Finding Young Chinese-ness In New York City
Young Chinese immigrants don’t want to hustle and bustle to survive. Instead, they start to re-tell, re-write, and re-form their cultural capitals.
Despite the terrible wind that swept through New York City, a recent Saturday proved to be perfect for Liam Li. In mid-April, Li organized an open event called “Book Exchange Activity” at Volcano Books, a Chinese bookstore located in Woodside, New York. Bearing a book and gift notes, each participant arrived to find the intended recipients of their book.
As visitors stepped into the bookstore, their initial impressions were likely defined by an aura of whiteness and brightness. Different from other bookstores where all the books were crumpled and piled in some cramped corners and shelves, Volcano Books was more like an art gallery. In Volcano Books, there were hundreds of books written in or translated into Chinese on the white exhibiting shelves. Hidden light strips above and strategically placed spotlights along the walls illuminated the collection with precision. Among the array of titles, several familiar book covers would catch the eye, such as The Ministry of Pain and A Late Bloomer, both acclaimed bestsellers in many renowned bookstores across China.
More than 30 young Chinese speakers came with books, representing a diverse array of backgrounds. Among them were Gen-Z independent artists, the second generation of Chinese American immigrants, restaurant and bar managers, and college students. Sitting or standing, they all gathered around a large white IKEA table and shared the books they brought to the event.
Li was also among these young Chinese participants. After graduating from the University of Michigan with a Master’s Degree in Architecture, Li started his professional journey as an architect, spending his four years with HLW International, a full-service design firm headquartered in New York City. However, among the attendees at Volcano Books, Li was more commonly recognized for his other role. Li, 30, now is better known as the manager of the first Chinese bookstore in Queens, where he hosted multiple events — open movie nights, book exchange activities, art workshops, and exhibitions.
It is a common experience for immigrants to grapple with feelings of marginalization and alienation when settling in a new city. However, in 2017, upon his relocation to the United States, Li posed a provoking question: “Do we have the right to not force ourselves to adapt to the mainstream culture?” A few years later, in 2024, Li responded to his younger self: he opened Volcano Books. It stood as a testament to his belief that cultural authenticity and individual identity shouldn’t be sacrificed in the pursuit of assimilation.
Volcano Books, in this way, is a shelter for the Chinese immigrants. In this shared space, individuals represent some facets of new Chinese-ness, or young Chinese-ness, in New York City. They express their political struggles through both Chinese and English to a wider range of audiences via both in-person activities and online presentations. They retell their Chinese roots in multiple ways — creative writings, drawing, and performance arts. They offer a more resilient strength in preserving traditional Chinese culture.
These diverse young individuals create the magical effect in all the activities at Volcano Books: what begins as simple book sharing and casual discussions about films and literature often evolves into profound political and cultural dialogues. These conversations, while unintentional, inevitably delve into weighty subjects, intertwining mutual sorrow and a complex nostalgia for their homeland. Despite the vast physical distance of 6,844 miles separating New York from Beijing, what happens in China continues to hold significance for young Chinese people in New York City. They describe this phenomenon as “a distant resonance,” where their experiences and sentiments matter and echo across continents.
POLITICAL ACTIVISM
Outside of mainland China, individuals have had more freedom to disseminate the slogan more broadly without fear of reprisal from the government of Xi Jinping, the President of the People’s Republic of China, unlike the situation within mainland China, where people have faced repercussions such as having their IP addresses blocked and their blogs shut down. Young Chinese activists in New York City are always at the forefront, advocating for their activist counterparts in China.
Tian Qin, a Chinese student from the School of Visual Arts, came to the book exchange event in Volcano Books with a Chinese-edited version of Tokyo 8 Square Meters: Tokyo’s Downsized Dwelling by Yoshi Shinobu. It was a handy book with beautifully descriptive language and multiple pictures of the writer’s apartment. He left a note on his gift card: “living itself is a daily resistance.”
