BACKGROUND: One of the largest outrages in American politics this past year revolved around the topic of detaining migrant children, separating them from their families, and overflowing potentially-abusive shelters with children so young as to be nonverbal with no priority on parental reunion.
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THE SITUATION: The erasure of migrant trauma and child welfare is stunningly brusque, but it was an article from a few weeks ago that completely broke my heart: some facilities are forcing children to take psychotropic drugs without familial consent or believable emergency justifications, using brain-altering chemicals as ”straight-jackets.”
One detained boy describes it like this:
“‘The staff threatened to throw me on the ground and force me to take the medication,’ Julio Z testified. ‘I also saw staff throw another youth to the ground, pry his mouth open and force him to take the medicine. . . . They told me that if I did not take the medicine I could not leave, that the only way I could get out of Shiloh [shelter] was if I took the pills.’
His depression [for which the staff claimed he was receiving medication for] was in large part triggered by ‘being kept from family,’ who had entered the country before him, according to court documents.”
“Staff members at Shiloh admitted to signing off on medications in lieu of a parent, relative or legal guardian, according to [Judge] Gee’s ruling [to require familial consent]. Children testified in court filings that staff with the U.S. Office of Refugee Resettlement would sometimes not tell them what drugs they were being given or why…Some reported being forcibly injected with drugs, and others said they felt that refusing medications would cause them to be detained longer…A doctor at Shiloh who has signed off on many prescriptions for psychotropic drugs to immigrant children has practiced without board certification to treat children and adolescents for nearly a decade, the Center for Investigative Reporting found.” (source)
I could go on and on, but the effect is pretty clear: already, these children are suffering tremendous psychological stress that may impact the rest of their lives due to this detainment policy. As Dr. Jeff Temple, psychologist and professor at the University of Texas says: “‘Really what that amounts to is child abuse. These kids will experience negative and irreparable harm.’
‘It’s like food,’ he says. “Depriving them of their caregivers has effects on their brain as profound as starving them.”
So the use of psychotropic drugs to [supposedly] treat problems that otherwise wouldn’t exist, especially given my background in mental health advocacy, infuriated me to a level I’d never felt before.
I wanted to create an image about it. I wanted to donate proceeds to the ACLU, who is fighting for the rights of these children. But I ran into a moral dilemma: who do I depict in the photo? And am I to portray repression or resilience? Is optimism an undeserved luxury here; is reality more purposeful and incisive?
I decided to take a self-portrait. I’m an Asian-American female on the tail-end of her teens, in many ways very different from the demographic of detained children in this story. But I thought perhaps an image as ambiguous and faceless as this one more aptly captures the blanket erasure of this policy, and also subtly emphasizes the solidarity that some of us feel, especially given the stories of Asian refugees in the recent past to the U.S. (I could talk about the way American action played a critical role in the destabilization of political environments abroad that led to so many fleeing their home countries, both in Southeast Asia and in Latin America - among other places - and therefore the irony of this treatment of migrant children, many seeking asylum. But that’s a long conversation for another time.)
Anyhow, portraying a child, I believed, would come with moral questions of its own. At least with a self-portrait, the only person that can be harmed out of this is me. Besides, these children may be younger than I am now, but the effects of this experience will stay with them for a lifetime. I thought perhaps my relatively older age can encourage people to consider the long-term impacts of detainment and remember that these children are having to “grow up” prematurely to survive in roles they should never have to play in the first place.
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THE ART: I knew I needed a dark palette and color contrasts that felt slightly uncomfortable. But there is remarkable resilience in these stories of children doing their best to be with each other and fighting on, and I didn’t want to lose that element of their strength. So with the pill containers on my person, I put in flowers and dirt: a symbol of growth and beauty in the very thing that’s supposed to stamp out individuality. After all, it’s not that I have anything against psychotropic drugs - in fact they can be incredibly effective for treating mental disorders. But the entire situation - creating trauma and then forcing the kids into submission with chemical help but without consent, without paralleled psychotherapy and non-medicinal techniques, in a state of legal and psychological limbo - it is exhausting and painful and something far more nuanced than just pills, but the pills are perhaps the most visually surprising way I can draw people into the conversation in the first place. And the bar code resembling prison bars, I hoped, would make people consider the way we’re treating these children: are we commercializing them in the sense that they’ve become one and the same under the policy, stocked in shelters waiting for somebody to pick them up but with no assurances or guarantees? The same idea goes into the title, where || represent l’s in the word “pill(age)”, affirming the way the pills (and the policy behind their usage) is pillaging the children of their young age and their human rights.
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THE FUTURE: There has been some changes since this summer: more than half of children under the age of 5 have been reunited with their families. But as of September, 12800 are still in detainment. The numbers on the barcode attempt to imprint the situation in unforgiving clarity: 012800-9-18-45. 12800 children as of September 2018 in the 45th Presidency of the United States.
