Viktor Ahn of Russia, 2014 (Photo courtesy of Yonhap)

You may or may not be familiar with the cricket test. No, it has nothing to do with whether one has the gumption to eat the not-so-distant cousin of the grasshopper. Nor does it have anything to do with the alkalinity or acidity of said insect. Rather, the cricket in question is the bat-and-ball sport of English origin, and although Norman Tebbitt caused quite an uproar in the United Kingdom when he uttered these words as a member of Parliament in the early 1990s, the test is a seemingly simple question of where one’s loyalties lie:

“The cricket test — which side do they cheer for? . . . Are you still harking back to where you came from or where you are?”

-Norman Tebbit, House of Lords

This may or may not make sense unless you are an immigrant or the child of an immigrant. My mentor, Professor Pyong Gap Min, did a research project a few years ago about twice-migrant immigrants; for this particular paper, he came up with survey questions designed to gauge the ethnic identity and attachment of Indo Carribeans (people of Asian Indian descent who are Caribbean nationals) in New York City. Below are some examples:

-Do you speak English or an Indian language at home?

-Is your closest friend an Indian immigrant, an Indo Caribbean, or an Afro Caribbean?

-If your country of nationality (Jamaica, Guyana, or Trinidad and Tobago) played India in a cricket match, which team would you root for?

Ninety-seven percent of NYC Indo-Caribbean respondents said that they only spoke English at home, which reflects their linguistic assimilation into their Anglophone countries of birth or residence, in this case, Jamaica, Guyana, or Trinidad and Tobago.

Eighty-eight percent of the respondents answered that their best friend was another Indo Caribbean.

For some reason, I was most intrigued by the third question. The overwhelming majority said that they would definitely root for Jamaica, Guyana,  or Trinidad and Tobago, their host countries, over India, their ethnic homeland.

I encountered my own version of this quandary in 2002 when I attended the FIFA World Cup, which was co-hosted by the rival nations of Japan and South Korea, the latter being my ethnic homeland. By some twist of fate, South Korea and the United States were in the same four-team group (along with Poland and Portugal) and were slated to face each other in the second game of first-round group play.

I suppose I had not really thought about which team I was going to root for. In all of the excitement and chaos that entailed suddenly finding out that we had won tickets to the tournament via a global lottery and planning a month-long trip to Korea, I guess I had forgotten to pay much attention to the actual draws. Honestly, I wasn’t even that much of a soccer fan at the time (for the record, I have since become a rabid fan of club and international soccer); for me, going to the World Cup was more about the broader experience of being in a nation crazy for this sport, which, incidentally, describes nearly every nation in the world besides the United States.

After watching a resounding and deafening 2-0 South Korea victory over Poland, I was swept up in the nationwide hysteria surrounding the undersized, scrappy-but-skilled Korean squad. The next match pitted my country of birth, the United States of America, against my parents’ and ancestors’ country of birth, the Republic of Korea, better known in the English parlance as South Korea or Korea. Koreans refer to it as Han-gook or Dae-han meen-gook.

It really was never much of a question for me. Although I am proud to have been born and raised in the United States, I was pulling for Korea all the way. My inclination to root for underdogs aside, it was a no-brainer. The U.S. is one of the biggest, baddest, most powerful countries in the world. My friends and I sometimes half-jokingly and disparagingly compare it to the Roman Empire. South Korea, on the other hand, has a slightly bigger land area than the state of Indiana, and one-sixth the population of the U.S. It was a classic David vs. Goliath matchup, and in this case, David and I had the same blood running through our veins. Somewhat anticlimactically, the U.S.-South Korea match ended in a 1-1 draw.

Fast-forward twelve years to the 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics. Viktor Ahn of the Russian Federation, née Ahn Hyun-soo of the Republic of Korea, was part of the four-man Russian relay team in short track speedskating, an event that South Korea had dominated since the event’s initial inclusion into the Winter games in 1992. Even before the start of this particular race, Viktor Ahn had already won two gold medals, Russia’s first-ever golds in the sport. Prior to being excluded from the South Korean national team for the 2010 Vancouver Olympics, he had won three gold medals for South Korea as Ahn Hyun-soo. Longing for a chance to once again skate for gold, Ahn was recruited by both the United States and Russia. As we now know, he chose the latter. This was big news in Korea. A native son who had been the most dominant and decorated athlete in his sport had changed his nationality.

For the majority of the 5,000-meter relay, it was a two-dog race between the U.S. and Russia, as China, the Netherlands, and Uzbekistan had lagged behind significantly.

To my utter surprise, I found myself rooting for Russia to win against my native United States. Even in light of certain controversial actions that involve Russia at the time of this writing, I didn’t feel very conflicted about it, which makes me feel kind of strange. I wanted Viktor Ahn, a fellow blood-Korean, to win another gold medal.

As the race wound down to its final few laps, the U.S. and Russia were neck and neck. Viktor Ahn, Russia’s star skater and anchor, was gearing up to skate the final stretch of the relay race. After a smooth exchange (a well-timed push in short track as opposed to passing a baton in a foot race), calm, cool, and collected, the veteran Ahn bade his time until he saw an opportunity to make his move. As if by will, he zipped into first place ahead of J.R. Celski of the United States and never gave up the lead.

