Tracing my footsteps as an immigrant
I found the surroundings familiar and strange at the same time. The large brick co-op buildings lining the streets
one after another looked exactly the same. The cars parked along the streets were still jammed into limited spaces,
the ultimate test of parallel parking skills. I remember, once I squeezed my small Toyota Tercel so close between two
cars that I had to leave it there for three days, until one of the adjoining cars moved away.
As I walked further from the train station, rows of two or three story buildings came into view. One of these
buildings had been my first home. I well remember the apartment was on a second floor, a three-bedroom flat shared
by three Chinese immigrant families. Our landlady lived downstairs and made available the only narrow kitchen in
the building to all the families. We took turns cooking meals. As I looked around the street, trying to capture
everything in my vision, I realized the strange, unfamiliar sense must have been caused by the new shops, with more
contemporary fronts and signage.
I smelled the deep fried chicken from the KFC located at Northern Boulevard and 88th Street before I could set
my eyes upon the familiar small building. I used to walk by it every day and savored the smell in the air. Back then, I
was working as an administrative assistant and supported the four-member family with my income. The cost of a meal
at KFC meant two or three dinners cooked at home. We never stepped inside the store. Today, the KFC stood in the
same place, looking the same, but it no longer had the allure it used to have over me.
I lingered in front of the building where we lived for two years and took a number of snapshots of the exterior —
the brick stairs leading to the entrance on the second floor, the metal bars blocking the entire window facing the
street, and the metal door with a heavy-duty lock safeguarding the entrance. Surprisingly, everything appeared well
maintained. The black paint on the rail along the stairs and the white paint surrounding the window panes all looked
in good shape. There were no signs of cockroaches racing around the walls or traces of mice running on the ground
floor. Everything appeared more pleasant than I remembered.
I tightened the belt of my coat and walked toward 31st Avenue and 74th Street, our second apartment. It was a
mile away. The move was an improvement for us since it was a two-bedroom apartment. Even though we still shared
the place with another Chinese family, we had a real kitchen and a living room. We didn’t have any furniture and
were shocked by the sticker price at furniture stores. With the pragmatic resourcefulness of new immigrants, we
one after another looked exactly the same. The cars parked along the streets were still jammed into limited spaces,
the ultimate test of parallel parking skills. I remember, once I squeezed my small Toyota Tercel so close between two
cars that I had to leave it there for three days, until one of the adjoining cars moved away.
As I walked further from the train station, rows of two or three story buildings came into view. One of these
buildings had been my first home. I well remember the apartment was on a second floor, a three-bedroom flat shared
by three Chinese immigrant families. Our landlady lived downstairs and made available the only narrow kitchen in
the building to all the families. We took turns cooking meals. As I looked around the street, trying to capture
everything in my vision, I realized the strange, unfamiliar sense must have been caused by the new shops, with more
contemporary fronts and signage.
I smelled the deep fried chicken from the KFC located at Northern Boulevard and 88th Street before I could set
my eyes upon the familiar small building. I used to walk by it every day and savored the smell in the air. Back then, I
was working as an administrative assistant and supported the four-member family with my income. The cost of a meal
at KFC meant two or three dinners cooked at home. We never stepped inside the store. Today, the KFC stood in the
same place, looking the same, but it no longer had the allure it used to have over me.
I lingered in front of the building where we lived for two years and took a number of snapshots of the exterior —
the brick stairs leading to the entrance on the second floor, the metal bars blocking the entire window facing the
street, and the metal door with a heavy-duty lock safeguarding the entrance. Surprisingly, everything appeared well
maintained. The black paint on the rail along the stairs and the white paint surrounding the window panes all looked
in good shape. There were no signs of cockroaches racing around the walls or traces of mice running on the ground
floor. Everything appeared more pleasant than I remembered.
I tightened the belt of my coat and walked toward 31st Avenue and 74th Street, our second apartment. It was a
mile away. The move was an improvement for us since it was a two-bedroom apartment. Even though we still shared
the place with another Chinese family, we had a real kitchen and a living room. We didn’t have any furniture and
were shocked by the sticker price at furniture stores. With the pragmatic resourcefulness of new immigrants, we
By Jian Ping
It was Thursday, February 26, 2009. The weather in New York City was much colder than I expected. Despite the
sunshine, strong wind whipped my face and blew through my trench coat. I was in the city to give two talks on my
book, “Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China,” at local public libraries. I had Thursday afternoon free and decided to
visit the places I had lived when I first settled in Queens, New York.
From 1989 when I finished graduate school in Ohio to 1994 when I moved to Chicago, I lived in three rental
apartments in Elmhurst, Jackson Heights, and Woodside, all in Queens, New York, with my husband, mother-in-law,
and five-year-old daughter who had joined me from China in 1990. These neighborhoods were next to one another,
within three miles, and inhabited by a mixture of Hispanic, Black and Asian residents. I had only been back to the
area once since my departure and was eager to refresh my memories. I had recently started working on my next book
project, on the topic of bringing up my daughter in the U.S. I had more reason than ever to trace the first footsteps I
made as an immigrant.
