Capturing Communities in Words and Images:

Sitting in Jose Aguilar’s car with his son almost two weeks ago, I discovered a fear, wariness and humility embedded within the people of his country who, often struggle to make a living here in the city.

It was early in the evening, around six, and already dark outside. I expected to be sitting in his home along with his son and friend of mine, Jose, for the interview. It had taken two weeks of canceled appointments to meet with Mr. Aguilar. I had looked forward to the opportunity of speaking with both he and his family.

That evening we never set foot in his building. He hastily shook my hand in our first encounter and forced a quick smile. We proceeded to Mr. Aguilar’s car, which was just around the corner. My friend vaguely explained to me that it needed to be moved.

I entered into the back seat while Jose and his father got into the front, discussing in Spanish what sounded like my project. Mr. Aguilar started the car and turned on the heat, which I was happy about given the brisk temperature that night. The two stopped speaking shortly and we all sat in silence for about five minutes. It felt much longer. The car did not budge during this time. What was he waiting for? Traffic? The car?

Without turning his head, my friend said, “Whenever you’re ready man.” I knew by that point the interview would take place here. I felt awkward for a moment, and pondered why Mr. Aguilar decided to remain in the car and not his home. Did he feel unsafe? threatened? uncomfortable?

I couldn’t worry myself with these questions. I hastily proceeded to pull out my notepad and voice recorder. Mr. Aguilar was looking straight ahead through the windshield with a blank expression on his face. I began to have doubts about what he would say and permit me to take pictures of, if any. It took me two weeks to get this far. I wasn’t going to water down anything.

I asked for his name, age and occupation. He turned around halfway and answered my questions in a voice that seemed barely above a whisper. His English seemed much quieter than his Spanish. There was a modest murmur of late night traffic outside of the car that overpowered his voice at times. I worried the voice recorder wouldn’t pick him up as I struggled to make out what he was saying.

His answers were short and bulleted. I didn’t see more than half of his face because he didn’t fully turn around to face me. The only eye contact I was granted came courtesy of the rear view mirror. His answers were rigid, like his body, and brief. I felt as though I had to help pull the words out him.

I asked “why” as often as I could after he spoke and recalled experiences in my life that related to his. As we talked, he began to face me without the aid of the mirror. His voice remained soft but grew more assertive.

I asked him how the area has changed over the past two decades. He paused, smiled and shook his head. “It was very dangerous at one time. When Dinkins was mayor…people were getting killed [and] doing drugs right over there (points across the street).

Mr. Aguilar journeyed to the United States 24 years ago from Mexico at 17, almost his son’s age, from a small farming village in the south called Pueblo. It consisted of no more than 200 people.

He lost his father at the age of three because of a violent altercation in the nearby city where he used to work. His mother was the first of his family to leave the town for New York, feeling that she could earn more money in the city. Mr. Aguilar decided to follow her lead in pursuit of the same opportunities to help himself and his family.

He entered into California with a small group of Mexican immigrants who were led by a “guide”, or someone who knows the best accessible points to pass through at the border.

He was driven to Los Angeles along with the rest of the group and from there, he would take a plane to New York City. Taking a bus at that time was far more risky because of immigration checkpoints that were located throughout the country. “It’s much harder now than it was before 9/11,” recalls Mr. Aguilar. “Back then it was like nothing”.

Upon arriving, he tried to take English classes but soon discontinued them, feeling shy and reluctant to speak with broken words. He immediately looked for work after that.

His first jobs consisted of work in factories, kitchens, stocking and construction. After about 10 of eclectic careers, he found work doing fabric cutting in the fashion industry, which he says pays decent money. He continues working there today.

He attends the Catholic Church, Innocent Saints, on 37^th Street and Broadway. It is close to his job and he tries to a get a few minutes in each day during his lunch break. The guests are predominantly white. There are no Catholic Churches near where he lives now; the closest is located 15 blocks away.

Mr. Aguilar has been living in the neighborhood since his arrival in the city, but recalls how it’s changed more recently. “Maybe 10 years ago a lot of Mexicans started [coming] here”.

He got his green card in 1992, but it was only in 2003 that Mr. Aguilar acquired legal U.S. citizenship.  This has granted him access to greater federal and state opportunities for him and his family from the government.

Mr. Aguilar comes from a different generation of immigrants and says that most of the people who he stays close with are his family. He doesn’t necessarily associate with people because they are Mexican or Spanish, but rather because he respects their character.

Today nearly all of his family lives in Spanish Harlem with the exception of his grandmother. He still seems jarred by the noise from people on the street and in his building, even after two decades of living in New York.

Despite Mr. Aguilar’s gripes with the city’s excessive commotion and pace, he appreciates its convenience and various amenities. When he’s not working, he enjoys going to the park and listening to Mexican and Country music. Many of his favorite musicians and composers come from his country. One of his favorite artists is a Mexican composer named Alfredo Jimenez whose work has been reproduced by hundreds of other musicians worldwide.

Mr. Aguilar misses his grandparents most from Mexico, who raised him after his mother left. “Since I’ve come to this country, I [have] not been able to go back…I lost my grandfather but my grandmother is still alive. For me [she] is most important.” He continues to send money over to her and his family in Pueblo. Mr. Aguilar goes on to say that there is very little, if anything, that his misses least about his country.