This piece is a spur of the moment - I must do something - reaction to an ever-evolving story of pain and strength. But it is also a call to action. You can donate to an organization actively fighting for these detained children. You can also purchase this artwork on my Redbubble shop, and I’ll donate the proceeds to ACLU while you get a piece of art to keep. You can keep yourself informed and volunteer at the border if you speak Spanish. Spread the truth. Fight for children. Their future is our future, too.
Hi everyone! :)
Thank you so much for making your way here. I’ve been meaning to update this blog for the longest time but, as they say, life got in the way. My bad! But today I finally finished the last photo in my Minority Mental Health Month series, and due to the personal nature of this topic, I decided that I should finally dust off this blog and write a thing or two about it.
This series went a bit viral when I was ¾ of the way in, and @arts.ig, Pictoplasma, and Adobe all featured it - which blew my mind in all sorts of ways but also opened the floodgates to some wonderful and some more skeptical comments that illustrated for me how imperative it is that we have mental health education reform for this world, and the sooner the better.
To provide context: July was Minority Mental Health Month. As someone with a history of depression and bipolar disorder, and who founded and runs an organization destigmatizing mental illness with a 25,000-person impact on three continents, I’ve wrapped myself in the mental health world and shivered off years for it. Mental health is not only something deeply painful for me to remember, but something far more painful for others to presently experience. In that regard, I’ve pursued mental health research to an almost obsessive degree - so know that I’m doing my best in providing proper thought and context behind these images, and please let me know if I’ve misjudged a reality.
Just like how I started the Oriental Folklores series because I realized that fine art photography was an industry of beautiful girls in beautiful dresses in beautiful locations - with almost every model perennially white, which made me question how I, an Asian girl with skin the color of muddy rivers, could ever be “beautiful” - I was tired of mental health being buried beneath bed frames and front doors and backpacks like a silent curse. I was tired of these issues that were so obvious being so discreetly tossed like last week’s leftovers. Even when the media does mention mental health, it’s almost always from a white context, even though POC experience mental illnesses at the same percentage as whites - which means that some of the people who really need help are not able to see an avenue out reflected to them on screens. In fact, the very manual (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) that psychotherapists use to diagnose patients is based on white patients and neglects the glaring effects culture, immigration, and ethnicity can play in one’s mental health journey. Because of this, I wanted to raise awareness in a way that could potentially appeal to a mass audience: fine art photography.
#1: Cotton Cold
This was the first image that I took in the series. This entire summer I’ve been jumping from apartment to apartment for a safe place to stay during my internship in San Francisco. This meant that I had essentially no control of the conditions under which I shot, so I was amazed this image came together at all. I bought two giant bags of cotton balls and taped them to myself with the help of my roommate at the time. Then I put my glasses in front of the camera lens to give it that blurred, double-image effect. Mainly, I wanted to portray my journey through depression.
I mainly wanted to highlight two things: 1) the suffocating isolation of depression that I experienced; 2) the psychosomatic symptoms of mental illness that most people worldwide have no idea even exist. Specifically, I recalled depression as a period of my life when I felt like I was choking myself full of nothing - like I was hollow on the inside and desperate for anything to fill me, even if that something was as pointless as cotton balls. Note that I am speaking solely from my own perspective, for this reason:
Mental illness affects each person differently. It cannot and should not be generalized to a digestible, comfortable, socially-defined narrow definition that forces those whose experiences fall outside of that underinformed definition to dismiss their own pain because they are seen as “romanticizing” or “crying for attention” when all they are doing is portraying their own reality - especially if they very obviously and clearly state so that it is *their* own reality - in a way that is honest to them yet unfortunately outside of society’s myopic understanding of “acceptable” mental illness.
Onto point two: ethnic minorities are significantly more likely to suffer from physical symptoms in relation to mental illness, also known as psychosomatic symptoms, than the white population. The most well-known example I can think of for psychosomatic symptoms, however, is John Watson in Sherlock and his “limp.” In one episode, he suddenly loses his limp, and it turns out he didn’t actually break his leg - the limp was a psychosomatic symptom of his post traumatic stress disorder from combat. I wanted to use “cold” in the title of this image because many people don’t realize that mental and physical health are so interlinked that even your immune system can be impacted by it - and one immune system illness is the cold. Of course, that’s not to say anyone who has a cold is mentally ill. That’s certainly not true in almost every case. But I wanted people to see psychosomatic symptoms’ impact outside of the media’s interpretation of PTSD, and I wanted people to be jolted by how it can affect them on such a daily, intimate basis. This becomes all the more urgent when you take into consideration that people with mental illnesses are more likely to report physical symptoms if they’re from a minority group. For example: many Cambodian refugees report chronic neck pain. The doctors fail to find the cause. Turns out the root is in the slave labor many Cambodians underwent during the Cambodian genocide, and how that trauma manifested in physical symptoms. Some Southeast Asian refugees of the Vietnam and Secret War even suffer from psychosomatic blindness because the PTSD is so crippling. The reason behind this is very interesting and still under extensive study, but I highly encourage you to research it.
