Street of the Tang People
Did you know the word Chinatown translates to Street of the Tang People?
I have strolled these ways infinite times
Yet never made the connection until I bothered to look up at the Chinese characters on that verdant green signpost intersecting the familiar corner of Mott and Canal Street
It must have called to me, that simple unassuming sign,
as I have been called before long ago
When I was a poet in the Tang dynasty
I navigated meandering paths of melodious markets
pass stands of delicate rhinoceros and jade hairpins
Fragrant sandalwood fans carved lovingly by skilled artisans intoxicated passersby
of every rank within the empire’s imperial capital city of Chang’an
The largest phoenix fan on proud display wore a striking wild iridescent ginger hue
Even aristocratic ladies donning brocade silk dresses came to this splendid market,
their attendants ready to receive their precious bundles
Meanwhile, ordinary people, like workers and farmers hurried to fulfill their tasks
As for me, I whispered pass myriad colorful stalls following my intuition,
until I heard what my heart wanted most
Fruit vendors beckoned with enticing words: “Come taste the sweet juice of fresh longan”
Dragon eyes with translucent pearl white flesh and shiny jet-black seeds
Its nectar unmistakable
This beautiful ancient fruit was born in southern China
Just like my ancestors
In this lifetime, I stroll the familiar streets of Chinatown
and the smaller, more tranquil pathways, some winding as roads do
As lives do
Civilizations rise and fall, much as fate can rise and fall for each generation
One cannot control one’s time or place of birth
to select dynasty, freedom, or sudden devastating loss thereof
Lives here on Mott Street are not as they may seem
to those from outside this resilient immigrant neighborhood
I walk by my favorite Mott Street bakery
with their mouthwatering display of fresh, flaky egg tarts
The checkout ladies smile and wave as they recognize a familiar customer
Down the block inside a neon signed restaurant,
a humble cook prepares wonton noodle soup like a one-man orchestra
He tosses the ball of egg noodles high in the air
catching it perfectly in the center of the world of his heavy wire strainer
Was he a nobleman in Tang?
He cooks this way a hundred times a day from early morning until late at night six days a week to give his family a better life in this land of freedom
If that is not noble, then what is?
And what of the sewing ladies in the garment factories on Grand Street?
I visited my friend’s mom there and witnessed endless miles of flowing fabric
Mountains of billowy blue blouses, rivers of pearl pleated pants
bound for Bloomingdale’s department store
The aunties converse lively in their native dialect, recounting stories of their children
Do not mistake the language barrier to mean these capable seamstresses are not wise
They have written the book of life on their hearts and minds
Their gentle creased hands sound out the words sacrifice and indomitable strength
Break time over
In unison, mothers bend over Singer sewing machines
Stitch by stitch
Dream by dream
Like cassia flowers, their golden blossoms are already exquisite
Yet the flower only reaches its full splendor when it begins to bend downward
What appears to be weakness or the humble bow
is actually a moment of profound maturity and breathtaking radiance
As I cross the threshold of pine and cypress latticed time
From that world to this corner of Mott and Canal Street
I hear an elderly fruit vendor hawking, “Come get your oranges, lychee nuts, and longan!”
I happily oblige
And vow henceforth to read the New York street signs more carefully
in the hopes of another transformative and memorable journey of mindfulness
on a fine summer day.
