Early 90's specifically Orchard Street, N.Y. 

Nauseous and tense my guts were tied up with the thought of the unknown or maybe it was just the fact that I was sitting in coach in a Boeing 747. It was 1995 I was almost 13 years old and I was leaving the JFK airport from the only place I had come to know; the lower east side, Manhattan. I ran to the tiny restroom of the plane and my mother ran after me, she pulled my hair back while I try to let something out, I coughed and I hurled and nothing. Then I heard a knock on the door “ladies we’re ready to land, you must come out now!” We simply looked at each other, “ladies you need to come out right this minute” shouted the flight attendant a second time. But it was too late, I immediately felt the thump and squeaking tires landing on the burning ground of Las Americas Airport in Santo Domingo. All of a sudden I felt a shed of relief and we both decided it was time to come out. I went back to my seat, looked through the small airplane window and saw a few bushes. For some childish reason I was expecting to see something else at an airport, to everyone one else it was paradise.

I felt an asphyxiating heat. I was entering the burning gates of the Caribbean and was unaware of the road ahead. Family reunions were taking place left and right, I observed everyone and everything. I was born and raised here till I was four but then moved to New York. I was sad I would miss out on summer camp and not graduate with my 8th grade class which I’d always dreamed about but I was curious and somewhat excited to finally see the country I was born in and put a face to the family members I had spoken to over the phone for all those years.

On my way to grandma’s house I saw a more cheerful and beautiful landscape, the extraordinary view of the Caribbean Sea. Our family awaited us with a big feast. I had no recollection of the relatives I was about to meet I had only seen them in photos. I would stay with grandma for the next six months but also with my uncle, cousin, three sisters, one brother and my parents all in the same house. This house is where I lived till I was four.

Grandpa is looking down, RIP

In the rear terrace on a rocking chair staring at nothing was my grandpa. I had been told he was very ill of Alzheimer’s and would not recognize any of us but I was beginning to think I was the one with the Alzheimer because I didn't remember much either.

I walked around this beautiful friendly neighborhood and noticed that people looked at me in a very peculiar way, like a ladybug in a line of ants; this actually made me feel kind of special and unique at the early age of 13. In time I learned it was because of my fair skin and in general it was obvious to them I wasn't from around there. I was called "Gringuita" which means American. Others said it was because I was becoming a very attractive adolescent and Dominican men are not shy to tell you what’s on their mind. I think they invented the art of catcalling, they’ll make either the wittiest or lamest remarks you’ll ever hear.

I never imagined the oddities that were about to unfold, this particular piece of land suffered from a bad case of third world particularities I never knew existed, let alone experience in full flesh.