Wang Yin took a small box out of his messenger bag and placed it on the table in front of him. A hush fell over the assembled congregation as he lifted a palm-sized piece of flat, crisp bread out of the container. He broke the bread, crushing it into tiny pieces. When he had finished, he took a small plastic bottle of Dole’s grape juice out of his bag. A keyboardist played Alas and Did My Savior Bleed softly from the opposite corner of the room as Mr. Wang poured the grape juice into small glass cups, just enough for the sixty waiting members. His wife, Wang You, prayed for the bread and the “wine”, eyes squeezed shut and hands clasped rigidly at her chest. Two ushers walked up the aisle to the altar, a small table covered with white cloth. They helped hand out the sacrament. To make room for the congregation, the restaurant’s large, round tables were pushed against the walls. Service request machines lay on some of the tables, waiting for the evening’s rush of customers. But at the moment, the atmosphere inside reflected the quietness of the street outside. It was early Sunday morning, so most shops on this street in Puxi wouldn’t open for two more hours. It’s a small detail, but vital to the existence of this underground church.  From the second floor of the restaurant, worshippers can look out onto the bicycles and ambling pedestrians. But no one can peer in. For members of Chinese house churches, secrecy is a way of life.

            “I knew never to talk about it when I was growing up,” says Cathy Wang, Pastor Wang’s daughter, after the service. “I could always tell people about the Gospel. But I couldn’t tell them about the church.”

            The pastors of this secret society, Mr. and Mrs. Wang, don’t have any official theological training. Like Mr. Wang’s mother, their only qualification is a fearless and complete devotion to Christ. The couple currently leads the church, but these are all Grandmother Wang’s people.

“My grandma helped to create this church,” says Cathy. “She’s old, but she still works for the church. We tell her to stop because it’s not good for her health. She just can’t stop serving.”

But what she’s doing could send her to jail. Although the number of Christians in China is now considered to be about 50 million to 130 million, Christians still don’t have the ability to worship freely in China. The government considers unauthorized church meetings to be illegal assembly, similar to democratic protests or riots. If breaking bread during communion is a criminal act for house church members, it is an even more dangerous for Christian leaders. In November, the New York Times reported that five Protestant leaders of the 50,000-member Linfen Fushan Church in Linfen were sentenced to prison terms of up to seven years. The Times revealed that these sentences were among the harshest in recent years against pastors of unsupervised Christian churches.

But Wang Wenyi knows this. “It’s better now than it was before,” the 79-year-old grandmother says. “Much better. I’m never scared. Because by now I know that nothing can shake my faith.”

            Wang Wenyi spends much of her time in her son’s house, located in a new apartment complex in Putuo, Shanghai. Ironically, the government gave them their new home. The city wanted to build sky rises on the land where the Wang family’s old house used to be. After the family relocated, they used the new apartment to hold services for their growing congregation. They soon connected a video camera in the living room to a television screen in the bedroom. This way, worshippers could pack into every last inch of the apartment. In the doorway of their home, the Wang’s have pasted a blue, cut-out paper cross.

            Wang Wenyi was sitting on a low brown couch in an inner room. It was cold inside, so she wore a coat over her sweater. She is a small woman, with a wrinkled, papery skin and an open face. Her short grey hair, which was turning white at her temples, was parted neatly to one side. She kept her hands clasped in her lap as she talked, occasionally looking at me with deep brown eyes.

            Her voice was soft and low as she explained how her husband had died.

            It was 1958 and persecution towards Christians was just beginning to build momentum. As part of Mao Zedong’s “Great Leap Forward,” all spiritual ceremonies and institutions were being replaced by political meetings. “The only reason they arrested him was because he refused to go to a registered church,” says Wang. “And he had studied theology at Hajiang University, so they didn’t like that he was educated.”

Her husband’s name was Moses Lee Wang. They had met at church and Wang Wenyi had immediately fallen for his warm-hearted nature and complete devotion to Christ. The couple married in 1952. Her second son was only one-year-old when Moses Wang was detained by members of the Communist Party. “On that day, when I went to the police and found out that my husband was being arrested, I knelt down in the station and prayed to God,” she says. “I told Him that we were not worthy enough suffer for You. It is our glory to suffer for You.” 

