RILA Celebrates RI250

➤ Free Will is a Cross to Bear by Donovan Elsey

I approached the man, as I tend to do when trying to get street portraits, with a compliment and a question.

“Hey, I like that cross you got! Can I get a few photos of you with it?”

He turned to me and smiled.

“Tell you what, would you happen to have any weed?”

I figured at that point that I was going to be in for something interesting. I told him that I can't smoke anymore, job won't let me.

“Damn, that's unfortunate. I was hoping you had some. Anyways, let me get up on my chair.”

He leapt up onto his seat, and began posing. As I took my photos, he started to tell me about his life.

He spends his days going around the city, setting up wooden crosses and finding abandoned buildings to convert into “forward operating bases”. I continued clicking away, listening to his stories. The man grew up as an army brat, never in one place for too long. He went to an American college all the way in Cairo, but didn't get into the specifics. He said that he likes to come off as well put-together, disciplined; hence the suit and his proper manner of speaking. He told me that, after we were finished, he'd push his cart down to the levee and plant his cross at the river’s edge before finding a place to sleep.

We talked and I took photos for about 10 minutes. My impression was that he was a well meaning guy who fell on some hard times, but was working his way out of that hole. He was affable, and a fantastic storyteller; I was listening so intently that out of tens of photos, only four ended up being acceptable. I was too distracted.

When I thought I was finished taking photos, I gave him some cash for his time, and for the opportunity to practice portraits. I hoped it’d help. Continued ➤

However, as soon as the money was in his hand, he started furiously giving the Nazi salute. Completely and utterly unprompted.

Perplexed, all I could say was, “Oh! Well, alright man…” as I raised my camera for a few more shots. He kept saluting, I kept shooting. People walking by looked over at us and snickered. A white couple taking wedding pictures in front of the old capitol building were visibly pissed. I imagined how it must look to them; a black homeless man on a shopping cart throne with a giant cross on the back ceaselessly heiling Hitler, while another black guy silently takes his pictures.

“Yeah man… I’m a Nazi…” he said, penitently. Like it was something completely out of his control, and he was sorry for it. Suddenly, he lightened up.

“When I do this, people tend to leave me alone. If I’m willing to be a Nazi, what else could I be capable of?”

His face twisted into a mischievous smile, and he hit a few more salutes for good measure. He went right back to telling me stories like nothing ever happened.

My fiancée had been standing across the street this whole time, watching the absurdity unfold. To get out of the conversation, I told him that my girl was waiting on me, and that I needed to leave.

His mood shifted to that of concern. “Go! Don’t leave her waiting! And, a word of advice; don’t try to win every argument, or you'll end up like me!”

I got his email, a University address from his school in Cairo, and I promised to send the photos his way. He thanked me and got down from his chair, getting ready to push his cart down to the levee. I joined my fiancée and we sped off down the road. Later that night, I replayed the scene in my head and tried to figure out what it all meant.

Many street photographers follow and preach the rule, “No pictures of homeless people.” I always thought it was bullshit. All of the photos I take are taken in good faith, with no profit motive, and with express permission. I figured that everyone deserves portraits, and I deserve to have the freedom to take them, for better, or for worse. I felt doubt creeping in about this approach. I didn't know if I should put these photos out there; would it be cruel? Would it be wrong? Would I be exploiting a man in crisis?

I continued down this (ridiculous) train of thought. That man certainly exercised his freedom of speech, even if it was wildly offensive. Maybe, it was one of the only freedoms he had left. I never believed that he was actually a Nazi, just a troubled guy expressing his desire to not be fucked with, in an absurd and harmful way. There are more important things to be mad about, I figured. I remembered that just a couple miles down the road, there's a handful of massive refineries right on the river filling the air and water with countless carcinogens, producing billions of dollars that'll never touch a Louisianian's hands. Yet, there's people on the streets—like the man with his cross–in need of help that will probably never come.

I remembered the other homeless people I became acquainted with via photography. They all disappear at some point. I’ll get the stories from some of the other folks I see Downtown. “The cops came and got him”, “Oh, he got stabbed”, “She overdosed”, “He just up and left.”

It seems like once you're out on the street, the rest of society becomes intent on ignoring you, like all they want is to wipe you from existence. Like the only freedom you really deserve is the freedom to suffer, until you help yourself or die trying. As if the circumstances that led you to this place don't matter. And here I am, overthinking something as stupid and self-centered as
“am I really free to use this picture?”

People help when they can with what they have. All I had was a little bit of cash, a camera, and my sincere attention. It’s something, but not nearly enough. I don't know that man. I have no idea what his needs are or how they could be met. It's embarrassing, honestly; why did I see him as someone that needs help, instead of just as a person? Why was I so ready to excuse his behaviors just so that I could feel better about my own? Why was I assuming that he, and homeless people in general, never have the freedom to live and act as they want?

I can't defend a Nazi salute, but I can recognize that hating him for it solves nothing. Neither does writing this piece or continuing to solipsistically overthink my own freedom of expression.

Regardless of how things ended up going, I sincerely hope he gets what he needs, whatever that may be. I hope that one day, he’ll plant his cross somewhere and never have to bear it again. ■

➤ The Crack I Walk by Renee Gomes

I grew up in a system that was never designed with kids like me in mind. Back then, everything felt like a test I hadn't been taught how to take; loud rooms, quick judgments, adults who mistook my overwhelm for attitude. I learned early how to survive by shrinking, by slipping between the lines, by becoming the quiet kid who didn't cause trouble because trouble always found me anyway.

They called it "falling through the cracks."

But to me, it felt like free-falling with no one looking down.

