Dear readers, 

Over the past year, this project has been a labor of love and a test of discipline, and it is finally ready. It is my honor to welcome you to The Inaugural Edition of Here Nor There: Diasporic Imaginings, and introduce you to our first cohort of Diasporic Contributors, whose work is the fuel and heart of this initiative. From a photographer who embeds two realities into one, to a screen-writer that portrays hidden the histories and traumas that many immigrant families carry, these contributors showcase a mosaic of entangled realities that make being part of the immigrant community the most meaningful part of our lives, but also the most exhausting.   

Here Nor There was born out of a tumultuous year in a tumultuous decade of my life. I had returned from spending a year abroad in Peru, where I was reunited with my family and felt a love and care that 2 decades of distance could not wane. But at the same time, this overwhelming sense of joy blended with persistent feelings of discomfort and a deep, numbing pain that I couldn’t shake. These were the nagging, vicious wounds that I had buried, and they were just barely rising to the surface. 

To be separated from the center of my family’s cultural soul for so long, to not even be able to visit because of administrative red tape, gnawed at my heart. Lost experiences, lost knowledge, and lost relationships swirled around me every time I got closer. It made looking back into the past without feeling heartbreak impossible, and finding a way to process these emotions absolutely necessary. 

There were times I couldn’t hold back the tears, but also moments where I dared to hope that these deep wounds could be treated, like when I danced huayno with my family, played the saxophone with my Tio Rey, or cooked arroz de trigo con cuy with my family. These familiar rhythms and flavors that I had experienced all my life were infused with new vibrancy, now that I gave them the time, attention, and care that they needed. I decided when I returned to the United States, I wouldn’t let myself forget all I am beyond its suffocating borders, and all I could be. 

And that’s where Here Nor There: Diasporic Imaginings was born. It came from a deep-seated conviction that these brutal laws and borders can try to prevent us from having these innately human experiences, but they can never succeed. That they can try to simplify our identities and make us fit into sterile, cold boxes that leave no warmth for the complexity or aliveness of our identities, but they will fail. That they can try to make us preoccupied with fitting their mold of being “deserving” enough to merit the freedom to move, freedom from family separation, and freedom to simply exist without fear, but we will defy them.

It goes without saying that we are launching Here Nor There in the midst of a devastating political and social reality for our communities. Immigrants and refugees are being silenced, detained, and deported. But this terrible reality underscores the need for Here Nor There, a publication dedicated to publishing the diverse voices of the diaspora, specifically those of immigrants and children of immigrants, on our own terms. 

At its core, Here Nor There is about challenging us to showcase the beauty and hardships of being part of diasporic communities. It’s about exposing our wounds to the world and finally giving them a chance to heal. It’s about challenging ourselves to defy stereotypes and the way that we are taught to think about who we are. It’s about inspiring our community to create, to dance, to write, to feel, to imagine without limits or borders. 

Thanks for stopping by and reading. This is only the beginning.

In solidarity, 

Emily Romero Gonzalez