Proof, Continuity, and What Remains
The Market that Meant we had arrived
That search eventually led me to Sánchez Market. I discovered it in 1993, and I remember the moment clearly—not because the store was large or polished, but because of who stood behind it. Enrique Sánchez. He was one of the first Mexicans I met in Rhode Island, and he made me feel at home. That mattered as much as what was on the shelves of his store.
Enrique had just moved here from New York. He dreamed of opening a tortillería so the tortillas could be fresh—so he wouldn’t have to drive every weekend to New York to bring fresh ones back. He wanted the taste to be right. He struggled with permits, with neighbors, and with City Hall. A tortillería meant a large machine, a commercial operation in a residential neighborhood, so there was pushback.
I went with him. I helped him fill out paperwork. I went before City Council with him and tried to help make the case, and it got approved. But, the tortillería didn’t last. The market did.
And that mattered deeply to me because Enrique was the first person who satisfied both things I had been searching for since college: real Mexican food and, most importantly, a Mexican presence. He represented arrival. Not just mine, but ours. The market wasn’t just a place to buy food, but proof that we were here now.
Years passed, the community grew, and the arc continued when decades later, I met two of Enrique Sánchez’s grandsons, one who even carries the same name. They were young Mexican men who would go on to become prominent leaders in Rhode Island after winning elected office. When I first arrived, there were no tortillas and no Mexicans that I could find, now there were not just one, but two young Mexicans stepping into public life, shaping the future.
That’s not just progress. That’s continuity.
Listening, and Staying
Around that same time, another thread took hold. Through my work, I met Doña Fefa—Josephina Rosario. Within minutes of meeting her, I knew she was extraordinary. A reporter interviewed her for Mother’s Day and called her “The Mother of the Hispanic Community.” Later, I went back with a small tape recorder because I had more questions for her. I didn’t call it oral history and I didn’t know that term yet. I just knew I needed to listen.
Her family sat with us in the living room—her daughters, grandchildren eating food and enjoying conversation. Then, when Fefa spoke about Rafael Trujillo and what her family back in the Dominican Republic endured during his tenure as President, the house grew quiet. As she told her story, I sat back and watched her grandchildren who sat at her feet, stunned. Even her daughters heard stories they had never known. In that moment, I understood something fundamental: people don’t tell their stories unless someone asks and stays to listen.
That instinct—to keep listening—became my work.
What I was really missing ➤
