Imperial Theater/Irving Bottle
Before this beautiful building was turned into a wine store, it had a rich history. Formerly the Imperial Theater, it originally opened in 1914 and operated as a penny theater until its closure in 1940. It was repurposed over the years as a knitting factory, and a mail order shipping company. The building’s original architectural design has been preserved making it really pop on the block.
We Write to Remember
by Shy Richardson, Max Desir and Elvis Valdez
We write to remember
Those Young Lords who waved swords
To clear paths for Kings with rusted crowns
Who tended to the soil of battle grounds
To grow something
To reap something.
For humans deemed alien
But your mother’s womb is a border, too.
We write to mend the wounds of people
Who were once told their language was “illegal” (s.c.)
We write because you cannot handcuff a tongue
For those who allowed their voices to be rung
From the grape fields, sun glaring in their optics
To the barrios underneath the skies of the tropics
We spit for those who fought for freedoms
For the Lolita’s, fearless in her pursuit of a free people
For the Eugenio Hostos’, the Pedro Albizu’s…
We write in remembrance, in resistance,
Signed yours, truly…
El Grito de Lares
Through their first walks to war
Mothers kissed the heads of sons in blessing, protecting from what they already knew
Brown skin threatened by bullets, pierced in ways their hearts couldn’t be.
These were no longer little boys afraid of the dark,
But young men in search of light.
No longer afraid to be brave
In the face of freedom’s extermination.
Taking orders to proceed ahead with the mission
To let the sound of their own voices bellow
Un Grito!
as they hold on to their last kiss
Un Grito!
Sounding the alarm of their dreams
Un Grito!
Out of hunger for freedom
They were born for a reason
Lived with questions
And died with purpose
And we write for them
To remember them
to make sure
the sound of their voices
never lies dormant again.
We walk up and down these streets hearing about history
Empty lots where our friends played stick ball
Tar streets where tired feet trekked home
Pondering the factories where our fathers worked
to bless a table with sustenance
How much is your time worth?
20 cents an hour…
In the hot fields our mother’s brung food from
as their bent necks soaked sun
How much is your blood worth?
They found justice in unity
& strawberries growing unkempt
Vines rising wild, prompted by the dirt & sun
No justice, no orange juice!
No rest for the bends in their spines
No grapes
Feel the wrath of hunger
Like Cesar did
He swallowed their truth
And unveiled his bones
His body was a museum for our struggle
trying to get out to find a better way to live.