Oakland
The College Preparatory School
"I'm in love with a stripper… Out of all the girls she be the hottest…"
The rich vocals of T-Pain filled the quiet, late afternoon winter air when a Mustang 70' with pealing ruby-colored paint parked at the liquor store across the street from my home. I cannot help but shake my head softly to the music as I walked up my three stories, one century old apartment building after karate practice. Yeah. She know what she doin'.. do the right thing… As I stepped through the lobby door, I was greeted with a strong stench consisting of Chinese herbal medicine, tobacco, and mold. The three flights up the stairs proved to be strenuous to my already tired feet. After a seemingly endless two minutes of dragging my uncooperative legs up the stairs, I arrived at my destination. The chipping gold paint on the metal three that was attached to my door had never looked so welcoming. I ran into the kitchen after opening the door, filled the red kettle that my grandmother bought for me from Vietnam with cold water from facet, and placed it on the stove. Several minutes later, I had a cup of hot Jasmine tea in my hand. I placed my favorite Hiromi CD in my Sony CD player and sat down at the dinner table. As Hiromi's jazzy, soft piano melodies filled the dining area, I gazed out the window while sipping my delicious trà, wondering just how to characterize my dirty, chaotic, but wonderfully diverse and lively neighborhood…
Unique. Many people surely cannot brag about having neighbors who sing opera, living in the next building. Countless Saturday afternoons, I have had to endure the great lung capacity of Tina and José. Several buildings on my block could hear the voluminous and high-pitched laaalalalallaaa. My neighborhood is an amalgamation of all the strange and interesting people one could hope to meet in a lifetime.
The apartment owner lives on the first floor of my apartment building. He is a self-designated "Mr. Handy Man." He fixes porches, roofs, electrical problems, sinks, … any services you need, and he is there to help you. Senor Ramirez, who lives several blocks down my street, is infamous for his profuse knowledge of Mexican spices. My neighbors across the street are notorious for their Sunday night Vietnamese shout-a-thons where they sit in their porches and speak Vietnamese in extremely loud voices. Diagonal from us lives a kind middle-aged woman who loves reading and writing romantic novels. We have a resident hobo who wanders from porch to porch. One could tell if he has been on one's porch because he either leaves: 1. a Budweiser, 2. cigarette butts, or 3. a cup noodles and two egg shells. He is a friendly person. He greets strangers and likes to make small talk with my father.
Isolated.Because my neighborhood consists of many building complexes, it is difficult to have close-knit community. Everyone is enclosed in his or her own bubble. There is a detachment from the community because frankly, no one really has the time to chat with the plethora of individuals present in our neighborhood. My neighborhood is right by a freeway pass. With the constant flow of traffic down our streets, it makes it difficult for one to walk across the streets to visit with friends in the late afternoon. The speeding cars and incessant honking are enough to discourage one from even trying.
Diverse. Mexicans, Russians, Caucasians, Latinos, Asians, and many others make up the racial diversity of my community. And each different racial group that I have encountered have had some affect on my persona.
I am Asian. I am a Vietnamese teenager. Yet, I am not authentically Asian. I am different from my cousins in Vietnam. I was born in America. But I do not feel like a real American since my family had no ancestral ties to the land. I see myself as person struggling to find her place in this land that she call home. My neighborhood taught me that the identity crisis is exactly what makes me 'American'. My Popo once told me that the 'Asian' part of me ties me to my ancestors. And, the 'American' part of me is what ties me to this country. And what is special about the label 'American' is that it means citizen of a multi-everything nation. What is special about America is that we all the ability to meet and encounter new and interesting people and cultures. We are not limited to just speaking one or two languages. We have the ability to experience as many cultures as we possibly can. It, ultimately, is up to us to define our range of 'Americanism'.
My community helped me expand my understanding of myself. I am proud to be Asian American. I love the Asian culture. But, I am not restricted to just that. Senor Ramirez introduced me to the wonders of the Mexican culture. Spanish music has become my latest interest. Our resident vocalists expanded my knowledge of Opera. I have great appreciation for black culture. My best friend Robin taught me how to cornrow another person's hair. All the cultures that I have been exposed to made me the person that I am now- the jazz loving, R&B crooning, chopsticks using, pickled radish-eating teenager. I am an Asian (Bla-Spa-Rus-Mexi-Fin-can) American.
Dirty-Dilapidated, paint-pealing buildings, and dirty streets greet the eyes of strangers when they drive down my block. One could not help but categorize this neighborhood as one of the many poor and crime driven communities. The 24 hour liquor store at the corner of Park Blvd does little to help reverse the negative impression. My neighborhood is certainly not the best in the world. Traffic accidents are common occurrences. Homeless people sometimes wander around our streets. A group of youngsters in the next street enjoys playing loud rap music late at night. My fourth floor neighbor decides to vacuum her living room at 11pm. It is a chaotic and yet orderly place. My neighborhood is full of fanciful contradictions. It is welcoming. It is cold. It is a safe haven from a busy day. It is a dangerous traffic zone. Many streets like mine have negative connotations simply because people often associate "poor" with "the slum of the slums." If we look past the initial impression or the initial stereotypical reactions, we find a whole new world unbeknownst to the average man. Yes, my neighborhood could use many improvements. Our neighborhood schools should receive more funds, we should relocate the homeless into a shelter, etc. There are countless improvements that could, but probably would not be applied. My neighborhood is my home, mi hogar, my nhà. It has a dynamic persona that is just yearning for a bit of TLC and development.
***
After finishing my trà(and my long contemplation), I have concluded that there is no one way to characterize my neighborhood. There are so many different ways to describe my neighborhood that to restrict it to just one description do it injustice. It is truly a robust and dynamic neighborhood. I sighed contentedly and began to clean up the cookies crumbles on the table. Yes, my neighborhood is not without problems like other neighborhoods. But it is my home. It is my nhà, mi hogar, my 'crib'. As I prepared a cup of hot chocolate with extra whipping and caramel syrup on top to go with my favorite Jane Austen novel- Pride and Prejudice, I decided to conclude my thoughts on this elaborate topic with this: It is hard to neatly classify my neighborhood. It fixes no one standard of classification. It is a delicate blend of all the fine, poor, and mediocre things found in our society. My neighborhood is very much like a buffet table. A bit of chow mein, a bit of BBQ ribs, a large helping of mash potatoes. Some food might be disgusting, some might be bland, but many are a mixture of sweet, sour, salty, and spicy.
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