Santurce doesn’t grant visas to a dream. A neighborhood of exiles, not even in the times of the immigration of freed Caribbeans could utopia have been imagined. As in your land or any other, there was always a struggle for survival. The burden always fell on us, the others, the last to arrive. As did ridicule, humiliation, and usury. Neither the almost three decades of crowding in my working-class neighborhoods nor your restaurants have rid you of the stigma. Not to mention the Haitians who sleep in San Mateo Church: unspeaking. The same thing happened and continues to happen to boricuas in the North. Xenophobia, transposed, binds us.