SEGUIMO AQUÍ: 6 Years of NuevaYorkinos and 6 Lessons from DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS
"Large crowd of people smiling, some with raised hands.” Selection from our show, Where Roses Grow: A Look at Rómulo Lachatañeré’s Harlem, with Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture. On view here.
Six years ago, a love story began when a caribeña from Uptown and a colombiano from Brooklyn crossed paths at their co-working space on Canal Street. Both products of migration—one, second-generation, the other making the journey himself—the girl came back from a then-recent trip to la República Dominicana invigorated to start a project dedicated to Nueva Yol: rooted in la comunidad y la gente. They began brainstorming, meeting over lunch, and spending hours working on ways to actualize their vision. Guided by a simultaneous unwavering love for the city that raised them and a growing frustration for the changes they’d experience as a result of gentrification, the new friends fell deeper and deeper in love with one another, and deeper into a commitment to ensure that the stories of their community, their city, their blocks would never be erased.
And now, it’s the first week of February 2025, and we’re moved by the fact that NuevaYorkinos, our passion project, is turning six years old. For six years, or roughly 2,200 days, we have had the honor to document and preserve the fotos, faces, and stories of our beloved cinco barrios. Stories of migration and love, resilience and joy; of opportunity and sacrifice. Stories that, despite maybe not being our own personal lived experiences, or that of our parents, still speak to some part of our collective histories as children of (our respective) Diaspora. Photos that are reminiscent of the treasures we find in our abuela’s albums, or tucked neatly away on shelves in our mothers’ closets. Memories that allow us to time travel—back to those countless summers when our sweaty legs stuck to plastic-covered couches, or the magic of seeing snow for the first time.
To date, we’ve collected more than 1,500 stories and 2,000 digital media (photographs and videos) from across the five boroughs. (Despite there being a lack of stories from Staten Island, we hope this inspires more of you to share yours, too!) We’ve been able to hold activations online and in-person, take over gallery walls, transform bars into museums, engage in philanthropy through grassroots organizing and brand partnerships, build multidisciplinary art installations, throw parties, and serve as a bridge for folks from different boroughs, ages, and ethnic backgrounds. A labor of love, this art has only remained possible because of you: Caribbean, Latin, Black, Brown, Immigrant, Diasporic, Working-Class ÑYC.
Entering our sixth year more committed than ever to remain steadfast in our work as cultural preservationists, this moment has felt that much more serendipitous when thinking about DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS, Benito Antonio’s sixth studio album. (We also had the opportunity to appear on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon as part of Benito’s parranda in January, which was one of the flyest experiences ever.)
There have been many crucial think pieces related to DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS’ release, echoing our sentiments and those palpably felt across the diaspora. A love letter to Puerto Rico. A stance against the capitalist imperialist structures that continue to affect Borikén. A yearning for yesteryear; for a land whose people and relations of the natural world are continuously exploited and neglected by colonial forces. Jíbaro lamentations, a politics of perreo. A resounding heartfelt message to all of the unshakeable people power that is Borikén and her diaspora.
Like most Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, Caribbeans, and Latinos the world over, we’ve found ourselves unapologetically blasting the album top to bottom, nonstop. It’s resonance only makes us stand stronger in our pride; it’s messages only remind us more of why the work we do is needed; it’s sentiments, a rallying cry to all across Puerto Rico, the Caribbean, Latin America, and their diasporas, to rise up. A work that will forever be a soundtrack to our lives, here are six lessons, in no particular order, that DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS has cemented.
A CALL TO RE-MEMBER
As Caribbean + Latino archivists rooted in and guided by storytelling and cultural preservation, DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS is a call for all of us to become the archivists of our families and communities. Caribbean or not, the message that, while our landscapes are ever-shifting—due to colonialism, ecotourism, corporate greed, natural disaster—may we remain committed to remembering.
Remembering, as an act of love.
Remembering, as a practice.
Remembering, as in, re-membering.
As in, the piecing of ourselves back together once more.
As in, devoted to documenting the smiles of our viejitos, whose mouths omit the most nostalgic leloleis.
As in, called to preserve the stories of our jíbaros whose weathered hands still tend to the land. And our musicians, whose arthritis-riddled fingers are the tools that pluck the strings of the cuatro. Whose wrists are worn down from decades of drumming in accompaniment to Bomba dancers in ceremony.
