3A — Monday, October 1, 2018
Michigan in Color
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
D.C.’s Chinatown is for tourists
“Do
you
even
have
Chinese cooks? This tastes
like cardboard,” my mother
yelled in Mandarin at the
poor, unsuspecting waitress.
She was very unimpressed
by the food we tried at the
“authentic” Chinese restaurant
at Chinatown in Washington,
D.C. Despite the traditional
archway
and
the
Chinese
characters on the signage along
the streets, there was not much
authenticity remaining in this
section of the city.
When I first saw Chinatown
in D.C., I was so full of
excitement. I had never lived
in a place that had a proper
Chinatown before (well, besides
living in actual China). I stared
adoringly
at
the
beautiful
arches and the zodiac on the
ground, surrounded by Chinese
restaurants. I was so eager to
be around people who shared
my culture.
Unfortunately, it was all
largely a facade.
My mom would later look up
on her Chinese sites where the
best Chinese food in the area
was. The answer: Maryland.
In
the
20th
century,
Chinatown
in
D.C.
was
a
bustling center for the Chinese
community (who notably had
to live in a segregated enclave
due to racism). But waves of
gentrification have pushed out
much of the Chinese people
who once lived there to make
way for office buildings and
hipster vegan restaurants —
which actually make a damn
good soy milkshake, but I
digress.
The
remaining
Chinese
restaurants
serve
highly
Americanized Chinese food.
As of 2015, there were only 300
Chinese-Americans still living
in Chinatown, down from a
peak of about 3,000. Across
Chinatown, instead of actual
Chinese businesses, there are
Urban Outfitters and pizza
spots that put up signage in
Chinese characters in some
borderline offensive attempt
to preserve the culture of the
area. Sometimes it seems like
there
are
more
University
of Michigan graduates than
Chinese people in this city,
given how often I see the hats
and shirts, especially on game
day.
Every day when I step off the
metro and walk past the shining
gates to go to work on the top
floor of an office building, I
can’t help but wonder if I’m
part of the problem. Sure, I
make less than minimum wage
and am the only East Asian in
my office, but I am an outsider
swooping in, looking for a job
and eating at the hip vegan
place.
On
the
second
day
of
being in D.C. for Michigan in
Washington, I walked a mile
to get to one of the only Asian
markets in the city. It is a
Japanese store, so they didn’t
have the special chili sauce
I was looking for, but I was
able to get many of the other
ingredients that would sit in
my pantry so I could pretend
I would actually cook fresh
Chinese food and not just
eat two-ingredient salad and
frozen Trader Joe’s pasta. (I
have yet to make my mom’s
favorite noodle recipe that she
taught me before leaving, sorry
mom.)
The tiny store was crowded
with the white-to-Asian ratio
skewed in the white direction
— partially because of the
high density of Asian girls and
their white boyfriends, who I
made jokes about to my friends,
noting the irony given I am also
dating a white dude.
Gentrification is a major
problem
facing
many
D.C.
residents,
and
the
impact
on
Chinatown
is
only
a
fraction
of
that
problem.
Across
the
city,
minority
communities
(especially
the
Black community) repeatedly
get pushed out of their homes
to make way for a new office
building, apartment complex
or Whole Foods. This all occurs
without attempts to preserve
the culture of the neighborhood
or accommodate for the existing
people, because the new, rich,
white person needs a place to
stay and a bougie grocery store
to go with it — at the expense of
communities of color.
LYDIA MURRAY
MiC Columnist
On Sept. 15, I attended the
third
annual
Palipalooza,
a
Palestine-centered
concert
in
Chicago, on behalf of Learning
for
the
Empowerment
and
Advancement
of
Palestinians.
LEAP
is
an
organization
I
volunteered with this summer
that provides Palestinian children
living in refugee camps south
of Lebanon with a six-week
intensive English program to help
prepare them for the Brevet, an
English-heavy examination all
Lebanese students must take to
go to high school or vocational
schools. Through LEAP, I had
the opportunity to connect with
people
who
quickly
became
my brothers, sisters and best
friends. However, not everyone
gets to witness what the Israeli
occupation means firsthand and
see how it affects people they
love, which is why events like
Palipalooza are so important.