Unsurprisingly, a number of people were infuriated by my use of the word “cold” - unaware that physical and mental health are so interlinked. This only highlights my point: almost no education model currently recognizes the existence and importance of psychosomatic symptoms. Even beyond that, someone with a mental illness may not properly take care of their physical self when needs arise, exacerbating any medical concerns they may have. I can only hope that my photo series is the first step in a long journey of mental health education for all of us, myself included.
If we do not even understand the issue, how can we begin to solve it?
#2: Bipolar Balloons
I was home for a brief period this summer. I missed my family tremendously but stole away an hour to go to the local 99-cents store and get myself a few packets of balloons. The next thing my brother knew was that I was home, with balloons taped all over myself and my face, and begging him to stand in for me as I focus the camera. All the photos in this series are self-portraits, after all, since it was for such an intimate project that I felt like I had to tell it myself. I don’t own a remote, but I managed to semi-master the 10-second timer countdown that naturally comes with the camera, which I think is great progress to have even if that means spending hours by myself running around the camera, haha.
For this image, the idea was to use strong intense opposite colors on the color wheel (red and blue) to show how metaphorically speaking, bipolar disorder to me was an intense proliferation of opposite emotions (depressive deepness and jostling highs). I also taped myself with balloons because it was this idea of constantly being filled up and then, when the air whooshes out, the balloon sputters itself into flat nothing again - just like how I felt after an episode of manic symptoms. Of course, this photo became the “clearest” of all my images because it had the word “bipolar” so clearly in it. Which I found cripplingly interesting, because, well, I have interviewed people from the wealthiest and poorest neighborhoods of the United States about their mental health experiences and heard thousands, if not tens of thousands, of mental health stories from every background and every corner of the world. One thing has always remained glaringly prominent: society has a horrifyingly narrow definition of mental illness. Like I said above, any story that falls outside of that black-and-white definition becomes dismissed, a “romanticization,” or a worthless “cry for attention.”
When people accused me of romanticizing mental illness, and I asked them what exactly about these images romanticized mental illness, they usually suddenly didn’t have an answer or said, “well, it’s too beautiful,” as if people who are depressed are not capable of desiring beauty. That’s okay - that’s what our lack of an education on mental health and reliance on media for understanding has regrettably led to: the idea that anything more than black-and-white agony could not possibly be mental illness even when we all know that human experiences are so diverse that of course mental health, too, would span a spectrum.
When I look at this image, I don’t think it’s beautiful. I hurt when I see it. It reminds me of so much pain and sorrow and this desperate desire to be perceived as pretty and worthwhile even as I could feel the air squeeze out of my lungs. I suppose I could say I think it’s beautiful, but only because there’s a touch of sorrow kneaded into that beauty, and to me, that sorrow makes the beauty toxic. It warns me off. It’s not an invitation but rather a forlorn warning that the path may drip of gorgeousness yet ultimately is a surrender of one’s own humanity. So maybe for some people, this series became a romanticization of mental illness, but I think jumping immediately to that conclusion is inherently dangerous.
The issue with this becomes very simple: the more we insist on a grey/black/dark definition of socially defined mental illnesses (often manifested with visible “proof” like self-harm or even suicide), the more we shut down the dialogue necessary for mental health attitudes to change. I have heard countless stories – including my own – where my experience of mental illness didn’t fit what mainstream media told me I should experience, and therefore my experience was left to rot in my soured body. If my portrayal of my honest experience is a “romanticization” of mental illness, what is essentially being claimed is that my experience was not legitimate. That my experience was a glorified tale of a mental health journey that is pretty in its delicateness and futile in its shallowness. But my experience was not gentle. My journey was violent. I am a suicide attempt survivor. While I can understand the desire to prevent romanticization of mental illness from taking place, ultimately, I can only tell a mental health story the way I know it. And if that means to show you what it felt like to crave beauty when all I felt was death, to wish for the glitter and colors and party balloons so that I would fall in glimpses of comfort, my pain softened by the simple things in life that made hope possible - then that’s the honest truth I will show, even if it comes at the risk of other people mistaking it as a glorification of my own agony.
#3: Rubber B(r)anded
This image was based on the idea that rubber bands are stretchable, flexible, versatile - until you pull too far and they irrevocably snap. Just like how I felt. I thought that I was capable of handling everything, but eventually in my mental health life I reached a point at which I snapped. Also, I entangled myself in rubber bands because I had felt like I was buried in a shell that people kept trying to break, and when they succeeded, what they saw wasn’t exactly jovial - so they were terrified, shuffled away with a “I’m sorry” muffled somewhere in between.
