Buried Treasure

“It’s a bit messy,” I warn my guests. They approach 4M, a door plastered with signs that read “No smoking,” “Shoe free zone,” and “Doorbell broken, knock hard!”

Upon taking off their shoes, my guests glance to the left and their jaws drop. The room is silent; you can hear a yarmulke-clip drop. Our living room is the perfect place to play I Spy; there’s a baby carriage, a bicycle, office supplies, outdated video cassettes, pots, pans, and the notorious pile of laundry, oh my! When my mother’s home, she undoubtedly asks, “Wanna help fold socks? We put our guests to work here!” Most guests muster a forced grin, but some have actually helped fold socks; they get on my family’s good list. As the tour continues past the mess, I can’t help but feel embarrassed about my unconventional family.

 “Why on earth is your apartment so cluttered?” The answer lies in the Aqueduct Flea Market. Surviving on a thrifty budget, my mother has discovered the flea market. She has become a compulsive shopper, buying both necessities and luxury items wholesale. But embracing consumerism doesn’t mean forgetting my mother's humbler roots. Never really having much growing up, she takes joy in being able to provide more for her children and for others around her.

My mother is a loud and vivacious person who puts her compulsions to good use. She takes me on runs to purchase clothing for poor families, donates books to hospitals, and makes gift baskets for postal workers. Bundled up in a baby carriage, my mother wheeled me through the market, lecturing on values of fiscal sanity and virtues of charity. As a toddler, my mother even pushed me to engage merchants in colorful conversations about their products and pasts. These “pushes” resonate within me when I take on charitable pursuits and model what I hope to provide for others. 

In the market, I learned how to appreciate the most unexpected items. Early on, I collected old watch pieces and other undesirables to use for art projects. One time, I happened upon a neglected watch and, with a little shine and some new batteries, I brought it back to life. In this marketplace of hidden gems, I learned to value a beauty hidden by societal norms.

Growing up as a frequent flea market-explorer meandering through wafting smells of gyros and roasted corn and sounds of eager sellers shouting, “Five dolla, right here today!” I learned to appreciate money and find bargains with the five dollars I was given. I fondly remember back-to-school shopping where we bought clothing for the whole family at the cost one of us would spend on retail. I never bought into the designer trends that absorbed my friends because I saw how much further my dollar could go at the market. I would never commit the fashion faux pas of matching a peer since all my clothes are flea market originals. Thanks to the market, my family constantly fights over living space and walking room in their three-bedroom Flushing apartment. Fighting aside, the market has provided me with several valuable experiences. I have learned the value of a dollar and can proudly say that I once bought seven pairs of pants for fifteen dollars. I have also learned to be confident in my choices even when in the minority. I have seen the joy on poor children’s faces after I distributed 100 new pairs of shoes to them.  My apartment is hard to navigate and my family has a pretty eccentric taste for interior decorating, but under all the clutter is a buried treasure I like to call home.