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A young boy looks through the chain link fence at the edge of the park near the soccer fields

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In East L.A., parks are places where families gather, but they’re also surrounded by surveillance, both visible and invisible. This child isn’t just playing he is watching the world with caution. According to Kimberlé Crenshaw’s intersectionality, his life is shaped by being both undocumented and brown in a heavily policed area. His gender, race, and legal status don’t act separately they collide to define his reality. He’s already doing the emotional labor of navigating multiple forms of marginalization.

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Family Eating Dinner, one seat left empty. 

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A teenage daughter was taken during a morning raid outside Roosevelt High. Her family now eats in grief. Arvin, Tuck, and Morrill’s critique of settler colonialism explains how gendered policies criminalize everyday care. When families are torn apart, it’s not random it’s structural. This dinner table is an altar to what’s been stolen: not just people, but dignity, trust, and routine. The silence at the table speaks louder than words

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A family-run bodega on Whittier Blvd is closed. An Ice Raids poster on the wall of the bodega. 

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This store once served as a local hub, a spot for pan dulce, tortillas, and neighborhood chisme. Now, it’s silent. This is what Haunani-Kay Trask calls peaceful violence, the everyday harm that doesn’t look like war but feels like devastation. Immigration raids and constant fear strip people of community, income, and place. The closure of this shop is more than economic, it’s forced disappearance under the guise of law and order.

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A woman lights a veladora at the foot of a Virgen de Guadalupe statue. 

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Churches in East L.A. often become sanctuaries not just spiritually, but politically. Undocumented families seek refuge in sacred spaces when legal systems fail them. As the Third World Women’s Alliance reminds us, women of color have long led the struggle to care for each other in the face of state violence. This woman’s quiet act of prayer is radical. It is resilience in a system that punishes her presence.

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Somos Boyle Heights Mural in front of Mariachi Plaza. 

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This mural speaks with power. Painted by youth from Boyle Heights, it pushes back against the forces of displacement and erasure. Surrounded by signs of gentrification and police presence, these artists reclaim their neighborhood with every brushstroke. Like the Combahee River Collective once said, those who face the most oppression have the right to define their own fight. The teens behind this mural do just that. They understand how race, immigration, language, and gender shape their everyday lives. Instead of backing down, they create. They resist. And they make one thing clear: Somos de Boyle Heights.