"Da Hurst" and Jackson Heights

#52Essays2017
Week 11


I work in the neighborhood I grew up in. In the elementary school I attended as a child. The neighborhood I lived in until I was 15 years old, and went back to every weekend since I moved, because everything kept me attached to it. I couldn't let go of it. The streets, the people, the scents, the food. The familiar. It was my home. Elmhurst "Da Hurst" as we called it, and Jackson Heights, Queens.

I grew up in a one bedroom, turned 3 bedroom apartment. An old, four story building with huge bedrooms commonly converted into multiple bedroom apartments for the commodity of big families, or multiple families living in it. We were rather a small family. A family of 4, and our dog. The large bedroom had a sheetrock down the middle dividing my parents' room from mine and my brother's. Once my brother turned 13, and I 7, my parents thought it was important for each of us to have our own space. Thus, they divided our small space even further. I ended up with a tiny 10x6 'room'. Just enough for my twin-size bed and a night stand. I loved my room. It was my sanctuary.

This was the norm where I lived. I knew because I learned from friends, who aside from living with their immediate families, they also lived with aunts, uncles, cousins, and/or grandparents, in tiny one bedroom apartments, or studios.

Year after year, I filled my tiny room's walls with diplomas, certificates, and drawings. Until I turned 15. My parents then bought a one-family house in Woodhaven, Queens. A new neighborhood. Quiter and cleaner. With more houses than buildings. More trees than stores. Although in the same borough and a bus ride away, it was too far for me. Woodhaven wasn't Elmhurst. It wasn't Jackson Heights.

Let me tell you why where I grew up in, exactly two blocks south from Roosevelt Avenue and the 7 train was, and is so special.

The people. Both neighborhoods are inundated with Latinos. Although from different countries and backgrounds. We speak the same language. We understand each other. Having neighbors that know and appreciate your food, your language, your customs, your struggles, is comforting. As a kid, growing up with other Latino children in school, in my building, and in my block, contributed to my sense of identity. I played with children who looked like me. I spoke to them in the language that was spoken to me at home. We sat on our stairs eating the same or similar foods. We played similar games. We used similar phrases. We had similar clothing styles. We were raised alike. We celebrated the same holidays and had the same traditions. And if there were particular traditions or holidays that differed, we were still so young that we learned about them, adopted them, and celebrated them too. My mom's best friend is Colombian. She was our next door neighbor. She was more like my second mom. If I wasn't home, I was in hers, listening and dancing to cumbia, salsa and vallenatos as she cooked. Eating arepas and sancocho several times a week. I grew up braiding my culture with others, and ended up with a solid, colorful, long braid of cultures that were made into one. It was distinctly mine.

My building was so small that all of us knew each other. Some neighbors were closer to others. There was a group of neighbor friends who watched important soccer games outside, in front of the building. I joined them every time. Who took the television outside and how they made the connection is beyond me. But it's one of my fondest memories. The World Cup and Copa America games were unforgettable.

A very symbolic and iconic person in Jackson Heights is a Colombian man who rides his bike entertaining passerby's. His beard is always dyed colorfully, he wears a dress, has a parrot on his head, and carries a poodle in his arms. He makes pit stops and tells jokes, and interacts with people, many who know him by name. Even those who don't, wave at him every time he's seen. He's carefree, jolly, free-spirited. He spreads a little bit of all that as he rides his bike through those noisy, busy streets.

The food. There was nothing like buying tamales from the lady on the corner of 90th and Roosevelt on Sunday mornings. Or drinking cafe Colombiano at a young age every morning before going to school. The aromas coming from Latino restaurants and street vendors all through Roosevelt avenue, disguised the polluted air and called you in as you passed by. The scents of your building, or your friends' buildings at dinner time were so inviting, that if your neighbors and you were more like friends and family than mere neighbors, you knocked their door and helped yourself to a plate.

The noise. The lady in 82nd and Roosevelt with her supermarket cart yelling "obleas, obleas, obleas, salpicon, avena!" The lady on the opposite corner shouting "bateria, bateria, bateria!" The loud preacher on the other corner trying to save souls and reassuring their entrance to heaven. The deafening, always crowded and iconic 7 train. A train that takes hardworking, beautifully blended and an incredibly diverse amount of people to their destination. A train that everyone in Queens has a love-hate relationship with.

The diversity. Yes, Elmhurst and Jackson Heights is home to Latinos. But both neighborhoods are also homes to an incredible number of different countries and cultures. Jackson Heights is one of the most diverse places in the city. Walk from 74th street to Junction Blvd on Roosevelt avenue, and back on 37th avenue. and you'll feel like you're walking through different countries. Restaurants and stores on and near 74th street are predominantly South Asian. Colorful sari and jewelry stores envelope you. Keep walking up and you'll go from hearing Indian and Bengali music to Mexican cumbias and rancheras. You won't miss the delicious scent of Mexican tacos, and mazorca con queso coming from restaurants and food carts. As you journey on, in between 82nd and 90th streets you'll encounter an overwhelming number of Colombian, Peruvian, and Ecuadorian restaurants. You won't know whether to have bandeja paisa, pollo a la brasa, or bolon de verde for lunch. Countries and cultures in Jackson Heights are so intricately sectioned, but at the same time so beautifully blended, I think it's safe to say that the neighborhood is the physical definition of New York's melting pot.

