I’m originally from Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Bolivia. Both of my parents are Chinese and immigrated there from China in 1980. They still live there today. My parents separated in 1998, and my brother and I moved to the United States in 1999. We lived in Jamaica, Queens, and briefly attended P.S. 131 before moving to Doylestown, Pennsylvania, where we spent our formative years. After our 30-day travel visa expired, we became undocumented. We stayed with our uncles—who weren’t technically related to us—and they became our legal guardians for the time being. As my friends and classmates started driving, they would ask why I hadn’t gotten my license yet.

I remained undocumented until 2012, when the Obama administration passed the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program. It granted protection to children who had been brought into the United States at least five years prior to June 15, 2012, and were still without legal status. It provided eligibility for work authorization and deferred action from deportation. Growing up, the fear of deportation—and the anxiety of my friends or classmates finding out about my legal status—became a lingering paranoia I had to suppress to survive.

Moving to New York City for college allowed me to live independently and not rely on friends or family for rides. I remember getting a call from my uncle while I was still in school, urging me to apply for DACA—so I did. My application was accepted in 2013, and I was finally able to work legally in the United States. I never had a valid Social Security number until then.

Growing up, we helped out at my uncle's restaurant—hosting or bussing tables. It allowed me to save money for college, and I remember buying my first MacBook Pro. Early on, I used MySpace to advertise my work. I discovered Flickr in high school and began contributing after I bought my first DSLR camera, a trusty Nikon D50. I would walk around taking photos of my friends, collaborating on mini “test shoots,” as well as photographing the abandoned barns and buildings around my neighborhood. Being creative gave me a way to escape reality—even if just for a moment. The act of creating something out of nothing brings me great joy and fulfillment.

After graduating, it was hard to find work in photography. I worked in the service industry for several years, mostly in Japanese fine-dining restaurants. I continued to take photos during my time off and even self-published my first zine, selling it to friends. I got my first creative agency job at the beginning of the pandemic, working as a retoucher for a reputable real estate marketing agency. After six months, I decided to go freelance and have been doing so ever since. I stayed with my first agency for over two years before branching out to work with multiple others. It took a while to get to where I am now, and looking back, I consider myself a late bloomer in my career.

I received my green card after my wife and I got married, which allowed us to travel internationally. That trip was incredibly important to me—not only because I got to reconnect with my family after 23 years, but also because I introduced Yuliya to them. It was deeply meaningful to see my mom, brother, his two kids, my sister-in-law, dad, and stepmom. The trip also gave me the opportunity to photograph the people and places that shaped my hometown and its surrounding areas. We traveled to Concepción, where Nick (my brother) and Angela (my sister-in-law) work.

The four of us took a trip to Salar de Uyuni, the salt flats of Bolivia. The views were breathtaking, though the high altitude made us feel lightheaded and nauseous until we took some elevation pills Angela had brought. We spent the day under the hot sun taking cheesy tourist photos—our guide took pictures of us posing with objects in the foreground, creating funny perspective tricks. One had Angela stepping on Nick, and another had Yuliya stepping on me. It almost looked Photoshopped.

Returning home felt like revisiting childhood memories. As an adult, you realize how much smaller everything seems compared to how you remembered it. Places like Siete Calle felt enormous in my imagination, a reflection of how young I was when I knew them.

Bolivia has a rich indigenous culture, with a prominent Chola population. Many of them sell delicious street food such as salteñas and mocochinchi. Salteñas are like Bolivian baked empanadas with a savory soup filling, while mocochinchi is a refreshing, caffeine-free tea made from dried peaches, cinnamon, and clove. The local markets were full of people buying their weekly groceries. Vendors arranged their produce beautifully, displaying an array of fruits and vegetables. I wandered away from Yuliya and my family during our grocery run to photograph the vibrant indigenous culture present in the markets.

The seasons in Bolivia are opposite of us here in the United States. It’s sunny year-round, and in the “winter” months, depending on where you’re located on the hemisphere, it rains and temperatures drop to the low 60s. It’s always humid. By opposite, I mean if it’s summer here, it’s winter there. Vice versa. We went during raining season. It rained every single day we were there. Luckily I was still able to take some film photos while visiting family, and tried capturing the nice pockets of light and colorful culture Bolivia has to offer. This time we stayed in the city, and because there is a gas shortage, we couldn’t travel too far out without having to wait in line for a few hours. My mom showed us around the city, and invited all of her friends to come eat with us, different friends for different nights. My brother’s kids are getting bigger, and it was nice getting to know their individual personalities. My mom gifted us some tea from Taiwan along with a tea set. I am looking forward to brewing my first pot. 

I got my driver's license in 2024, and have been zooming around Brooklyn ever since. I learned to drive in the city, and it’s been empowering to finally be mobile.