I got onto the familiar No. 7 Train at Times Square and headed toward Queens. It was early in the afternoon.
Perhaps because it was not rush hour yet, the train appeared quieter, cleaner and more spacious than I remembered.
It moved fast and soon emerged from underground to the elevated level above the streets, like the L in Chicago. I got
off at 90th Street and embarked on the route I used to take to and from my first residence at the corner of Northern
Boulevard and 88th Street.
It was Thursday, February 26, 2009. The weather in New York City was much colder than I expected. Despite the
sunshine, strong wind whipped my face and blew through my trench coat. I was in the city to give two talks on my
book, “Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China,” at local public libraries. I had Thursday afternoon free and decided to
visit the places I had lived when I first settled in Queens, New York.
From 1989 when I finished graduate school in Ohio to 1994 when I moved to Chicago, I lived in three rental
apartments in Elmhurst, Jackson Heights, and Woodside, all in Queens, New York, with my husband, mother-in-law,
and five-year-old daughter who had joined me from China in 1990. These neighborhoods were next to one another,
within three miles, and inhabited by a mixture of Hispanic, Black and Asian residents. I had only been back to the
area once since my departure and was eager to refresh my memories. I had recently started working on my next book
project, on the topic of bringing up my daughter in the U.S. I had more reason than ever to trace the first footsteps I
made as an immigrant.
I got onto the familiar No. 7 Train at Times Square and headed toward Queens. It was early in the afternoon.
Perhaps because it was not rush hour yet, the train appeared quieter, cleaner and more spacious than I remembered.
It moved fast and soon emerged from underground to the elevated level above the streets, like the L in Chicago. I got
off at 90th Street and embarked on the route I used to take to and from my first residence at the corner of Northern
Boulevard and 88th Street.
We used to live in a three-bedroom
apartment on the third floor of this
building next to Queens Boulevard in
Woodside.
apartment on the third floor of this
building next to Queens Boulevard in
Woodside.
solved our problem by picking up everything from the street: a dark brown fabric sofa, complete with a love seat, a queen size bed with frames, and a heavy TV
stand made of compressed wood. We spent a day cleaning them up and kept the window open for them to dry. The only problem that persisted in that apartment
was the cockroaches. The buildings were old and run-down. There must have been armies of these little creatures hiding behind the cracks of walls and
countertops. At night, whenever the light was switched on in the kitchen, swarms of them would race away in all directions. Our cans of Raid, high vibration
sound devices, and sticky tapes were of no use. Luckily, they didn’t invade our bedroom.
Once again, I stood in front of the building, taking pictures to refresh my memories. The small yard in front of the building was a one-car parking lot, the only
place I sometimes allowed my then six-year-old daughter to play for a while when it was empty. During the two years we lived at this location, my Toyota Tercel
was parked on the street. I locked a red safety bar on the steering wheel. It kept the car in the spot I left it, but couldn’t prevent two break-ins — the first time, my
radio was yanked out and the second time the coins I left in the cupholder were swept clean. It was common to hear car alarms piercing through the air day and
night. I was relieved that no alarm went off as I paced back and forth on the street.
Eventually, I walked over to the last place we settled into, a significant step up. It was a three-bedroom apartment on the third floor next to Queens
Boulevard in Woodside. My daughter had her own room for the first time, while I had the luxury of a small toilet with a wash basin in my room. A former girlfriend
from my college years back in China took the third bedroom. Our landlord’s family, Taiwanese, used to live in this apartment and the conditions, from the pink
carpet to the white countertops, appeared bright and pleasant. This was the first place that felt like home to me, six years after I came to the U.S. as a graduate
student. Our landlord’s mother, Mrs. Yang, lived on the second floor by herself. She was in her late seventies and still went to work almost every day at her son’s
restaurant located in the lower level of the World Trade Center. We soon became friends and I called her Yang Mama. She often took food home from the
restaurant for us or came up with a large bowl of freshly cooked soup. She was lonely and very much appreciated our company.
As I stood at the front gate, looking at the small yard and the entrance, as usual barred by a metal door, I thought of Yang Mama. She would be over 85
now. If she was still alive, she probably no longer lived there, having to negotiate the two flights of stairs which she had difficulty climbing 15 years before. I still
vividly remember her fair complexion, kind smile, and large eyes. She must have been a beauty when she was young. Wanting to take a picture of the entire
front of the building, I walked across the street. As I looked through the lens to ensure nothing was left out, the metal door suddenly swung open. A thin woman
with short black hair stepped out and threw a bag of trash into a large can in a corner of the yard. She turned to look at me. The camera lens made her image
smaller and further away. All I could see was a middle-aged Chinese woman in a loose, black dress, with dangling handkerchief hem fluttering below her knees.