Ahn Hyun-soo of South Korea, Viktor Ahn’s former incarnation, 2006 (Photo courtesy of Korean Info)

My girlfriend (who is a Korean international student) and I were ecstatic that Ahn had taken his third gold at a single Olympics, the second time he had accomplished such a feat (he had also won three gold medals at the 2006 Torino Olympics for South Korea). Even as he wrapped himself in Russia’s version of the red, white, and blue (ironically, the same colors as both South Korea and the United States), I was overflowing with pride for this maestro who was at the top of his game and had vindicated himself and refound his former glory, eight long years after the fact.

What the hell had just happened?

How could I have rooted for a nation that had been the arch nemesis of my beloved country of birth during decades of Cold War anxiety and paranoia, not to mention the bully-like behavior that Russia has been exhibiting of late? I realize that Russia and the Soviet Union are not exactly the same entity, but let’s not split hairs here. Don’t get me wrong. I love Chekhov, Nabokov, Maria Sharapova, and Brighton Beach just as much as the next guy, but I consider myself to be a proud American. Although my features are Korean through and through, I am reminded of how American I actually am every time I speak my American-English-accented Korean to servers at Korean restaurants in Flushing or forget to switch to the formal tone when speaking to Korean elders. Given the choice, I would listen to the Velvet Underground, Robert Johnson, or Charlie Parker over Psy, ten times out of ten. And to top it all off, my favorite meal is good old-fashioned American Thanksgiving fare: turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing, and green beans. Having lived in the U.S. for the entirety of my thirty-seven years on this planet, it is impossible for me to deny my Americanness.

Immediately after the race had concluded, I turned to my girlfriend and said, “What the hell?” Of course, we both realized the obvious. We had rooted for Viktor Ahn, an ethnic Korean just like us, not Russia.

However, although Ahn, my girlfriend, and I are all diasporic Koreans, there are some fundamental differences among us. For starters, Ahn consciously chose to change his nationality. Since my parents immigrated to the States before I was born, I had little say in the matter. Additionally, I have little to no interest in changing my nationality. My girlfriend, on the other hand, is in the United States on an international student visa, and is a true Korean national.

So, am I a traitor?

Perhaps my deep attachment to South Korea is all about bloodlines. Why else would I irrationally root for a man skating for Russia, a nation that I have little if any connections to (my love of Nabokov and Chekhov notwithstanding)? Even though Ahn is now a proud Russian citizen with a very Russian first name, I can’t help but think that he is a little bit like me. No, I do not have six gold medals, much less a singular bronze, but I am an ethnic Korean living abroad in liminality, not quite Korean, not quite American, but some other category entirely. Maybe he also occupies a similar sort of liminal, limbo-like space in Russia, nestled in the cracks and grooves that transcend nationality and even ethnicity.

Before I first set foot on Korean soil as a child in 1989, I already unconsciously knew that I was irrevocably connected to the land, the spirit, and the blood of my ancestors. Even as I rejected my Koreanness for the first thirty-odd years of my life, I always knew that I could never deny my blood.

Perhaps all Viktor Ahn of Russia, née Ahn Hyun-soo of South Korea, really cares about is winning as many gold medals as possible. If that happens to be the case, there is nothing wrong with that. Either way, he is now a national hero in Russia after claiming four medals (he won a bronze in addition to his three golds) in a single Olympics. However, perhaps his success and hero status have made him contemplate some of these questions that I bring up. I am certain that he is well aware of the fact that Russia or any other nation would have had little interest in him if he didn’t happen to be the most dominant and feared athlete of all time in his respective sport. As I mentioned earlier in this piece, the United States wanted him too, but ironically, because of good old-fashioned American bureaucracy (a topic for another piece entirely), Russia beat us to the punch.

I would like to think that Viktor Ahn would root for me in a tennis match or in a bass-guitar battle because of our blood bond. Why wouldn’t he? I can’t speak for Ahn or for anyone else, but when it comes to rooting interests for me, especially in sports, blood is thicker than nationality.

REFERENCES

Min, Pyong Gap. 2011. “The Attachments of Caribbean Indian Immigrants to Indian Culture and Asian Indian Immigrants in New York City.” American Sociological Association Annual Meeting, 2011. Las Vegas.

Lunar New Year Parade in Chinatown, Manhattan. Photo courtesy of explorechinatown.com.

Walking around any legitimate Asian enclave is an interesting experience for me. Having grown up in the southeastern United States, it was rare for me to be around any Asians who weren’t related to me. During the first few years of my life, my parents and I lived in Lakewood, a low-income part of south Atlanta. In the late 70s and early 80s, our apartment complex was predominantly white and Hispanic. As I approached elementary school age, my parents moved to Stone Mountain, a suburb east of Atlanta. The elementary school in our neck of Stone Mountain, Rockbridge Elementary, was one of the best public schools in the metro Atlanta area, which was probably a motivating factor in my parents’ decision to move to the area. The student body of Rockbridge was composed mostly of white students who lived in the district. During my time there, the county implemented a majority-to-minority busing program, which served the dual purpose of integrating and diversifying suburban schools while simultaneously taking black students out of overcrowded and violent inner-city schools. There were only two other Asian students in my class. Whether or not it was my parents’ intent, I grew up in an environment that thoroughly assimilated me into American culture. In those days, the only evidence of Asian culture that I saw were Americanized Chinese restaurants with names like Peking Palace and Panda Express, and Bruce Lee movies at the local video stores (Jackie Chan and Jet Li had not yet been introduced to the American mainstream).

