Ramón López
“Here” and “there” are the distant ends of a migratory journey that divides the Puerto Rican people. The diaspora is a mass migration that has left nearly half of all Boricuas living away from their homeland. Its historical root is colonialism—an almost extinct way of life in the modern world, surviving among Puerto Ricans, disguised beneath a hollow chauvinistic pride: the belief in being unique and better than other oppressed peoples of our time.
In Puerto Rico, no one starves. Electoral participation hovers around 80%. Athletes, musicians, and beauty queens abound. Highways and shopping malls multiply. We are “from here,” as native as the coquí. And so, we lose sight of the Caribbean heart of our way of life, and we overlook—or disguise—the violence, indebtedness, pollution, militarization, and mental dislocation of a colonial society.
In the United States, Puerto Ricans live out the diasporic expression of that same colonialism—now charged with racism, police abuse, displacement, violence, and poverty. And yet, there too, some have found cause for superiority over other minority groups with whom they share discrimination and hardship. Thus, Boricuas consider themselves smarter and more attractive than Black Americans and less destitute than the diverse tide of undocumented Caribbean and Latin American migrants who “can’t even speak English.” Many Puerto Ricans reject the term “migrant,” associating it with “illegals” or “wetbacks.” Being U.S. citizens, their passports allow them to come and go between island and mainland. This legality fosters an illusion of freedom—“I’m here by choice, and I can leave whenever I wish”—despite the stagnation of four generations locked in poverty and marginalization.
This mythology of exceptional freedom collapses under the weight of cultural and historical truth. On the island, people have turned their energies to building new forms of consensus in order to resist abuse and defend human rights. Naïve chauvinism gives way to resistance nationalism, emerging in public debate over language, political repression, militarism, and environmental decay. Puerto Ricans come to realize they are not as free as they imagined, and that the price of being “kings of style” is to live as servants of power. Uniqueness, in this light, becomes loneliness—and so, people awaken to the urgency of solidarity and the power of community. Out of this tension, a decolonial mindset begins to take root—slowly, painfully, inevitably.
Discovering What We Share
Across the waters of the diaspora, these processes resonate. Puerto Ricans in the United States remain deeply connected to life on the island and feel part of its rhythms. Yet a culture of distance prevails. Even with instant phone calls, televised coverage, and handwritten letters reborn as emails, nothing quite erases the feeling that “being here” is not the same as “being there.”
Yes, Puerto Ricans are migrants—and migration, more than just a path to economic opportunity, is a rupture of the social fabric. It unravels familial protection and disrupts one’s place in community life. If the loneliness of colonialism on the island finds comfort in consumer anxiety, in the cities of the U.S., Boricuas seek to fill their imaginations with Puerto Rican presences to soothe the ache of dislocation. And as always, when a foreign society fails to meet the need for belonging, it is community that steps in—offering meeting points that help repair old solidarities and cultivate new ones.
In this essay, we explore some of the spaces Boricuas of the diaspora have created to withstand the emotional fragmentation of life as an alienated minority, hemmed in by the same dominant power.
Popular culture—fluid and ever-renewing—gathers and expresses the lived experience of community. This is why national unification efforts so often draw on the symbols of common people, using them to weave myths and forge shared identities. Meeting points are the very spaces where popular symbols emerge, gaining the power to become national ones.
These meeting points are not merely places, though they inhabit specific spaces. Rather, they are social relations—freely chosen bonds that, beyond any material benefit, offer company and belonging to a people who define a vital, necessary “we.” Unlike the chauvinism of illusory superiority, meeting points offer opportunities for people to find each other in authentic, culturally nourishing solidarity.
Perhaps this journey through theory has gotten too tangled, too slippery. Better, then, to walk the streets—on foot—through the Boricua neighborhoods of the U.S., and see for ourselves what this is all about. It might be 116th Street in New York, the Golden Block in Philadelphia, the Paseo Boricua in Chicago, or any street lined with fluttering single-starred flags.
Wearing What We’ve Found
Boricuas say they carry Puerto Rico in their hearts—and that must be true, though it’s hard to visit or photograph someone’s heart. It’s easier to see how they wear Puerto Rico on their chests. So let’s sit on this corner—each of us on a milk crate—and observe the solidarity stitched into the fabric of Puerto Rican T-shirts.
On these streets, gunshots, sirens, and car alarms are a part of daily life. So too is the looming threat of gentrification, eroding any sense of territorial belonging. In such neighborhoods, it’s important to know who’s who—and Boricuas like to show where they come from.
T-shirts ease recognition. They shout identity in image and word. Here comes a young man, stride determined, brow furrowed. His shirt shows a snarling dog in hip-hop gear beneath the words, “Don’t Mess With Puerto Ricans”—except “Mess” has been cheekily replaced with “Jodas.” Aggression to outsiders, comfort to compatriots.
