New York is an undeniable concrete jungle. Manhattan is a land of spires, buildings that threaten to tear the sky asunder. The windows of the aforementioned reflect most everything - save for the extremities of the soul. As much as the smooth crystalline sheets become the surface water of the soul, there is a jarring jaggedness to their shapes. For those seeking soft, silent reprieve from the stiletto-staccato walks of the city, we seek out the outer boroughs.
For the longest time, I’ve regarded Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx as mere environs of the city proper. (Staten Island isn’t a borough no matter what people say. Sorry.) Actually, I still think that. Whoops.
Yet, there is truly something remarkable about the character, the feel, the ambiánce (stress the accent mark, it makes it classy) that can be found beyond asphalt roads. In this case, the roads are lined with stone.
DUMBO is a cobble-lined oasis of a neighborhood.
Continue reading ‘Enchanted Down-Under’
Recently – really, for a long while now, I feel like I’ve lost the flow of things.
This past Saturday, I attended NYCAASC as a volunteer, since I had a blast the previous year. I had a blast this year as well, with familiar faces, and so many more unfamiliar ones. I mean: I had fun, I learned a lot and I met more great people. But NYCAASC means a lot more to me than an Asian American Conference.
To be honest, I’m extremely wary of ‘community’ events. Race centric? Exclusive? I’ve seen the “Angry Asian Man” fiasco far too many times, to be frank. NYCAASC was my first, and I have been spoiled by it. Hosted by NYU and Columbia’s respective Asian-American student organizations, we’re so liberal, we’d give Dick Cheney another 5 heart attacks. My points of view have been forced way open since last year. And let me tell you, having your fragile beliefs trampled on is so fucking gratifying. Pick up the pieces, and put them in their respectable places in a more open mind.
What if we had the ability to begin anew every year? To take our worn out sneakers, wipe off the dirt and grime and all the paint stains, place them back on our weathered heels, and march off in a slightly different direction: wouldn’t that be great? Maybe. Maybe not. I’m only human anyway, so all I can do is look back.
Continue reading ‘Washed Ashore’
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