New York
How Mino Lora, Co-Founder of the People’s Theatre, Spends Her Sundays
As the co-founder and executive artistic director of the People’s Theatre, Mino Lora sets the stage to spotlight the voices of the immigrant communities in Upper Manhattan.
She started the People’s Theatre to serve Washington Heights and Inwood 16 years ago, but her interest in community building and social justice can be traced to her childhood in the Dominican Republic.
“I always thought I would be a teacher, and that’s what I was studying in college,” said Ms. Lora, 44, who was born and raised in the capital city of Santo Domingo. “But after I attended the International Theatre Festival of Santo Domingo 1999, I dropped out of school.”
She received a scholarship to study theater in Purchase, N.Y., at Manhattanville College (which recently changed its name to Manhattanville University). After graduating, she moved to New York City and found her footing as a director. She later co-founded the People’s Theatre with Bob Braswell, her roommate-turned-husband.
“For me, the creative process is the most interesting part,” she said.
In 2026, the theater will get its first permanent home: a $40 million multidisciplinary performing arts center at Miramar, a new mixed-income residential building in Inwood.
“I dreamed of this for 10 years,” Ms. Lora said, adding that she saw the center as a model for similar spaces around the country.
Ms. Lora lives in an apartment in the Spuyten Duyvil neighborhood of the Bronx with Mr. Braswell, 42, who is the theater’s managing director, and their children, Emma Lucia, 11, and Marcos, 8.
FEEDING THE EARLY RISERS I try to sleep in, so I don’t get up until 8:30. But Emma Lucia and Marcos generally are up by 7 and are starving, so we have our first breakfast of the day. I make myself a cup of coffee and then make them eggs and cheese or waffles; they’re frozen. Emma has just gotten old enough to help me.
We have our second breakfast around 10 a.m. at the Johnson, which is the closest diner to our apartment. The kids like it — Marcos, a proud Bronx kid, loves the Bronx-themed décor. They usually get waffles or pancakes. I always eat the same thing: an egg-white Greek omelet with extra crispy home fries in hot sauce, multigrain toast and an oat latte.
DANCING FOR JOY Some Sundays, I run in the gym in our apartment building, but on others, I drive Emma Lucia to Alvin Ailey in Midtown Manhattan for dance class, which starts at noon. I used to drop her off and wait for her, but when I realized there were also classes for adults, I signed up. I had been doing West African dance, but I just started the contemporary class. I’ve always liked to dance and danced a lot when I was in college, but then I got too busy and stopped. I love to keep moving because it’s a way of harnessing my own personal joy.
PIZZA BREAK By 1:30, we’re pretty hungry, so we go to lunch in Midtown. We don’t have any particular place. We always look for new spots. Often, we have pizza — white pieces with broccoli.
THE PLAY’S THE THING When we’re prepping plays for production, I generally skip lunch and have business meetings. Right now, we’re working on “Domino Effect” by Marco Antonio Rodriguez, which takes place during an evening in Washington Heights, where a game of dominoes becomes a bridge between generations, touching on themes of identity, resilience and connection. It runs from April 4 to April 20, so I’m meeting regularly with Rodriguez, the creative producer, Jiawen Hu, and the assistant director, Catalina Beltran.
PUTTING ON MY HARD HAT Afterward, I take the subway up to Inwood to the construction site of the People’s Theatre: Centro Cultural Inmigrante. I generally go there two to three times a month with Allison Robin, principal and co-owner of Envoie Projects, our owners’ reps for the project. Three of the theater’s board members, Cindy Caplan, Zahira Perez and Mel Wuong, who are all immigrant women, join me. The elevator just went in, and the shell will be done in February, and then we’ll get to go in and make it look like a real theater.
TIME FOR CHARADES Then I head home for the night. I love to cook, so I start prepping dinner as well as the meals for the week while my husband cooks pasta for the kids’ lunchboxes. After dinner, we play board games. Our current favorites are Ticket to Ride, the card game Uno and Rummikub. We also play charades, which I have been doing since I was growing up.
Emma Lucia and Marcos are theater kids. They go to public schools, and they’ve both been in class plays. Emma Lucia’s in the People’s Theatre Academy, and she told me she wants to sing and dance on Broadway. I am thrilled that she wants a career in the arts; she’s talented and so joyful when she performs that it makes my heart swell. Marcos, however, has said he wants to be an inventor and recently informed me that theater is merely his hobby.
GETTING THE KIDS SETTLED Around 8 or 8:15, Bob and I start getting the kids ready for bed. We used to read to them, but they are too old for that now, which I find kind of sad. They’re bilingual, so they read books in English and in Spanish. I’m proud of that, even though it makes it harder for them, but it’s important to me and my Dominican culture.