“I miss the quiet there. You could do anything there…everybody [knew] each other. Most of them were family.”

Field Notes – Day One: My objective going out for the first time was to canvas the the area (1st avenue through Park on 116th Street) with the highest density of Mexican businesses/people in Spanish Harlem. I didn’t notice a significant amount of attention paid to me until I took out my digital camera and started taking pictures of restaurants, churches and local vendors.

It was uncomfortable as I tried not to make eye contact with people on the street, who were clearly burning holes into me with their eyes. As bad as this was at time, it only remained an obstacle while taking pictures or indiscreetly having my camera out.

Not realizing at this point that I had serious difficulty taking pictures of the people in this community, particularly ones who considered it not only an act of disrespect but also of aggression, I decided not ask before getting a picture. I tried to sneak in shots of their food and drink stands without them noticing me, which was difficult given emptiness of people on the street.

I was yelled at by one man selling fruit and jello after taking a picture. I attempted to sneak away. Approaching him, I decided to confront his understandable frustration, and explained in broken Spanish that the picture were for a school project. He seemed to be more receptive after this and didn’t appear as hostile. He spoke no English.

Field Notes – Day Two: I returned to the same area for my second trip on a Sunday. Based on what I was told, I anticipated seeing a large number of Mexican vendors selling foods, spices and clothing on 116th Street. I discovered, unfortunately, that these little street fairs begin in the spring and end around early fall, more specifically September.

I decided instead to look for families who might be out in the neighborhood for the day enjoying their Sunday. There were a varity of home assembled foodstands along the street as in my last visit, so I decided to see what was on the menu and ask about the food. Many if not all of the dishes primarily consisted of pork and corn in addition to other ingredients like chicken, rice, cheese and hot peppers. I orderred a few dishes like (need to check notes!) but I plan on bringing my apetite for the following visit because there is a lot I still want to try.

After asking people’s permission for taking a pictures, I found that half of them responded posively and the other half simply said no. I felt better about this approach to the photography but there was still a feeling of being unwelcome and a viewed as a threat. I found that speaking with them about non-intrusive subjects, particularly about the food they were selling, was a great way tot get the ball rolling, and gave me the opportunity to get a picture of two younger looking girls working at one of the stands.

The next places I hope to photograph and explore are the local the barbershops, foodshops, bars and churches (which I am still looking for) in order to get a deeper understanding of how this community spends time in the neighborhood. I’ll need to spend more time getting settled within these places before taking my notebook and camera out.

Field Notes – Day Three: A friend of mine from work told me that his father, originally from Mexico, has lived in Spanish Harlem for 25 years. I decided he would be excellent to interview given his national origin and familiarity with the area.

After about two weeks of canceled interviews I finally got an met with my friend’s father, Jose Aguilar. Jose (named after his father) took me to his parents apartment building on 110th and 5th Ave . We were supposed to meet early in the evening and I anticipated being invited into his parents’ home, greeted with the aroma of cooking food and the rest of his family.

Jose and I walked over from 116th street to meet his father. He greeted his son with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He shook my hand firmly at a rushed pace and a quick smile. We proceeded to Mr. Aguilar’s car, which was around the corner. Jose vaguely explained to me that it needed to be moved.

I entered into the back seat while Jose and his father got into the front, discussing in Spanish what sounded like my project. Jose’s father started the car and turned on the heat, which I was happy about given the brisk temperature that night. The two stopped speaking shortly. We all sat in silence for about five minutes. He had not moved the car during this time. What was he waiting for? Traffic? The car?

Without turning his head my friend said, “whenever you’re ready man”. By that point I knew that the interview would be conducted inside the car. I felt awkward for a moment, and tried to figure why Mr. Aguilar decided to speak in his car. Did he feel unsafe? threatened? uncomfortable?

I couldn’t worry myself with these questions. I hastily proceeded to pull out my notepad and voice recorder. Mr. Aguilar was looking strait ahead through the windshield with a blank expression on his face. I began to have some doubts about what he would say and permit me to take pictures of, if any. It took me two weeks to get this far. I wasn’t going to water down anything.

I asked for his name, age and occupation. He turned around halfway and answered my questions in a voice that seemed barely above a whisper. His English was quieter than his Spanish. There was a modest murmur of late night traffic outside of the car that seemed to overpower his voice at times. I worried the voice recorder wouldn’t pick him up.

His answers were short and bulleted. I didn’t see more than half of his face because he never turned fully around. The only eye contact was through the rear view mirror. The answers he gave me were rigid, like his body, and seemed rehearsed.

I began to ask “why” more often after he answered a question and spoke about expereinces in my life that related to his. As we talked, he fbegan to face me without the mirror. His voice remained soft but grew more assertive. He smiled and shook his head, remebering how dangerous the neighborhood was when Dinkins was mayor.

Post by Evan Alvarez | December 22nd, 2008 | Category: Final Project Essay and Photos, Final Projects | Subscribe to comments | Leave a comment | Trackback URL