These days, metro Atlanta has a couple of Asian commercial districts. Buford Highway is a very busy thruway that begins in the northeast quadrant of Atlanta and continues northeast to Buford, GA. However, when people in Atlanta refer to Buford Highway, they are usually referring to the vast commercial district which starts near the Atlanta city border and continues northeast through Doraville, Norcross, and Duluth. While Buford Highway is filled with strip malls, car dealerships, and wholesale warehouses, it is no ordinary Georgian commercial district. For better or for worse, Buford Highway is the closest thing Atlanta has to an ethnic enclave. However, unlike single-ethnicity enclaves in dense northern cities like New York, Chicago, Boston, and Toronto, Buford Highway is like a one-stop shop for all of one’s ethnic needs. The majority of the businesses cater to and are owned by Mexicans, Koreans, Guatemalans, Vietnamese, and Chinese. In recent years, a predominantly Korean enclave has been established in the Duluth area. Although I have not spent that much time in Little Korea in Duluth, I get the feeling that it is very similar to the suburban Korean enclaves in Bergen County, NJ. The Bergen County, NJ Korean enclaves include Palisades Park (which is over 50% Korean), Fort Lee, Leonia, Ridgefield, Closter, Norwood, Edgewater, and Englewood Cliffs. Much of the Korean population in these towns is made up of Koreans who used to live in Manhattan and Queens, however, the predominance of Koreans and Korean businesses in the area has attracted migrants directly from Korea as well as other parts of the United States. According to survey data, many of the Koreans in Bergen County left New York City for a higher quality of life. In Bergen County, housing costs are cheaper, the schools have a good reputation, and the overall atmosphere is more peaceful by virtue of being less urban.

While I have eaten Korean barbecue, tofu stew, tacos, and dim sum at many different establishments on Buford Highway and in Duluth, I always felt like an outsider or a tourist. I find this somewhat strange, because physically, I fit right in. I was often the token Asian in my group of friends, which sometimes made me the de facto ambassador to the Republic of Buford Highway (unless we were eating tacos or other Latin American food). I even made a point of ordering in Korean at Korean restaurants. Since I grew up somewhat isolated from any Asian communities, I suppose I was more accustomed to being around white and black Americans.

I am not sure what changed after I moved to New York, but I now feel far more connected to my fellow Asians and other people of color. Many older immigrants have told me that I will start feeling more connected to my ancestral culture as I get older. I used to think that was a bunch of poppycock, but as I slowly approach the fourth decade of my life, I am finding that they were right.

I work in Manhattan’s Lower East Side once or twice a week. The cafe that I work at is in a heavily-Chinese part of the Lower East Side, bordering Chinatown. These days, most people think of the Lower East Side as the bar district; long gone is the gritty seedy Lower East Side of punks, graffiti artists, and junkies. On a Friday or Saturday night, Ludlow Street north of Delancey is one of the most happening streets in Manhattan (never mind that it’s riddled with fratty finance types and their shallow, well-perfumed female counterparts). However, south of Delancey Street, the Lower East Side is actually pretty laid-back; it is an odd juxtaposition of creative American, European, and Australian professionals and Chinese immigrants and their families. Many of the American-born children of these Chinese immigrants hold creative professional jobs (e.g. graphic design, architecture, fashion design, art galleries), and are starting to resemble their white counterparts, in terms of style, appearance, and demeanor.

While I generally feel accepted by white and black Americans, I still have trouble shaking this feeling of being foreign, other, or exotic. I realize that much of this is attributed to internalized sensitivity about my race, which I have some semblance of control over. However, I know that the narrow-minded attitudes of others have also contributed to these feelings of marginalization. I have had so many infuriating discussions with people who insist that I am not American because I “look Chinese.” Even though I was born and raised in the United States, I still seem “less American” than a white Russian immigrant who speaks English without a Russian accent. In essence, white European immigrants can pass as American. If this hypothetical white European immigrant had a child with another Caucasian person, very few people would question the Americanness of their white child. This applies similarly to black people who were not born in the United States. If a black Jamaican or Senegalese couple moved to the United States and raised a child here, assuming that the child grew up speaking without a Caribbean or French accent, most people would not question the Americanness of that child. I am in no way suggesting that Asian, Latino, and other people of color are more oppressed than black people in America; I am merely trying to make the point that I am still not perceived as American solely because of my physiognomy, which seems to be the curse of non-white and non-black people of color in the United States.