Could it be my former roommate? The sight and thought shocked me so much that I froze for a moment. Except one or two e-mails over the last 10 years, we
had not had any contact. I didn’t lower the camera or say hello. She didn’t say anything either. I watched her withdraw into the doorway through my camera
lens. I knew my former roommate had married an African American after I moved to Chicago and had gone back to school again. Could it be so that she still
lived in this place? I played back the pictures I had taken, hoping to find her image. But I didn’t click the shutter. For a moment, I wondered if it was an illusion.
I crossed the street and entered the small yard. If it was her, I believed she could have seen me clearly. The other side of the street was less than 10 yards away. I
rang the bell on the third floor. Once, twice, and three times. There was no answer. I had no way of knowing if the bell was broken or she chose not to respond to
me. I waited for a few more minutes and then I smiled to myself and walked decisively toward the Roosevelt Train Station. I felt almost relieved she didn’t
respond. I didn’t know what to say if I found her living in the same place 15 years later. Once again, I tried to trace the steps I had taken numerous times before. I
was glad the early days of my struggle as an immigrant had become history.
Jian Ping is the author of “Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China.” She has dual master’s degrees in film and international affairs from Ohio University. Please
visit www.mulberrychild.com for more information. Post comments on this article or Jian Ping’s other writings at www.smearedtype.com.
stand made of compressed wood. We spent a day cleaning them up and kept the window open for them to dry. The only problem that persisted in that apartment
was the cockroaches. The buildings were old and run-down. There must have been armies of these little creatures hiding behind the cracks of walls and
countertops. At night, whenever the light was switched on in the kitchen, swarms of them would race away in all directions. Our cans of Raid, high vibration
sound devices, and sticky tapes were of no use. Luckily, they didn’t invade our bedroom.
Once again, I stood in front of the building, taking pictures to refresh my memories. The small yard in front of the building was a one-car parking lot, the only
place I sometimes allowed my then six-year-old daughter to play for a while when it was empty. During the two years we lived at this location, my Toyota Tercel
was parked on the street. I locked a red safety bar on the steering wheel. It kept the car in the spot I left it, but couldn’t prevent two break-ins — the first time, my
radio was yanked out and the second time the coins I left in the cupholder were swept clean. It was common to hear car alarms piercing through the air day and
night. I was relieved that no alarm went off as I paced back and forth on the street.
Eventually, I walked over to the last place we settled into, a significant step up. It was a three-bedroom apartment on the third floor next to Queens
Boulevard in Woodside. My daughter had her own room for the first time, while I had the luxury of a small toilet with a wash basin in my room. A former girlfriend
from my college years back in China took the third bedroom. Our landlord’s family, Taiwanese, used to live in this apartment and the conditions, from the pink
carpet to the white countertops, appeared bright and pleasant. This was the first place that felt like home to me, six years after I came to the U.S. as a graduate
student. Our landlord’s mother, Mrs. Yang, lived on the second floor by herself. She was in her late seventies and still went to work almost every day at her son’s
restaurant located in the lower level of the World Trade Center. We soon became friends and I called her Yang Mama. She often took food home from the
restaurant for us or came up with a large bowl of freshly cooked soup. She was lonely and very much appreciated our company.
As I stood at the front gate, looking at the small yard and the entrance, as usual barred by a metal door, I thought of Yang Mama. She would be over 85
now. If she was still alive, she probably no longer lived there, having to negotiate the two flights of stairs which she had difficulty climbing 15 years before. I still
vividly remember her fair complexion, kind smile, and large eyes. She must have been a beauty when she was young. Wanting to take a picture of the entire
front of the building, I walked across the street. As I looked through the lens to ensure nothing was left out, the metal door suddenly swung open. A thin woman
with short black hair stepped out and threw a bag of trash into a large can in a corner of the yard. She turned to look at me. The camera lens made her image
smaller and further away. All I could see was a middle-aged Chinese woman in a loose, black dress, with dangling handkerchief hem fluttering below her knees.
Could it be my former roommate? The sight and thought shocked me so much that I froze for a moment. Except one or two e-mails over the last 10 years, we
had not had any contact. I didn’t lower the camera or say hello. She didn’t say anything either. I watched her withdraw into the doorway through my camera
lens. I knew my former roommate had married an African American after I moved to Chicago and had gone back to school again. Could it be so that she still
lived in this place? I played back the pictures I had taken, hoping to find her image. But I didn’t click the shutter. For a moment, I wondered if it was an illusion.
I crossed the street and entered the small yard. If it was her, I believed she could have seen me clearly. The other side of the street was less than 10 yards away. I
rang the bell on the third floor. Once, twice, and three times. There was no answer. I had no way of knowing if the bell was broken or she chose not to respond to
me. I waited for a few more minutes and then I smiled to myself and walked decisively toward the Roosevelt Train Station. I felt almost relieved she didn’t
respond. I didn’t know what to say if I found her living in the same place 15 years later. Once again, I tried to trace the steps I had taken numerous times before. I
was glad the early days of my struggle as an immigrant had become history.
Jian Ping is the author of “Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China.” She has dual master’s degrees in film and international affairs from Ohio University. Please
visit www.mulberrychild.com for more information. Post comments on this article or Jian Ping’s other writings at www.smearedtype.com.