In my favorite photo of my parents, they’re sitting next to each other, looking directly at the camera, their cheeks slightly touching. My mom’s legs are crossed and slanted towards my dad. His left hand hangs gently over her knee as she rests hers on his stomach. They look comfortable and happy. Behind them is a bright Puerto Rican flag. Its red and white stripes fill the frame as my parents sit proudly in front of it. Part of the reason why I love this photo so much is because of where and when it was taken. It was shot by my uncle in his booth at the annual Puerto Rican festival sometime in the early 2000s. Growing up, the Annual Fiestas Puertorriqueñas was one of the few times a year I saw my parents allow themselves to exist fully in a space of joy, forgetting, at least momentarily, all that was bearing down on us.
I wasn’t sure what to expect when I arrived at Paseo Boricua on Saturday evening or if I still belonged. A few blocks down Division Street I bumped into my cousin, Felix, who was standing in the street waving a large black and white resistance flag. He greeted me with a hug. We talked for a bit. I took his photo. We hugged again and then said goodbye. I kept moving down Division towards California, documenting folks smiling, laughing, and dancing. Folks shouting from open sunroofs and passenger windows, waving rainbow flags from cars with Black Lives Matter written on the sides.
