Winners 2024

First prize - Anna Rodrigues

Mosaic of Memories, My Journey with Saudade

I was packing my things, in my suit bag I put everything that was important: my clothes, my documents, my memories and “saudade”. Saudade is a word in Portuguese that means melancholic due to the removal of a person, thing or place, or the absence of previously lived pleasant experiences. At that moment I was teleported to my childhood.

Let’s start from the beginning. I was born in Brazil in a city called “Uberlandia”. My parents’ jobs made our family move frequently, so I never had long-term friends or something like this. It was always me, my sister, my mom and my dad. When I got to the sixty city, my parents made me a promise: this would be the last one.

For the first time, I began to create bonds, something I had always feared, because I felt like my relations had an “expiration date”. And that was my life for 5 years, trying to make friends, near to my family, in my hometown.

Everything felt perfect. Too perfect to be true. On a Wednesday night, my whole life changed.

I was studying for a big test that I would have on friday. My mom entered my room, crying. She opened the door, got into her knees, and started praying. At this moment I already knew. Two weeks earlier, she had mentioned something about moving to Miami, but nothing was certain. I could feel it: we were leaving.

My world paralyzed. My friends. My family. My house. Everything.

The next day, after receiving this news, was even harder. Suddenly, every ordinary thing became the last time, the last day going to my school, the last day with my grandmother, the last day in my house. Those months were hard, packing things, documents and goodbyes. I was searching for schools and I found ISPA. It was a school filled with immigrant students adjusting to their new reality, perfect to me. But there was one small detail: I had only two months to learn Spanish.

Finally I got into the plane, at this point my mom and my sister were already in Miami. It was just me and my dad, entering the airplane that would arrive in our new life. This flight was a goodbye to the old and a hello to the new. Soon it would be just me and my parents, because my sister would go back to Brazil to College. She was always my best friend, and saying goodbye to her broke me inside.

The first day was hard, no friends, new country, new language and new life. I knew I had to be strong, for me, for my family. The pain of letting everything behind and starting from zero. The gratitude of a new country with a thousand opportunities. The pain of leaving or the pain of staying?

During my life, with so many changes, I learned that everything is about choosing. Choosing the comfort in the known or possibilities in the unknown. I used to say that I will never be 100% in just one place. There are Ana’s all over the cities that I live in. We are a mosaic of people who have passed by us, always carrying a little piece of others with us. I am a child of the world. I was born to change. And yet, change always brings consequences— saudade.

Second Prize - Emma Robaina-Shortt

Mom, the lights went out again

Mom, the light went out again.” For millions in Venezuela, this phrase is a routine part of life, a reminder of flickering hope in a country burdened by instability. But for me, it symbolizes the tension between two worlds I’ve navigated my entire life—one illuminated by privilege, the other shrouded in struggle.

Born into a Venezuelan immigrant family, my story begins in the vibrant, sun-soaked streets of Puerto Rico. Yet, life unraveled with the 2008 financial crisis. My family lost everything. We packed our lives into suitcases and moved to Miami, clinging to the hope of stability as my older brother fought to stay alive. His fragile body was damaged by eosinophilic esophagitis, and at school, it made him a target. Kids shoved him into lockers and punched his delicate stomach. Their laughter echoed in the hallways, mocking his pain. At six years old, I made a choice: I would protect him. I became his shield. I grew up overnight. No one touched him again.

At home, the air was thick with the aroma of arepas and the sounds of “Gaita” playing. My mother, an immigrant and single parent, carried the weight of two worlds on her back. She was exiled from her family for breaking an arranged marriage and fled to the U.S. to build a life from nothing. Her hands—once adorned with delicate jewelry in her youth—were calloused from years of hard work. Yet, her spirit was unbroken. She reminded me daily that sacrifice was the price of freedom and that strength was born from struggle.