Years later, I realized something: the crack wasn't an accident. It was the predictable outcome of a system built on speed, compliance, and sameness. Kids like me; neurodivergent, sensitive, intuitive, fierce, were never the blueprint. We were the outliers, the ones they didn't know how to hold.

But here's the part they never saw coming.

I climbed back up.

Not polished. Not perfect. But awake.

And now I walk into those same systems as a provider, a peer, a guide, someone who knows the terrain because I lived it. I recognize the look in a kid's eyes when they're trying not to break. I know the sound of a parent's voice when they're fighting to be heard. I know the weight of being misunderstood because I carried it for years.
We're stepping into 2026, 250 years after the American Revolution, and it feels like we're in another kind of uprising. Not with muskets or declarations, but with truth-telling, boundarysetting, and refusing to let the next generation fall the way we did.

My revolution is simple:
No child falls through the cracks on my watch.

Freedom, for me, isn't abstract.
It's a kid finally exhaling in a room that feels safe.
It's a parent realizing they're not alone.
It's a system being held accountable by the very people it once overlooked.

I'm not here to explain history.
I'm here to rewrite the part where kids like me disappear.

Because the crack I fell through?
I turned it into a doorway.
And now I hold it open for everyone coming after me. ■

➤ To Have A Better Life by Fiore De La Cruz

I once asked my parents
why they came here—
why they made me an American.
Their voices always gentle, always tired:
“To have a better life.”

But what does better mean
when the price is never feeling at home?
I grew up between asphalt
and the warm, vibrant Caribbean waters—
where my soul learned color,
where the sun touching my skin
felt like language.

My body still craves that heat.
Winter here drains me,
makes my skin crack,
makes my spirit quiet.
In the Caribbean, my thoughts flow freer,
kinder, sweeter.

My hair thrives.
The fruit is richer.
Life laughs louder.
Here, everything feels
a little frozen.

And now the cold has a name
I don’t say out loud.

When I was little,
I thought the world was kind,
that laughter meant happiness.
Maybe it did,
or maybe I just couldn’t see
the quiet fatigue in their bones—
years of holding everything together.
Now I understand:
they never stopped surviving,
even when they smiled.

And I, too, inherited that rhythm—
that in-between.
Half spirit of where I was born,
half dream of where they hoped I’d belong.
I wish I could have learned my culture
in the place my blood remembers—
not through retellings,
not through translation.

I know my roots,
but here they grow through glass:
visible, but untouchable.
America, the promised land,
dressed in neon and hunger.

It feeds on illusion—
asks us to smile for the picture
while we work ourselves invisible.
We share walls and paychecks;
our laughter carries through
paper-thin rooms.

Freedom, they call it.
But I see it now—
this country is a field,
and we are the cattle,
chewing through distraction,
waiting for peace to arrive
like it’s something we can afford.

Sometimes I wish I could tell my parents
that the better life they dreamed of
still feels borrowed.
That I am grateful, yes—
but still searching for rest,
still trying to feel human
in a place that worships exhaustion.

Still learning how to be Caribbean
in a land that asks me to forget it.
Still holding the sun inside me
even when the world around me is cold.
Still trying
to have a better life. ■

Freedom, But For Whom? | March 2026

About the Project | Freedom, But for Whom?

We're about to enter 2026, 250 years after the American Revolution, and many of us are living through what feels like another Revolution, moments of upheaval, uncertainty, and change.

This Call invites artists, writers, and storytellers to respond from where they stand right now—to reflect on what freedom means (or doesn’t), what feels possible or fragile, and how this moment is shaping them.

This is not about explaining history. It’s about speaking from inside the moment in which we’re living in.

Who Can Apply?

Subtitle

This call centers Latinx artists, and also welcomes submissions from other people of color whose stories and art deepen our understanding of freedom, exclusion, and becoming American.

Latinx individuals of all ages
Emerging and established artists
Writers, poets, performers
Community members with a story
Oral history practitioners and beginners
Other people of color whose work resonates with the theme

Questions | Q & A

What is this project really asking for?

Q: What are you asking artists to respond to?
A: We’re asking you to respond to the present—to the sense that the world is shifting, that something is ending or beginning, and to your own feelings, questions, or hopes within that moment.

Q: How does the theme Freedom, But for Whom? fit?
A: It’s a personal question. How does freedom show up—or fail to—in your life, your community, your body, your work, or your imagination right now?

Q: Does my work need to be political or historical?
A: No. Your work can be emotional, quiet, abstract, poetic, intimate, unresolved, or deeply personal. It only needs to be honest. Your art, poetry or writing will be shared, seen, and heard.

Q: What will happen to my work?
A: Visual art will be exhibited and also included in a printed catalogue alongside original poetry and written narratives. Together, these works will become a shared witness of this moment—so future generations can understand not just what happened, but how it felt to live through it. Your work will be your legacy, so that 10 years or even 100 years form now, people will know that you existed and this piece of art was one of many contributions you offered to our society.

Q: Why is RILA doing this now?
A: Because moments of change are often understood only in hindsight. This project creates space for artists to speak before that happens.

Q: What are the deadlines to apply?
A: Deadlines for each category vary, depending on the medium. These activities will take place between February and August 2026.

Click here to learn how you can submit Visual Art ➤

Click here to submit poetry, a reflection or short narrative ➤

My Letter to the World | Listen Now

Subtitle

Amos (Ramos) Butler (right). This is an artist rendering of Ramos. No actual photos of him to date have been found. The entry in his military papers said he was a 38-year-old jeweler and was from Matamoros, Mexico at the time of enlistment. Read more here ➤

Submit Now

RI250 events coordinated by RILA made possible with partial support from these funders:

but for whom?

RI250 | 1776-2026