2003 Winning Essays |
Building Community: Bridging Our Differences
The Reverend James Rice Memorial Essay Contest |  |
The first thing I notice is the smell. I have been coming here since my early childhood, yet the smell remains the same. It is a scent so distinctive and unique that I have jokingly come to call it "Eau de Rochester Public Market." The pungency of rotten melons forms a heady top note, clobbering me with a hot, offensive scent that I can hardly help but wrinkle my nose at. Fortunately, this odor soon fades. I am left with the middle notes of this particularly complex fragrance - the scent of roasting nuts and popping kettle corn in adjacent stall. I often wish that this scent would linger a bit longer, as it never fails to make my mouth water with anticipation for that salty sweetness. The bottom note - the one that forms the base of my fragrance - is hard to miss at the market. The smell of freshly baked bread envelopes me, entices me, entreats me to indulge in some deliciously sweet sticky buns, or in an apple pie that has been made at three in the morning by the vendor's soft hands. Through this entire fragrance runs a delicate thread: the scent of Rochester's best flowers, cut only hours before and transported to this hub of life in huge crates filled with water. Countless varieties intermingle to create a scent which is not always noticeable but always proves to be a delightful surprise.
The people at the public market are no different from this fragrance. They, too, are incredibly diverse. However, like my scent, each variation is absolutely necessary for a full-bodied experience. The differences between people at the market are part of what makes this place such a joy. People from every race, religion, and social background join together with a simple common goal: to find fresh, delicious food at bargain prices.
On a typical day, it is not unusual to see a master chef of a top restaurant in Pittsford hobnobbing with a poor immigrant as both struggle to overcome the language barrier with smiles and expressive hand gestures. Race differences seem nonexistent as African-American and Asian women talk freely with the Mennonite women over the freshness of the day's baked goods. However, perhaps the public market's effect can be seen most clearly in the children. I am only one example of the thousands of children who have gone to the market and have been enriched by the experience.
When I first started what has now become a Saturday morning ritual, I was the typical suburban child, relatively unexposed to cultures other than my own. Within a few summers of market-going, I found myself completely captivated by other cultures. Of course, this love often began with the food. There was nothing better in the world than a plate of hot pierogies at Cherry's European Restaurant, served steaming with fried onions and sour cream. From there, I usually ventured over to the adjoining stall, where samples of roasted nuts were given freely by a man with a Jamaican accent and a huge smile. Recently, a Puerto Rican bakery opened. The Richport Bakery opening a whole new world of culinary delights to me - deliciously soft conchas, sweet and tart pastillos, and the best cookie ever - crumbly cinnamon polvorones.
However, new flavors and foods are not all that I found at the market. Over these delicious ethnic dishes, I have made connections and friendships with people that I never would have known otherwise. A Chilean immigrant names Carlos would never have become our home decorator for a summer had it not been for our meeting at the market. Soon, Carlos and his wife, Happy, were regulars in our household. Although Carlos had an incredible gift for flower arrangement (he soon went on to become a florist at Arena's florist), his creative eye sometimes proved to be a little too modern for my mother and I - for example, his artistic decision to paint our living room walls pea green and flamingo pink. Carlos was consistently quirky, often using words that he didn't quite know how to pronounce (one of his favorite words was "chic" which he pronounced "shick"). Although Carlos sometimes conflicted with my family's ideals of home decor, he colored our lives vividly with his reminisces of years in Chile, and exposed us to a culture that I never would have otherwise learned to appreciate.
Perhaps the most touching aspect of the public market is the way that people automatically see the best in one another. It is this sort of attitude that brings down barriers between diverse people. An extraordinarily touching example of this occurred not so long ago, while my mother and I waited for a bouquet of flowers to be arranged by one of the market's many talented florists. The vendor had her son with her - a baby boy who could not have been more than six months old. The baby started crying a bit, obviously uncomfortable in his carrier, but the florist was unable to soothe him as she had about six customers waiting for her. An Asian woman was the first to speak up. She shyly asked if she could hold the baby while the florist was busy with her arrangements. Promptly, the baby was lifted out of its carrier and delivered into the warm arms of this woman. When the bouquet had been made for her, she handed the baby boy (who was quite content by now) over to an Indian woman, brightly dressed in a sari. The baby soon went from this woman to my mother. Each of these women was brought together by another universal force: the maternal instinct. It is these common desires - to have a good meal, to get a good bargain, to care for a crying baby - that brings people at the public market together.
