Westbury: A Town, Thousand Roots

Just forty minutes from Manhattan, in the small town of Westbury where the trees were already announcing autumn, on September 21st a space opened for memory and joy: the Festival of Cultures.

Although the event bore the name Hispanic Heritage Month, the gathering became universal: flags and accents from distant shores intertwined in a single heartbeat.

"It was a day of multiplied loaves and fishes". The generous hands of women kept watch so that no one would leave without tasting the flavors of Latin cuisine. There were salads, appetizers from different countries, crispy empanadas and, as a playful nod to coexistence, even pizza and pasta were adopted into the feast.

Restaurants, small businesses and entrepreneurs offered not only food but also gifts, as a reminder of shared abundance.

Art spilled out on every corner. Some paintings, too large for the panels, hung from the trees. A painter turned children’s cheeks into living canvases and, later, dressed as a clown, watched them laugh.

One artist inspired them to create masks, landscapes, and abstract paintings, raising the house of dreams with cardboard and brushes. The children—improvised architects—built without judgment, from simple huts to impossible skyscrapers. The most beautiful part was not the structures, but the freedom: parents who at first tried to impose order ended up collaborating on towers and colorful facades.

A boy, often accused by the world of being distracted, painted for two hours with the focus of a monk. And a mother, surprised, confessed: “I never imagined buying my daughter paints; today I discovered a new way to see her happy.” Thus, art ceased to be mere entertainment and revealed itself as a silent response to daily anxieties.

A devil escaped from the Dominican Republic, in his colorful costume, starred in countless photographs, reminding us that tradition, too, is a bridge between territories.

The mayor and his team mingled with the people: they encouraged, helped, celebrated. They threw themselves into the activity with the certainty that politics, in its most genuine form, is an act of service.

And as evening fell, the dance floor became a symbol. Salsa professionals shared the space with clumsy yet sincere steps from those just daring to move. No one was left out: trained or improvised, all found in music a common language.

At its core, it was a collective will: to dance to banish fear, to sing to celebrate life, to paint to return to the creative spirit, to gather and remember that the Latino community is not a threat, but an embrace.

Rosalba Henao