Palipalooza
gave
Palestine-
centered vendors a chance to
showcase their music, films and
products. Among the vendors
was Wear The Peace. Aside from
providing great conversation, they
also had fashionable products and
an inspirational mission. For each
item of clothing sold, one was
donated, and 100 percent of the
money raised from accessories
was donated to the Helping Hands
for Relief and Development and
Palestine Children’s Relief Fund.
They sold stylish items, some with
Arabic script, including jewelry
saying
“Love”
and
clothing
with the word “Peace,” and they
used their designs to promote
resistance through fashion.
Murad Nofal, co-founder of
Wear the Peace, described, “Me
and Mustafa [Mabruk] wanted
to start a movement where we
can spread awareness and peace
through clothing and at the same
time give back to those same
causes we’re trying to bring
attention to.” This is one of the few
companies I have encountered
where I genuinely knew my
money was going to help people in
need, and their political clothing
items encouraged people to learn
more, even if only for the sake of
knowing what they are wearing.
Mary Hazboun, a Palestinian
folk singer, writer and artist, was
showcasing cartoons from her
collection “The Art of Weeping”
at another table. Hazboun, born
in Bethlehem, began doodling
as a way to cope with flashbacks
and panic attacks that she would
experience from her time living
under Israeli military occupation
and being forced from her home.
She now uses her artwork as a
platform to share her narrative
and resist through her pieces.
She translates her pain and
experiences into unique and
delicate cartoons, often depicting
women with symbols of the
Palestinian diaspora like the
keffiyeh, traditional embroidery
and the key of return.
“Events like Palipalooza make
me feel like I am back in Palestine,
even if it is for a few hours. To be
around Palestinians and other
people of color activists & artists
who use their creative work as
a form of resistance is crucial
to highlight how our struggles
are interconnected,” Hazboun
reflected. The emotion that was
so prevalent in every single one
of her drawings allowed viewers
to connect to something raw
and personal that none of us had
actually experienced.
One of the talents performing
was Lakota rapper and producer
Frank
Waln.
Waln
made
the
connection
between
the
apartheid in Palestine and the
ethnic cleansing of his Native
American ancestors, as well as the
erasure of indigenous histories
by the colonial settler, both
points reminiscent of Mahmoud
Darwish’s poem, “Speech of the
Red Indian.” My favorite song he
performed was “What Makes the
Red Man Red?” from the classic
Disney cartoon “Peter Pan.” He
transformed this racist song and
countered the stereotypes that
have been produced since America
was founded through lyrics like
“You made me red when you
killed my people” and “We died
for the birth of your nation,” both
of which I feel apply to the current
Israeli-Palestinian conflict. He
also sang a song called “My People
Come From the Land,” which
fought back against attempts by
Americans to erase the natives’
connection
to
the
country,
describing the land as open for
the settlers to come, occupy
and “civilize.” This parallels an
argument used by Israelis today.
Waln’s final call was to tell the
audience not to let what happened
to Native Americans happen again
to the Palestinians, encouraging
us to fight back against injustice
and not let history repeat itself.
Waln’s music showed viewers you
don’t need to be Palestinian to
show solidarity in what is unjust
because everyone has experience
with and can recognize injustice.
When I was asked to drive
to Chicago so close to the start
of the new school year, I was
a little hesitant. However, the
opportunity to meet all of these
strong
and
talented
people
who were so connected to their
identities made the trip more than
worth it. It was beautiful to see
different communities showing
up in support of Palestine, and it
made me realize you don’t need
to have a personal connection
to relate to the struggle of a
people oppressed. The solidarity
and coalition building shown
at
Palipalooza
is
something
I hope to see reflected more
often in the coming school year,
and we are already off to an
admirable start with the practice
of the Boycott, Divestment and
Sanctions Movement shown by
Associate Prof. John Cheney-
Lippold in declining to write a
recommendation letter for a study
abroad trip in occupied Palestine.
