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Categories / Human Interest /Tags / Family / immigration / New York / Portraiture / USA / Click here to open comments section, click again when done to close / Comments Off

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“Lo verdadero es bello, por mas que sea terrible. (It is very difficult to write about something so personal.)- A. Lastido

I was born in New York, my parents and I moved to Ecuador when I was about four. One morning, I decided to come back to New York, so I did, on September 11, 2001 at 6.45am.

The story of “Bliss Street” started from that moment, or actually, that’s when I became part of it.

Bliss Street, is inhabited by six women and one man. First comes Alba, my grandmother, who in her 104th year is the healthiest and sharpest person at the house, then there is Olga, her daughter and official owner who is 71 and lives through the eyes of her mother, through her memories of her life in Colorado and the stories that her walls tell. She spends her time organizing a room that does not want to be organized. Teo (54), her brother is the youngest son of Alba, he has been struggling with diabetes for decades; he spends a lot of time in solitude.

Silvia (34) and her daughter Valerie (6), arrived at the house years ago, they asked Olga if they could stay for a short period of time, and that ended up being 2 years. Silvia is from Nicaragua. She migrated illegally to the States more than 15 years ago. She was a victim of domestic violence, she ran away and asked Olga for refugee. However, months later her husband, Manuel, for a very short while, also lived there. An enormous distance and formality prevented everyone from complete suffocation; at one time we were nine people. Their departure after years of “ups” and “downs” is written on the drawings that Valerie left on the walls of the house, which Olga refuses to paint over.

Hours after their departure, Maria “bonita” from the Dominican Republic and her son Henry (5) arrived. She met Olga at a party at the asylum, which they both visited regularly; Maria suffers from diabetes and heart problems since childhood, she was also part of a problematic marriage. Maria doesn’t speak English, and her son Henry doesn’t speak Spanish, Maria now takes care of Alba as a full-time job.

So many people have come and gone from these few rooms; Ivonne, Geordie, Sandy and her cat, Carlos, the “comadre” Colombia, Ausi, Miguelon, my mother, Angela. I was affected by the same magnetism that has attracted so many people to the house on Bliss Street (as the street is literally called). These frustrations, these involuntary games, these daily rituals, this inner economy of a made-up family, what happens when legal status is not an issue anymore, when there is no migration to do, the answer I found it here; the answer is to live, to survive.

It could perhaps be easier, or more “interesting” to tell other’s stories, observe other worlds and costumes. I had many opportunities to leave, but I decided to stay and tried to understand what is more natural, more near, more visceral: this family, my family, what I have in front of me.