Assimilation (chosen and forced) thrives off the dismembering (or severing) of the colonized body. In a seminal work by Kenyan teacher, novelist, essayist, and playwright Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, he posits that re-membering is crucial in the reclamation and preservation of collective memory, which has historically been suppressed by the colonizing force. Re-Membering is practice in action, a remedy for the undoing of the colonial dispossession of memory.
As such, DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS is a reminder for us to all be preservationists. To ensure that our legacies are ones that are forever remembered. To be unabashedly firm in our commitment to our people.
KNOW YOUR HISTORY
How do we tap into this concept of Re-Membering? Be curious. Ask questions. Learn your customs. Familiarize yourself with your history. Start simple: start with your family.
What’s your lineage? What are the names of your ancestors? What town(s) does your family hail from? What are the plants and animals native to your region? What are the customs of your homeland(s)? What languages are spoken? Beginning with your familial heritage, you’re able to start piecing yourself back together. From there, learn about your national history/histories.
For us, one of the most impactful parts of this album are its visualizers. These slideshows are lessons, contextualizing Puerto Rican history on the island and in the Diaspora. Completely in Spanish, these videos encourage viewers to familiarize themselves with the trajectory of Puerto Rico’s generations-long fight for independence, to learn about the interconnectedness that has always been part of the Spanish-speaking Caribbean, to expose the complexities faced by Borikén borne from its colonial past and present. To sit in discomfort when learning about the devastating effects ecotourism is having on the country’s land, flora and fauna, and human population. Lyrically, the album’s thematics do the same, inviting us to dance to songs that remind us of home, wherever that may be.
As the adage goes, you have to know where you come from to know where you are, and where you’re going. We are all a composite of our histories, a sum of our collective and individual experiences.
EL BARRIO NO SE VENDE
The lyrics across DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS have been heralded as some of the most political we’ve heard from Benito. While this may be true for one singular body of work, Benito using his voice to speak out against displacement and gentrification affecting Puerto Rico is nothing new. Neither is his overwhelming and invigorating pride for his country and people. As an unincorporated territorial possession of the United States acquired in 1898 following the Spanish–American War, Puerto Rico is the oldest colony in the modern world.
127 later, U.S. policy continues destabilizing Borikén. In more recent history, Puerto Rico has offered wealthy mainland Americans pathways to colonization. Under Act 60 of 2019, the combination of Acts 20 and 22 passed in 2012 with “hopes of improving the economy,” wealthy Americans from the mainland have been offered a rare deal: move to Puerto Rico, pay no taxes on interest, dividends, capital gains or crypto assets, while maintaining citizenship and living on the island. Many of these outsiders—finance and tech bros, and Logan Paul—can potentially reduce their current federal income tax of ~37% to a 0% – 4% tax rate. This has incentivized thousands to move to Puerto Rico and take advantage of these tax breaks; all of this coming after the economy took a devastating hit following Hurricane Maria and the mass exodus that followed.
As in every gentrification campaign, locals are left with the shortest ends of the stick. Many Boricuas have been displaced from the numerous communities they’ve called home for generations. Boricua businesses have been affected. Beaches and ecological spaces are being destroyed to make way for luxury hotels. Investors purchase properties well over their appraisal value, causing a severe imbalance in the market and resulting in countless foreign-owned Airbnbs. Looking at the issue of pervasive poverty in Puerto Rico—rooted in a coupling of its “loss of economic comparative advantage in the region (i.e., circum-Caribbean) and national (i.e., United States) markets as a result of congressional actions over which Puerto Rico had little input or leverage” as stated by CENTRO—Puerto Rico’s economy is unable to produce sufficient jobs that would keep people above the federal poverty level. Disproportionate to other U.S. jurisdictions, CENTRO reports poverty in Puerto Rico is “more than three times as high as that for the United States as a whole, more than twice as high as for the poorest states of the union, and higher than all but one other U.S. territory.” Moreover, “all 78 county-equivalents (i.e., municipios) continue to exhibit levels of poverty that qualify them as counties of persistent poverty.” This affects women and children disproportionately, with more than half the children (56%) having lived level below poverty in 2021. In contrast, the median listing home price in San Juan was $905,000 in January 2024.
To continue learning more about gentri-colonialism of Puerto Rico past and present, we suggest deep diving into the research of CENTRO (much of which can be found in our Rooted Journal) and the work of independent journalist Bianca Gralau.