Moses Wang spent four years working in a forced labor camp. While he was in prison, he and his wife communicated through letters.

“His letters weren’t regular. He wasn’t a talkative person,” says Wang Wenyi, suddenly breaking into a quick laugh. “I waited and waited for each one.”

While she was waiting, her husband was slowly starving. At that time, Wang didn’t know that Mao’s policies had resulted in a widespread famine. Scholars have estimated that the number of deaths during Great Leap Forward is between 23 and 43 million. When Moses Wang was finally released, he was hovering close to death.

He returned to the couple’s home in Shanghai one day while his wife was doing housework. Wang Wenyi, who worked as a nurse in HuaShan, knew immediately that something was wrong.

As soon as she saw him, they rushed to HuaShan hospital.

“When he left home, he was 75 kg. By the time he came back, he was only 52 kg,” she says. “There was nothing I could do for him.”

Yet for four months, she would steal moments between her visiting patients to be with him. Moses Wang died on December 6, 1962. He was only 34-years-old. Before he died, he dedicated one of his sons to do God’s work. His younger son, Pastor Wang Yin, would go on to fulfill his father’s dying wishes by hosting an underground church in his home. Ultimately, Moses Wang’s death strengthened the family’s faith in Christ.

“I’ll never regret marrying him,” Wang Wenyi says. “He was a really good Christian who worked for God throughout his life.”

Wang Wenyi’s reaction toward the persecution is not uncommon. Devout Christians in China and around the world often take this attitude toward what they consider martyrdom. Suffering for your faith is a reality that Christians in China still have to face today. House churches, like the one that the Wangs are running, are congregations that refuse to accept the authority of China’s Religious Affairs Bureau. According to the New York Times, the government requires all Protestants to register in the non-denominational “Three-Self Patriotic Movement.” Catholics have to be members of the “Patriotic Association.” Both churches are under the leadership of the Religious Affairs Bureau.

Cathy Wang explained why many Chinese Christians decide to flout the government’s authority. “Before you give a sermon, the Religion Bureau has to check it over, every Sunday,” she says. “They can delete anything they want to. We just wouldn’t be free to do the greatest task that Jesus asked of us—to evangelize.”

For Grandmother Wang, evangelizing and praying comes naturally. It’s like breathing. She says it’s something she’s been doing her entire life. Even when she was pressured to give up her faith, she couldn’t stop.

After her husband’s death, Wang Wenyi stayed on in Huashan, working as a nurse. During the Cultural Revolution, Wang and several other Christian medical workers were placed under arrest at the hospital for six months. Because her husband’s death had tarnished her family’s reputation with the government, she was forced to abandon her duties as a nurse and told to mop the floor and clean toilets. She was given a linen storage closet to sleep in. She slept on a small pad on the floor of the closet. She wasn’t even able to look at a photo of her sons. The only personal item allowed was a change of clothes.

During this time, Wang and her Christian co-workers were subjected to five denunciation meetings. HuaShan’s staff of 800 people would gather in the basement of the hospital. She would stand on a stage, in the front of a large room. People would shout criticisms at her, nagging her about her husband and ridiculing her faith.

“Their purpose was to get me to say that the Church is not so good,” she says. “They wanted me to give up religion.”

Wang had to go up to the microphone and answer her accusers.

“My voice would not shake,” she says. “Because I wasn’t scared.”

The Wangs have been hosting their house church since 1978. At first, it was a small group, just for neighbors and family members. Now, it has 70 active members. One month ago, they started meeting on the second floor of one of their members’ restaurants. But with such a large congregation, secrecy is hard to achieve.

“The local government knows about us,” Cathy Wang says. “They called my parents in for a friendly cup of tea. Thank God that’s all they did.”

Cathy Wang says that some of the other house churches in Shanghai have been pressured lately by the city government. “Especially with the Expo coming up, they’re afraid that we’ll connect with foreigners and fight against the Communist Party,” she explained.

But this pressure doesn’t trouble Grandmother Wang. Despite the struggles that Christians in China face, Wang Wenyi says she would never question her faith in God.