A GLASS OF WINE AND A BOOK BEFORE BED Once the kids are in bed, which is around 8:30 p.m., Bob and I watch TV to wind down. I particularly like “The Great British Baking Show” on Netflix. Then I read in bed.
Right now, I have several library books, including “A Caribbean Heiress in Paris” by Adriana Herrera, which I’m reading in English, and “El Principio del Corazón” by Helen Hoang, which I got in Spanish.
This also is a time for Bob and me to talk about the logistics of the upcoming week. I have to balance producing and directing with raising a family, so we decide who’s picking the kids up from school and taking them to soccer practice. I end the night with a glass of rosé or white wine or even a vodka tonic, a favorite of my dad’s. He was an artist and painter, and a lot of what I am comes from him. He passed away last year at age 86, so drinking it is a way to honor him.
New York
Read the Indictment Against Nicolás Maduro
intentionally and knowingly combined, conspired, confederated, and agreed together and with each other to violate Title 18, United States Code, Section 924(c).
35. It was a part and an object of the conspiracy that NICOLÁS MADURO MOROS, DIOSDADO CABELLO RONDÓN, RAMÓN RODRÍGUEZ CHACÍN, CILIA ADELA FLORES DE MADURO, NICOLÁS ERNESTO MADURO GUERRA, a/k/a “Nicolasito,” a/k/a “The Prince,” and HECTOR RUSTHENFORD GUERRERO FLORES, a/k/a “Niño Guerrero,” the defendants, and others known and unknown, during and in relation to a drug trafficking crime for which they may be prosecuted in a court of the United States, to wit, for MADURO MOROS, CABELLO RONDÓN, and RODRÍGUEZ CHACÍN, the controlled substance offenses charged in Counts One and Two of this Superseding Indictment, and for FLORES DE MADURO, MADURO GUERRA, and GUERRERO FLORES, the controlled substance offense charged in Count Two of this Superseding Indictment, knowingly used and carried firearms, and, in furtherance of such crimes, knowingly possessed firearms, and aided and abetted the use, carrying, and possession of firearms, to wit, machineguns that were capable of automatically shooting more than one shot, without manual reloading, by a single function of the trigger, as well as destructive devices, in violation of Title 18, United States Code, Sections 924(c)(1)(A) and 924(c)(1)(B)(ii). (Title 18, United States Code, Sections 924(o) and 3238.)
36.
FORFEITURE ALLEGATIONS
As a result of committing the controlled substance offense charged in Count One of this Superseding Indictment, NICOLÁS MADURO MOROS, DIOSDADO CABELLO RONDÓN, RAMÓN RODRÍGUEZ CHACÍN, the defendants, shall forfeit to the United States, pursuant to Title 21, United States Code, Sections 853 and 970, any and all property constituting, or derived from, any proceeds the defendants obtained, directly or indirectly, as a result of the offenses, and any and all property used, or intended to be used, in any manner or part, to commit,
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New York
Video: New York City Hit With Heaviest Snowfall in Years
new video loaded: New York City Hit With Heaviest Snowfall in Years
transcript
transcript
New York City Hit With Heaviest Snowfall in Years
A winter storm blanketed the Greater New York area, leading to more than 400 flight cancellations across the region’s major airports. Parts of Long Island saw up to nine inches of snow.
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I think it was absolutely beautiful. We’re from North Carolina, so it was great to come up to New York and see the snow.
By Jorge Mitssunaga
December 27, 2025
New York
Vote For the Best Metropolitan Diary Entry of 2025
Every week since 1976, Metropolitan Diary has published stories by, and for, New Yorkers of all ages and eras (no matter where they live now): anecdotes and memories, quirky encounters and overheard snippets that reveal the city’s spirit and heart.
For the past four years, we’ve asked for your help picking the best Diary entry of the year. Now we’re asking again.
We’ve narrowed the field to the five finalists here. Read them and vote for your favorite. The author of the item that gets the most votes will receive a print of the illustration that accompanied it, signed by the artist, Agnes Lee.
The voting closes at 11:59 p.m. on Sunday, Dec. 21. You can change your vote as many times as you’d like until then, but you may only pick one. Choose wisely.
Click “VOTE” to choose your favorite Metropolitan Diary entry of 2025, and come back on Sunday, Dec. 28, to see which one our readers picked as their favorite.
Click “VOTE” to choose your favorite Metropolitan Diary entry of 2025, and come back on Sunday, Dec. 28, to see which one our readers picked as their favorite.
Two Stops
Dear Diary:
It was a drizzly June night in 2001. I was a young magazine editor and had just enjoyed what I thought was a very blissful second date — dinner, drinks, fabulous conversation — with our technology consultant at a restaurant in Manhattan.