Throughout his album, Benito yearns for his Puerto Rico—the one where he was born, where his grandparents were born, the land that made, and continues to make, him him. The issues of gentrification and displacement and its impacts on Black, Brown, and immigrant communities in NYC make this album resonate that much deeper. Whether Diasporican, Dominican from Punta Cana, Colombian from Medellín, Mexican from CDMX, many of us are experiencing the brunt of gentrification’s disruptiveness. From Loisaida to Los Sures, once predominantly Latino and Caribbean strongholds, we—the locals, the pre-existing residents of these barrios—have been made to feel unwelcome. An increase of 311 calls attacking bodega cats or erroneously reporting gunshots that are really just emphatic domino games, the erecting of cafes and artisanal shops that sell goods at price points that are unaffordable to the masses, rising rent costs that lead to the forced displacement of long-time residents: all of these elements leave us uneasy when contemplating the future of our city.
While it feels daunting, there is hope. Through movements and initiatives like El Barrio No Se Vende, Gringo Go Home, and all other rally cries from community for community, DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS is a breath of fresh air. It makes us feel less alone, letting us know that, no matter what, we will prevail.
SEGUIMO AQUÍ
Wherever it manifests, gentrification has always been met with resistance.
In many of its songs, and through its accompanying short film, DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS reminds us that we have a right to remain. A right to our culture. That through it all, we have the right to exist; a right to carry our flags that were once illegal, a right to stay in the same homes where our viejos were born and raised, a right for our animal family to flourish in their natural habitat.
Centering the relationship between viejo Benito and Concho, many mistook Concho simply for being a coquí, the (un)official national symbol of Puerto Rico. Rather, the beloved Concho starring in this poignant film shines a light on the Sapo Concho. Known in English as the Puerto Rican crested toad, the species, currently on the endangered list, is endemic to Puerto Rico, as its habitat is continously threatened by climate change, gentrification, and ecotourism. First written about in 1868, sapo conchos were thought to have gone extinct between 1931 and 1974; later in the early 1980s, they were once again found in Puerto Rico, catalyzing its conservation. Today, el sapo concho’s largest natural population is found in the Guánica Forest, and despite its prominence, remains a rare species that seldom comes out, only to reproduce.
Like viejo Benito—who we’ll speak to in the next section—and Boricuas, el sapo concho has also had to fight for its existence. Like its human compais, gentrification and (eco)tourism continuously puts el sapo concho’s home in limbo. Similar to Borikén’s population, one that finds itself in a perpetual battle against mainland U.S. interference, el sapo concho also has to contend with an invasive species: the cane toad, which is nearly three times its size. Climate change also affects el sapo concho’s fate, as they are unable to regulate their body temperatures and don’t have external factors on their skin protecting them from rising temperature. Their thin skin leaves them incredibly susceptible to contamination; anything in the water, on land, or in the air penetrates them directly. As ecotourism booms—along with its invasive construction along the coasts—the fate of el sapo concho remains unclear.
(While they’re our animal kin, this is reminiscent to environmental racism so many communities of color experience in NYC. But we digress.)
Between global warming, its invasive toad counterpart, and the destructive policies affecting Borikén’s natural heritage, Benito’s incorporation of Concho has brought the little amphibian to the spotlight. Concho is a reminder that, even when the going gets tough, may we remain resilient.
Art has always been a tool to make sense of the world. Like Benito’s inclusion of Concho, Puerto Rican resistance takes form through every black-and-white flag waved, every beat of a drum, every graceful flick of a bomba skirt, and every mobilization drawing community to take the streets.
Here in NYC, resistance looks like community programs and free workshops that teach locals about tenants rights and what to do in the case of an unlawful eviction, artists using canvas and open mics to speak about how to navigate life in the face of these changes, and advocates fighting for a more affordable NYC.
On our end, every photo, every story, every memory we document is an act of resistance. Every post, a testament of our collective strength. Archiving, cultural preservation, memory work: all tools in our arsenal that we hold so dear.
APPRECIATE YOUR ELDERS
It’s not hyperbole when we consider that we only exist because of our elders and all those who came before us. Sometimes, we take our elders for granted. We cast them away in nursing homes and senior living facilities. We ostracize them for being stuck in their ways. We do away with their traditions.
