The Day I Realized My Family Memories Were Part of Long Island History

First, The Memories

My first (I’ll call it "viable") novel, the one that my agent originally signed me over, was heavily inspired by childhood memories of my family gathered around my grandparents’ Salvadoran food truck on Long Island. The truck and the soccer games, where it served as concession stand, are etched as backdrops to so many throwback moments filled with laughter, hugs, and of course, delicious food (the best—everyone in town acknowledged my grandmother’s pupusas as the best they had ever had. Period.).

I’m a marketing professional, so it was natural for me to develop a marketing plan for that novel (which did not make it out of the submission trenches, but, hey, maybe one day I will self-pub it). The plan included taking the book on a photo op tour that would celebrate the community impact of food trucks across Long Island. It got me digging for photos through old albums and asking every family member that I could think of for photos and any information they might have about the days with the truck.

To better set the stage for you, I was in my early teens when my grandparents opened their truck in Nassau County of Long Island. This was the 90s (yes, to the kiddos that may find themselves reading this as some anecdotal archeological text from history, it was a food truck from the 1900s 😉). No smart phones, digital cameras weren't yet mainstream, and to be honest, the family was working hard to cover all the culinary needs for those popular amateur league soccer games, so there wasn’t much time to pause for a photo. But in all that hustle and bustle, through all that mouthwatering sizzle and the steam from the grill that followed, there was the ever-present ingredient of love. And whenever my abuela and I shared eye contact, I was sure to be met with her playful grin as she flipped a pupusa, never missing a beat. My grandfather’s signature loud clapping and pacing in front of the truck to attract customers synched with the Cumbia rhythms echoing out of spectator boomboxes. My aunts tag-teamed the serving and order-taking, the cash handling and counter wiping (there are a couple of reasons my mom was left out of these tasks, but that’s a loving tale for another day). As for me and the cousins, we chatted it up and spent time plotting our next hangout. This was every Sunday for a long time, until one day the truck was retired—much earlier than I believe my grandparents had dreamed of doing.

Stumbling Upon Artifacts

All these memories lived within the confines of our minds and the memories recounted over the years. Not a singular physical remnant remained—or so we thought. I believe in our power to manifest; I also subscribe to the belief that nothing is coincidental. With all the inner work and spiritual grounding that I have been doing the last couple of years, I now also understand how connected we all are, even after we cross over from this life to the next.

I could not find any photos of the truck. In addition to the photo albums and family outreach I mentioned earlier, I even tried finding information about my grandparents’ truck by filing a FOIL request with the county.

Nothing (not because it doesn’t exist but because obtaining old records can be challenging to say the least).

I thought about how much it meant to me to honor this period of my grandparents’ life. Remember, we are talking about food trucks in the 90s. In those days, there were no permits for food trucks in Freeport. My grandparents were basically early innovators. They were trying something that the local system wasn’t built to accommodate yet.

Let’s pause here for a moment. Let’s give my grandparents, who were forced to flee their life in El Salvador, with elementary level educations, and who had a desperate need to stretch every penny they earned, their due honor for breaking through the system—

—thank you.

I felt the desire in my heart to do right by these memories and what they forged for my family but also for food truck history. But I couldn’t locate any tangible evidence of the Pupuseria Vilma truck life. So, I let that part go and dedicated myself to the story that wanted to be told, which was a young adult novel that not only centered a Salvadoran food truck, but whose premise was dedicated to saving it. Then one day, that changed.

I was helping my aunt move to her new house. She had a storage room with boxes that we needed to sort through to determine what was going with her and what was being tossed. The wish of finding some physical examples that would tether my memories of the truck to the real world were months behind me. The majority of the items we were sorting were quick go or no-go decisions. But then I grabbed an old, tattered leather briefcase.

Not my aunt. Not my mom or daughter. Me. I grabbed it.

I felt the urge to open it, believing it to be empty, but what did I find? The peddler’s license plate that was once mounted on the food truck, and best of all, I found the hat my grandfather would wear proudly as he used his marketing skills of loud clapping and shouting to draw hungry people closer. The red baseball cap held the evidence I had been searching for—an illustrated depiction of the truck in the form of the logo he himself conceived, slogan and all, Rapidez E Higiene Nos Caracterizan— Speed ​​and hygiene characterize us.

My giggles at finding these items and my grandfather’s endearing approach to a tagline evolved into tears. Someone made sure I was available to help my aunt that day. I was guided to that briefcase. And a gentle thought whispered at me to open it. This discovery sparked another trip down memory lane where I learned about the difficulties my grandparents had with the truck. How they were so ahead of the times and the world they lived in was not ready for them. Because of the lack of food truck permits like the ones available today, their restaurant on wheels was treated like an ice cream truck. This required them to move every fifteen minutes, even if they had a line—which they always did. This resulted in heavy fines because to add insult to injury, some officers seemed to target my grandparents intentionally by parking at the locations my grandparents were allowed to stop at, stalk them for the fifteen minutes, and then jump out to give them a ticket if they didn’t immediately move.

Imagine this scene: a line of hungry but patient patrons having to run across the street where my grandparents would move the truck to. Now, imagine this happening every fifteen minutes for eight to ten hours a day. And then picture my grandparents tending to customers and losing track of the time for a moment only to get hit with a fine.

This didn’t happen at the Sunday fútbol games. I never witnessed the struggles and challenges they faced. They were serving a community; they were beloved by that community. But they had to give up their dream because their path was made too difficult for them. They had successful businesses back in El Salvador. My grandmother had the most popular pupuseria in her town; my grandfather owned a taxi company and a billiards bar. But all of that had to be left behind due to the Salvadoran Civil War (of which the United States had a heavy hand in escalating and prolonging). So, both there and here, U.S. policies impacted their dreams. Yet they believed in the message the U.S. chiseled into their symbol of freedom and opportunity, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” And they bet everything on finding a safe future in the states.

They may not have achieved all their goals in their lifetime, but what they accomplished is historic. Their business lives in history among the earlier food trucks on Long Island, long before the food truck boom of the late 2000s and 2010s. And, because I know it to be true, they continue to guide me and my family from their new realm, and we are living the life they had hoped for us. It is storytelling that keeps memories alive; maybe that’s why someone “up there” guided me towards a love for words and story.

grandpa's hat and the license plate for their food truck

that feeling when you find something after you stop looking for it

showcasing food truck artifacts on my bookcase