Performed at Fourteen East Live 2026, "Nosalgia".
I love looking at pictures of when I was a baby. “Why did my mom put me in this outfit? Who the hell cut my hair like Dora the Explorer? Who took this photo of us?” Those are questions I commonly ask when going through our family photo albums.
One thing I rarely question: “Was this taken in grandma’s sala?”
This sala watched my mom and her siblings grow up. Then their children. And now their children’s children.
I know every corner of that space. I can picture it vividly when I close my eyes.
When I see photos of how it used to look, I am reminded of my grandma’s love for DIY projects.
She has transformed its look several times, all by herself, from beige leather sectionals to blue velvet sofas. She paints the walls a new color every few years. In 2017, they were coral pink. Right now they’re plastered in blue accent wallpaper.
But no matter how many times she’s inspired to redecorate, the feeling of her sala never changes. Nor does the smell — almost like clean laundry. Every time I sit on her couch, I am wrapped in all the memories our family made in this very spot. The bitter and the sweet.
I was a little girl, no older than 9, when me, my mom, and my titis gathered in the middle of the sala to dance. Grandma Mickey’s television was playing MTV music videos, and we all got up and started juking it. Even my younger cousin, barely learning to walk at the time, was bopping around. We laughed, mainly at her, and because of how much joy filled our lives in that exact moment. Thinking about it feels euphoric.
Christmas 2023: I’m 20 years old, and crossfaded at the family dinner. Shoutout to my sister for the THC coquito she snuck in. I sit at one of the chairs grandma Mickey routinely sets up in the sala for gatherings, and I’m thinking to myself, “Can they tell I’m high?” My padrino starts telling childhood stories, then everyone’s racing to tell theirs next. My family is already funny AF, but add some infused coquito to my system and I am laughing like a hyena. None of us say it, but there’s a lingering feeling of wishing we could go back. Wishing we could be kids again.
Grandma Mickey is a godfearing woman, the queen of a real good-looking family and the glue to our family. She raised five children, mostly on her own, and has always been a pillar of strength, beauty and faith. After years of having guests in and out of her home like a hostel, she’s finally on her own. Still, she looks forward to surprise visits or planned dinners, and never forgets to tell me when she sees me that all she sees is the little girl who used to always perform for her. Now I’m the one who looks forward to her performances as she remembers the dancing spirit of her younger years.
My older cousin, we call him Buzzo, passed away in 2017, but his memory lives on, especially in grandma’s sala. When journalists came to film interviews with family members to share Buzzo’s story, they were done in the sala. When the family divided, as some families do after a tragedy, our meeting point no matter what terms we stand on with one another is grandma’s sala. Grandma Mickey hosts gatherings and prays for unity. Even though some times only succeed at getting us all in proximity to one another and not so much making us all friends again, things are getting better.
Our family is learning to heal. Little by little. One thing we can count on is storytelling — running down memory lane together. Laughing till we cry. Or pee. Death can be nostalgic, remembering our loved ones who are gone too soon and cherishing the newest additions who came right in time. These are bittersweet moments I will always find in grandma’s sala.
Header Image by Skylah Martinez
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