I feel anonymous in almost any Chinatown. Last summer, I agreed to meet my Filipino friend Paolo in downtown Flushing, Queens, which is one of the most dense and populated Asian enclaves in the nation. As I stood outside the 7 train station waiting for him, I had a lot of trouble locating him among the throngs of Chinese and Koreans. I was looking for black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and tan skin. Half-jokingly, I texted him and said, “I can’t find you. Everyone here looks like you.” He texted me back and said, “No, I’m pretty sure that everyone here looks like you. Where are you?” In all seriousness, we actually had some trouble finding each other. Prior to that meeting, Paolo and I usually met in a part of Manhattan that wasn’t Chinatown or Koreatown, and we never had difficulty spotting each other.

When I am in Chinatown these days, I feel liberated and at ease. I know that nobody there is looking at me because of my exotic, reptilian Asianness. People speak Mandarin and Cantonese to me all the time, and even though I don’t understand them, I feel oddly comfortable. To put it into context, there are times when I have felt extremely uncomfortable while speaking English, my first language, with some pretentious gallery or antique store employee in posh white neighborhoods.

Many of my interests and philosophies have been influenced by white American culture. Although I wasn’t conscious of it growing up, my brother, sister, and I aspired to be accepted by the dominant white culture. The model minority myth, the idea that Asians are the optimal minority group because of their academic, social, and economic assimilation into mainstream society, probably helped us get through school. White parents who likely would have disapproved of their children having black or Hispanic friends (or, God forbid, dating them) welcomed me and my siblings into their homes and lives with open arms. Perhaps I am being too cynical, but I can almost imagine things that people say about their children’s Asian friends. “Those Asians sure are smart and hard-working. I wish that blacks and Mexicans were more like them.” I actually find the model minority myth offensive. I think it belittles the struggles and hardships that Asians have suffered since initially coming to the United States as laborers in the late 1800s. I don’t want to get too preachy or dramatic, but I would like to cite the the Immigration Act of 1924 (which included the Asian Exclusion Act), the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II, and the mass destruction of Koreatown in Los Angeles after the Rodney King verdict as instances where Asians were clearly not looked upon as the model minority. The model minority myth also disregards millions of Asians who live in poverty and have not assimilated at all into American culture, as well as younger generations of Asian Americans who are in Asian gangs. One of my main problems with the model minority myth is the assumption that all Asians can be lumped into a tidy stereotype.

My ethnic identity is complex. As I grow older, I feel more of an affinity towards the Chinese. Although there are some huge differences, the Chinese and Koreans share a lot of cultural traits because of their long-standing Confucianist traditions. Although I am agnostic and very American, I still try to abide by the Confucianist principles of hard work, filial piety (respect for one’s family, especially parents and ancestors), humanism, and emphasis on knowledge and education. I struggled with my Korean identity, especially during my teenage years. At times, I felt a general sense of loathing towards other Koreans. I resented Koreans because I felt that they looked down on me for not being able to speak Korean better (my own shortcoming), and I was dismissive of what I perceived as group-think mentality. Chinese and Korean cultures are both very concerned with maintaining or saving face (I think that term sounds weird in English, but Koreans and the Chinese seem rather fond of it). From my experience, both cultures are concerned with keeping appearances up. I used to think that was a negative thing, but I realize that there is sometimes merit and dignity to it. As I embrace and accept my Korean roots and my Chinese brothers and sisters and all of the people of color in the world and the black and white American culture and people that have shaped who I am, I also think about all of the contradictions and hardships and ugliness that we as humans are capable of, and I realize that the world is not so black and white after all.

Tile pattern based on the New York City MTA Subway Map. Pattern by New York/Berlin-based German designer/illustrator/author Christoph Niemann.

It is common knowledge that New York City is one of the most ethnically, racially, and culturally diverse cities in the world. I am constantly amazed at the volume and variety of immigrants and ethnic enclaves in the five boroughs. Several cities in the United States have a Chinatown or an equivalent Chinese or Asian enclave. To put it into perspective, New York City has at least six legitimate Chinese enclaves: 1. The old Manhattan Chinatown that was established in the 19th Century, which seems to expand each year, swallowing parts of Little Italy, Nolita, and the Lower East Side like Asiatic kudzu, 2. The Chinese and Korean business district in downtown Flushing, Queens, 3. Another Chinese business and residential district in Elmhurst, Queens, 4. A Chinese enclave in southwest Brooklyn, which encompasses Sunset Park and Bay Ridge, which is referred to sometimes as Little Fuzhou because of the high concentration of immigrants from the Fujian province, 5. Another fairly recently-established Chinese enclave in south Brooklyn at Avenue U near Ocean Parkway, near Gravesend, Sheepshead Bay, and Homecrest, and finally, 6. The newest Chinese enclave in Brooklyn’s historically Italian and Jewish Bensonhurst neighborhood.