To take this image, I wrapped myself in rubber bands, which sliced red gorges across my hands until they buzzed and I fell a bit numb. Did I have to do that? Of course not, but I wanted to remain authentic to my story. Elements of pain that I could safely inject into the photo-taking process would remind me why I’m doing this, why I care, and why I have to stay true to how I felt even if others say it’s too “colorful” to be real. This intense, psychedelic explosion of colors - matched with a demure, almost snarling expression in the middle - was exactly my journey. An incessant earthquake of emotions that ripped smiles from my face until I turned bitter, captured, and ultimately bland. I washed myself clean of feelings to bear with the world - I was tired of “brands” people put on me based on what they saw, and as a clean slate, no one knew or dared to label me - but eventually I realized that I was denying myself what made existence worthwhile. Fight. Strength. Resilience. Love. Emotions made me human. I was no longer rubber, I was no longer plastic - I could not afford to be.
#4: Masked Malady
Finally, it was time to take the last photo of the series. The problem? All my ideas required resources I don’t currently have, whether that’s space, money, people, or time. Coupled with the “virality” of this series just before I began shooting the last image, and I could not stop wondering if I could ever produce a “decent” work of art ever again. I tried trash bags; receipts; napkins; whatever I had lying around, to see if I could make one more photo in line with the overall theme of this series - something mundane crawling up all over me until I dissolved into it, my essence rubbed clean like soap and my journey a stilted reflection in fine art. It was on the very last day I gave myself to brainstorm that I finally thought of using aluminum foil. By the time I finished taking this picture, the very last rays of sunlight were gone. Just in time.
I’ll just say this about the process: getting foil to stay on your body is not easy. But eventually (and with some compositing) it all worked out. :)
For this image, I drew on several ideas. First, I loved the classic images of the Raphaelite era. I’d recently backpacked across Europe and saw Caravaggio and so many other great masters up close for the very first time. The trip revolutionized how I looked at art and forced me to confront history in a way I didn’t realize I needed to until I understood the necessity. I’ve tried this old style once before, for my “Hydrangea Queen” series, but it’s been a while and I wondered if it would work for Asian skin tones. I also wanted to play on the old Greek symbol of the two masks - one laughing, one crying - so emblematic of theatre and classical culture. Lastly, I remembered the gorgeous frames that I saw in Florence’s art museums - especially the ones that surrounded artworks owned by the Medici family - and I knew I had to incorporate a simpler, modern idea of that into my photo to conceptualize the ceaseless undulation of time.
After all, if the classical and the modern can flow and evolve, then it makes perfect sense that emotions and people do, too. That pain ebbs into hope. When time becomes infinitely connected, I can claim that so, too, are experiences. Mental health has mattered since the beginning of consciousness and will matter both intimately within our individual lifetimes and within the broader scope of human existence.
With these influences, and the fact that a large part of my own mental health journey was exacerbated by a clash of Western and Eastern cultures (to see a therapist or follow traditional herbal prescriptions? Is this normal or a weakness?), I decided to symbolically display the identity chaos I felt: I, a foiled existence, wrapped in reflections and light and wrinkled skin, would finally ease off the mask that I wore to keep others unsuspecting of my true human nature inside. This is a world that prides itself on efficiency and machinery, after all. Human emotions are distractions. But I would, in this image, finally unmask my skin-thin smile and emerge to let true emotions show - to humanize my existence. It was a hopeful finale in the sense that I learned to accept myself with all my turbulence and exhaustion. I could be joyous or sobbing so hard I could flood the state of California, but it did not matter - I was out of this glaring foil shell and I could breathe again. There was light. I peeled my shell clean and inhaled in a second chance.
I hope this helps explain parts of the series to you, dear reader. I know I didn’t explain everything, but it’s very important to me that I don’t explain every tiny thought I have for a photo because the beauty of art is in its openness to interpretation. Especially because this topic is so personal, I want each person to be able to understand the photos in their own way. So even as I make certain claims and arguments, if you don’t agree with me, well, I hope that at least you liked the art. :)
I also encourage you to learn more about mental health. For example, do you know the difference between bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder? For a long time, I certainly didn’t. But education doesn’t have to start when we’re young. The time to learn, to grow, and to fight is now.
If this series inspired you, made you think, or taught you something, I’d love to know. If you’re currently suffering from mental health concerns, please don’t be afraid to seek help. There is no shame. If therapy is too intense for you, try some of these other resources. Art, too, is a release. The important thing is to remember that you are not alone and that you are worthy of life and joy and peace.
Until next time, my friends,
#1: Cotton Cold
#2: Bipolar Balloons
#3: Rubber B(r)anded
#4: Masked Malad