Growing up in NYC
I was born and raised in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. From when I was born until I was 6, my family lived in a tenement building on 2nd street between Avenue B and C. On Avenue B, there was a thrift shop, Janes Exchange, a couple of dive bars, Sigmund’s, an artisanal warm pretzel shop that my parents and I would always pop into for an afternoon snack. College kids would lay out in the grass at Tompkins Square Park, and Hari Krishnas congregated at the center's Hari Krishna tree. A pretty serene environment, other than the weekend nightlife and the occasional screaming person just out of Bellvue. However, only one block down, on Avenue C, the scene was jumping. Generations of Puerto Rican and Dominican families populate Loisida Avenue (Where Houston and Avenue C meet). Girls, getting their acrylics done at the salon. Men at the barbershop getting stars and Puerto Rican flags shaved into their hair. The Icey man ringing his bell as he pushed his cart “Coco-Cherry-Mango,” children following behind waving their dollar bills. Graffiti decorated the streets of avenue C and D and someone’s radio was always on blast. The Hamilton Fish pool on Pitt Street is where all of the LES meets when it's 90+ degrees out. With more children than water and limited beach chairs, the women lay their towels out on the damp concrete and lather themselves in suntanning oil. I spent many summers swimming in that chlorine-pumped pool, and once I even found a girl’s tooth and a hair extension!
By the time I turned 6, my family and I moved a few blocks down to Grand st. A predominantly Jewish neighborhood. In December, the smell of fried food would waft through our building during Hannukah. It smelled so good my dad got into making his Latkes which we would bring to all the Grand street Hannukah parties. Chinatown was only a 10-minute walk from home, and so many weekends I spent at dim sum or grocery shopping at the open fruit and seafood stands. One lady, who I do not know her name, used to sit on a crate on the corner of Grand and Chrystie, yelling “Zongzi!” (a Chinese dish made of Glutinous rice and meat wrapped in a Lotus leaf). My family named her the Zongzi lady, and without fail, she was always there selling Zongzi. We bought them a few times, and they were delicious!
My mother is Polish, and my father is Japanese. Which I love, we eat pierogies on Christmas and practicing yoga with Obachan during my trip to Japan. But in a sense, I know more about the cultures that I was surrounded by growing up than I do my own cultures. I’ve celebrated more Chinese New Years and Passovers than any Japanese or Polish holidays. A New York City kid is a product of this melting pot and has a large variety of cultures and references to draw upon at any given moment. I am so grateful to have been raised here and had these experiences because they gave me an authentic and deep appreciation for diversity.