As a student body, we should take
after Cheney-Lippold and refuse
to be bystanders complicit in the
human rights abuses carried out
by Israel against Palestinians.
NADA ELDAWY
MiC Columnist
Palipalooza: centering the Palestinian cause
I have been learning the
English language for 15 years
now. I have improved from
learning vowels to now writing
in a second language. Fifteen
years is long enough to have
mastered a skill, yet there are
still some words in English I
can never pronounce.
Veggie patty, water, letter
Whenever I need to use
these
words
in
my
daily
conversations, my brain enters a
panic mode because it will need
to choose between sounding
like an American or like who
I am. I learned in Linguistics
210 the first semester of my
freshman year that these are
called flaps or taps. It refers
to the way the tongue has to
somehow touch the alveolar
ridge, but not quite. Some days
I can do the American flap or
tap pronunciation, so ordering
water at restaurants becomes
less daunting. Most days I can
never pronounce veggie patty
even though it’s the same way
of pronouncing water. Perhaps
the flap comes with practice
because I have certainly said
the word water a lot more than
the word veggie patty. Some
days I just avoid the word and
eventually, I become a master
of synonyms — not because of
spending hours with thesaurus,
but because of avoiding words
(so “mail” instead of “letter”).
Mitten, kitten, badminton
I can make myself learn flaps,
but never these contractions.
It goes against my natural
instinct to just disregard the
letter between ‘t’ and ‘n.’ In
my first language, we never
hide letters. They are there,
and we vocalize them. What
is it with these Americans and
contractions? It gets so much
more
absurd
in
discussion
sections of highly technical
courses. “Moniring” instead
of ‘monitoring’ or “wachh-a-
say” instead of “what did you
say.” When I come to the U.S., I
struggle with how I tell people
my name. To these Americans,
my name is a foreign word. Some
of my friends have names that
can sound foreign. My name is
not like that. Arabs will try to
say my name the Arabic way
but I am not Arab, even though
my name is. It is complicated
but I like to think my name and
me are a cultural juxtaposition.
I also struggle in discussion
class because I need a few
minutes to gather my thoughts
and choose “affordable” words.
This often takes way too long
and by the time I have come
up with my thoughts, the
discussion has moved on to a
new topic. It must be nice to
have an American tongue. How
seamless it is for them to speak
in discussion class without the
risk of sounding like a toad.
These pronunciations don’t
bother me as much anymore
because I am not much of a
talker anyway. No one needs
to hear me talking and then
after a few minutes realize
I have foreign tongue. Yet
what bothers me is the way
in which my tongue has been
Americanized to some extent.
I am American enough in my
thoughts and how I dress, so I
cannot afford to lose my accent
as well. Then one day, after
reading Chimamanda Ngozi
Adichie’s “Americanah,” I came
across the video “We Should
All be Feminists.” One African
accent lead me to the movie
“Queen of Katwe” to Filipino
co-workers. There is something
about their pronunciation of
English
words
that
makes
me attracted to them. It is in
the way they are sort of just
boasting
confidence
with
their version of the English
language. In their own version
of cultural juxtaposition, I have
found I do not need to pass off
as American to be in the U.S.
So I began becoming proud
of saying my name, the way I
know how. Not the American
way or the Arabic way, but
the Malaysian way, and every
time during discussion class I
can only wait for my American
graduate student instructor to
ask me the second time how to
pronounce my name because it
is so foreign to them.
What are you: ambiguously brown
A foreigner on foreign wordings
Walking into one of the many
bodegas on Mt. Pleasant Street in
Washington, D.C., I’m instantly
greeted in Spanish by the cashier.