Friends. My nearest and dearest friends are the same kids I met in elementary school, and journeyed middle school and High School with me as well. The same ones who lived a few buildings from mine, or no more than 3 blocks away. Many have moved, and some have stayed. But they all know exactly what I am talking about. They are familiar with every word. They may even be able to add things I've missed. Because they lived it. We hung out in front of their buildings everyday after school eating Wise chips, Doritos and Twinkies. We cut school together. We knew each other's parents. We had the same dreams of making it in life meanwhile loving every bit of where we were from and doing life the way we did. We get together now and talk about the good old days, our neighborhood, the streets, and how easily it was to get lost in them and end up on the wrong path. Not because our neighborhood was overly dangerous, but because due to the socioeconomic, educational and immigrant status of families, parents are forced to work excessive amount of hours, and children end up raising themselves. We saw many friends get lost. Not from our close-knit group, but many that we grew up with, talked to, and even hung out with. They walked down the wrong path to their own downfall and demise. And although we know this about the streets we walked on, we loved it and love it still. Because it shaped us. Because wherever we go and whoever we may become, Elmhurst and Jackson Heights, comes with us.



Working in my childhood elementary school as a speech-language therapist is probably not much of a coincidence, or because there are no positions for me in other schools. Of course there are, and much closer to where I live now. But there are still strings that attach me to these neighborhoods. There's beauty in listening and understanding my kids' lives. Not by trying to put myself in their shoes and feeling pity, but by actually having walked in their shoes and recalling the familiarity of what they are going through and feel. There's beauty in appreciating the honesty and rawness of their feelings as they share their experiences with me. Experiences and feelings I know all too well, or saw those close to me live them.

Growing up I wanted more. I wanted less noise, less crowd, a bigger home, cleaner streets. I wanted an 'upgrade' on all that surrounded me. It's not that I didn't love or enjoy my neighborhood. I did. But I had an unfulfilled desire for more. Perhaps my imagination made satisfaction an unrecognizable concept. Although I have now what I wanted back then, I miss my neighborhood. I appreciate the noise, the crowd, the streets. I come back everyday for work. But when I am back to visit a friend, or obtain something that only Elmhurst or Jackson Heights can give me, I walk down memory lane. I smell the air I smelled before. The sights take me back and I cherish every corner. I am beyond grateful to have grown up in an immigrant neighborhood. To have been exposed to a different type of knowledge. One that books can't teach. I am grateful to have thrived here. There's no where else I would have preferred to grow up in.


* This blog post inspired me to collaborate with a friend. One I grew up with, and knows these words to be true. We will embark in a photographic journey that has our hometown in the heart of it. * 
Stay tuned :)

Photos taken by: Davidson Miranda 

Oh My Dog!

#52Weeks2017
Week 10

This is probably the piece that has been the most difficult to start. Yet, the subject is what I love the most in life. What has taught me most in life. What motivates me. What occupies the softest part of my heart. Dogs. Especially my dog, Bernard. I just love him so much. I love them all. I'll tell you how much.

When I was in 2nd grade I accidentally saw in the news how dogs were being tortured in Korea. My parents had no time to turn the TV off or change the channel, as my mom and dad fumbled through the couch and cushions looking for the remote control to no avail. I had seen enough. I didn't sleep that night. I cried so much I can still feel the heaviness in my chest when I think back to that night. I was hurting for them. At the time my two best friends were Asian. I didn't know exactly from what country. But at that age we're learning about life, and we create our own categories, and I immediately placed them in that group. The next day I saw them, and did not want to speak to them. So I didn't. I later told them as my voice quivered, why I was never going to speak to them again. Again, I was in second grade. I didn't know any better. My teacher spoke to me, and called my mother. I learned I was wrong, and so I apologized to my friends, who accepted my apologies, or probably had no clue as to what I was talking about or apologizing for, and we quickly became friends again. However, the image that was recorded in my brain, still produced the same pressure in my chest. The same sadness. The same anger.

I loved dogs so much that in elementary school I was convinced I was going to be accepted to Cornell University to their veterinary program. Until I soon learned that my responsibilities as a veterinary included performing surgeries, watching them pass away, and crying with families as they said their last goodbyes. That's when I changed my mind.

In 5th grade, I found several of my dog brother Wolfy's puppy teeth around my house. I collected 4 and took them to school to show them off with pride. They never returned home with me, as I lost them in the cafeteria. That night I hugged him and cried into his fur. I had lost a treasure.