I have pointed out all of these Chinese enclaves merely to illustrate one slice of the sheer volume of immigrants and multi-generational Americans in New York City. Don’t even get me started on the diversity of New York’s Chinese population (maybe I’ll write a future post about the influx of Fujinese, Yanbian, and other mainland Chinese immigrants who have started to challenge the cultural and linguistic dominance of Cantonese-speaking Hong Kongers and southern mainlanders from the Guangdong province). There is also Little Colombia aka Chapinerito in Jackson Heights, Queens; a community of Satmar Hasidic Zaloinim in South Williamsburg; a Dominican enclave in Manhattan’s Washington Heights (which I have heard people refer to as D-Town or Lil’ DR); Caribbean enclaves in Brooklyn’s Crown Heights, Flatbush, and Canarsie; a heavy concentration of Russians and Ukrainians in Brooklyn’s Brighton Beach (Little Odessa, or more recently, Little Russia) and Sheepshead Bay neighborhoods; large and diverse Hispanic populations in the Bronx, Queens’ Corona, Manhattan’s Spanish Harlem, and Brooklyn’s Bushwick, Sunset Park, and Williamsburg; historic African-American neighborhoods in Manhattan’s Harlem, Brooklyn’s Bed-Stuy and Brownsville, and the South Bronx; Italian enclaves in Staten Island, Manhattan’s Little Italy, and the Bronx’s Little Italy in Belmont; Indian and Pakistani enclaves in Queens’ Jackson Heights and Manhattan’s East Village (Curry Row) and Gramercy/Flatiron District; Bobov Hasidim in Brooklyn’s Borough Park; Chabad Lubavitch Hasidim in Crown Heights; Polish in Brooklyn’s Greenpoint. I could go on for pages. There are even historically gay neighborhoods in the West Village and Chelsea in Manhattan. Brooklyn’s Park Slope has been a lesbian mecca since the 1980s, but the influx of yuppie families (and their dogs and babies) has started pushing lesbians to settle in the nearby neighborhoods of Windsor Terrace and Kensington. Short story long, New York City is more diverse than you or I can fathom.

I work at Queens College in Flushing twice a week. Although the college is only ten or eleven miles from my brownstone in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, it takes me roughly an hour and a half to get there taking public transit because I have to go all the way into midtown Manhattan to transfer to the proper Queens-bound train. In just over eighty minutes, I traverse three boroughs and I get to experience a condensed version of the ethnic, social, and cultural spectrum of New York City via walking, subway, and bus.

As I mentioned earlier in this piece, Crown Heights is predominantly Afro-Caribbean, with substantial Indo-Caribbean and Chabad Lubavitch Hasidic populations. At 8:30 AM, I begin my morning commute by walking west on Sterling Place. An Afro-Caribbean mechanic named Panama is sometimes awake already, fiddling around under the hood of a testy car or truck outside of his auto repair garage. Once I reach the corner, I turn left at the bustling Dominican diner/sandwich shop, and I walk south on Kingston Avenue towards Eastern Parkway. En route to Eastern Parkway, I pass a takeout Chinese place, a Nigerian-owned junk and antique shop, a Korean-owned liquor store, a Haitian-owned Kennedy Fried Chicken, and a Mexican-owned pizza shop. As I approach Eastern Parkway, I pass a few Hasidic businesses and a Lubavitch community center, which are just down the block from the Crown Heights Community Mediation Center. There are also several Afro-Caribbean-owned barber shops (including my regular Nevisian barber), a small supermarket, a Korean-owned West Indian grocery store (the Caribbean ladies call the Korean owner “mommy”), a day care center, and a couple of small churches that conduct services in brownstones and clapboards.

During the course of my five-minute walk to the subway station, I hear the familiar mish-mash of Brooklyn-accented and island-accented English, French (spoken by black Afro-Caribbeans from Haiti, Martinique, Guadeloupe, Saint Martin, and several other French-speaking Caribbean nations, as well as by Quebecois and European Lubavitchers), Spanish, a smattering of Yiddish, and Haitian Creole, which is a pidgin language consisting of French, Spanish, English, Arabic, and Arawak. If either of the Korean proprietors of the West Indian grocery happen to be outside arranging vegetables as I walk by, I greet them in Korean, accompanied by a casual, subdued version of the traditional 45-degree bow.

As I come up to Eastern Parkway, the scene suddenly shifts dramatically. The Chabad Lubavitch headquarters, a huge brick and stone building with beautiful mouldings, is located at the southwest corner of Kingston Avenue and Eastern Parkway. However, this is no ordinary religious center. It was the home of the deceased Lubavitch Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, who is regarded by some Lubavitchers as the Moshiach (Jewish Messiah), though that is a point of contention among members of the sect. Nevertheless, his home is the epicenter of religious and cultural life among the Lubavitchers, and multitudes of bearded young and old men adorned in black suits, wide-brimmed fedoras, tsitsis (white and blue fringes/tassels that hang from four-cornered garments), and white button-down shirts congregate outside the building throughout the day and into evening, especially during Shabbat and Jewish holidays. It should be noted that this intersection was one of the sites of the Crown Heights riots in 1991, which was catalyzed by the death of a seven-year-old Guyanese boy named Gavin Cato, who was run over by a Lubavitcher during a parade for Rebbe Schneerson, and the stabbing death of an Australian Jew named Yankel Rosenbaum, who was attacked by a group of young black men a few hours after the death of Cato. As I mentioned in a prior post, a mobile police precinct is still stationed 24/7 at the intersection outside the subway station, in case any lingering tensions erupt.