Without hesitation, I respond in
Spanish, but I am not Latino. The
first time I walked into what would
become my regular barbershop on
Georgia Avenue, the man yelled
for someone to “take care of the
light-skinned guy”, but I am not
black. In the elevator at University
Towers last year on my way to
work out, a woman tapped me on
the shoulder and made me turn
around and take out my earbuds
only to ask “Excuse me, are you
Ethiopian? I’m Ethiopian”. Mostly,
I find these events entertaining,
happy that I can function as a
racial and cultural chameleon.
On the other hand, meeting a
white person for the first time, the
following conversation is standard
procedure:
Them: “Where are you from?
Me: “D.C.”
Them: “No, but where are you
really from?”
Me (no hesitation): “D.C.”
Unlike the interactions in the
previous paragraph, these leave
me emotionally drained. Some are
confused by this; why should an
exchange in which a white person
inquires about my race be more
exasperating than one in which a
person of color assumes it?
The key difference is intent,
whether conscious or not. When
another person of color identifies
(or in my case, thinks they
identify) someone of the same
race, it’s an instant connection-
finally seeing a familiar face in a
sea of white ones; someone with
whom you can actually relate and
don’t have to tone down, or be
apologetic about, your culture.
This fosters inclusion. On the
other hand, when a white person
meets a person of color, and their
first instinct is to seek out that
person’s racial or ethnic identity,
that is a form of direct exclusion. It
means that they see that person as
different than themselves and are
seeking a tangible way to ‘other’
them. More than that, it is seeking
to categorize you and fit you in a
neat box that doesn’t conflict with
that person’s worldview. I tend to
interrupt preconceived notions of
race for many people because I’m
mixed in a way that doesn’t neatly
fit into any one box.
The point of writing this, if
there is one, is to say one thing,
specifically
to
white
people:
stop. If my racial background
is something I care to tell you,
or if it’s relevant, I will share it
with you. Otherwise, don’t ask.
It’s exhausting and a constant
reminder that society is seeking
to exclude me due to the color of
my skin, and unnecessary for most
conversations. Initially, I thought
I’d conclude with my actual
ethnic background, but upon
reconsideration I figured to do so
would be counterintuitive to the
point of this piece. I am a racially
ambiguous brown American, and
unless I decide otherwise, that’s
all you need to know.
PHOTO COURTESY OF NA’KIA CHANNEY
The Chinatown Arch in Washington, D.C.
“Across
Chinatown, insted
of actual Chinese
businesses, there
are Urban Outfiters
and pizza spots”
ALIA MELIKI
MiC Contributor
The Palestinian
Three inches from the top
One inch from the sides
And one inch from the
bottom
Margins are the parts of the
page outside the main body
Outside the limit of what is
important
Outside the limit of the green
line we found
Who is not important
Palestinians living in East
Jerusalem
Where a stone’s throw and a
Jewish mother affords you
Better
housing,
cleaner
streets and the chance to live
Beyond survival
In
the
basement
of
an
educational bookstore
At the end of a room
Sat a man who was not a man
He
was
an
immaterial
country
The wounds of a conflict
The mat of an oppressive
government
No
More than a man
He was a voice
With
the
Jewish
Israeli
trumpet of triumph ringing in
my ear
I sat and I listened
And I listened and I sat
And I remained still as the
sand on a beach
While this tide of a man
Who was really a voice
Forced me from my position
And into the rocks of his
truth
“This is a national struggle”
The voice said
And suddenly the Palestinian
was not a resisting citizen but a
rebelling nation
The Palestinian is one-third
of the Jerusalem municipality
But 12 percent of the budget’s
burden
In the West Bank he is
neither citizen nor resident
He is a number
A statistic
A terrorist
The Palestinian is
the wrong color
The wrong religion
The wrong language
He is one inch from each side
Surrounds the main body of
Israel
Is outside the wall
A margin
I did not pity the voice
Because it was strong
But I pitied his listeners
because it was alone
Like a tune arranged for a
mass choir
We heard just the tenor
Or maybe a soprano
But for us to understand the
lyrics
We must complete the choir
And sit and listen some more
DANYEL THARAKAN
MiC Columnist
AYOMIDE OKUNADE
MiC Contributor
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