It was a Monday night in June when César Solano Catalán heard that two of his fellow delivery cyclists had been robbed on the Willis Avenue Bridge, a thousand meters of trussed pavement running from Harlem to the Bronx. 

At 10:45PM, one of the couriers sent a message to El Diario de los Deliveryboys en la Gran Manzana (The Diary of the Delivery Boys in the Big Apple), a Facebook page that Solano operates with five of his uncles. The message urged fellow delivery workers to take precautions when crossing the bridge since two bikes had been stolen that same night. As Solano finished dinner with his uncles, he sent messages to the workers’ group chat and gathered a group to arrive at the bridge. Together, they escorted their compañeros across the bridge and helped them deliver their orders safely. That night, Solano and other delivery workers undertook the work the NYPD is not doing.

Food delivery workers in NYC have become part of a growing labor movement of gig workers. They’re demanding strong security protocols to respond to violence and theft of electric bikes; better safety protections; support when they are injured; and access to restrooms in restaurants or public facilities. And parts of that movement are playing out on pages like Solano’s, which use social media as a springboard for in-person collective action.

Solano created El Diario de los Deliveryboys en la Gran Manzana in November 2020 after two food delivery cyclists were killed on the road. The page documents the issues that immigrant delivery workers face in New York, and sheds light on the structural inequities that impact their lives. With over 25,000 followers, El Diario has become a community space for delivery workers, mostly from Mexico and Central America, to report assaults and robberies, honor those who have been killed on the job, and amplify their fight for safety and dignity. 

“This page has several purposes: to support colleagues like us without asking for anything in return, whether in a vigil, accident, or robbery. We publish whatever is related to us,” explains Solano, who left his town of San Juan Puerto Montaña, located in the High Mountain region of Guerrero in southern Mexico, at the age of 17. “There are other pages that existed before us, but they were linked to certain groups or nationalities. But we do not have any flag, color, country, or race. We are only helping.” The term diary helps describe the mission, says Solano. “It is called like that so that you can see what food delivery workers go through every day.”

According to the advocacy organization New American Economy, almost 1 in 3 food delivery workers in New York State are undocumented. Economic hardships and rising unemployment keep pushing immigrants to food apps, which are being recommended by word of mouth. If they hear about a relative or member of their community who has lost their job, Solano explains, they recommend the least worst app. 

Solano had been working double shifts as a busboy in Manhattan since arriving in the US, while also working for delivery services like DoorDash to earn extra cash and pay off his crossing debt. When the pandemic began, he was laid off from the restaurant and moved to food delivery full-time, signing up for the Relay delivery app because of its secure hourly rate.

“I am working with food apps because I don’t have a boss and I have flexible hours. I can rest whenever I can. That’s one of the advantages that applications give you,” says Solano. “But there are other times that apps do not understand you. Your tire goes flat, your bike is stolen, they don’t answer for us. Because we are independent workers.”

Before delivering food full-time, Solano’s electric bicycle was stolen, and the average cost for one can go from $1,500 to over $4000. He felt powerless and isolated, with no means to recover it and without someone to go to for guidance.

“You just filed a report with the police, and the police tells you here’s the report and that’s it. They say they will call when they have something, but they never called me. The same happened to my uncle and other acquaintances,” affirms Solano, who also created another popular Facebook page that promotes the preservation of his native language, Tlapanec, and highlights the customs of the Meꞌphaa people.

Amid a system that silences and erases marginalized voices, El Diario, along with their Telegram and WhatsApp groups, has been key in organizing a community-led strategy that answers directly to the impacted communities. Every time an e-bike is stolen, a delivery worker now knows where to reach out for help. If the bicycle still has a tracker, a group of three to five members goes to look for it. Or they publish a photo on the Facebook page, alerting the members to pay attention in case someone tries to sell the stolen bike. If so, again, they organize and go as a team to recover it. 

“I have participated in the recovery of five bicycles. What makes me most happy is seeing a compañero with his recovered bike,” says Solano. “It’s dangerous. We go without weapons, knife, or razor when going to retrieve a bicycle. It’s like going to war without weapons. As undocumented immigrants, we do not have that right or that facility to carry a weapon as self-defense.”

The Willis Avenue Bridge, a key route for many delivery workers, has seen repeated assaults and robberies. In March, 29-year-old Francisco Villalva Vitinio, a delivery worker also from Guerrero, was shot and killed near the bridge when he refused to give his e-bike to a robber. While they wait for the NYPD to increase security measures, Solano says, they will continue to protect themselves. Every night since June 14th, they’ve been taking turns watching over their colleagues as they cross the bridge en route to a delivery. 

“We have been there almost a month and the police have never come to accompany us. During the day they are there issuing tickets, but at night they aren’t. What we’re going through is awful,” adds Solano.

With every live stream of a vigil to demand justice for their killed compañeros, or of a night spent protecting fellow workers despite long workdays, El Diario not only earns new followers, but also positions itself as a digital space that houses a growing community movement. A movimiento led by workers who are carving out a space in a country that continues to deny their right to exist. 