“It’s much better than it was before,” she says. “We are not controlled by the government. We are controlled by our Lord Jesus Christ.”

            Yean Heng Yan stepped out of her home and walked with small, quick steps towards a pool of light under a street lamp. Twilight was fading in Shanghai. On East China Normal University’s campus, night prompted a retreat back to the dormitories. Some university students greeted Yean as they streamed inside to study. They called her A yi. They didn’t know much about her—she just took care of their bikes.

Yean had straight black hair that stopped at abruptly at her chin. Her short bangs and dark brown eyes formed a perfect doll face. But under the glare of the light, her skin looked tough and weathered. Pulling her red jacket close to her body, she furtively glanced back towards her home and crossed her arms.

            Yean’s home is also her workplace. Her bicycle shop is built against ECNU’s Dormitory Number 6. It leans against the bigger building, so that the outer walls of the dormitory make up a corner wall of her shop. Steel rods hold up a blue tarp roof. The concrete floor is littered with objects in various states of disrepair. Fans, desk lamps and even a pink Hello Kitty clock have been salvaged from the trash. Several bookshelves are lined with literature, math or education textbooks. Some shelves have been placed close together to form a private corner room.  This is where Yean and her husband sleep every night, on a cot next to an old heater.

“I live like this because I have no other choice,” she told me later. “But I promised myself a long time ago. This is not what I want for my children.”

Yean is one of Shanghai’s 4 million migrant workers. She came to Shanghai thirty-five years ago, lured by the city’s promise of higher wages. But like many of China’s 140.41 million migrant workers, her hukou—a residence permit—was not registered in Shanghai. This meant she didn’t have access to social welfare or unemployment benefits. Often, she and her husband had to struggle to make ends meet. Now, as the 54-year-old mother watched ECNU’s students, she revealed how she’d saved her children from a life that looked just like hers.  

“Education. I wanted to make sure my children had an education,” she said.

China’s hukou system functions like an internal passport. It makes moving within China similar to moving to a different country. The hukou is a personal identification booklet that designates citizens as urban or rural residents. In a country with a burgeoning population, the hukou helps the Chinese government control population flow. But since they lack these residence permits, migrants don’t have access to subsidized housing,education, social security or medical benefits.  In October, the South China Morning Post reported that Shanghai’s municipal government was “researching” ways to give migrants access to these essential public services. Although this effort would greatly improve migrants’ social mobility, these proposals have not yet been implemented. The facts remain the same—it is still nearly impossible for migrant families to transfer their hukou from a rural to city status.

Education is one of their only options. According to a study published by the Institute for the Study of Labor in Bonn, if a migrant gains admission to a university and completes his or her degree, they have a strong chance of finding an urban job with a local registration. Financing such a degree is often impossible for migrants. But it was a chance that Yean was willing to take.

“Most people in my generation feel like they didn’t get well educated. We feel sorry for that,” she said. “So we inject all our aspirations into our children, we invest a large sum of money into their education and desperately help them to be well educated in the future,” she said.

Yean is originally from a town in Jiangsu Province called Taizhou Xi Hang. She made the 388 kilometer journey from Taizhou to Shanghai because her husband’s job as a shoe factory worker wasn’t enough to support her family. Yean and her husband spent years living frugally, almost close to poverty, hoping to save enough money to finance their children’s educations.

The standard of living in rural China discourages migrants from finding work in their hometowns. Official reports show that urban residents earn three times as much as Chinese peasants.

 “I prefer Shanghai because I can make a profit here. I can start my own business here, I couldn’t do that in Jiangsu,” Yean said.

Before coming to ECNU, Yean ran a bicycle shop at Shanghai’s Fudan University. She lived and worked in Fudan for 25 years, opening up two moderately successful shops. While Yean and her husband worked in Shanghai, her children, a boy and a girl, lived with their grandmother and attended school in Jiangsu.

“They are really smart,” Yean said. “They studied so hard.”

She looked down at her hands.

“It was hard to leave them,” she said.