Indeed, Qin has always been an activist, with the concept of “resistance” serving as a central theme in his life. Qin actively engaged in the “Poster Movement,” a series of protests that began in mainland China in November 2022 against COVID-19 lockdowns and the COVID-Zero Policy or FTTIS (Find, Test, Trace, Isolate and Support) Policy. As a graphic designer, he designed flyers featuring related content, participated in the protests held at Columbia University and New York University, and shared his artwork on his art account on Instagram.
Qin has also worked on a series of projects about totalitarian regimes. He is never afraid to advocate for change. “I’m clear that I’m such a small character,” said Qin, who has hung his work on campus in Gramercy Park. “But I want to try my best to change people’s thoughts.”
To young Chinese activists in New York City, the significance of actions in protests was not measured by scale, but rather by their impact and meanings. Zhiqi Zhang, a sociologist, alumni of Columbia University, and a host of the Chinese podcast program “Stochastic Volatility,” once expressed, “What we did outside mainland China was important, especially at the moment when Chinese people in that situation could not really speak out.”
Qin wasn’t alone in his activism from New York City; Luna Lyu, a digital journalist residing in New York City, was another prominent figure in the “Poster Movement” in New York City. Running the Instagram account “tears_in_rainbow,” Lyu collected Chinese people’s posts on different social media platforms in mainland China since the pandemic. She re-posted them on her Instagram account to create a community for those struggling under the oppression of strict Covid policies in China. She manually collected submissions of sightings of posters about anti-Zero Policy and anti-dictatorship, receiving more than 1,500 submissions from 359 universities, most of which were from universities in the US, Canada, and the UK. After the pandemic, she has continued working on advocating for multiple mainland China’s human rights movements overseas.
“I am gathering empathy, conscience, and righteousness that scatter on the Internet in China,” said Lyu. “It is important to talk and warm each other in an ‘echo chamber’ during tough times.”
ART AND CULTURE
Young Chinese immigrants employ diverse methods to articulate their political and cultural perspectives, with protest participation representing just one take of their multifaceted approach. Volcano Books plays a pivotal role in providing these ambitious individuals with a platform for open and secure dialogue. Particularly for young Chinese artists, the bookstore serves as a creative hub, enabling them to explore avant-garde art forms as vehicles for expressing the evolving concept of new Chinese-ness.
Shortly after Li’s book exchange activity, Jiening Zhu, a senior student from New York University Tisch Drama’s Experimental Theater Wing and the manager of SpArking Experimental Physical Theater, hosted an acting workshop at Volcano Books. During the workshop, Zhu and her team guided participants through exercises aimed at evoking the sensation of being tied up with a red string or rope and exploring the physical movements with such constraints.
Indeed, SpArking emerged as a young team formed last year, driven by the passion of Zhu and several young Chinese artists in New York City. Their vision was to establish a team all by Chinese people and for Chinese people, portraying the narratives of Chinese individuals through drama. They recognized a significant gap in portrayal of the history of earlier Chinese immigrants, often finding it either underrepresented or inaccurately depicted. Their urge of calibrating Chinese immigrants’ history became symbolized by the idea of red strings.
The red string served as a recurring motif in the series of events orchestrated by Zhu and her SpArking team. A few weeks earlier, Zhu and her team member Annora Dong presented an open performance art, “A Conversation with Strings,” at Washington Square Park. Two young Chinese women, wearing white dresses and shirts and being tied by multiple long and thin red strings, danced on a red canvas. Through their movements, the tension of the strings ebbed and flowed across their bodies. Zhu explained the essence of this performance as “being trapped and trying to escape, an exploration about power and space.”
“A Conversation with Strings” was a segment within the series of activities surrounding Zhu’s current off-Broadway theater production, “Trapped in the Flash.” This theatrical piece was based on the real stories of Corky Lee, an Asian American photographer, Anna May Wong, the first Chinese American film star, and many nameless Chinese American railroad workers constructing the Transcontinental Railroad.
