Utica is a complex city. When I turn into Eagle Street and drive past Seymour Avenue, Taylor Avenue and into the inner city, it always looks familiar, almost inviting. Here's where I can identify with people, relate to what they have to say. Elsewhere, I feel uneasy, my accent and color taking over who I am.
But here, in the heart of the city that's been resusticated by refugees, almost salvaged from the ruin that it was headed to, I almost feel at home. It is a place where I can be. In a way, it's liberating.
Today, as I walked into Proctor's international night celebration, I saw cultures intermingling, but the mix, with all its influences, was strangely elemental, like it never let go of what was its own.
Burmese and Karen girls fused their ethnic tunics with western wear. To me, it made a statement almost. But it wasn't that pronounced. Maybe that's where the problem lies.
A Karen boy I met while I was walking to the gym, told me how proud he felt wearing his Karen shirt. On the way, an American friend asked him what was it that he was wearing. And he struggled to tell her ... looking for words that could define all that the blue tunic meant to him. He muttered "Karen shirt". The puzzled look on te girl's face wasn't encouraging and he looked confused as he searched his limited vocublary to fit the concept in.
It is our unifrom, he said to her. She still looked confused, not quite getting the "uniform".
Later, in the queue waiting to enter the gymnasium, he took off the shirt, folded it and put it in his pockets. Maybe he did not want to be bothered with too many questions.
When I asked him, he said he was feeling shy and just wanted to enjoy the evening.
Inside, it was quite the opposite. The assertion of cultural identity was strong.
There were booths set up that handed out ethnic food. Students who either came as immigrants, or were born into immigrant families such as the Polish or the German, and refugees, wore their traditional clothes and proudly displayed their culture, often through food, sometimes with dance.
Suddenly music took over. The nature of the music itself was indicative of the mix. At times, it sounded familiar. I was like Bollywood music. But then it took turns, with lots of beats. It then became techno.
A bunch of Somali Bantu girls took the center stage when they started to dance. Their long-flowing gowns were secured tightly at the waiset with a scarf. And they danced with abandon like they did not care. Afterall, it was their night. It was in celebration of diversity. They did not have to be demure then.
They danced a unique dance. It was part hip-hop but then it was also traditional. They pulled in the guys from the crowd, teased them, yet had their head scarves on. They shook their hips and did little twists.
For a woman standing next to me, it was almost a provocative dance. She whispered to me how her parents would have killed her if she danced like that.
What struck her was how the Somali Bantu community in Utica has remained true to their culture, she told me.
This is one group that always wears its own clothes, she said.
To the girls who danced, encouraged by the whistles and the cheers, nothing else mattered.
They were asserting their identity for all to see. Yes, they had arrived.
It was a touching moment when a Somlai Bantu boy danced, waving a Dominican Republic flag. For a momemt, it all seemed so perfect. This was a melting pot. Boundaries did not matter. Identities merged in.
But it is always an illusion. Integration does not come too easy.
But at least for a few moments, it was like living in a perfect world.
I saw familiar faces. They smiled at me. A young boy who had translated for me once when I had inteviewing Imam Ferhad Mujic who is not so proficient in English, came up to me to say hello.
I was just so happy to be there. At least nobody was noticing me. My own color was blending in with so many others that it did not matter. The Proctor gym that evening became the equivalent of a color-blind society.
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