She was not the first person in her family to leave loved ones at home. Yean’s father worked in Shanghai, leaving her mother in Taizhou to raise five children. Her grandfather and several of her aunts and uncles also migrated from Jiangsu to work in Shanghai. And after Yean followed in her family members’ footsteps, she encouraged many of her close friends to move to the city.

Andrew Field, a professor of modern Chinese history at ECNU, suggests that Yean’s story is not unusual. Migrants seek out members of their own communities for support in the city.

“Most of the time, migrants are not just coming on their own. They have social networks, usually organized around the place they come from,” said Field.

The Taizhou men who followed Yean’s advice took on jobs as construction workers. The younger women she knew became nannies and house workers.

Migrants in Shanghai take the undesirable jobs that locals aren’t willing to claim. Male workers usually do hard labor. Women usually work in the service industries as waitresses, house workers, masseuses, or sex workers. Since many companies recruit workers directly from rural areas, migrants are often housed in dormitories supplied by their employers. But their living quarters are often squalid and their jobs are rarely stable.  20 million migrants returned home after losing their jobs and homes during the financial crisis in 2008, according to the BBC. Government officials said that 95% of those workers have returned to the cities this year. Whether or not these millions are currently employed is difficult to measure.

Yean said she’s learned not to take stability for granted. In 2007, she was told to close the two bicycle shops she had opened at Fudan University. Her business was located on a street that was designated for reconstruction. She soon found herself without work and without a home.

Most of the men who came at Yean’s suggestion stayed in Shanghai as construction workers, often drifting between jobs. Some of the young women who came married Shanghainese men. But others couldn’t find husbands in the city and returned home to Taizhou.

Yean, concerned about her children, felt as if she had no choice but to stay. Most of her friends’ children weren’t able to successfully pass the gaokao, China’s college admissions test. But her two children passed and were accepted into Fudan University. Both boy and girl, now 21 and 25, studied international finance and commerce.

She found another job at ECNU and continues to support her children. At ECNU, her major source of income is looking after students’ bikes.  For 60 Yuan per year, students can park their bikes in Yean’s shop.  Motorbike owners pay 120 Yuan. Yean makes sure the bikes aren’t stolen while her customers are at school. She also repairs minor bike problems and sells bike accessories such as locks and pumps. She buys books from graduating students and sells them for almost 80% of the original cost. She sells plastic bottles and has even opened up a small snack stand in front of a girls’ dormitory near her shop. She and her husband mend and sell items they’ve found in the trash.

But Yean is self-employed. Her informal contract with ECNU isn’t secure. Since she’s not an official ECNU employee, her job could be terminated at any time. She said that even if she were able to transfer her hukou status to Shanghai, she wouldn’t receive any benefits since her business isn’t registered. If Yean or her husband became sick, they’d have to bear all of the expenses.

“If we had money to save, we’d buy health care,” said Yean. “But we can’t afford it.”

Despite the harsh nature of her life, or perhaps because of it, Yean’s one source of pride is her children. They visit her frequently. Her daughter recently graduated and is now working for an advertising company. But her son, still a junior in college, is finding it difficult to pass the College English Test. In China, the CET is a prerequisite for a bachelor’s degree.

            “I certainly have high expectations of my kids,” she said. “I know I’m not capable of helping them achieve all their dreams, because of my situation. All I can do is keep working.”

            As she sat on a stool outside of Dormitory Number 6, Yean kept an eye on her bicycle shop. She’d like to start a bigger business, but she feels as if it would be too risky. She says she is getting tired of her job and tired of her routine. Every day, she gets up early to cook breakfast for her husband and boil the tea eggs that she sells to ECNU’s students. She fixes broken bicycle wheels and mends shoes until lunch. She takes a nap in her room, then gets up to serve the afternoon rush of students. By the time she’s finished, it’s time to sleep. She knows she’s lucky to have her shop and to have her children. But some parts of her are aching for home.

Her friends from Taizhou often call her and encourage her to go back to Taizhou.

            “I feel like I didn’t spend enough time there,” Yean admitted, her brown eyes squinting into the night. “When I talk to my friends, the people I played with as a child, those are the times I miss my home the most.”