Now comes a young woman whose shirt declares she’s “100% Boricua,” illustrated by Betty Boop in a Puerto Rican flag dress. It’s common to see comic-book characters—American by origin—proclaiming unshakeable Puerto Rican identity.
In this constant parade of motion, it’s more common to see Boricuas broadcasting their nationality through shirts than other ethnicities doing the same. Flags are everywhere—on bodies, cars, walls, buildings. And the T-shirt motifs are limitless: congas, panderos, cuatros, jíbaro landscapes, Afro-Caribbean symbols, sports victories, political struggles, saints, slogans, satire. Even the once-feared chupacabra was transformed by over thirty different T-shirt designs from terrifying beast to national mascot—a daily-life companion turned folk hero.
In the divided world of the diaspora, T-shirts are bright ID cards—symbols of belonging. A recognizable design on the chest of a stranger opens the door to greeting and conversation—Where’d you get that shirt?—and to other meeting points in turn.
Tasting the Flavor of a People
All this watching might make you hungry. Luckily, you won’t have to go far to find a bodega-café-restaurant with a sacred display case inside—its big trays glowing beneath bright bulbs, piled high with alcapurrias, bacalaítos, morcillas, pasteles, cuajito, piononos, fried chicken and pork, boiled green bananas, and sweet cornmeal sorullos.
Despite their questionable nutritional value, these flavors carry a kind of salvation—a restorative power of memory and meaning that brings the island to the mainland. This culinary meeting point is powerful, magnetic, and enduring. In these migrant neighborhoods—where Spanish pronunciation may fade—young people are the most devoted clients of these flavor-filled showcases.
Here, frituras unite culinary traditions from across the island and multiply them in diaspora. These are not fast food—they are festive food. Their power lies not in health but in flavor, joy, and memory. Ask the shopkeeper who lines up at the hot case and you’ll hear: elders, adults, kids, rich, poor, unhoused, santeros, Catholics, Pentecostals—everyone comes, except vegetarians and health food fans. Even African Americans feel the pull.
At Escuela Albizu Campos in Chicago, Puerto Rican history is taught by making alcapurrias. The Cocineros Unidos of Humboldt Park host an annual celebration to honor the community’s support of local fritura trucks. Borinquen Café invented the “Jibarito”—a meat sandwich on flattened fried plantains, now replicated citywide. Food is a vital meeting point, especially when it melts away winter’s chill with a well-seasoned warmth.
Savoring the People’s Music
For Boricuas, music is a flavor of imagination and sound. It’s no surprise that the crowning musical achievement of the diaspora is salsa. Drums are the heartbeat, the messengers of Puerto Rican music’s many meeting points. The ventetú—congas, sticks, cowbells gathered spontaneously on the street—is now rarer, its presence a challenge to public order in the eyes of the police. But when a party breaks out in a building courtyard or backyard, the ventetú reclaims its place.
In Pentecostal churches, worship rises on waves of song and rhythm: there are timbales, güiros, and congas woven into praise, alongside bass guitars, drum kits, and tambourines. Percussion holds up the rap and reggae that floods young ears. Bomba y plena are gaining ground too, especially among groups dedicated to cultural reclamation or political activism. Salsa is everywhere—the beloved daughter of Puerto Rican migration. At Christmastime, there are fewer parrandas than before, but they persist, breaking open the claustrophobia of apartments and row houses.
In all these spaces, people sound their own rhythms in settings they own—not those dictated by commercial fashion or the recording industry. The drum is the pulse of Puerto Rican popular culture: the rhythm of skin on hide is the heartbeat of the people.
Encounters of Life and Death
These joyful encounters give us strength to hold on to life—but in these barrios, there are forces that take it away: drug trafficking, gang violence, car accidents, deadly illnesses. Death is always near, and it preys on the young. When they die—whether by accident or violence—their stories might flash across newspapers and newscasts, only to be forgotten the next day.
But the living remember. They organize memory, holding onto their dead with loyalty and love. Humble, fleeting altars appear on sidewalks and corners, built from boxes, candles, flowers, bottles, photos, and farewell notes. In some neighborhoods, families, friends, and neighbors pool resources to pay a muralist to create a visual memorial for a loved one lost.
It’s worth pausing before these murals—authentic folk art, largely rooted in Boricua and Latino traditions. Before these murals, the urban walls belonged to graffiti: the sweeping visual power of hip-hop culture. To some, graffiti was vandalism; to others, it was a raw and radical public art. It spread voraciously across the cities, a secret appetite to leave a mark on every surface. Graffiti twisted the logic of institutional art by focusing not on “works” but on signatures—tagging walls, trains, and buildings with the name of the artist or their crew.
