Unexpected Connections
When I tell non-New Yorkers I live in New York, it often evokes a sense of wonder from them. “The Big Apple,” “the city that never sleeps”―any description of New York I’ve heard is accompanied by grand statements such as these. But as someone born and raised here, I think those statements wore off pretty quick. At some point, New York began to feel monotonous, its tall, bland apartment buildings broken up by countless restaurants, cafes, stores, and parks. There is only so much to do other than eating out, especially now. It’s the luxury of living in the city: you’re able to see and try so much at once that everything starts to feel the same. It’s perhaps why I don’t feel a strong attachment to any particular place in Queens, or New York for that matter, even though my connection to New York City runs deep, and it’s hard for me to imagine living anywhere else for more than a few years. But, when I think of places in New York that I always seem to find myself, there is one in particular that comes to mind.
Steinway has all of what I have listed above―restaurants, cafes, stores, like anywhere in NYC―but the one thing that keeps me coming back to it is nostalgia. I have early memories of my mother taking my brother and I to Chuck E. Cheese on Northern Boulevard, which was on our way to Steinway. After hours of playing, we would then make our way there by passing the Old Navy and turning left at the corner deli. Sometimes my mom would meet up with friends and we’d go to the Payless, Fabco Shoe store, or Children’s Place that are all still there. Surprisingly, unlike most of the stores surrounding them, they have not shut down yet. During Eid and Ramadan, we would walk to the very end of the block during Ramadan prayers. Both are major holidays in Islam: Ramadan is the month of fasting during which there are extra prayers held at night mosques, referred to as tarawih. There are two Eids, or holidays, that each last a day every year, and prayer is fairly early in the morning (my family and I would get up at around five to get there before it got too crowded). To get to the mosque, however, we’d have to pass by all the hookah lounges, which ironically enough sit right by the mosque. We’d quickly pass by with the hopes of finding space in the mosque to pray and my mom would mutter about how much shisha Egyptians smoke, a stereotype that Moroccans, among others, share about Egyptians. Back then, the mosque was not much of a place of prayer for me, but rather a place to make friends. The women’s room would be packed with kids, most of whom could not sit still. When the mosque got more space, we were put in a separate room that had board games and a TV that played some obscure Arabic cartoons.
After a while, we stopped going. My brother and I grew out of the clothes in Children’s Place, as well as the shoes from Payless and Fabco. My mom preferred going to the mosques a couple of blocks away from us over the one in Steinway, which was about thirty minutes away. I didn’t mind it, and pretty soon I fell out of the routine of going there. It seemed like I had no reason to, so I didn’t. In fact, it wasn’t until very recently that I began going back to eat at restaurants with my friends, go shopping, buy bubble tea (more often than I should have), or simply go for a walk after sitting at home all day. Through this, I have found a comfort in the place that I haven’t elsewhere, not even in the neighborhoods where I was born and raised.
The most obvious aspect of Steinway that I felt a connection with was the Arab community that lives there. Arab friends of mine in Astoria have told me that they don’t like that they are surrounded by other Arabs constantly, and I’d probably feel the same way if I lived there too. I grew up around people from different backgrounds, which was great because I learned a lot about traditions and cultures that I wouldn’t have otherwise encountered. But I never felt part of a community with other Arabs. My parents’ friends were all Moroccans from the same village, so I grew up hearing a lot about it. They always talked about the village in a romantic way. Oftentimes they missed it, but at the same time would never actually move back. I could relate to that: my parents have asked me on a couple of occasions if I would ever consider moving to Morocco and starting a family there and my answer is always the same. I would love to visit, but not live there. As much as I often miss my traditions and family in Morocco, there are too many things here I could never give up: my freedom of speech, diversity of people and thinking, and accessibility. I know that none of these can be found there, at least for the time being.
But because of this, my scope of the Arab world has been relatively limited: Morocco and the two other Maghreb countries, Algeria and Tunisia, are only quasi-Arab as is. The majority of people there are at least partly Amazigh, an indigenous group that makes up these countries populations. Both my parents are, and grew up speaking Tamazight alongside Arabic and French, which were then followed by English. I learned a dialect of Arabic that combines these first three languages and is unrecognizable to Arabic speakers outside of the region. But despite these differences, I have seen how values, religion, and family structures are surprisingly similar across the Middle East and North Africa. Moroccan culture has always fascinated me because it meshes so many others together to create a very distinct one. In a way, New York does the same.
I have similarly seen how Steinway is positioned in the Arab world and in the Western one. Like much else in New York, it was built to change. Every time I visit, something seems to have closed down. The small boutiques I never remembered the names of, the Modell’s, and New York & Company store, all gone. My friend told me that pretty soon, it will just be fast-food chains and maybe she’s right. No matter the time of day, people are interrupted by sounds of traffic, police sirens, the occasional dog, and more…so much to the point that nothing seems capable of stopping them. The place is built for people, not cars: benches line the blocks and the subway stations are easy to find, because why bother driving when there is little chance you’ll find parking? But after a while, there’s only so much you can do or see. I feel like because everything in New York is always changing, I’m always expecting something new. But in Morocco, I don’t because I have an everlasting picture of it cemented in my memory.