Back to Benito’s short film, watching this elder lament for bygone times, reminisce that he should have documented more memories, and navigate an ever-growing, foreign landscape, hurt. Immediately, we thought of the parallel struggles that this character is facing, and those faced by elderly New Yorkers in gentrifying neighborhoods. Defined as the “ability to live in one’s own home and community safely, comfortably, and independently, regardless of age, race, income, or ability,” aging in place is the ideal for most seniors, yet is increasingly difficult for elders in NYC. Aging in place can be difficult for lower-income adults, with limited options for housing, particularly in gentrifying hotspots, resulting in more expensive rent and housing prices. Some elders become the victims of senior discrimination and tenant abuse, which can result in eviction or rent gouging. Others, who are able to age-in-place, start to feel alien in the communities they once knew.
Watching viejo Benito walk by unfriendly American neighbors and into a coffee shop that feels more like a Williamsburg establishment than anything you’d normally find in the Caribbean, an experience of one of our grandfathers came to mind. Living in Alto Manhattan for the majority of his life after migrating to the States, he walked into a café in search of an espresso. Used to $1 cafecitos from the local Dominican joint, he took a chance at a newer space. Waiting in line, the neighborhood relic approached the counter and ordered his espresso, as he would any other day. When the barista told him “That’ll be $5,” he was flabbergasted. Gentrifiers all of kinds, from freelancers who can only write in public to those with asymmetrical, blue haircuts, looked at him from behind their computer screens, comically-large glasses, and ironic reads. He was confused. Disoriented. Made to feel unsafe in a place that has always been so familiar.
As archivists who had the honor and privilege of growing up in intergenerational family units, DeBÍ TIRAR MáS FOToS’ heralding of our elders and ancestors, personal and collective, struck a cord. Rather than do away with our elders, listen to them. Ask them questions. Go through their photo albums with them, and be transported to key moments of their lives. Have patience with them. We, the children, do not have all the answers. It is quite arrogant and narcissistic to think we do. Never forget that our families, for better, worse, and everything in between, paved the way for us to be us.
Extending compassion and care to the elders is a practice we can all partake in, even if we do not have access to our grandparents. Like the other cafe goer in Benito’s short film, when possible, pay for an elder’s coffee or meal. Ask the viejo in your building or on your block if they need help with groceries, or if they’d like company. Volunteer at your local senior center, or in any one of NYC Department of Aging’s volunteer programs, like Friendly Visiting, Foster Grandparent, or Visiting Neighbors. Push yourself to exist outside of your vacuum and foster intergenerational connections and friendships with our elders: society’s treasure troves of wisdom.
WE ARE EVERYTHING
Sonically, DeBÍ TIRAR MáS FOToS is an amalgamation of Puerto Rican and Caribbean genius and is a testament to the multihyphenated identities we embody. We are bomba y plena, salsa y son, reggaetón y dembow, pop y perreo. DtMF is home to anti-colonial ballads drawing parallels between Puerto Rico and Hawai’i, anti-colonial perreos cementing Puerto Rico’s heavy hand in the creation of the music form, and bomba y plena that gives love to the voices of the barrio. It’s an album that flipped a classic salsa on its head, and birthed two originals: one reminiscent to those about love lost that we all grew up listening and dancing to on every occasion, even when we had no business singing them with such gusto, and other one that plants the proverbial, and literal, Puerto Rican flag, con el azul clarito.
Sounds that are intrinsic to who we are, DeBÍ TIRAR MáS FOToS goes against any notion of one-note narratives as they relate to genre. We are not one thing, we are everything, all at once.
DeBÍ TIRAR MáS FOToS is a reminder that the personal is always political. And while this album must feel completely different for those living in Borikén, its resonance in the Diaspora is one that will always be felt. As per usual, Benito hit the mark. And of course, with an opening song dedicated to our beloved NUEVAYoL, how could we not love this album?
How special does it feel to exist in the same time as this album, and for both Benito and ourselves be starting the year with the fiery energy embodied by the number six. Que viva Changó cada día. Que vivan los barrios. Que viva nuestra gente. Que viva la cultura.
As we enter our sixth year, we want to thank each and every one of you who have supported our work from the jump, who have contributed to this project, and who have shown us nothing but love. With so much impending change, uncertainty, and chaos, we will continue doing what we do best: archiving our stories, amplifying our collective histories, and putting on for our city. In True York fashion.
Seguimo Aquí.
A momen from our wall. Courtesy of NuevaYorkinos, 2025.