“We are not an organization,” explains Solano. “We are delivery boys who want to raise our voices. We demand results and progress. We are food delivery workers and want to come together.”

Six days a week, Irene Castillo is in charge of bringing the flavors of the Mexican central state of Puebla to Brooklyn’s local hot spot, Jalapeño King. Respecting the culinary traditions of the women in her family, Castillo seasons the salsas, rice dishes, and stews, while her husband Rafael Eustaquio grills the meats for the tacos. Their 30-year-old son, Jonathan, attends the clientele and runs the social media accounts.

For two months, however, the family-run business had to close down due to the pandemic. Unlike many other businesses, Jalapeño King reopened in South Slope on May 15, and since then the Eustaquio Castillo family has joined a community-wide effort to tackle COVID-19 — and the systemic social inequities that have put Latin American immigrant families at greater risk for the disease.

“We managed to survive with the savings we had. Well, the savings are over, but for us the important thing was always health and life,” says the 56-year-old Castillo, who has lived in the same Brooklyn apartment for the past 31 years. “We are still surviving. Our clients have helped us a lot to keep going. We’re a very small business, and unfortunately small businesses had very little help.”

The COVID outbreak has disproportionately impacted the Latin community, with high rates of cases, deaths, and economic losses. According to Mexico’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs, at least 2,452 Mexicans have died in the US during the COVID-19 pandemic. New York is by far the US state with the highest coronavirus death toll among the Mexican migrant community, with 773 deaths (deaths in Connecticut and some counties in New Jersey are included in the total). Hispanics and Latin Americans comprise 18.5 percent of the US population, but 30 percent of positive cases nationwide.

“At least I counted about 30 [deaths], of people I know,” said Miguel Angel Badillo, president of Hidalguenses en Nueva York, an association of migrants from the southern state of Hidalgo. “It impacted us so much that entire buildings of migrant families were infected.”

Many migrants are still afraid of seeking testing over a fear of acquiring debt, or testing positive and missing work. Badillo says many fear they will be quarantined, leaving them unable to cover their family’s expenses. Ineligible for economic relief, migrant families have depleted their savings, facing serious financial problems. A recent poll revealed that across the US, 72 percent of Latin households, 60 percent of Black, and 55 percent of Native American households report serious financial problems due to the pandemic, compared to 36 percent of white households.

As the pandemic worsened food insecurities, long lines of people formed outside food pantries and community centers, increasing the risks for migrant families. The city distributed food boxes, but the items didn’t reflect the diets of the Mexican and Latin community. To coordinate a better nutrition response and mobilize the resources of the community, Jalapeño King and a local nonprofit, Mixteca Organization, worked together to prepare and distribute tortas to the Latin American migrant community, mainly Mexican families, during the weekends of August.

“The boxes of vegetables that the city gave us lacked, for example, tortilla, chile, or cilantro that our community needs to cook.” says Lorena Kourousias, executive director of Mixteca, which offers immigrant rights programs, mental health counseling, and workshops to the Mexican and Latin American immigrant community in Brooklyn.

In mid-August, New York Mayor Bill de Blasio announced a concerted effort to increase coronavirus testing in Sunset Park due to ongoing spread of the virus. Although free testing has been available since June, many Latin families are still reluctant to seek out testing due to their immigration status or fear. There’s a long history of mistrust, debt, and discrimination within the Latin community from the health sector. Language is also another barrier; Mixteca has identified at least 89 different languages among the community. 

For the last weekend of August, Jalapeño King and Mixteca came together to promote testing in the gentrified South Slope/Sunset Park community and ensure Latin families are reached. Kourousias arranged for a community mobile testing unit to come to Mixteca, just around the corner from Jalapeño King. The Eustaquio Castillo family donated 125 tacos and tortas to thank people for taking the test. The preferred choice was their tortas, which in 2015 were honored with the Best Torta award by The Village Voice.

“We’re in a pandemic, but we’re surviving. We have work, a house, and the business, why don’t we give a little to someone who may not have enough to buy a torta? That’s why we decided to make the donation,” says Castillo, originally from the town of Chietla in the state of Puebla. “There are people who might say, ‘If they give me food then I’ll take the test.’ So there are now two interests.”

For the past seven years, Jalapeño King has served a clientele made up mostly of güeros and gringos, as Castillo calls them. The “Tacos, Tortas, and Testing” campaign, however, attracted the same amount of white and brown people, and the offer sold out. Castillo felt happy to support the health of her community, while sharing her Poblano (from Puebla) touch.

“Bringing a piece of Mexico, with a Poblano flavor, has been important because there are a lot of businesses here but not everybody does it as it should be. I am Poblana, I cook Poblano style,” says Castillo. “I know how my food was born because I saw my mother cooking it, I saw my grandmother too. It’s our tradition and we’re sharing it.”

With winter approaching, many migrant families hold grim views of the economy and the coronavirus outbreak. Support networks among the Mexican and Latin American immigrant community, like the one created by Jalapeño King and Mixteca, could help counteract the void left by the government.