The government clamped down hard; the artists answered with more daring. Then, the avant-garde galleries discovered graffiti and seduced its creators into moving their aerosol works onto canvas for collectors to buy. After a brief flash of fame, the art scene moved on, and the illegal creativity of the streets was crushed under police intervention.
Some graffiti artists turned professional, painting store signs or community murals. Others left it behind. But what matters here is that some stayed, taking commissions from families and gang members to create lasting memorials to young lives lost to violence. This funeral art grew and evolved its own aesthetic.
In the rough spaces of the barrios—surrounded by basketball courts, bodegas, cafés, auto shops, laundromats, billboards, payphones, car washes, pool halls—the art bloomed beside uncollected trash and stains of blood. Racism, poverty, addiction, and gang codes guaranteed a steady stream of tragedy: young deaths are a daily occurrence. The artists adjusted, redefining their work to meet the community’s need for clear, legible memory. Gone were the tangled signatures of graffiti, replaced by a repertoire of recognizable images: flaming hearts, candles, scrolls, crosses, doves, dates, flags, lights, stars, angels, graves, Bibles, cartoons, Christs, skulls, flowers, clouds, praying hands, banners, night skies, city buildings, traffic signs, religious messages, lists of mourners—and the discreet signatures of the artists.
With this Christian, urban, and celestial iconography, the murals of the dead gather pain into meeting points that promise salvation for the departed and remembrance for the living. Using photographic likenesses, personal mementos, favorite things, or the exact spots where young people died, these murals offer solace, rescuing the dead from anonymity and restoring them to memory—not as victims, but as beloved personalities, honored by those who lived alongside them. Unlike graffiti, these murals are not seen as vandalism but as neighborhood beautification. They are sacred meeting points—bridging the humanity of the living with the solidarity of the community.
Alongside these murals—or in their absence—temporary altars rise on the exact sites of death: sidewalks, street corners, parks, alleyways. Friends of the deceased gather—classmates, gang mates—and place flowers, candles, drinks, and farewell notes. The wind snuffs out the candles, the rain washes away the words, and the broken altar is swept away with the garbage. But for a moment, the space is hallowed.
Spiritual and Earthly Encounters
In the world of the living, it’s easy to get lost—drowning in health, money, and love troubles. When problems spiral out of control, many Puerto Ricans seek out centros espiritistas—spiritist centers—where balance is restored. The forces of the spiritual world—the spirits and souls of the dead—can be harmful or helpful. To secure their protection, one must enter that dimension guided by a skilled negotiator who knows how to calm, persuade, and recruit these spiritual beings to serve the needs of the living—or how to repel and contain the harmful forces of confusion and backwardness. In any case, centros espiritistas often prove more effective than psychiatric clinics—and far more accessible.
In a bustling barbershop, the barbers are artists in their own right—experts with the razor, drawing precise, intricate designs into young Boricuas’ short hair: stripes, spirals, and figures. One boy came with his mother to get the design his friend was proudly sporting at school: a Puerto Rican flag etched into his scalp. Other clients come for their usual: tight fades, careful shaping of mustaches and sideburns, even camouflage for thinning hair—every detail of good grooming. The barbershop has a pool table, in case the wait is long or if you just want to hang out with friends. There’s a sound system and musical instruments. The owners—two brothers from Jayuya—are also part of a trova music group. One of them has a hobby that draws admiration: in well-tended pots, he grows a tiny coffee tree, an avocado plant, a banana tree, bunches of recao and wild oregano, and even managed to keep a delicate moriviví alive for a good while. Everyone who sees the plants strikes up a conversation—about the old days, about the countryside, about grandfathers or childhood neighborhoods. And so, people find their memories again, reinventing and sharing them.
In another city, there’s a bakery offering pan de agua and pan de manteca, its walls decorated with items brought from the island, weaving back together the families migration had scattered. There, history, politics, and news become lively talk. Next door is a Pentecostal church where services rise with music; nearby, a record store; and outside that shop, nostalgic neighbors gather with congas, playing along to the Fania recordings booming from the speakers. In a nail salon, women discuss work and love while mastering the art of painting exuberant designs on long, carefully tended nails. Down the block, under a tree, there’s a domino table where another Boricua crew gathers, sharing cautious moves, bold jokes, and cold beer. The nails might be painted in English, but dominoes are always played in Spanish.
The reader knows this list could go on—and surely knows how to add to it. What matters is that there are spaces for the people to meet, and through these, the community tends to its wounded culture—scarred by the separations and tangled distances of the Puerto Rican diaspora. These complex experiences unfold into ways of being and living that search for shared meaning. Some of these efforts are detailed in the pages that follow.
