My mom calls me, “ilusionada” which translates to, hopeful. I am a first generation American, both my parents migrated from their home countries and built successful lives without a college education. It’s hard for them to understand my ambitions but as loyal Latino’s, they have my back regardless.

My first instinct is to smile when I make eye contact with someone, so moving to New York City was an exciting journey for me.

I’ve worked jobs that I find no interest in, I’ve interned for artists for no money, I’ve had 6 roommates in total all while I’ve struggled to find my purpose. In the last 7 years, I have discovered a new “base” for myself. My apartment is on 231^ST Street and Godwin Terrace. A block away from the 1 train (with whom I have an ongoing love/hate relationship with). Although my childhood home was only an hour away drive from my apartment, I rarely went back home. When my parents chose to sell the house I felt a sudden loosening of my grip on who I am at my core.

My house sold fast and I spent a majority of that period of time moving between my apartment in the city and my home to help my parents pack, so I never had the chance to get some closure. Along with losing my home, I was also the common denominator for my parents divorce. I didn’t realize how much my life felt like it was shattering until I would lay in my room back in my apartment and just breathe. Having lost my home, I began to value what I thought was my “temporary” apartment.

If you’ve lived in NYC, you know your block is as much your home as your apartment is. On my way home from the train, walking by Kathy’s flower shop, Kathy and I would make eye contact and smile. Running to Walgreens at 3 in the morning for a late night snack, Maureen would always reach out for a hug. On occasions when I didn’t feel like cooking, Sam would offer me a free slice of pizza as long as I would listen to his complaints about the neighborhood teenagers making too much of a ruckus. On an especially hard day, I’d come home to my closest friends who would show me unconditional love and would blast my favorite songs while singing to the top of our lungs until I felt better (or until the apartment underneath us started banging on our floor with their broom).

I’ve been blessed. In this apartment I have fallen in love, I have created art, I have danced all night, I’ve eaten my favorite meals and I’ve had my heart broken. But most importantly I have spent the prime years of my 20’s figuring myself out in these sacred walls. 7 years have passed since I was the 20 year old “ilusionada” and I am now the 27 year old “ilusionada” who is moving out of my “base”.

This body of work is a dedication to 231^ST street. To the community around me who selflessly shared a smile with me every day. To the roommates who have become my family and to my apartment who has been there for me in the toughest years of my life. I have learned that home feels like exhaling, whoever or wherever gives me that chance to catch my breath in life, is my home.