In “Trapped in the Flash,” the red string was also an important element. Red strings, in this context, could be seen as tangible manifestations of the tribulations endured by these Chinese immigrants with their struggles, sacrifices, and resilience. Each thread represented a Chinese immigrant individual’s narrative with tears and blood. As the narrative unfolded on the stage, the characters gradually untied the red strings that constrained them. At the same time, they followed the guidance of the red strings, finding their Chinese American community in the crowd.
Shida Kuo, 65, a ceramics professor at New York University and a sculptor who primarily works with clays, found himself drawn to the artists’ narratives in “Trapped in the Flash.” Connecting Kuo’s life to the struggling experiences of the artists in the play might seem challenging if one were to step into his apartment in NoHo today. Kuo’s apartment, serving both as a functional art studio and a comfortable living space, exuded his artistic elegance. His Chinese heritage was unmistakable in the carefully chosen decor — bamboo blinds, Chinese potted plants like Lucky Bamboo, and wooden tables and chairs.
As a Chinese immigrant artist who relocated to New York City in the late 80s, Kuo experienced a challenging period of being underexposed. Much like Lee and Wong, he found his artworks unrecognized in the American art industry, facing marginalization. However, this struggle later became a source of inspiration for his art. Experimenting with a blend of materials including wood, clay, and metal in his sculptures, Kuo was surprised at how people responded to different forms and materials in an identical way.
“But why did people respond differently toward individuals of different origins and backgrounds? Is mankind a collective species or not?” These questions were like red strings constraining Kuo’s thoughts. However, Zhu’s experimental drama seemed to provide him with some solace. The shared experiences of emotional and spiritual impacts, crafted by previous generations of Chinese American artists, were articulated by younger ones to a wider range of audience, offering Kuo a sense of connection and understanding.
Forming a shared bond among Chinese immigrants was precisely what Zhu intended to express in her drama. “Their stories are personal ones, but collectively, they have shaped others’ perception of Chinese Americans,” Zhu explained.
MANHATTAN CHINATOWN
While Zhu’s drama is deeply meaningful and draws inspiration from a wide social and historical backdrop, experimental art often feels distant from everyday routines of ordinary people. For Chinese immigrants, life revolves around seemingly trivial activities, such as grocery shopping and dining at dim sum restaurants, in Lower Manhattan Chinatown. This neighborhood is the largest ethnic Chinese population outside of Asia, with over 141,000 residents occupying its 1.7 square miles. Many young Chinese speakers narrowed their lenses to this densely populated neighborhood in New York City, aiming to enhance the daily experiences of local residents through reformation.
Chi Tian, a young journalist from New York University, published her journalistic video, “Saving Chinatown Roots,” on amNewYork in January 2024. Identifying herself as “a nomadic Chinese-Chinese” born and raised in the northernmost province of China, Tian established herself as a video journalist exploring the stories of Chinese immigrants in Lower Manhattan Chinatown.
Watching the video, viewers can notice a conspicuous absence of young Chinese individuals traversing the streets of Manhattan Chinatown. Where have young Chinese people in Manhattan Chinatown gone? What realities define the lives of young Chinese immigrants in this neighborhood?
The reality is stark: gentrification has precipitated a decline in the presence of young Chinese residents in Chinatown. The soaring cost of living, spurred by the influx of luxury developments and trendy establishments, has rendered housing and basic necessities increasingly unaffordable. As a result, many young locals are compelled to seek more economically viable alternatives elsewhere.
Undergoing rapid and widespread gentrification, the local residents presented a collective narrative of displaced and unsettled feelings in “Saving Chinatown Roots,” caught in the conflict between tradition and innovation within the local Chinese immigrant community. As interviewees shared lots of old memories, such as the places they went for cinemas and diners when they just relocated in Chinatown, Tian affirmed that only “people living there can help the community keep the culture and the connections alive since they will not let any part of Chinatown fade away without fighting to preserve it.”