Rochester's Public market is a truly extraordinary place. Under the pretense of fresh food a good prices, people of all walks of life come together and socialize with each other. With the sale of produce, flowers, and bread come smile, laughter, stories, and a lively exchange of stories and ideas. Although going to the market is enjoyable simply for the good deals to be found, it is these less tangible values that make an individual feel that going to the market is truly rewarding. The universal desires that bring people to the market also serve to bring us together, emphasizing our similarities and downplaying differences which may otherwise keep us apart. By realizing that everyone shares the same basic desires and goals for life, we are able to fully appreciate the differences that make our culture so rich.
I often find myself wishing that other parts of Rochester were more like the market. All too often, people segregate themselves into various classes, leaving our community fragmented. Through the market, I have learned that our society does not need to be this way. The consistent kindness that those at the market show each other teaches a valuable lesson: a smile, accompanied with a few thoughtful words, can be incredibly effective in bridging our differences. This sort of behavior abounds at the market. For me, it has led to a greater appreciation of the different cultures, ethnicities, and beliefs that make up our city. I truly feel that if any element of the public market was missing, the experience would be greatly diminished. Each individual helps to make the market what it is: a melting pot of Rochester's society. In my opinion, "Eau de Rochester Public Market" is nothing short of a perfect blend.
I have always felt that it is everyone's responsibility to strive to understand people who come from all different backgrounds. Of course, the bridging of differences and the creation of mutual understanding is crucial in forming a functional global community. Also, on a personal level, forming relationships with people who are very different from you is thrilling. It's like discovering a well of knowledge that you never knew existed. Someone who has developed differently than you, be it culturally, economically, religiously, or racially, is inevitably going to have had different experiences, and probably a different perspective on many things. Having a conversation with someone who comes from a different background from you is a privilege, the amount of knowledge that can be gleaned by these interactions should never be passed up.
This year, my last year at School Without Walls, I will be creating and fulfilling a major senior project. I have decided to have my senior project be an in-depth study of the culture and primary language of Afghanistan. To attain my project goals I am immersing myself in the Afghan community of Rochester. So far I have found a language teacher and I am assisting my Afghan friends with paperwork and legal matters. I have cooked elaborate meals with Afghan women and I am tutoring Afghan refugee children every Thursday. I am quickly forming strong relationships within the community and I am researching and avidly reading about Afghan culture, history and contemporary issues. I decided to base my senior project on Afghanistan because I have always been very interested in different cultures. I also think that in these times it is important to develop and promote understanding and knowledge, starting within your own community and moving outwards.
A few weeks ago, I went with several of my Afghan friends to watch them slaughter a sheep for a wedding. I wasn't sure that I wanted to see it, but finally I decided that if I really want to learn about Afghanistan, I can' afford to be squeamish. So we drove out to some farm in Canandaigua where we met up with some other Afghan friends. It was about 7:30 in the evening when we got there, it was warm and dark and the air was wet and lit by a full moon. A little white lady showed us our sheep (a young one with brown fleece). The lady and two of my friends tackled the sheep and tied her legs. Then the boys lifted the sheep onto a wagon. At this point I got a little heartsick looking at the other sheep all huddled together and looking at us with a sort of stupid but intense suspicion. My friends wheeled the sheep out of the barn and around to the side where they set the sheep down on the ground outside of a small shed.
Walking slightly behind, again I took note of my surroundings. The moon shone full and low and there was a cool mist in the air. The stones of the driveway crunched under my feet. When I approached the rest of the group, my stomach did a flip and I turned to walk away. As I turned, my good friend took my arm and held me. He told me to be brave and watch it, and that if I didn't watch, I would regret it later. It was because of his persuasion that I decided once and for all to watch.