I lived in Williamsburg at the time, and my date lived near Murray Hill, so we grabbed a cab and headed south on Second Avenue.
“Just let me out here,” my date said to the cabby at the corner of 25th Street.
We said our goodbyes, quick and shy, knowing that we would see each other at work the next day. I was giddy and probably grinning with happiness and hope.
“Oh boy,” the cabby said, shaking his head as we drove toward Brooklyn. “Very bad.”
“What do you mean?” I asked in horror.
“He doesn’t want you to know exactly where he lives,” the cabby said. “Not a good sign.”
I spent the rest of the cab ride in shock, revisiting every moment of the date.
Happily, it turned out that my instinct about it being a great date was right, and the cabby was wrong. Twenty-four years later, my date that night is my husband, and I know that if your stop is first, it’s polite to get out so the cab can continue in a straight line to the next stop.
Ferry Farewell
Dear Diary:
On a February afternoon, I met my cousins at the Staten Island Ferry Terminal. Their spouses and several of our very-grown children were there too. I brought Prosecco, a candle, a small speaker to play music, photos and a poem.
We were there to recreate the wedding cruise of my mother, Monica, and my stepfather, Peter. They had gotten married at City Hall in August 1984. She was 61, and he, 71. It was her first marriage, and his fourth.
I was my mother’s witness that day. It was a late-in-life love story, and they were very happy. Peter died in 1996, at 82. My mother died last year. She was 100.
Peter’s ashes had waited a long time, but finally they were mingled with Monica’s. The two of them would ride the ferry a last time and then swirl together in the harbor forever. Cue the candles, bubbly, bagpipes and poems.
Two ferry workers approached us. We knew we were in trouble: Open containers and open flames were not allowed on the ferry.
My cousin’s husband, whispering, told the workers what we were doing and said we would be finished soon.
They walked off, and then returned. They said they had spoken to the captain, and they ushered us to the stern for some privacy. As the cup of ashes flew into the water, the ferry horn sounded two long blasts.
Unacceptable
Dear Diary:
I went to a new bagel store in Brooklyn Heights with my son.
When it was my turn to order, I asked for a cinnamon raisin bagel with whitefish salad and a slice of red onion.
The man behind the counter looked up at me.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t do that.”
Teresa
Dear Diary:
It was February 2013. With a foot of snow expected, I left work early and drove from New Jersey warily as my wipers squeaked and snow and ice stuck to my windows.
I drove east on the Cross Bronx Expressway, which was tied up worse than usual. Trucks groaned on either side of my rattling Toyota. My fingers were cold. My toes were colder. Got to get home before it really comes down, I thought to myself.
By the time I got home to my little red bungalow a stone’s throw from the Throgs Neck Bridge, the snow was already up to my ankles.
Inside, I took off my gloves, hat, scarf, coat, sweater, pants and snow boots. The bed, still unmade, was inviting me. But first, I checked my messages.
There was one from Teresa, the 92-year-old widow on the corner.
“Call me,” she said, sounding desperate.
I looked toward the warm bed, but … Teresa. There was a storm outside, and she was alone.
On went the pants, the sweater, the coat, the scarf, the boots and the gloves, and then I went out the door.
The snow was six inches deep on the sidewalks, so I tottered on tire tracks in the middle of the street. The wind stung my face. When I got to the end of the block, I pounded on her door.
“Teresa!” I called. No answer. “Teresa!” I called again. I heard the TV blaring. Was she sprawled on the floor?
I went next door and called for Kathy.
“Teresa can’t answer the door,” I said. “Probably fell.”
Kathy had a key. In the corner of her neat living room, Teresa, in pink sweatpants and sweaters, was sitting curled in her armchair, head bent down and The Daily News in her lap.
I snapped off the TV.
Startled, she looked up.
“Kathy! Neal!” she said. “What’s a five-letter word for cabbage?”
Nice Place
Dear Diary:
When I lived in Park Slope over 20 years ago, I once had to call an ambulance because of a sudden, violent case of food poisoning.
Two paramedics, a man and a woman, entered our third-floor walk-up with a portable chair. Strapping me in, the male medic quickly inserted an IV line into my arm.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his partner circling around and admiring the apartment.
“Nice place you’ve got here.” she said. “Do you own it?”
“Yeah,” I muttered, all but unconscious.
Once I was in the ambulance, she returned to her line of inquiry.
“Do you mind me asking how much you paid for your apartment?”
“$155,000,” I croaked.
“Wow! You must have bought during the recession.”
“Yeah” I said.
They dropped me off at Methodist Hospital, where I was tended to by a nurse as I struggled to stay lucid.
At some point, the same medic poked her head into the room with one last question:
“You wouldn’t be wanting to sell any time soon, would you?”
Illustrations by Agnes Lee.
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