Luis was born in a village near the Nevado de Toluca, a volcano in Central Mexico, around the 1930s. To earn a living, Amalio, his dad, would hike into the mountains for ice, transform it into sorbet, and sell it in a nearby town. Luis moved to Mexico City in the 1950s, where he climbed the ranks of the industrial labor force. People referred to him as ingeniero, even though he had no formal education.

He loved bicycles—assembling, tuning, riding them. His legs were used to ride up the mountains west of Mexico City and through rural roads. This photo shows him in front of a milpa (maize field) near his destination: his hometown, where his mom, Teresa, awaited with breakfast. He then made the long ride back to the city. Bicycles reconnected a life splintered by rural-to-urban migration, but this moody yet tender man was a rather blurry presence in both places. Where did he belong?

Echoing my grandfather, I brought a bicycle when I moved to NYC in 2017. Those weren’t welcoming times, but riding offered a sense of autonomy and safety. It didn’t ease a longing for my people and my food, but riding ultimately connected me to the city and those who I call friends. All of us are from elsewhere, coincidentally. The community I claim to belong to is on the move. Now, in Boston, I still wonder about the uncomfortable question of where my place is.

– Andrei Guadarrama

Relationship:  Grandchild of im/migrant Grandchild of im/migrant