Once I have crossed the street to the south pedestrian mall of Eastern Parkway, I descend the stairs to the Kingston Avenue 3 train. When I first moved into the neighborhood, I stuck out like a sore thumb on the subway platform. The vast majority of passengers at my stop were Afro-Caribbean and Lubavitch. I rarely ever saw any Asians, Latinos, non-Caribbean blacks, or non-Hasidic whites. These days, I have noticed a few more Chinese and Latinos. Notably, there are also significantly more white people who look like they may or may not like indie rock or farm-to-table restaurants.

Once the train arrives, it is usually pretty full. The majority of the passengers already on the train are Afro-Caribbeans and African Americans from New Lots, East New York, and Brownsville. The train is usually silent, and there seems to be an unspoken consensus of respectful peace and quiet during the morning commute, which is the case on most MTA subway trains.

Nostrand Avenue is the next Manhattan-bound stop, and the incoming passengers are of a similar demographic to my fellow Kingston Avenue subway riders, with fewer Hasids. Nostrand Avenue is more of a commercial area than Kingston Avenue. The stretch of Nostrand between Atlantic Avenue and Eastern Parkway is dominated by Jamaican bakeries, roti shops, fresh produce markets, juice bars, and barber shops. Most of the residents are Afro- and Indo-Caribbean. It is difficult to tell if the black people without island accents are African American or American-born children of Afro-Caribbean immigrants.

I begin noticing a real change at the next stop, Franklin Avenue. Over the past several years, Franklin Avenue has become the frontier for gentrification in Crown Heights. I think that young white artists are probably drawn to Franklin Avenue because of its proximity to Prospect Park and the presence of several trendy businesses, such as a specialty coffee shop, a bike shop, a popular bar with a beer garden, a mom-and-pop burger joint, organic bodegas, and a couple of popular taquerias. The list of “white-friendly” businesses seems to grow by the week. Additionally, the Franklin Avenue subway stop is a hub of sorts because the 2, 3, 4, 5, and Franklin Avenue Shuttle (the Brooklyn S) trains all stop there. Although lots of stylish young white people live near Franklin Avenue (my roommate commented that it’s starting to look like Bedford Avenue near the L train in Williamsburg), it is still primarily an Afro-Caribbean and African-American neighborhood.

The next stop, Eastern Parkway/Brooklyn Museum, is a stark difference from the Crown Heights stops. I have noticed that very few people seem to take the early morning trains at that stop, which is situated in Prospect Heights. Those that do tend to be very well-dressed and white, and when I happen to take the 3 train all the way into Manhattan, I have noticed that many of them get off at the Wall Street or Fulton Street stop, presumably to work at jobs in finance, banking, architecture, or advertising.

Grand Army Plaza, the next stop, is a bit livelier and more diverse, although Park Slope is one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Brooklyn. The majority of the incoming passengers are white and Asian professionals. Many Afro- and Indo-Caribbean women get off at this stop to go to work at New York Methodist Hospital or to work as nannies/au pairs for Park Slope families. I am very familiar with this particular station and neighborhood because I used to live a block away from it and I still work three days a week at a specialty coffee shop in South Park Slope. Although the residents of Park Slope are mostly upper-middle to upper class whites and Asian Americans, the streets are actually more diverse than one would think because of the hospital, schools, and the vast business districts on 7th Avenue and 5th Avenue. I have noticed that quite a few French-speaking Caribbean women look after the white children of New York and Brooklyn’s growing Francophone population.

Bergen Street, the next stop, is demographically similar to the ridership at Grand Army Plaza. This particular subway stop lies at the border of Park Slope and Prospect Heights. However, I rarely see people get on or off the train, but I attribute this to its proximity to the next stop, Atlantic Avenue.

Atlantic Avenue-Barclay’s Center (the name was just recently changed from Atlantic Avenue-Pacific Street because of the new arena for the NBA’s Brooklyn Nets) is the biggest transportation terminal in Brooklyn. The 2, 3, 4, 5, B, D, N, R, and Q trains, in addition to the Long Island Railroad, are routed through there. Additionally, there are several different MTA bus lines that stop at Atlantic Avenue. As one would expect, the station is massive and full of all sorts of people at all hours of day and night. Coming west from east and central Brooklyn, the Atlantic Avenue station is the first real glimpse of the melting pot that is New York City. There is no dominant ethnic group in the station, although that can change depending on what train you are taking.

I get off the 3 train at Atlantic Avenue to transfer to a Manhattan-bound D train. The walk from the 3 train track to the D, N, and R platform is relatively short, maybe a three-minute walk. The platform is usually packed by the time I get there. There are often young Mexican couples and old Mexican women selling churros (long, knotted Spanish doughnut-like pastries) from small pushcarts. Although all kinds of people are waiting for the R local train or the express D or N trains, there is a conspicuously large number of Chinese people, both waiting for and getting off the trains. Those waiting for the trains are headed to Chinatown Manhattan. Those getting off the trains are commuting from Chinese enclaves in south Brooklyn (Sunset Park, Bay Ridge, and Bensonhurst). Once the D or N express train arrives, the trip into Manhattan is quick. Both trains cross the East River via the Manhattan Bridge, which is a nice treat because most subway lines go underneath the river. The view from the train is actually quite beautiful. The Brooklyn Bridge, Statue of Liberty, and parts of lower Manhattan are visible from the south-facing windows. The Williamsburg Bridge, western Brooklyn, and the east shore of Manhattan can be seen from the north-facing windows. Of course, the vast majority of the people on the trains are usually way too absorbed in a book, newspaper, Kindle, or iPhone to even notice. I’m not passing judgment, because I’m guilty too. I used to look wistfully out the windows, but these days, I’m usually too absorbed in whatever depressing and heavy work of fiction I happen to be reading to even take a glance.

