To Freeze Time

The day read two months ago, the calender on which it was printed hanging unchanged since that day. It was as though the tiny apartment was making a futile attempt at freezing time.

6 weeks -- it had taken a whole 6 weeks, but finally they were done. It was an odd sensation -- combing through 40 years of someone's life -- it wasn't a particularly enjoyable one either, but an educational one none the less.

The boy remembered vividly the fateful day two months ago, the tangible tension that effortlessly filled the apartment as he entered, the foreboding aura emanating from the room at the far end of the tiny apartment, the nervous fidgeting of the boy's father; the old man's son.

Ultimately the boy could not bring himself to peer into the far room, allowing only small glances at the doorway, through which socked feet attached to the beginning of legs, to which the rest lay hidden under an aging bed sheet. The boy felt that that was enough -- any more and his mind wouldn't be able to hold it's shield of composure. Ultimately, none of it felt real, even if he knew it was, and that feeling was what he clung to, a feeling he knew would shatter if he stepped foot in that room.

In reality, the tactic the boy employed served no purpose. It did not rewind time nor did it change the outcome of the situation, but for then, it was what he needed. It was also what the apartment needed.

The calender hung stubbornly on the green age-stained wall. The room's attempt to stop time had ultimately been unsuccessful, as evidenced by the now otherwise bare walls and empty rooms; the world had once again triumphed in it's fight to keep turning. However, where the calender failed the apartment had managed, in some small part, to succeed; twice a week for 6 whole weeks it transported the boy back and forth through 40 years of time -- a journey that was rarely pleasant but one that will never be forgotten.

The Old Man

It was about 4:30 when he got the news. He was dressed rather nicely: dress pants, black button-down underneath a red v-neck cashmere sweater. His attire, while entirely appropriate for the work related event earlier that day, was now completely inappropriate for the news he had just received.

The old man's apartment was hot and cramped. Strewn about were various sets of clothes and other junk. The old man had lived like a pack rat... for all the good that did him. Now the possessions he had refused to get rid of for so long were left behind for his family to clean up.

Our hero arrived shortly after he got the call. In the room next door lay a lump in the bedsheets. The room held an ominous and uninviting presence, but as long as our hero stayed away from the room none of it seemed threatening, as though it were radiated from a world far away. Perhaps it was this feeling that none of this was real that he was hiding behind, and as long as he didn't step foot in that room his fairy tail world would remain.

The Old Man's Apartment

The apartment held that familiar musty scent, an oder of dust and age permeated throughout the small 3-room studio.

He hadn't stepped foot in that apartment for what must have been at least four years, but he did so today. The apartment belonged to his grandfather, an 80-some odd year old diabetic who had moved to New York City from 臺山 China, bringing with him his two sons.

The apartment was a mess; it always had been. Littered with miscellaneous items from bird cages to books and magazines dating back at least 30 years and they were all covered in dust. Inside the bathtub, which rested several feet from the broken down kitchen stove, rested the old man's umbrella as shirts hung to dry from the curtain bar above.

It had been years since he had stepped foot in the apartment building and since then much had changed, though his grandfather's unit itself, had remained quite the same. The bathroom door still didn't shut all the way, the markings still remained on the door post, chronicling he heights of his brother and himself growing up, the bed in what could conceivably be the guest room remained dusty and browning, as did the old man's bed in the master bedroom. In fact, the only thing that seemed to be used was the new flat panel t.v. that sat on top of the old antique table-sized set.

Moments earlier he had spent a good 10 minutes with his brother ensuring that their grandfather, weak and shaking uncontrollably from low blood sugar, got up the six flights of stairs to his apartment and to a seat where he could rest and catch his breath.

Upon entering the old man's apartment, he was immediately reminded of his childhood moments spent in the apartment while visiting with his parents and he also immediately came to the realization that his grandfather was a man that was terrible at taking care of himself, from leaving food out on a table unattended to for days to letting junk amass in piles for years. He wondered how two children could ever be raised in a place like that.

Impending Changes

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/22/nyregion/22chinese.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1

Oddly enough, this seems to have been the topic of conversation between myself and my friend Jessica as well as with my grandparents and parents. In case you're too lazy to read the article, it's about the rapid change in Manhattan's Chinatown in language of Cantonese speakers to Mandarin speakers.

This is a significant change because, not too many people know this, but Mandarin (the official dialect of China) and Cantonese (the dialect spoken most frequently in southern China and Hong Kong [as well as Macau]) are not mutually intelligible, meaning that most of the elderly population that does not speak Mandarin and only speaks Cantonese, are becoming increasingly isolated. Additionally, this comes as sort of a blow to me, albeit a much less severe blow to me, because I was raised in a Cantonese speaking household around Cantonese speaking relatives whom frequented a Cantonese speaking Chinatown.

Upon realizing and finally acknowledging the fact that Cantonese is a dying dialect, my first reaction is to fight the change. However, that's a losing battle and a pointless one at that. Those whom refuse to change with the times tend only to get swept up in them and lost. The greatest strength a human can possess is the ability to adapt and change to his or her environment. The tendency for many of us to resist change only harms us in the end. Provided, some changes are frivolous, harmful even, but that is why attention must be paid to what is being changed.

To categorize all change as either good or bad is a fool's move and one that will ultimately lead to failure, however, careful and knowledgeable discernment will allow for proper judgement when the need for change arises, or, inversely, the need to stay the same.

The point of this all being that upon reading the above article on which my friend posted on her facebook, I was reminded that some changes, even if for the better, are not changes we want to make. Personally, I hate the fact that the Cantonese speaking population in Chinatown New York, as well as elsewhere (even Hong Kong), is dwindling. If possible I would have Cantonese thrive as a dialect all over the world, because that's part of the culture in which I was raised as well as my heritage. However, that wish is not practical at all and resisting this particular change is neither going to benefit me nor is it something that will honor this piece of my cultural heritage. In actuality it does nothing to serve anyone. The best way, I believe I have realized, to keep this part of my culture alive is to pass it down, along with the changes that are occuring. Trying to keep something intangible in its original form, its original idea, is never something that can be done. The best we can do is pass it along and allow it to change how it will be changed and allow people to trace its lineage.