In Miami, I learned to straddle two worlds. At school, I navigated the sharp-edged maze of American culture. At home, I held tightly to our Venezuelan traditions. I danced to bachata with my grandma while mastering the English alphabet, switching between languages and balancing precariously between two cultures became my new life. The tension was exhausting but transformative. It taught me the power of adaptability and the beauty of connection.

As a first-generation Latina aspiring to a medical career, my identity is inseparable from my ambition. My mother’s sacrifices carved a path for me to dream beyond survival. She showed me that it’s not enough to endure; you must also rise. Her journey from ostracization to resilience has fueled my belief in second chances and the power of transformation.

Navigating my dual identity has shown me the power of growth through adversity. Whether it’s protecting my brother, adapting to new environments, or honoring my mother’s journey, I have learned to embrace challenges as opportunities to grow. As I pursue a career in medicine, I aim to extend this mindset, helping others not only heal but also transform their lives. My immigration story is not just about resilience; it’s about hope, second chances, and the unwavering belief that we can always dare to grow.

Even though I didn’t grow up in Venezuela, it lives in me. It’s in the crackling sound of arepas on the stove, the whispered prayers of my family during hard times, and the grit I carry in every step forward. Since I was 11, I’ve worked with the “I Love Venezuela Foundation,” providing aid to families who face challenges I’ve only glimpsed. These experiences have been my anchor, reminding me that fulfillment lies in lifting others.

My story is one of duality—of light and shadow, struggle and triumph. I will foster communities that celebrate resilience, bridging cultural divides and offering hope to those who need it most.

Because the lights may go out, but the spirit never dims.

Third Prize - Emilia Molina

600 Palabras y una Maleta

En seiscientas palabras no cabe toda mi historia, pero mágicamente en una maleta sí. Todo comenzó a mis ocho años, cuando por primera vez vi a una de las personas que más amo irse con una maleta y un propósito. Eran aproximadamente las ocho de la noche en el aeropuerto de Maiquetía en Caracas, Venezuela. Vi llorar a mi mamá como nunca antes. Jamás pensé que un ser humano podría derramar tantas lágrimas, hasta que yo misma lo viví. Nunca supe cómo expresar lo que sentí aquella noche. Me invadía un dolor inmenso, no sabía que pasaba ni por qué mi familia lloraba; lo único que sabía era que mi papá se había ido. No sabía si regresaría, teníamos esa vaga esperanza en ese entonces de volverlo a ver en persona. Después de ese momento, se volvió regular ver a más y más familiares, amigos y conocidos irse del país, cada vez eran más y más las lágrimas derramadas en el suelo del aeropuerto. Ese suelo tan bonito y artístico con mosaicos que resonaba con las ruedas de las tantas maletas que vimos partir. Luego de tantas lágrimas ese hermoso suelo, también se deterioró junto con la gente de mi hermoso y lastimado país.

Durante años de despedidas y lamentos, fueron muchas las maletas que vi irse. Algunas eran nuevas, otras llenas de polvo y viejas, algunas no llevaban mucho tiempo guardadas, y otras eran unos simples morrales escolares, ya que no permitían llevar mucho por persona. Eso es otra de las cosas de las que me había percatado durante ese tiempo, ¿Qué tanto se nos permitía llevar? El porqué de todo esto aún se me hace un misterio, un misterio que quizá nunca quiera resolver. A veces pensaba que la vida no me sonreía durante esos años de soledad. Aunque mi madre estuvo conmigo durante todo ese tiempo, y yo con ella, sentía que ese vacío que había dejado mi padre nunca se llenaría hasta verlo en persona y que me diera respuestas. ¿Por qué todo había ocurrido de esta manera?, ¿tenía que ser así?, ¿Cómo cabe una vida en una maleta? éstas preguntas aún me comen la cabeza de vez en cuando a pesar de saber algunas de sus respuestas.

