I was not yet American when I became obsessed with the New York City skyline. I first glimpsed it from the back of a flatbed cargo van which was taking me, my baby brother, my parents, my grandparents, another family and everything we owned into Manhattan from the JFK airport. When we reached the midpoint of the 56th Street Bridge, those of us still awake shared a vision. No one spoke. I held my breath. My father cried. Years later, in Brooklyn, I took this photo with a disposable camera from the rooftop of the Americana—the tallest building in my neighborhood. It was 1997. I was 18 and a U.S. Citizen.