In his forties, after immigrating to Los Angeles, he continued pursuing wig-making while working various jobs on the side. When he started a family with my mother, the pressures of supporting us began to weigh heavily on him. As immigrants, my parents sacrificed a lot to raise me, afford life in the city, and obtain their citizenship. Sadly, their marriage was dissonant, as they often didn’t get along. They were together for 13 years and divorced when I was four. Growing up, it was difficult for me to feel connected to my parents, especially my father, whom I saw only occasionally since my mother had full custody.
Over the years, my father worked hard to stay in Los Angeles and sustain our relationship. He’d buy me toys, pick me up from school, and feed me sweet treats to make up for the times he wasn’t there. During the pandemic, my father moved back to Tijuana after losing his job and being unable to afford rent. His departure strained our relationship. We went from seeing each other every few days to every few months, and our interactions became limited to short phone calls, sometimes with long silences between us.
To repair our relationship, I’ve made a conscious effort to visit my father in Tijuana. This past November marked my third visit in two years. I spent five days reconnecting with him and building my own relationship with Tijuana through photography. I documented places significant to my father’s upbringing, my ongoing exploration of faith, the people that bring life to the city. This trip healed more wounds than I could have imagined. My father and Tijuana will always have a special place in my heart.
