La Cuesta

I have always believed that Americans should be multi-cultural, and that goes beyond having a black friend. I recently was accepted into my first college (Elon University in North Carolina), and in their list of “Important Upcoming Events” they listed a special multi-cultural experience weekend for accepted freshmen. From my various college investigations (which are always necessary for a high school senior), I’ve seen the phrase “multi-cultural” dropped numerous times per college. I, personally, think it’s great that the universities of our country want to open our eyes to the world around us. Look at it this way:

• They know we (the youth) don’t watch the news (by this, I mean the majority),
• They know we all harbor slight prejudices, no matter how nice of a person we are
• They know that these prejudices are instilled through our upbringing
• They know we’re young, spoiled, and interested in, primarily, ourselves

Now, don’t me wrong, I’m not blasting my generation. I’m just saying that the generations before mine are noticing some things, and I’m glad they’re doing something about it.

A perfect “cultural” segue (or maybe not. I’m bad at them). Chinese New Year is fast upon us, and yesterday (Saturday), my parents and I ventured to Chinatown in Manhattan to get a jump-start on the festivities.

Why? Well, it’s primarily because my mother is intrigued by feng shui (said “fung-shway”), the arrangement of not just furniture, but everything in your house to promote the flow of chi, energy. Practitioners of feng shui often buy various “tools” during the Lunar New Year to prepare for the year ahead. For my mom, this means traveling to Chinatown to buy carved figurines, funky pendants, and little red signs to hang up in the house that none of us can read (the woman at the store said they mean “prosperity,” etc, but for all we stupid white people know, they could be saying, “*bleep* you, jerk.”).

I love going to Chinatown (and, when the parking situation is too crazy, Flushing, Queens, which has a Chinatown-esque section). I even find it enjoyable when I ask the waiter at a restaurant what “chow mein” is, and the other waiters subsequently (in Chinese) laugh at me. Chinatown is the ultimate test of a Long Islander’s patience, with the people to whom traffic regulations never apply, and the constant rush of people around you, pushing into you, trying to buy something before you can. The food, of course, is wonderfully authentic. I will always recommend 69, on (you guessed it) 69 Bayard Street. And I fail as a New Yorker, because I have yet to eat at The Original Chinatown Ice Cream Factory. I don’t think anyone will blame me…it was February 2nd. ‘Nuff said.