Faced with the sudden death of a loved one, Muslim immigrants — after a secular lifetime in America — cross this final frontier of assimilation.
A young immigrant takes us around Flushing, the neighborhood that she has adopted as her home.
How does one deal with anti-blackness within the family? One Bengali writer is finding out the hard way.
A Chinese American writer recounts her struggles with Chinese characters, the Roman alphabet and two different naming conventions in her journey to have her name right.
The difference between tea and life back home and over here, according to a Guyanese-American family in South Ozone Park.
Cha, chai or te? A Richmond Hill family’s multiple ways of preparing what Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu called “the elixir of life.”
Unwanted in their mothers’ country and unwelcome in their fathers’ homeland, Filipino Amerasians are still in search of a home.
Red is believed to be a lucky color and everyone wants to carry good luck with them. But that symbol of good fortune may soon carry something else: a 10-cent charge.
One writers group was robbed at gunpoint in Ditmas Park. The police and the community’s reactions were swift, but both seemed to miss the bigger picture.
Many of the neighborhood’s roti shops are located just steps from the A train. For Richmond Hill residents, gyaffing and hot doubles can remedy anything the MTA throws at them.
“Nobody wears those, so it’s kind of funny that you do,” she said, blowing swirls of smoke out of the corner of her mouth…
A novelist recalls her childhood steeped in Chinese radio plays heard on the Singapore airwaves.
Khmer record and film collector Nate Hun is part of a growing movement quietly reconstructing Cambodia’s tumultuous past.
A “goddaughter” of one of Chinatown’s oldest and most storied emporiums remembers the store’s Red origins and high-low appeal.
Vintage American country-western music helps Indo-Guyanese express ineffable heartbreak, spirituality and political emergence.
Time traveling with a drink find in Chinatown
Harmoniums are all over South Asian music. But they also connect Guyana and Punjab spiritually
I remember the medicine wafting through the apartment–a distinct scent, a heavy, earthy, musky odor that smelled like bark, dirt and dampened roots. The minute the pot would go on, I would retreat to my room where I paced back and forth, in anticipation of a stand-off with my mother.
Parkway itself will lose its luster, its sense of magic ascendance. And I will begin my struggle to understand this twin heritage—luminous freedom and oppressive grievance.
Each of us has a moment, a shiny soap bubble of memory that contains our past and predicts our future.
I often tagged along with my grandparents down the aisles of Chinese supermarkets. While Grandma stuck to purchasing standard items like Saltines or milk to add to her morning coffee, Grandpa knew the secrets of the dried, preserved goods and vegetables tucked away into the stores’ dusty corners.
The clinking coins were saved for two reasons – to feed the neighborhood parking meters and to pay for kiddie rides outside the supermarket where my family shopped.
It’s like wearing a swagger on your face. If you’ve got a mustache, you’re someone to be taken seriously.
The costs of ‘hecho en China.’
From Abu Dhabi to the East Coast, a temporary resident negotiates the urban spaces that built him.
I recall the monkey god’s gaze at the Ganapati Temple and my own impulsive desire to offer him a coconut.
The best French-pressed coffee in town is brewed in Elmhurst. No, really.
It’s the second largest park in New York City, and it hosts the U.S. Open. But when the world isn’t watching, what lies beneath the park’s borders—and what does it say about Queens?
A defender of traditional Korean arts refuses to give up.
“In the Pakistan I grew up in, women prayed at home. Mosques were the kingdom of men.”
If vacation represents the absence of stress and consequential decision making, then isn’t an overmanaged tour just the thing?
A zesty cocktail of lime juice and water.
A stroll through the busiest—and most diverse—bazaar in Queens.
It all started with Beijing rock band The Fly—a cross between the Sex Pistols and Nirvana, but, you know, in Mandarin.
It’s not the destination, but the bus stop.
Perhaps the air conditioner was broken. Perhaps there was no air conditioner.
The search for serenity amid urban frenzy.
The lone male remains the archetype of migrant labor, despite the changing facts on the ground.
Fill your plate with South Indian vegetarian specialties, like dosai layered with chili and coriander chutney and served with a mash of seasoned potatoes.
I checked out a space on Catherine and Madison, thinking that a Chinatown address would at least appease my dad.
Where New Yorkers collide. For better or for worse.