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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