Our understanding of the world is often reflective of the words and images we see on a daily basis. Through media, we understand mainstream national politics and receive portrayals of population groups within our society. Rarely, however, are media representations cultivated within the communities they seek to portray. If we choose to read between the lines of popular representations of “marginal” groups in the U.S., we can trace legacies of racism and power struggle. The often negative depiction of the immigrant in North America, for example, is not one found inside transnational communities, but rather, projected onto them. The post-9/11 criminalized representation of the “foreigner” is merely a new variation of an old blame game. In times of political or economic crisis, minority groups (usually one’s recognized in the U.S. as people of color) are targeted for societal problems that are ultimately systemic. But what happens when “marginal” communities step into the spotlight and represent themselves?
In this series, I collaborated with eight men and women of diverse backgrounds and national origins, to create portraits that told their stories in their own words. Those I photographed were participants in the making of their image, in revealing and performing the self.
All eight participants currently reside in the Pioneer valley of Western Massachusetts. They come from different countries in Asia, Africa, and South America and are diverse in their cultural backgrounds as well as in their socio-economic status. The year-long project sometimes required vulnerable people to reveal intimate aspects of their lives, so it was necessary to achieve a level of trust in each other. Through lengthy one-on-one discussions, we exchanged personal stories and worked closely to choose settings and locations for the portraits that related to each individual’s daily life. They were encouraged to include possessions in the photos that held symbolic meaning or conveyed personal history. In some cases, they incorporated family members or the child they cared for into their photographs.
It was important for me to create images that were vocal. I wanted to make photos in which the subject was not just a face to look at, but one that spoke to the viewer. I used a method I learned from photographer, Jim Goldberg’s extraordinary series Rich and Poor (1985), which has deeply influenced my work. After giving copies of the portraits to each participant, they wrote a reflection on the images. These statements served as personal narrations. I asked them questions about the settings of the photographs, about their goals and fears, and about the concept of “home”. I then paired their photographs with selections from their writings.
Although I had a strong hand in guiding the structure of the project, central themes and common threads emerged from the participants’ portraits that I had not anticipated. A sense of family became central to the series. Work and rootedness became central as well, although there remained a connectedness to the places from which they came.
This project was born out of the conviction that photography must be a process of exchange. In this exchange we find empowerment, we change the hands that write our stories. It is a testament to teachers, learners, artists, and caretakers – to workers, parents, and sacrificers who stretch their roots across borders – to storyweavers everywhere.
Click on individual photos to enlarge
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| These photographs say that I am a person with multiple identities. I can and actually do move across these identities in the course of my everyday life. I am a teacher, a researcher, a professional. I am "young", sometimes not young; I am an African and a global citizen at the same time. I am what you see! |
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| The Khmer Buddhist figure belonged to my father and was always kept above all other objects in the house to signify the utmost respect when my father would practice Khmer Buddhism. This practice included praying every morning towards the figure along with the burning of incense. At the base of the religious monk are writings in both Khmer and English with, "12-18-1994" written at the very bottom of all the text. This gift was given to my father the day he converted to a monk, the day of my birthday. |
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| sentirse parte de una comunidad depende de uno mismo ; To feel part of a community depends on oneself |
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| I am afraid of us losing faith in each other |
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| I want to be a cake maker because I love cooking | |
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| I have passion in life and compassion for others |
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| Hogar no es sitio fisico pero es el espacio donde se cultivan valores, se fortalece la personalidad y se tiene la fortaleza para enfrentar el dia a dia ; Home is not a physical place but is the space where one cultivates values, fortifies personality, and has the strength to confront the day to day |
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| I have lived in hadley Ma, more than 2 years. I have lived in my boss' house. I chose my computer because this is the most important object in the U.S. Thanks to this, I can have video-conversations with my whole family, including my cousins, uncles, and friends. I can feel their nearer to me. My family is the motor who moves my body every day, when I feel sad, I just try to talk with anyone of them. |
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| These pictures mean for me long times of hard work, experiences and a lot of love. |
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| The serong I am wearing is the typical dress that is worn by both men and women in Cambodia. The idea behind this photograph with me wearing my father's serong is to connect me to my father after he past away in 1995, and moreover, to share the memories I have of him always wearing a serong in America. Even when going to the supermarket his attire would consist of a serong, a pair of sandals, and a shirt. Gradually it evolved to pants underneath the serong, a pair of boots, and a winter jacket, and eventually, the serong was only worn around the house |
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| Home. Home is the land that carries my rawest and innocent memories. Home is the land of hills and ridges that I ran as a young boy. It's the land of my childhood friends, the family and community that I have known for the longest time. It's called Ngong Hills in the outskirts of Nairobe, the capital of Kenya |
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| This T-shirt is one of my favorite apparel The inscription 'Bidi Yangu' is a Swahili phrase that means "my sweat" or "my hard work". It is also a title of a song by a leading Kenyan hip-hop artist Jua Cali. I like the title of the song because it talks about the virtues of hardwork. When you break the sweat to achieve your goals, no one can take that away from you. |
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| My family came from Japan 2 years ago. We came to U.S.A because my dad Kenchi's work tells where we go. I have a little sister her name is Haruka. My mom's name is Atsuko, my mom makes sweet foods. My sister is chuby and cute. by-Natsune |
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| I always think about it, my biggest fear is my future children. I feel scared when I imagine what kind of education can I provide to my future family. I've thought, what is the best education for a child? |
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| My grandmother is a great role model. She is an extraordinary woman |
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| le tengo miedo a la mediocridad al conformismo ; I am afraid of mediocrity, of conformism |
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| What defines the immigrant community in the valley is its "backstageness": it's not as visible as it could be considering its size, but it's there, in the kitchens and the classrooms, and the farms and the factories, working hard in the backstage |
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| This work of art is based around an autobiography. Although it can be briefly interpreted as a form of "incarceration," I made this sculpture in reference to my older brother, Chhoeuth, who was imprisoned for close to ten years then deported back to Cambodia in 1998. With little, or close to no relationship I have with my only brother, this piece is my access to understanding him as a person who struggled with the legal system and was powerless in respect to the deportation process. |
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| Alija and I met in Center For New Americans about eight years ago. |
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| Home is where my family is. |
