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The Year of the Rat
Feb. 18th, 2008 | 6:24 pm
People usually describe Chinatown in Los Angeles as "bustling," but on the day of the Golden Dragon
parade it's nothing short of insanity, with the color red everywhere. It's another country. A wild country where
something thrilling could happen at any moment. Foreign intrigue! An international incident! You could be
pulled into a stall selling $5 leather belts and offered pirated DVDs. You can buy a squirming squid for
dinner and a four-pack of tube socks at the same mom-and-pop shop.
A couple of weeks ago, I saw an advertisement for the parade to celebrate the New Year of the Rat, inviting
me to party like it was 4706. Full of hope and promise, I hopped on the Metro and walked from Union
Station over to Chinatown.
No, it's nothing like the Chinese quarters of San Francisco or New York. This is Jack Nicholson's
Chinatown, with its smells and colors and filth and noise and C Grade restaurant ratings and chaos. I took
it all in. I ate dim sum at Empress Pavilion and then browsed through the collection of shops jammed with
Chinese slippers, cheap jewelry, and, yes, china. I stood in front of a mall called Mandarin Plaza to watch
the street explode into a colorful fantasy of sights and sounds with the parade. Mickey Mouse was the
Grand Marshall (because of the Year of the Rat) and the mayor wished the crowd a "Happy New Year" in
Mandarin, Cantonese, English, and Spanish. Colorful dragons, some of which required twenty people to
operate, helped to chase away bad spirits while dancers and floats heralded the newly crowned Miss LA
Chinatown.
A far cry from my first Chinese New Years, which was, as far as I can figure, in 4686. Back in college, when
I had a roommate called Wendy Chang.
Wendy was originally from Taiwan and had moved to the states with her mother when she was 15. Wendy
and Jessica, her best friend and not Chinese, shared one bedroom and for 150 bucks a month, I had my
own bedroom. We lived on the third floor of an early 70's sprawling apartment complex called Sun Bay,
which became Scum Bay in my college student lexicon of sardonic terminology that made fun of everything.
I had never lived with someone who grew up in a country that wasn't the United States. Besides the
obvious frame of reference problems like "Hey, remember that episode of The Brady Bunch?" there were
behavioral and hygiene quirks. Eighteen year-old girls cry a lot. I remember walking around that apartment
crying at least eleven full days a month. Wendy would never cry in front of anyone. And I saw her smile, but I
never heard her laugh. She ate dried beef that resembled fur out of clear plastic containers for snacks and
a cut-up apple was often dessert, while I was eating Taco Bell and Ben & Jerry's.
And then there were the poop papers. My American shelteredness prevented me from knowing that
everyone else in the world didn't have toilets and plumbing like we do in the States and some of those
plumbing systems aren't made for flushing down paper. And even though the plumbing in Gainesville,
Florida could handle toilet paper, Wendy would fold up her paper and place it neatly in the wastebasket
beside the toilet, because that's what she was used to doing. I don't know if anyone ever told her that it was
OK to flush the paper. I didn't, because I was embarrassed for her, but not enough to let her know how
it works here.
Wendy was very smart and was studying to be a physical therapist. "Wendy" was an Americanized version
of her real name, Wang Yi. Her favorite place to go on vacation as a little girl was Bangkok, Thailand to ride
on elephants. Mine was to see my grandmother in Queens, New York.
Once, in early February, Wendy announced that it was the Chinese New Year and that we would be having
a party. I had no idea what that meant and I couldn't escape the image of an Asian Dick Clark. There would
be eggrolls, Spam fried rice, plum wine, gambling, and firecrackers shot off the balcony.
We went to the Chinese grocery market to buy "skins" and then Jessica and I spent an entire Saturday
making eggrolls under Wendy's watchful instruction, filling them with a hot mixture of shredded cabbage,
carrots, and pork. After we had rolled up three hundred of them to prepare for deep-frying, Wendy took out
her ink and paint brush and painted large Chinese characters onto typing paper signifying the seasons
and hung the sheets on specific walls for good luck during the year.
The three of us wore black satin China-girl tunics yoked with red piping. I felt sexy and mysterious and
worldly. Our guests arrived excited and the entire night was magical. I felt so hopeful about the upcoming
year, being surrounded by friends and a new culture. It was thirty degrees and there were twelve of us
holding Roman candles on a tiny, wooden third floor balcony shouting "Happy New Year" as well as
random Chinese words. And a month into the "real" year and broken resolutions, it was a do-over: a fresh
start.
Now I realize that my roommates and I looked like waitresses at a Mongolian Barbecue and were also very
drunk on plum wine. But I still long to recapture that feeling of anything's possible. I hadn't celebrated the
Chinese New Year since.
Fair or not, for all these years, all personal knowledge I had about Chinese people was based on Wendy.
It's a weighty responsibility, to be the foreigner. She was the ambassador for her country, her people.
Everyone was watching her. I certainly was.
And as I watched the young women from the beauty contest, all about Wendy's age when I knew her, I didn't
think once that any of the girls reminded me of her. I've met too many people since Wendy. The lines are
much harder to draw. I hope the lines are harder to draw for everyone.
Most Angelenos of Chinese decent are well integrated into the city's suburbs now, but still a few can be
found living in this rough pocket of Downtown L.A.. I saw a tiny old lady trying to buy a roast duck at the deli
and some herbs from a vegetable peddler. She was visibly annoyed with the crowd watching the parade
and getting in her way, shouting at them in Chinese. She turned and yelled at me and then at a Mexican
family sitting on the curb, their feet in a street strewn with multicolored confetti and burned-out red paper
firecracker shells.
I spent the rest of the parade trying to figure out which one of us in that crowd was the foreigner.