My friend seemed to take forever sharpening the knives, I was quite nervous. Finally with a sawing motion he began. When he broke the skin, the sheep kicked futilely. Chanting Allah Akhbar (God is Great) he continued and soon the sheep's trachea was severed and the jugular was spurting blood. The whole time I was gripping my other friend's arm, but I found that I couldn't look away. When it was finally over blood flowed in the grass.
Next, the boys hauled the sheep into the shed and hung it by its hind legs with ropes attached to the rafters. After hanging the sheep up, they skinned it, gutted it and cut it up, a process that took the better part of an hour. Then it was over and I had witnessed the entire process from picking the sheep out to killing it to butchering it.
The way I reacted to the whole experience was quite different from what I expected. I wasn't appalled, and I didn't want to become a vegetarian after watching it (as my mom warned me might happen). What I really got from the experience was the sense that I had just witnessed something very real. The sheer physicality of it really overwhelmed any emotional response that I might have had. As the boys cut the meat up they joked and laughed with each other, but I stayed silent. I was feeling very solemn in almost a religious way. I had just witnessed a creature die, the process of a warm blooded sentient being's life ending. I kept quiet because I felt as if the creature deserved respect. It sacrificed its life (however unwillingly) and I wanted to pay homage to it. I didn't understand the boy's playful attitude and jokes.
Walking back to the car I explained this all to my Afghan friend. He listened patiently in his way and then looked at me with his unwavering gaze that has so often caused me to look away. He said, "To us killing a sheep is nothing." He paused and then said, "you know, we have seen people like that." As I looked at him I remembered the blood and the flesh of the sheep, and I remembered what he had told me about his life. I remembered how his father was murdered, how he worked making carpets to support his family, and how his brother was shot dead right in front of him on the streets of Pakistan. Like a slap in the face, everything fell back into perspective and I could see this sheep's death through my friend's eyes. I looked at him and smiled.
Spending time with my Afghan friends has been infinitely rewarding. I am constantly learning and my perspectives on both personal and global issues are expanding rapidly. In forming a global community I think it is crucial to have compassion for others and sometimes the easiest way is through your own personal relationships. Strive to form positive and meaningful relationships with others who come from different backgrounds than you. Plato wrote once about an old man struggling in vain to make out the words on a large sign in the distance. Then he noticed a smaller sign closer to him that looked just like the larger sign. Wisely, the man decided to read the smaller sign and them compare it with the larger sign to see if they did indeed say the same thing.
The world is a big and complicated place and as with the larger sign, often it is impossible to just look at it and see it for what it really is. Often it is easier to focus on things closer to you. Build relationships, get involved in your community and you may find that as you develop meaningful and diverse personal experiences, you may also gain a stronger global perspective.
I have chosen to design my cumulative senior project around improving my understanding of Afghan culture by building relationships with members of the Afghan community in Rochester. I feel what I am doing is not only crucial to my own personal development, but also to the development of my community. Too often do Americans seem to see cultural and religious differences as being insurmountable, something that, although should be accepted, cannot be truly bridged. As I build relationships with my Afghan friends I am in fact building bridges of understanding and compassion between two very different cultures. By introducing myself to the Afghan community of Rochester I have started the process of fulfilling my personal responsibility of promoting and creating understanding within my community.
Clamor. Do you smell the blood? Do you hear the teasing? Can't we stop the fighting, and ask why? Is it only because of region? Yes, maybe you live near the Triumphal Arch and I live near the Great Wall, maybe he lives besides Disneyland and she lives besides the Pyramids. Is it only because of color? Well, perhaps your eyes are green and mine are black, perhaps his skin is yellow and hers is white. Is it only because of religion? Okay, probably you believe in Buddhism and I believe in Christianity, probably he is Jewish and she is a Muslim. Are we really hurting people just because they seem different?
