability to hold a conversation in my native tongue. My mother’s hand is no longer in mine whenever I find myself walking around Chinatown, but her voice plays itself in my head, giving me an audio tour of every store I pass, every street I cross, and every corner I turn. In every child walking hand in hand with their mothers, I saw myself. In every child staring at the displays of seafood or mysterious animal parts, I saw myself. There are no signs of disgust, only wide, curious eyes and an endless stream of questions. Children run freely up, down, and around parents, grandparents, siblings, friends, strangers – everything and everyone. Their sense of freedom and fearlessness is enviable. I grew up with my mother’s Chinatown, but through the years, I have created and built my own.
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Yee Li restaurant located on the corner of Elizabeth Street and Bayard Street.
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Midnight discussions on Doyers Street.
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Pell Street
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