“Growing up in Smith Hill” Those words echoed in my mind as I stood before you. Smith Hill in Providence Rhode Island. Not Boston. A vibrant tapestry woven from the stories of immigrants. My family among them. We arrived in the early 1980s from El Salvador. Smith Hill welcomed us with open arms. Or rather open doors. Many doors were always open. Especially during holidays.
Smith Hill isn’t just a hill. It’s a community. A neighborhood brimming with life. It’s a place where families like mine found refuge. We shared floors. Sometimes whole floors with extended family. Only a few owned homes. But we shared so much more. We shared food. We shared laughter. We shared our stories.
Our holidays were feasts. An incredible blend of Salvadoran staples and new American favorites. Tamales met turkey. Panes danced alongside mashed potatoes. Smiling faces surrounded us. Hugs and handshakes sealed our connection. We were a family. Though different shades and shapes we had a shared history. A shared home.
Weekends and summers were spent at my aunt’s three-decker on Chalkstone Avenue. Backyard parties were legendary. My aunt was the ringleader. We cleaned. We grilled carne or pollo asado. We ran to the 7-11 for ice. Homemade tortillas appeared. Arroz con gandules filled bowls. We worked together. Everyone had a role. We were a team.
Smith Hill offered everything we needed. An elementary school. A library. A health center. Laundromats. A post office. Parks. Shops. Restaurants. Everything was within walking distance. This wasn’t true in every neighborhood. I learned this later.
Daily walks to school showed me the diversity of Smith Hill. Southeast Asians. African Americans. Italians. Irish. Guatemalans. We were all different. Yet we were one. Our shared experiences united us. I grew to love and appreciate my community.
The Great Recession forced me to leave. I found a new home in Worcester Massachusetts. I worked at the Family Health Center. I saw new immigrant families. I saw their struggles. I saw their resilience. I identified with them.
Even though I live far away I still return to Smith Hill. To visit my family. To share a meal with Mama Amparo. Smith Hill remains my point of reference. My home. My roots. It’s a place that continues to shape who I am.