Here are 10 photos (out of 22) from my series Racial Microaggressions. I have asked my friends on the Fordham University Lincoln Center campus to write down an instance of racial microaggression they have faced on a poster for me to take a picture of them.
I didn’t make youngarts.
Man, rejection letters sting.
It’s the first of many I suppose.
I wasn’t going to wash my hair tonight, but at the moment I feel really dirty in my own skin.
Have to wash myself out of myself.
"Eventually something you love is going to be taken away. And then you will fall to the floor crying. And then, however much later, it is finally happening to you: you’re falling to the floor crying thinking, “I am falling to the floor crying,” but there’s an element of the ridiculous to it — you knew it would happen and, even worse, while you’re on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor and you realize you didn’t paint it very well."
Richard Siken (via psych-facts)
When she left, he would walk in the snow at night and eat flowers.
First one, then another.
He wanted to grow a garden inside of himself, to fill the hole she left.
I would watch him, thinking that eating flowers the way he did made bad poetry.
I would watch the way he’d stagger, the way he remembered how she was full of blooming but he was full of winter petals.
I would watch him look around at the snow with eyes still half-asleep.
He was looking for you in the shadows of the snowfall.
I would watch him, and his flower-eating would begin to make sad sense.