When I was 9, I tried refuting our family pastor's theory that animals don't go to heaven. I felt especially offended with his remark as my younger brother, Wolfy, was a dog. The pastor had not died and gone to heaven. He didn't have a family member who walked down from heaven and given him the 411. How would he know? I refused to believe him. So, after the sermon, I decided to ask him where he had obtained that information from. "The Bible" he responded. At 9 years old, my heart learned that the Bible wasn't a reliable source, especially if it stated such things; and second, God, no matter what religion, was the definition of love, why would he reject animals? What was so special about us humans? I asked for the verse, but he didn't know it. I then, tried to prove my point as to why animals did go to heaven. And lastly, I decided that not only the Bible, but he, also, was no longer reliable to me. Wolfy was going to heaven, no matter what he said, no matter how he or anyone thought life after death worked. No one knows how that's going to go down anyway. The only thing I was sure of was that Wolfy was more deserving of a heaven than him, and most people I knew.

Growing up, whenever I was asked about my siblings, I always said I had two. Wolfy was the first one mentioned. My response was something like this "I have two brothers, Wolfy is the youngest, he's a German Shepherd/Husky mix, and my older brother, Jose." I got some laughs, some weird looks, some "me too!" The answer I gave wasn't to be cute, to be funny, or to obtain any type of response, it was just the truth. It was my truth.

I taught my dad to love dogs. He grew up not having any pets, and the only reason he accepted Wolfy was because I begged for him. I taught him to understand them. To pet them. I showed him that they had feelings and emotions, through numerous books I borrowed from our local library, and by giving him examples of Wolfy's behaviors that reflected his emotions. I cried when he didn't show Wolfy affection the way I thought only Wolfy desereved. Until he did. Until I saw him cry when Wolfy passed away. Then I realized my dad had changed. His heart now had a soft spot for dogs because I was stubborn. Because I didn't accept bland treatment or indifference. Because he had to say hi and bye to him upon entering and leaving our home. Because he had to wear a birthday hat and sing happy birthday to Wolfy for 13 years. Because I insisted and didn't accept anything but love from his part towards Wolfy. Because Wolfy himself taught my dad how to love dogs. How to love him.


After Wolfy's passing, Bernard came into my life. My fur-son. He has taught me and continues to teach me a whole different set of life lessons. He has helped me discover some layers of myself I probably wouldn't have discovered, had it not been for him. Because of Bernard I say with pride, that I am a dog photographer. He motivates me. He pushes my boundaries. He's not only my muse but somehow he has guided me to other dogs, to shelter dogs. To use my talents to help them. I am now an artist member for HeARTS speak, a global community of artists and advocates who provide their professional services pro-bono to save the lives of shelter pets through art. All because of Bernard.

I look at what I do and where I am now, and look back at all my experiences with Wolfy, Bernard, and dogs in general. They have taught me so much. So much more than college courses, than books I've read. They have taught me loyalty, compassion, love, friendship, unconditionality, forgiveness, happiness, joy, self care, and more importantly, to live in the moment.

They have taught me the real deal. The important things in life. Life lessons taught without a board, without a book, without a word. They were taught through example, through simply living.

Thank you Wolfy. Thank you Bernard. Thank you beautiful dogs!

In the Midst of the Unknown

#52Essays2017
Week 9


When tia was diagnosed with stomach cancer 12 years ago, it was a shocker to the family. She was 49 years old. She was the 6th of 8 siblings. She was my caregiver during my parents' long work hours. She was the strong one, the funny one, the glue that held the family together. 'Anyone but her', I'm sure everyone thought. One of her sisters traveled to the states to care for her during the time span of radiation and chemotherapy. Her husband worked, and her children were too young; 15 and 9.

The entire family had faith a miracle would happen. A religious faith that kept everyone going. Everyone prayed incessantly. Tia's family in Peru gathered to pray the rosary and light up candles to different saints. I had never seen, experienced and felt so much faith and hope before. So many acts of religious beliefs. Their belief that a miracle would occur was strong. However, from the start, the prognosis was not a good one. She was given 6 months to live with chemo and radiation. Perhaps less without it. Given the prognosis, some may view these acts of faith as being in denial.

Tia was diagnosed in October, and passed away on a rainy day in June of the following year. Thirteen days after her daughter's 10th birthday. Yes, she outlived the 6-months prognosis. But the prayers and faith, if they had anything to do with it, only gifted her those 2 extra months.

The way I see it...
Faith is a wonderful thing. It's a powerful feeling and belief for good and beauty in the midst of the unknown. In the midst of tragedy. And although I was one of them, who prayed and believed, or wanted to believe that she would be ok, something in me didn't believe as hard as the rest. Now I understand what that something was. It was the not yet discovered understanding of life. The knowledge that we have very little control over it. Yes, faith still is a beautiful thing. I think what makes it beautiful is that it makes us feel like we have some control over a situation, "if I have faith, it will happen." If it does happen, it was because of faith. If it doesn't, our faith wasn't strong enough.

I have faith in many things. I feel it. However, I think there is one universal truth, regardless of who we are, our beliefs, our religion, and the strength of our faith, or lack thereof, we can't control life, and we must accept it as it comes. Because life does as it pleases, and asks for no one's permission, and most likely cares very little about our hopes.

Still... we must believe that it'll be nice, and play out in our favor once in a while.

RIP Tia