None of my surviving family members knew that our New York roots were planted right here, in 1903. I had tracked down the address through an old ship manifest. Making my way down to 14th Street that day in 1995, I couldn’t help feeling like an explorer on the verge of an important discovery. I would be the first living person in three generations to look upon this long-forgotten site and know its true significance. But instead of finding your typical six-floor walkup, I stood in front of an obviously more modern-looking structure, a squat, incongruously shaped box that broke up the stretch of late 19th-century tenements. My family’s history, it seemed, now rested in the ether of a discount store.
It wasn’t the first or last of many disappointments.
Stephanie Romero
1995