Nancy Kong, the treasurer of Gotham Park, which is a New York State not-for-profit founded in 2021, is the one who fights to preserve the fading part of the Manhattan Chinatown.
Kong’s effort is to build the link between Manhattan Chinatown and the park to establish and support a hyper-urban public park at the iconic Brooklyn Bridge. This ambitious project extends beyond lofty socioeconomic objectives, such as fostering economic growth and bolstering employment rates within Chinese immigrant communities. It also aims to enhance the fabric of daily life, offering convenience and support to residents on a more intimate scale.
However, the dilemma posed by gentrification in Chinatown is multifaceted. While young Chinese residents are relocating to other areas, elderly generations often find themselves tethered to Chinatown, unable to navigate outside environments lacking Chinese-speaking communities.
As a resident of Manhattan Chinatown, Kong’s daily walks through her neighborhood often lead her to encounter elderly Chinese immigrants struggling with limited English proficiency, navigating the streets with wheeled carts for their groceries. These wrinkled faces made Kong join Gotham Park.
Central to Kong’s vision is the creation of community hubs within the park, fostering a multilingual environment conducive to diverse career opportunities for young Chinese immigrants. Beyond mere economic prospects, Kong’s initiative holds the promise of a more comfortable lifestyle for elderly Chinese immigrants, providing them with alternative spaces outside the confines of Manhattan Chinatown where they can thrive and find solace.
“Elder Chinese immigrants, like my parents, need a public space of a little fresh air to just stretch their arms and legs,” said Kong.
Kong is the second generation of Chinese Americans in her family. Her parents, grappling with language barriers, have confined their lives within Chinatown. Kong’s story isn’t a single case. Ava Chin, the author of the memoir Mott Street, similarly traced her family’s immigration history back to the heart of Chinatown. Her grandparents and their siblings once lived “in the elbow of Mott Street — 37 Mott Street — an apartment building that had been the epicenter of the Chinese community for almost seventy-five years.”
Affected by Chinese Exclusion Laws (1882–1943), the American first major federal immigration restrictions that not only halted the majority of Chinese legal immigration but also blocked Chinese from citizenship for 61 years, Chin’s maternal grandfather, Gene Kai Fei Wong, registered himself with a fake kinship and a fake name “Sun Ming Wong” in 1938 to keep his residentship in New York City. With this fake identity and barely able to speak English, Chin’s grandfather seldom left his neighborhood at Mott Street for his entire life. This is where Chin’s family story in New York City began.
Walking past the restaurants, vegetable stands, and open-air shop fronts that line Mott Street, Chloe Chan, the co-founder of “Mott Street Girls,” a cooperation for Chinatown walking tours, could still find the similar sights and smells of roast duck and slabs of salted pork as Chin described in her book.
Chan is a second-generation Chinese American. She started her tourist guide career at the Museum of Chinese in America in June 2019. “The stories I learned at the museum weren’t the ones I had learned in school,” said Chan. From the dark origins of the Chinese Exclusion Act, Chan saw a shared stigma and a common thread running through many Chinese immigrants’ stories in Chinatown — a narrative of resilience and perseverance amid adversity.
Mott Street hasn’t changed much over the years. A mixed smell of food — vast bins of varying grades of dried shiitakes, baby shrimps, flower teas wrapped in cellophane packages, and pan-fried egg noodles with sliced beef — was so provocatively laid out that it almost hurt one’s sense of smell. But Chan loved it.
“Mott Street Girls,” abbreviated as MSG, carries a dual significance: a name after one of the oldest streets in Chinatown and a flower enhancer often with negative association of unhealthy and over-processed Chinese cuisine. Chan seeks to reclaim the misconceptions of MSG and write its narrative through her tours, introducing the local restaurants and traditional Chinese food to both young Chinese immigrants and foreign visitors who are not familiar with Manhattan Chinatown.