His wings have torn from his shoulders and his body bleeds crimson. The man, nude, holds one white wing in his arms and stares with a jealous grimace. His twin provides a stark contrast—his body is whole and his glare triumphant. The only thing preventing him from leaping with joy is the picture frame that surrounds him.

            Art in Chelsea is not just for the wealthy. These paintings are part of an exhibition, “Alchemy”, in Chelsea’s Hudson Guild community center that documents a process of transformation. While children play basketball outside and senior citizens attend yoga, the one-room gallery is a microcosm of its surrounding neighborhood. For 50 years, it brought art to Chelsea’s 15,334 families. And the current recession is actually giving New York’s art scene, already an important part of the neighborhood, a chance to stay.

Chelsea, bounded by 10th and 11th Avenues from West 30th Street to West 16th Street, is transforming. A 2005 New York City Council resolution rezoned West Chelsea to allow for increased development and the renovation of the High Line, an abandoned railway. But despite the arrival of new residential and commercial buildings, Chelsea’s art community remains convinced that its presence cannot be undermined.

“I can’t foresee us moving, particularly in this economy,” says Erin Somerville, associate director of Andrew Kreps Gallery. “This is where art is. We’re not going anywhere.”

When the New York art scene moved to Chelsea from Soho in the 1990s, artists brought a renewed vigor and vibrancy to the neighborhood. More than 200 art galleries call Chelsea home.

Art is now an intrinsic part of this community. The High Line’s proponents seek to continue this tradition when the garden opens in June 2010. “Since the High Line runs through one of the most populous and busiest art districts in the world, it’s only natural to include an art presence,” said Katie Lorah, spokesperson for Friends of the High Line. In fact, gallery owners and art dealers were among the first supporters of the $170 million renovation. The railway runs from the Gansevoort District to Hell’s Kitchen. But in Chelsea, the project will be an organic outgrowth of the neighborhood’s creative character.

The 1.45-mile long structure, now made of steel and reinforced concrete, will be transformed into thickets and meadows filled with flowers. The Chelsea section of the defunct 1930s railway will feature work from local artists. Art installations will be constructed where the railway passes through Chelsea Market. Spencer Finch is the first artist to exhibit in the space. His installation will be a study of the High Line’s relationship with the Hudson River. Friends of the High Line is also planning an emerging artists program. Young, local artists will exhibit both on the High Line and in the neighborhood. “We’re dedicated to keeping the connection between the High Line and art in the neighborhood,” said Lorah in a phone interview.

Commercial development in Chelsea will also take the area’s artistic nature into consideration.  Jennifer Torres, Department of City Planning spokesperson, wrote in an email that Chelsea’s art core will be preserved. “The zoning [prohibits] new residential development on the midblocks, allowing new museums and non-commercial art galleries as-of-right, and [includes] bulk regulations that ensure that new development respects the bulky, loft character of the mid-blocks,” she wrote.

Although buildings won’t be touched, the area’s demographics might change. John Compton, Community Board 4 member, admits in an email that developers have used the High Line as a “symbol of a ‘smart’ new residential district to attract a different type of resident than would have considered Chelsea in the past.” According to the 2000 census, Chelsea’s median household income is $52,005. But Compton predicts that land costs may increase, forcing some residents and galleries to move. “While this [movement] is tempered at the moment by the general economic malaise, the long-term net result is that the neighborhood will be a much more expensive one in which to live, with a shift in population to those with higher incomes,” he wrote. 

Scott Briscoe, a Sikkema gallery assistant, says costs have already been rising. But as Compton suggested, the current recession gives his gallery the incentive to stay in Chelsea. “Galleries may be losing money. But especially because of the current economy, we’re being cautious. So discussion about moving is not happening.”

The Friedrich Petzel Gallery was part of the 1990s migration from Soho. Manager Jason Murison said the gallery will be in Chelsea for a while. “If there is a migration, it will be big, with everyone moving together. Some have moved to the Lower East Side, but it might even contract from there.”

“Chelsea remains a center for arts. We’ll see what happens when the recession ends,” said Briscoe. 

Ronaldo Drayton settled into his usual spot and pointed to the white, flapping tents of Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week.

