I went with my youngest daughter, digital camera and a scanned copy of the 1972 photo of me in hand. I was attempting to recapture the same setting from the same street of where the picture was taken four decades ago on 18th Place and Sangamon Street. I gave my daughter the camera as I stood near the location of where I stood many decades before. I was standing alone with the parked cars and uneven sidewalk with littered trash below me. I began to mimic my 1972 pose with my right hand on my hip looking directly towards the camera, when my daughter removed the camera from her face and matter-of- fatly commented that I needed kids in the photo to recreate the true essence of that 1972 photo. I smiled at her slyly, appreciating her enthusiasm and wondered why I hadn’t thought of it! I stopped posing and turned around to notice a family crossing the street behind me.

I casually walked towards the elder woman holding an infant in her arms crossing the street as children were ahead of her and others followed. “¿Habla ingés?” I asked her in my very American accent for which she replied in the universal sign language of “a little bit”, by pressing her thumb and forefinger almost together then meekly uttered, “Just a little”. I introduce myself and she tells me her name is Teresa. Then Teresa’s daughter Yessenia, proceeded to translate for us as my daughter followed suit practicing her Spanish skills from years of high school.

I showed Yessenia and her mother Teresa my 1972 photo I had with me. Yessenia’s nephews, Brian and Diego who had walked ahead were now running to see this photo of me as they overheard our conversation. I tell them of my homework assignment in my Photo-Telling Workshop and the story of the photograph.

"I was six years old," I began to narrate to my now eagerly, anxious, teenage audience. “This is a photo of me standing on this exact same street that we are standing on now”, I proceeded to tell them, as their eyes got wider. “The chain-linked fence that is over there”, I point to my right above the photo, “had two buildings there when I was young.” They turn towards the direction that I was pointing to and now their mouths are agape. “What happened to the buildings?” Brian asked. “I don’t know”, I tell him. “I guess over time it stopped being utilized,” I suggested, “and then they closed down.” I finished my theory. “That was a long time ago,” I say, as I inform them that I am now forty-six years old, it tickled me to realize that they were not moved with that statement, standing next to this stranger that has aged four decades since the photo they were currently scrutinizing was taken. As they continue to examine my photo, I now point to the railroad signs and structure in the background that no longer exist on the street. Yessenia tells me that they were removed some time in April of this year. I shake my head in sadness, “a historical relic gone”, I say to myself, but am thankful that I had taken pictures years before of this RR structure in preparation for my much anticipated memoir. “Trains used to go by all the time when we played by the street”, I un-melancholy myself and say to my still mesmerized audience. “When the horns blared, they interrupted our playing, I say to them”. “Why aren’t there trains now?” asked Diego, again I looked towards the direction of where I remember the trains whizzing by “back in the day”, a vivid memory conjures up of a train speeding through. I can hear the blast from its horn. I see my uncles, siblings and cousins in a standstill as we are annoyed by this interruption of play, but marvel at this hunk of steel passing through our neighborhood as we wait an eternity for it to disappear so we can resume. “They are no longer needed here”, I manage to muster my explanation to Diego.

I tell them that I am here to do my assignment and would they like to be a part of it. They look at their mother, grandmother and she nods her head giving her permission. I am mesmerized by Brian and Diego’s haircut and COLOR. This is going to be a cool picture I thought. I purposely do not position the family. Brian asks if he could climb on the fence, and I say sure! My daughter proceeds to shoot away on my digital camera.

After the impromptu photo-shoot, I tell them that I will give them all copies of these photos and invite them all to the exhibit. Numbers exchanged, waivers completed and it is revealed during our conversation and exchanges that they live in the same apartment my grandmother occupied many decades before. Now all of our eyes and mouths are agape as we look at the apartment, then at each other reveling in this amazing coincidence.

This exhibit is the product of a family collaboration come full-circle. I hope you enjoy the faces, the places, the old, the new, in this Pilsen neighborhood that I used to share in my childhood and now they do.

One more thing, Brian and Diego were the inspiration for the title of my essay. It was Brian that suggested the title and I could not disagree!

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