The days before I came to the U.S. I was really nervous; I had no idea how life was going to be. I did not know if people were going to laugh at me because I was different from them. I woke up from nightmares, and then tried to convince myself that the U.S. was like a mixed CD; people were willing to accept differences. But all I did was keep wishing that things would work out.
"People who laugh at your differences are jerks." That was the sentence that impressed me in the first conversation I had with Pritika.
The day I met this stylish, good-looking girls was one of the worst days I had had so far. She stopped me gingerly while I was walking in the hallway after I had an awful quarrel with a boy in my Social Studies class the period before. The reason she stopped me cautiously might have been that I looked pretty upset at that moment. That was what Pritika used to joke about after we had known each other. She said I looked just like I had broken up with my boyfriend a minute ago. Hello, I did not even have one. But anyway, I admitted that I really did not want to stay in the U.S. one more second that day. I did not want to talk about how I just told that boy that he mispronounced the name of the president of China; I did not want to mention the way he said Chinese names "suck"; I did not want to tell how furious I was; I did not want to say that the boy used many bad words to describe the president of China. Also I did not want to let you know that I almost cried when I told him to shut up. I had felt angrier than at any other time… even when a girl who was in my Physics class told her friends out loud that I was an idiot because she thought I did not understand English. I had walked up to her and told her: "Sorry, maybe my English is not good, but at least I understand that word. So would you mind switching to a more complex word next time if you don't want me to understand." Then I left while her mouth dropped wide open in shock.
The girl who stopped me in the hallway now told me that her name was Pritika, which I could hardly remember at that time. She explained that she needed to help an ESOL student to study and to improve English in order to finish her 20 hours for her Health Project. I really was not in the mood at that point, but anyways, I said yes. She seemed really happy and she kept saying "Thanks" four times over. Yes, Four times. She was getting pretty excited about planning what period we were going to meet every week. Following our conversation, she asked me if there was anything wrong with me. The funny thing was that she was even angrier than I was after I had told her the argument I had had with that boy. "People who laugh at your differences are jerks." When she said that, I was really shocked. And then, she went on: "A few Americans who treat people from other countries are not so nice because they are immature. They don't know that they should respect people's differences. But most American people are nice, you know?" that afternoon, I realized some people refuse to get to know you just because you are different from them. That was kind of sad.
Time passed by so quickly with Pritika. We were used to studying together. She was always very patient with me even if I kept forgetting an easy word. And she also told me how to open up myself to American people. I could not tell which one was more fantastic, the pizza she treated to me every Friday at her house, or her kind heart. She asked me to teach her some Chinese, and I could tell that she always made the incorrect pronunciations on purpose. She was not stupid at all, she was just trying to make me feel balanced, and to show me that everyone would have difficulty with learning a brand new language. I was so touched. Every time I had a problem with my homework, or any happy or unhappy things, I would tell her. And we both knew that the "20 hours" were finished a long time ago. I had to wonder if that friendship was really magic, and as simple as it seemed, bridging two girls from different countries close together.
With Pritika's and some other nice American friends' help, my English is improving, and I am also getting familiar with the U.S. culture and lifestyle. Indeed, I have built many friendships with other American people who understand and respect other's differences. The girl in my Physics class finally became my friend. I found out that nice people are more abundant in this world than mean ones. I am not mad at them at all now, because after one year in the U.S., I really have learned a lot; because some people just don't want to accept the differences of other people. That is not a very big fault; I believe they will learn somehow.
The world is huge. What separates us from one another is not the ocean; it is a few people's narrow minds. But what connects us together is most people's understanding and respecting of other's differences.
We seem to be different but we are actually the same. We live in different regions, but when we look up, we are under the same sky; we do have different eye colors, but when we open our eyes, we see the same world; we have different skin colors, but when we hold our hands together, they are same warm and strong; we believe in different religions, but we do have the same piety when we worship the hope for peace in the world; we speak different languages, but when we smile, we are conveying the same message; we have different cultures, but when we learn about each other, we are receiving the same new amazing knowledge.
So open your heart, and admire the differences as the most beautiful chance for sightseeing in this world.