Comments
Feb. 18th, 2008 | 6:24 pm
People usually describe Chinatown in Los Angeles as "bustling," but on the day of the Golden Dragon
parade it's nothing short of insanity, with the color red everywhere. It's another country. A wild country where
something thrilling could happen at any moment. Foreign intrigue! An international incident! You could be
pulled into a stall selling $5 leather belts and offered pirated DVDs. You can buy a squirming squid for
dinner and a four-pack of tube socks at the same mom-and-pop shop.
A couple of weeks ago, I saw an advertisement for the parade to celebrate the New Year of the Rat, inviting
me to party like it was 4706. Full of hope and promise, I hopped on the Metro and walked from Union
Station over to Chinatown.
No, it's nothing like the Chinese quarters of San Francisco or New York. This is Jack Nicholson's
Chinatown, with its smells and colors and filth and noise and C Grade restaurant ratings and chaos. I took
it all in. I ate dim sum at Empress Pavilion and then browsed through the collection of shops jammed with
Chinese slippers, cheap jewelry, and, yes, china. I stood in front of a mall called Mandarin Plaza to watch
the street explode into a colorful fantasy of sights and sounds with the parade. Mickey Mouse was the
Grand Marshall (because of the Year of the Rat) and the mayor wished the crowd a "Happy New Year" in
Mandarin, Cantonese, English, and Spanish. Colorful dragons, some of which required twenty people to
operate, helped to chase away bad spirits while dancers and floats heralded the newly crowned Miss LA
Chinatown.
A far cry from my first Chinese New Years, which was, as far as I can figure, in 4686. Back in college, when
I had a roommate called Wendy Chang.
Wendy was originally from Taiwan and had moved to the states with her mother when she was 15. Wendy
and Jessica, her best friend and not Chinese, shared one bedroom and for 150 bucks a month, I had my
own bedroom. We lived on the third floor of an early 70's sprawling apartment complex called Sun Bay,
which became Scum Bay in my college student lexicon of sardonic terminology that made fun of everything.
I had never lived with someone who grew up in a country that wasn't the United States. Besides the
obvious frame of reference problems like "Hey, remember that episode of The Brady Bunch?" there were
behavioral and hygiene quirks. Eighteen year-old girls cry a lot. I remember walking around that apartment
crying at least eleven full days a month. Wendy would never cry in front of anyone. And I saw her smile, but I
never heard her laugh. She ate dried beef that resembled fur out of clear plastic containers for snacks and
a cut-up apple was often dessert, while I was eating Taco Bell and Ben & Jerry's.
And then there were the poop papers. My American shelteredness prevented me from knowing that
everyone else in the world didn't have toilets and plumbing like we do in the States and some of those
plumbing systems aren't made for flushing down paper. And even though the plumbing in Gainesville,
Florida could handle toilet paper, Wendy would fold up her paper and place it neatly in the wastebasket
beside the toilet, because that's what she was used to doing. I don't know if anyone ever told her that it was
OK to flush the paper. I didn't, because I was embarrassed for her, but not enough to let her know how
it works here.
Wendy was very smart and was studying to be a physical therapist. "Wendy" was an Americanized version
of her real name, Wang Yi. Her favorite place to go on vacation as a little girl was Bangkok, Thailand to ride
on elephants. Mine was to see my grandmother in Queens, New York.
Once, in early February, Wendy announced that it was the Chinese New Year and that we would be having
a party. I had no idea what that meant and I couldn't escape the image of an Asian Dick Clark. There would
be eggrolls, Spam fried rice, plum wine, gambling, and firecrackers shot off the balcony.
We went to the Chinese grocery market to buy "skins" and then Jessica and I spent an entire Saturday
making eggrolls under Wendy's watchful instruction, filling them with a hot mixture of shredded cabbage,
carrots, and pork. After we had rolled up three hundred of them to prepare for deep-frying, Wendy took out
her ink and paint brush and painted large Chinese characters onto typing paper signifying the seasons
and hung the sheets on specific walls for good luck during the year.
The three of us wore black satin China-girl tunics yoked with red piping. I felt sexy and mysterious and
worldly. Our guests arrived excited and the entire night was magical. I felt so hopeful about the upcoming
year, being surrounded by friends and a new culture. It was thirty degrees and there were twelve of us
holding Roman candles on a tiny, wooden third floor balcony shouting "Happy New Year" as well as
random Chinese words. And a month into the "real" year and broken resolutions, it was a do-over: a fresh
start.
Now I realize that my roommates and I looked like waitresses at a Mongolian Barbecue and were also very
drunk on plum wine. But I still long to recapture that feeling of anything's possible. I hadn't celebrated the
Chinese New Year since.
Fair or not, for all these years, all personal knowledge I had about Chinese people was based on Wendy.
It's a weighty responsibility, to be the foreigner. She was the ambassador for her country, her people.
Everyone was watching her. I certainly was.
And as I watched the young women from the beauty contest, all about Wendy's age when I knew her, I didn't
think once that any of the girls reminded me of her. I've met too many people since Wendy. The lines are
much harder to draw. I hope the lines are harder to draw for everyone.
Most Angelenos of Chinese decent are well integrated into the city's suburbs now, but still a few can be
found living in this rough pocket of Downtown L.A.. I saw a tiny old lady trying to buy a roast duck at the deli
and some herbs from a vegetable peddler. She was visibly annoyed with the crowd watching the parade
and getting in her way, shouting at them in Chinese. She turned and yelled at me and then at a Mexican
family sitting on the curb, their feet in a street strewn with multicolored confetti and burned-out red paper
firecracker shells.
I spent the rest of the parade trying to figure out which one of us in that crowd was the foreigner.
Comments