            “They used to call this Needles Park. Thirty years ago, when I first came to the city. There were drug dealers, prostitutes. Now, we have models!” he said, amazed.

            Drayton, 54, has been lunching in Bryant Park for fifteen years. Since the park started hosting New York’s Fashion Week in 1993, he’s noticed a significant improvement in the neighborhood. But the most recent change—the relocation of Fashion Week—unnerved him.

            “Fashion Week put this park on the map. They might as well take away the ice rink and the Christmas tree,” he said.

            On February 3^rd, Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg announced that next year’s event is moving to Damrosch Park at Lincoln Center. The new location has roughly 25% more space, according to a press release from the Mayor’s office. The move allows Bryant Park, “one of the few green spaces in midtown”, to “better meet the increasing demand for public programming.”

But residents like Drayton insist the bi-annual event helped form the park’s character.

Conrad Ming Tsai, a 40-year-old blogger, said Fashion Week connects residents to New York’s rich past.  Relocation would be disloyal and unsuccessful.

“New York used to be the center of fashion. Sixth Avenue is called Fashion Avenue of America. It all started here, in the garment district.”

 Younger residents, like 21-year-old stylist Jeremy Barlowe, said the energy around Bryant Park area is markedly different from the atmosphere uptown.

“For me, Lincoln Center is associated with music and the Met. Old people.  But this place is young. It’s the pinnacle of the fashion world.”

Seichi Niitsuma, a 27-year-old photographer, agrees.

“Lincoln Center is posh, it’s all about business up there. It has a harsh, repressive feel. Here, we’re closer to downtown.”

Fashion Week also attracts consumers to the area. Dinesh Patel’s family owned The Smoke Shop for sixteen years. Now, the 30-year-old worries about the future.

“It’s definitely make a difference,” Patel admits.  “Small business owners would feel the loss.  Don’t know what will happen next year.”

But he’s not waiting to find out. The Patels are closing down and moving to India.

Ming Tsai and Barlowe are leaving, too. They say Damrosch is too far.

Drayton said, “Fashion Week is short. And Lincoln Center already has enough. Why take away what’s made this park so great?”

From Healthy in East Harlem

          Maria Ortega, an 8-year-old with long brown hair and inquisitive eyes, peered through the doors of Mexican Grocery Products, an East Harlem bodega near the corner of 115th Street and Third Ave.

          Her 23-year-old mother, Carolina Ortega, emerged from behind the counter. The shelves were lined with junk food—Cheetos, Snickers and TapaTío hot sauce.

          Ortega, a bodega employee, knows what it is like to grow up eating processed foods. The lifelong East Harlem resident said the neighborhood is not a healthy place to raise children.

          “Of course I’m worried,” she said. “Lots of kids here are very overweight.”

Her 4-year-old nephew is already obese. Ortega has been trying to control Maria’s weight. But like other children in the neighborhood, she always asks for junk food.

“I don’t let her eat them. I want her to be healthy, but she goes straight for candy and McDonalds,” she said.

From Healthy in East Harlem

          The City of New York has validated Ortega’s fears. East Harlem, known in Spanish as El Barrio, is a “food desert”, an area where residents have limited access to fresh products. A report released in May 2007 by the Department of Health and Mental Hygiene concluded that East Harlem’s high rates of obesity and diabetes could be traced to the predominance of fast food restaurants and bodegas. Bodegas are small convenience stores that don’t have the resources to stock many vegetables. Yet, they are the main food source for East Harlem’s predominantly Hispanic population. Two out of every three stores in the area is a bodega. The Health Department launched a Healthy Bodegas Initiative that placed fruits and vegetables in bodegas. But some local advocacy groups argue that attitude is as important as access. Children like Maria need to be taught to appreciate fresh food.  

          Angela Davis, a community food advocate, has worked with city children who eat ketchup or spaghetti sauce and don’t know what a tomato looks like. Her organization, Just Food, seeks to encourage low-income communities to reexamine their food choices.

“It’s not just about eating vegetables. It’s about quality. That’s why variety is important,” Davis said in a phone interview.

The health department sent bodegas free vegetables and customer discount coupons. But sustained change is hard to enact.