Una de esas respuestas me llegó después de siete años cuando me tocó a mí poner mi vida entera en una maleta. Aún me pregunto qué habría pasado si hubiese guardado cosas diferentes a las que tengo hoy conmigo. Ese día sentía que mi mundo se venía abajo, por una parte, estaba la emoción de ver a mi padre nuevamente, y por otra, el dolor de la despedida de amigos y familiares. Decir adiós a mis amigos fue lo que más me dolió; lo que yo habría dado por llevarlos conmigo.

Esta vez era mi turno de pasar por el ahora decaído piso del aeropuerto, con mi morral escolar encima y mi maleta en mano. Sonaban aquellas ruedas en camino a un nuevo futuro, que ni yo misma me esperaba fuese tan brillante. He pasado por mucho, pero no me define lo malo, sino la manera en la que lo he vencido todo y he encontrado formas de disfrutar mis procesos junto con esos que más me aman. He ido llenando poco a poco una nueva maleta con esperanza y amigos nuevos, sueños y experiencias que me hacen cada día mejor. Mantengo mis afectos intactos a mis amigos eternos. Al final, no importa cuántas cosas lleves, lo importante es que puedas rehacer tu vida así sea a partir de una maleta.

Third Prize - Vicenzo Calagna

An essay about inmigration

“Immigration isn’t a two-way street; it’s a labyrinth. It’s winding and endless, with walls of uncertainty and echoes of homes left behind.”

Panamanian American author Cristina Henriquez

The topic of immigration and its realities is often unseen by many people. Few truly experience migration. While I may write as if immigration is a positive subject, it carries unseen challenges, obstacles, and pain. From my perspective, however, I have always felt it as beneficial. Everything I experienced shaped who I am, and for that, I am forever grateful.

My story began early—so early that I was not even aware of my family’s transfer to another country. Born to a Venezuelan mother and an Italian father, I moved to Miami with my family at just six months old.

Leaving my native country so young and living in a Spanish-speaking household while the outside world spoke English left me confused. I was told I barely spoke until I was five. Starting school helped me pick up English while practicing Spanish at home. That routine held steady for five years until it was time to renew our visa.

My father’s worker visa allowed us to stay in the U.S., but as a child, I did not fully understand its importance. Every five years, the visa required renewal, which meant leaving the U.S. and visiting the American embassy in our home country. Unfortunately, the U.S. embassy in Venezuela had closed due to political tension. Fortunately, my father, sister, and I had Italian citizenship, allowing us to apply in Rome.

The trip to Italy was beautiful. I saw monuments and landmarks but did not comprehend what was unfolding. At the embassy, our visa application was rejected. My parents got anxious—my father scratched his head in frustration, and my mother called everyone, saying, “We’re not coming home.” I did not understand the gravity of the situation. I thought it was just a setback. It was not. This was not something easily fixed.

We had to live outside the U.S. As a family, we could choose Venezuela or a European Union country. We chose Sicily, settling in a small town where relatives helped us adjust. Those years were rough. Secluded in a traditional village, we endured family fights and cultural challenges, but I believe it was for the best. Those struggles taught me everything I needed to know about my family and myself.

After three years in Balestrate, we decided to move to Spain, a Spanish-speaking country. Initially, we settled in a small town, but later moved to Madrid. Moving so often was exhausting. In four years, I attended four schools and lived in four cities. Life finally stabilized when we reapplied for the visa and got accepted. I did not know how to react—I had grown so accustomed to living abroad that it felt normal.

Returning to the U.S. was bittersweet. It was not clear whether it was the right choice for me, but it was necessary for my father’s business.

And that is what has brought me to where I am today. While my parents and sister often reflect on that time as a dark chapter in our lives, I see it differently. The people we met, the new languages my sister and I learned, and the challenges we overcame shaped us in ways I would not trade for anything. Our memories and experiences define who we are and help us grow. With that in mind, I know that whatever I face in the future, I will embrace it as an opportunity to learn and evolve.

Click on images to enlarge