When I think of Morocco, I think of constancy. I think of the man in Casablanca that passes by my grandma’s house every morning as I’m waking up, shouting biid (egg) as he whips his donkey to keep trotting. I remember the women outside the souk (market) that tried to do my henna again only a week after I had gotten it done by them. I recall the wide streets and narrow sidewalks that are rarely used by pedestrians. I think of how the storekeepers temporarily close when the adhan sounds from the souma-A’-atoon (tower of mosque), calling them to prayer and the hush that falls over the entire town, stopping everyone. Some pray and then resume their routines. I remember the six hour long drives from Casablanca to Oujda with my family, which always included arguing. But it was that or a hot, uncomfortable ten-hour train ride with other arguing families. I long for the clean, brilliantly blue beaches of Nador and beautiful domes and arches of masjids that can be found on every corner, but certainly not the ride there.
Steinway does capture a certain essence of Morocco. I hear it all around me when I’m there. I overhear snippets of conversations in Arabic every time I walk by and try to guess where the speakers are from: Morocco? Egypt? Yemen? If I hear French, I know it’s Algerian or Moroccan. If the ج (ja) is pronounced like a hard g and the ق (qa) is not pronounced, then I know it’s Egyptian. For the other dialects, I need to hear the words used to make a guess. From the restaurants and cars driving by, I hear Arabic music playing: hip hop, rap, chaabi, rai, you name it. Songs by L’Algerino, Hakim, Nancy Ajram, and even Aya Nakamura.
I’m brought back to Morocco, where the fast-paced darija is spoken. I remember the time I tried ordering McDonalds on my own when I was nine or ten years old because my aunt had never been to McDonalds before. The cashier used more French than I was used to and my aunt ended up ordering for us anyways. I remember tuning to Hit Radio when in the car and hearing songs by Saad Lamjared, Douzi, and Aymane Serhani as well as American songs by Drake, Ariana Grande, and Bebe Rexha.
Back in Steinway, I look around me and see men in what are known as sheyas in Morocco (or thobes, more generally) as they leave the masjid during jummah (Friday prayer). I see women mostly dressed like me or any other female in New York, but some wearing djellabas or abayas. Many wear turbans or the hijab as I do, and just as many wear neither. It always feels lively, especially in the evening when the place is lit up by people and lights.
I’m brought back to the colorful cities of Morocco. I picture the beautiful and spacious houses, palm trees, and souks. I remember the women wearing djellabas, kaftans, and headscarves of all prints and colors and jeweled taqshitas during weddings; I think of my own sitting in my drawer, wishing there were more places I could wear them. Sellers shout the prices of their produce over each other trying to attract customers who try to bargain for a cheaper price, insisting that they know a place that sells it for less. They detect any chips, cracks or discolorations in the products or any other indication that they are being ripped off, and usually succeed in the end.
Steinway doesn’t replace Morocco and never will, but it stands in for Morocco when I need it to. When I miss Morocco, going to Steinway is probably the closest I feel to being there. Steinway is an in between, a limbo, as is the masjid right by the hookah lounges, which I think of in two ways. They appear to be two extremes: you wouldn’t picture someone that prays in the masjid in a dimly lit hookah lounge smoking shisha. But I’m willing to bet a lot of the same people go to both places. This juxtaposition can be applied to my culture: the fast paced, shifting one I grew up around in New York beside the more constant and in some ways more romanticized culture of Morocco that I can’t recount as well. Sure, I’ve been to Morocco practically every summer I can remember. I can describe the scenery, the foods, the people. But I can’t function there. My mannerisms are those of a New Yorker’s, so I stick out like a sore thumb. My speech and gait is so quick for them, so I am often told to slow down. I am also told to speak louder because apparently my voice is too quiet. My views are more liberal and less traditional than those of my extended family and parents. But in New York, I am also looked over twice. My headscarf and modest way of dressing are unconventional in most settings, as are many of my political views on the Middle East, I’m willing to bet. Some of my practices such as fasting during Ramadan surprise many people I tell, most of whom of course ask, “Not even water?” and say they could never do it for a day. But like those that go to the masjid when the adhan sounds and then smoke shisha, I straddle the line between two lifestyles that always seemed so different.
I have grown used to the world of New York City and I can’t think of another place that I would like to live. When I step back, I see that New York is an imitation of practically every other place on earth, but then again what isn’t? Even the constant image I have of Morocco has begun to erode; globalization, capitalism, and pop culture are no longer western concepts. After all, New York is not the only thing that was built to change, though it did change first and best. My background as an Amazigh in the Middle East and an Arab Muslim in New York has allowed me to see how I identify differently wherever I go, and take on some experiences and traits while I omit others. In other words, I live between identities and between worlds rather than within them, which means they are constantly subject to change depending on context. Having one foot in and one out will always leave me with a sense of loss of belonging to one place entirely, but this negative far from outweighs the positives: the memories, anecdotes, and lessons I carry from different walks of life and my ability to choose from them what I want my future to look like. New York City symbolizes the ability to choose like no other place does, and the opportunity to cross cultural, religious and social boundaries informs mine and other New Yorkers’ distinct understandings of what the world is like and what we want it to be like. I think this is what New York should be known for, not just the grandiose, glamorous depictions of the Big Apple.
By Lamya Serhir
Photographs done in collaboration with the New Media Artspace at Baruch College. The New Media Artspace is a teaching exhibition space in the Department of Fine and Performing Arts at Baruch College, CUNY. Housed in the Newman Library, the New Media Artspace showcases curated experimental media and interdisciplinary artworks by international artists, students, alumni, and faculty. Special thanks to docent Kezia Velista for creating artwork for this piece.
Check the New Media Artspace out at http://www.newmediartspace.info/