Kamal Hanna, the 69-year-old manager of Deli & Grocery, on 116th Street. and Lexington Avenue, started selling vegetables as part of the Healthy Bodega Initiative. But he’s stopped since December.

“There’s no space here. I can’t afford it anymore,” he said.

Nelson Ali, owner of Grocery & Deli on Park Avenue near 115th Street, said his young customers usually buy candy. Still, he makes sure to stock apples, oranges, bananas.

“We have them delivered three times a week. We’re hanging on,” he said.

But his fruits and vegetables are crowded into the corners of the store, next to laundry detergent and ice pops.

Davis said: “if they don’t look good, people won’t buy them. So owners are eventually not going to invest in fresh foods. It’s a vicious cycle.”

Ali, Hanna and Ortega said their vegetables were purchased from local dealers. But they are unsure of where the dealers obtained the produce. Food advocates seek to create a system that connects consumers to producers.

 “Right after they’re picked, food starts losing its nutritional value,” said Davis. “More than looking for organic, we need to focus on eating locally.”

Michael Hurwitz, director of Greenmarket, a non-profit that schedules New York City’s farmers markets, used the term “locavore” to describe someone who shops at local food stands. He emphasized the importance of eating fresh and “knowing your farmer.”

“Large, immigrant communities come from countries where they’re two steps away from agriculture,” he said at a panel at the Museum of the City of New York. “So it’s hard when parents come to this city.”

“When [immigrants] come here, they’re working two, three jobs just to survive. So it’s hard for them to monitor what their kids are eating,” Davis said.

Fourteen-year-old Allison McBride’s mom tries to make her eat vegetables with every meal. But she said she’d much rather eat candy from a bodega.

“No salads. No seafood. I don’t like them. I eat more junk food than vegetables every day,” she said.

From Healthy in East Harlem

Access is vital, but Hurwitz and Davis agree that a change in lifestyles is equally necessary. Part of the battle is getting children to participate.

Yuri Asano, member of Slow Food USA, founded Harvest Time in Harlem, an educational food workshop for school children. She believes children should get involved with what they’re eating. During the school year, students in El Barrio participate in a cooking program. The children also help sell vegetables at a neighborhood farm stand.

“We help them understand that food is supposed to taste good. It’s not the enemy. We don’t tell them what they can’t eat. Instead, we teach them portion control and moderation,” she said.

Asano is already seeing results.

“Some of the children, after school, they’d usually go to a corner bodega to get a snack. But now, they’ll come down and buy an apple,” she said.

This change in lifestyle doesn’t come without a cost. Supermarkets offer variety, but they’re expensive. Davis Garcia, an army veteran and 10-year resident of East Harlem, said that the local Associated Supermarket is “overpriced”. He only shops there when he needs something quickly.

“I’m lucky because I can go to Brooklyn for cheap groceries. I know a lot of our residents just don’t have the ability to travel for groceries,” he said.

          And because of the recession, Davis said that supermarkets are closing. Ortega said that prices at bodegas are rising, as well.

Hurwitz said that prices at farmers’ markets are comparable, if not better than those at bodegas. To ensure that lower-income households can afford healthy food, seven Manhattan markets, including one at Harlem Hospital on 135th Street, accept food stamps.

 “Bodegas have poor quality. So eating locally gives you more value, variety, and a longer shelf life,” he said.

 However, variety and freshness is not always guaranteed. Markets only offer local produce that is in season. During the winter, farmers sell frozen food from storage.

Still, Asano said eating locally has significant benefits. “The New York growing season is not that long, it’s true. But when you do purchase locally, you’re cutting down on the pollution that comes from transporting food, you’re supporting the local economy, you’re giving back the trust and knowledge of who’s growing your food and how,” she said. “Families should consider the cost benefits.”

Dan Barber, the third-generation owner of Massachusetts’ Blue Hill Farm, said this is an “issue of choices.”

“It’s about prioritizing your disposable income,” he said at the panel. “Years ago, people thought that no one would pay for cable TV or cell phones. If we can create a context that prioritizes good, healthy food, people’s opinions will change.”