1712 is a photo essay examining the concept of home as the aftereffect and expression of intergenerational trauma in a family. These photos were taken in 2010-2012, when photography became an outlet for me and a way to eventually prosper.
1712 W. 71st Street, Chicago, IL.
This was the address of my childhood home. When my siblings and I talk about our childhood, we use ‘1712’ as a moniker for those set of events and memories. This house was once owned by my great aunt Mildred and handed down to my mother to rent from my grandmother in 1995. This shell sheltered myself along with my siblings. This shell also contained all of the happenings therein and seemed to record it all on its very walls.
1712 W. 71st Street, Chicago, IL.
This was the address of my childhood home. When my siblings and I talk about our childhood, we use ‘1712’ as a moniker for those set of events and memories. This house was once owned by my great aunt Mildred and handed down to my mother to rent from my grandmother in 1995. This shell sheltered myself along with my siblings. This shell also contained all of the happenings therein and seemed to record it all on its very walls.
“You’ll find out when you get out there.”
These were the words my grandma imparted onto my mom when she asked for guidance and help when she had her first child. This was one of a few phrases my mom would repeat throughout my childhood when she spoke of her treatment at home as a child and young woman. They held the tone of how she was deliberately left to fend for herself, set onto the world without grace or support. These phrases, seemingly embedded in the walls, shaped the relationships my mother had with her children and the home she made.
In this place, imposter syndrome, mental illness and trauma bred and took hold of all of us. The compound effects of being delegated to the ‘have nots’ in a family of ‘haves’, the oppression of being Black, in all its deepest, darkest shades, in a country whose systems were designed to kill you and living in a neighborhood where death befell neighbor after neighbor after friend after loved one left little hope for us. In this place where solace should have been found, tensions rose and fell, our failures amplified by comparisons with those with more resources and our brilliance was dulled and silenced.
This all created the prefect storm of repeating cycles and repeating histories. If there is no room to breath in new air, you’re bound to recycle stagnant, lethal compounds that will poison you. The same can be said of the destiny of people in circumstances like this.
In this physical space, our spiritual and mental fortitudes waned by the daily struggle to survive. This affected our goals, our talents and gifts. It decided what would be left on the back burner to be revisited later, if ever, and that often meant prioritizing back breaking jobs to our Gawd given right to rest and leisure.
These were the words my grandma imparted onto my mom when she asked for guidance and help when she had her first child. This was one of a few phrases my mom would repeat throughout my childhood when she spoke of her treatment at home as a child and young woman. They held the tone of how she was deliberately left to fend for herself, set onto the world without grace or support. These phrases, seemingly embedded in the walls, shaped the relationships my mother had with her children and the home she made.
In this place, imposter syndrome, mental illness and trauma bred and took hold of all of us. The compound effects of being delegated to the ‘have nots’ in a family of ‘haves’, the oppression of being Black, in all its deepest, darkest shades, in a country whose systems were designed to kill you and living in a neighborhood where death befell neighbor after neighbor after friend after loved one left little hope for us. In this place where solace should have been found, tensions rose and fell, our failures amplified by comparisons with those with more resources and our brilliance was dulled and silenced.
This all created the prefect storm of repeating cycles and repeating histories. If there is no room to breath in new air, you’re bound to recycle stagnant, lethal compounds that will poison you. The same can be said of the destiny of people in circumstances like this.
In this physical space, our spiritual and mental fortitudes waned by the daily struggle to survive. This affected our goals, our talents and gifts. It decided what would be left on the back burner to be revisited later, if ever, and that often meant prioritizing back breaking jobs to our Gawd given right to rest and leisure.
“If you can find a way, you can make a way.”
This was a phrase I’d hear often after my mother would patch a leaky pipe or installed a piece of fence with a broken up pallet or as she repaired screens in the windows. This expression was almost always accompanied by a sweet grin and her persevering Spirit. This wording felt like a roaring contradiction to the negative expectations placed on us by others. This phrase made space for her to use her creativity to defiantly create something out of nothing. Where we could, we found respite in slices made of our own version of peace. For my mother, it would be in her vegetable garden in the backyard and in her beautiful display of flower beds in the frontward. It would also be in her fashion drawings and paintings of imagined domestic and romantic scenes of her ancestors. She taught us how to be survivors. She also taught us that our resilience was our most powerful possession.
As a child I couldn’t really grasp everything she’d done for us because I’d see my classmates and friends with things I wanted but couldn’t afford. I’d see how their houses were decorated and how much different ours looked and the energy it held. I held a lot of contempt for my mom then and it wasn’t until I moved out that I realize how much strength it took to keep herself and our home from completely falling apart. She held onto a place she made home, even after the upkeep became too expensive and unbearable. We moved out in 2013 when it became dangerous to live there due to the crumbling foundation and mold in the attic. In 2017, when my sisters and I were visiting her in-laws around the corner from 1712, we witnessed the demolishing of the house from across the alley. We each took a brick from a pile that built the walls of 1712 and held as many secrets as it did memories of our childhood home that day.
I present this collection of photos as a way to give thanks to my mother for all of the love she showed to us through her actions when she couldn’t express through words. I also present this series to give visibility to the many other families who have lived, and are living, in similar circumstances. The guilt and shame we feel while living in poverty, especially as children, should not be ours to hold and should not be our burden to carry.
Life persists and we are proof of that.
“If you can find a way, you can make a way.”
“I’m not perfect, but I do my best.”