Washington Heights is a place where concrete streets are stained with flavorful texture filled with the color, music, and nostalgia of island living. These stains seem very ordinary; a group of women in a salon with rollos, tubis, and
blown out hair drinking beer and gossiping about the next door neighbor, the pastelito and johhny ke-ke man sell- ing deep fried snacks in the corner to families that pass by, the old woman from apartment 4B selling stolen plastic
accessories to pay for bingo matches. These small performances of daily life represent my personal lineage, and those of the people who grew up in Washington Heights.