The first D train stop in Manhattan is Grand Street, which is in Chinatown. I sometimes refer to Grand Street as the “exception to the rule stop,” because that is one of the few stops in Manhattan where people rush and elbow their way onto trains before letting departing passengers off. The culprits are almost always older Chinese immigrants. I try not to get too annoyed, because I know that is probably what they are accustomed to doing in the old country. Recently, I witnessed an elderly Chinese woman elbow her way onto a crowded train. A tall white businessman proceeded to reprimand her in convincing Cantonese. I was quite amused, but the old lady looked shocked and ashamed. A lot of the Chinese people who board the train at Atlantic Avenue vacate the train at Grand Street, climbing the steps out to Grand and Chrystie, effectively coalescing into the frantic, awe-inspiring, urban sea of Chinese that is Chinatown Manhattan.

Broadway-Lafayette, the next stop on the D train, is located on the border of SoHo and NoLita. Most of the people getting on and off the train at this stop are white and well-dressed. I used to hang out in SoHo quite a bit when I was a teenager (the family of my college girlfriend lived in Princeton, NJ, and she and I would visit the city as much as possible, and we even subletted a place in Park Slope in the summer of 1997). These days, I am fairly oblivious to what goes on there, and I am not very familiar with the intricacies of either of the neighborhoods, although I know that they are both predominantly white and professional. Perhaps unfairly, I scoff at the affluence, opulence, and privilege that I associate with yuppies and SoHo’s fashion and high art world. Nevertheless, at street level, SoHo is far more ethnically diverse than one would think.

The next stop uptown, West 4th Street-Washington Square, is somewhat like the Atlantic Avenue-Barclay’s Center station in its diversity of people and train lines. The A, B, C, D, E, F, and M trains stop at this iconic Greenwich Village hub, and people of all colors and classes can be seen both inside and outside the station, though there are a disproportionate number of white and Asian NYU students. The West 4th Street station, which comedian Louis CK can be seen emerging from in the intro to his show on FX, is spitting distance from Washington Square Park, NYU, and the world-famous basketball court that is also known as The Cage. Situated at the border of the gay West Village and the touristy-but-still-bohemianish Greenwich Village, this station has a special place in my heart, because it was instrumental in forging my impression of New York City when I was an impressionable and idealistic teenager. During the summer of 1997, I got off at this stop to go to my first job in the city (which also happened to be the first in a long line of coffeeshop jobs in my adult life). As a bright-eyed nineteen-year-old, I was enamored of the city and all of its quirks, and like an anthropomorphic sponge, I soaked up everything, good and bad, with an eagerness that makes the thirty-five-year-old version of me cringe.

After West 4th Street, the D train really starts moving quickly. The next stop is 34th Street-Herald Square. Honestly, I can barely make any distinction between the ridership of this station and the next two stops on the D train, 42nd Street-Bryant Park and 47th-50th Streets-Rockefeller Center. To me, they all just seem like a bunch of vapid, wealthy, privileged white assholes. By this point in my post, you have probably noticed my bias against privileged white professionals. This troubles me because I realize the hypocrisy and unfairness of my flippant generalized disdain. After all, many of my friends are white professionals who work in midtown, and I know that one’s work doesn’t necessarily define a person. I also know that many of these “assholes” I refer to are probably perfectly nice, intelligent, hard-working people, and many of them probably don’t come from affluent or privileged backgrounds (I will spare you my spiel on white privilege; again, maybe in a future post). I wish I didn’t feel this way. Perhaps the issue isn’t so much a race issue as it is an individual vs. group issue. On a personal, face-to-face level, I think I can get along with most people, regardless of their race, ethnicity, religion, age, gender, or sexual identity. However, when throngs of an apparently homogeneous group gather, I automatically assume that most of the people present are stupid sheep. Sometimes, I even feel this way about Koreans, “my own people.” However, I must admit that I am harsher on large groups of affluent white people, partly out of a deep-rooted resentment towards the entitled status quo, and partly out of solidarity with other people of color.

I transfer to the F train, just across the platform, at the 47th-50th Streets-Rockefeller Center station. A substantial number of the aforementioned white professionals get off the D train at this station as well. Some ascend the stairs to walk to their jobs, others join me on the other side of the platform to transfer to the F or M train. Once the F train arrives, a swarm of white professionals get off before I make my way onto the train.

The next stop on the F train, 57th Street, is indistinguishable from the next and last stop in Manhattan, Lexington Avenue-63rd Street. I will spare you another tirade about assholes in suits. However, it should be noted that 95% of the remaining white professionals get off at these two stops. During the morning commute, there are hardly any people getting on the train at these stations.

Once the F train leaves Manhattan, it becomes what I call “super express,” because it makes ten fewer stops than the M and R local trains (which follow a similar track route). Roosevelt Island, the site and name of the next stop, is a very narrow, two-mile-long island that sits in the East River between Manhattan and Queens. The island, which is technically considered part of Manhattan, has a somewhat macabre history. Formerly known as Manning’s Island, Blackwell’s Island, and Welfare Island, it used to house a penitentiary, the New York City Lunatic Asylum, and the Smallpox Hospital. Blacks and whites make up the majority of the population on Roosevelt Island, but there are also substantial Asian and Hispanic populations, all of whom are represented on the subway platform. In the span of one subway stop, the ridership of the F train shifts from white professionals to working-class people of color, the inverse of the beginning of my commute in Crown Heights.

The first stop in Queens is 21st Street-Queensbridge. Many of you may recognize the name because of MC Shan and Marley Marl, Mobb Deep, and Nas. Queensbridge actually refers to Queensbridge Houses, which is the largest housing project in the United States. The public housing development lies within the neighborhood of Long Island City, and fairly or unfairly, it has become synonymous with violent crime. Most of the people who board the train at this station are black and Latino.

Jackson Heights-Roosevelt Avenue, the next stop, is situated in one of the most diverse immigrant communities in the world. A variety of Hispanic ethnic groups account for the majority of the population, notably large numbers of Colombians, Ecuadorians, Argentines, and Mexicans. South Asians, particularly Indians, Pakistanis, Thais, and Bangladeshis, make up the second largest group in Jackson Heights. Though the commercial and residential blocks immediately surrounding the subway station are predominantly Indian and Pakistani, a broad spectrum of Hispanics, South Asians, East Asians, and secular and Orthodox Jews board the Jamaica-bound F train.

The next stop, Forest Hills-71st Avenue, is the final subway stop on my journey. Forest Hills is a largely affluent Orthodox and Russian Jewish neighborhood. It is considered one of the more cosmopolitan neighborhoods in Queens because of its plethora of high-end restaurants and shops. Some of the tree-lined streets look almost suburban, as do the large, free-standing houses with driveways and front lawns.

After exiting the train, I ascend the stairs that lead to the north side of Queens Boulevard, near 70th Road, to transfer to the Electchester-bound Q64 bus. There is often a long orderly line of people waiting for the bus. I have noticed that bus-riders in Queens form nice single-file lines, which is a rare sight in Manhattan and Brooklyn. I attribute this organized behavior to the fact that Queens has surprisingly few train lines for a borough of its size (area-wise, Queens is the biggest of the five boroughs). Far more people seem to take buses, which has helped create an orderly culture at bus stops. During fall and spring semesters, the bus is full of Queens College students and professors. The student body of Queens College is very diverse. Hispanics, Asians, Jews, non-Hispanic whites, and non-Hispanic blacks account for the majority of the student population. There are also more than a thousand international students who attend the college. All of these aforementioned groups are represented on the bus. The bus ride to Queens College takes roughly ten to fifteen minutes.

Once I arrive at Jewel Avenue and 150th Street, a swarm of Queens College students and I exit the bus and walk roughly a quarter mile to the south entrance of the college at Melbourne Avenue, which marks the end of my morning commute around the world. I walk through a sea of different-colored faces to get to the Sociology Research Office, where I work as an editor and a webmaster for the Research Center for Korean Community. I then spend the next six to eight hours editing journal and book manuscripts about overseas Korean populations, immigrant entrepreneurship, transnationalism, and other topics related to sociology and immigration. It feels oddly appropriate to do the kind of work I do at Queens College, especially after passing through so many different enclaves and being surrounded by all sorts of people.

It is a unique and enlightening experience to live in New York City and to be privy to so many different cultures. Though most people probably don’t envy my long commute, I don’t really mind it so much because I am often completely absorbed in a book for the duration of the journey. My commute offers abbreviated glimpses into the demographics of many different neighborhoods in Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Queens. Some Americans think that immigration is destroying the country. What those people fail to realize is that immigration and the resulting diversity are major factors that contribute to this nation’s greatness. Hopefully, as our population becomes more diverse, the people who are already here will become more tolerant and informed about the vast world outside of the United States, the world that makes us U.S.

GO is a community-curated open studio project organized by Brooklyn Museum. It is a borough-wide initiative designed to encourage dialogue and exchange between Brooklyn artists, their communities, and the Brooklyn museum. This year, over 1,700 Brooklyn-based artists are participating in this unique event. In a nutshell, these artists will open their art studios to the public from 11:00 AM to 7:00 PM on Saturday September 8 and Sunday September 9. Attendees will not only have an opportunity to view art, but also to ask questions and to get a glance at the process and environment in which the art was created. Members of the community can vote for their favorite artists. The top few vote-getters will be featured in an exhibition at Brooklyn Museum. Register to vote and find out more about GO here:

www.brooklynmuseum.org/exhibitions/go/

I am pleased to announce that there are 52 Crown Heights artists participating. Check out their profiles and some of their work here:

Crown Heights artists

Check out the links, register to vote, go visit some studios this weekend, and support our local artists.