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And Taste the Dirt Below
Brayan Enriquez
Series description

Twenty-six years ago my parents immigrated to the United States. As a child, I would imagine my parents’ odyssey in rudimentary terms: walking, loving and being bold. Through the years, however, I’ve managed to contextualise the reality of our situation and now use words such as treacherous, lonely and fearful. When asked, my father replays the moment his group lay flat on their stomachs, hiding from an oblivious ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) officer who sat nearby. My mother recalls trekking through knee-high mud in an Arizona desert, thousands of miles away from her home in Acapulco, Mexico. My sister, on the other hand, can’t remember much – she was only five years old at the time. This project navigates this complicated history, highlighting how this experience isn’t wholly unique to my family. The photographs were all taken within our home, because of its function as a place of refuge for undocumented immigrants across the nation.

Biography

Brayan Enriquez is a first-generation Mexican American artist based out of Atlanta, Georgia. His work focuses on his immediate family and their experience of being undocumented to discuss the migrant experience in the United States. Enriquez is currently pursuing a BFA in Photography from Georgia State University. He’s a recipient of the Atlanta Center of Photography Equity Scholarship, The Larry and Gwen Walker Award, and has been featured on Lenscratch’s Top 26 to Watch list.

Untitled (Self Portrait)
Untitled (Self Portrait)
Whenever my parents find it hard to explain something they always turn to two things: God and the family archive.
His salute
His salute
He sleeps with his arm across his chest as if practicing his pledge of allegiance to a flag he knows little about.
My father
My father
My father refuses to learn English. He claims it’s the only thing he has left.
The Last Supper (verso)
The Last Supper (verso)
The verso side of an artwork depicting The Last Supper. It was made in prison by a family friend before they were deported.
20 Years of service
20 Years of service
They sit in the uniforms of the only job they could get: Steak ‘n Shake. Her name tag reads ‘Gloria Salinas, 20 years of service’.
The kids
The kids
My mother’s grandchildren (my nephews), lie beneath her, gazing at a clear sky.
My mother
My mother
My mother sits alone. Just before I pressed the shutter button I asked: ‘What are you thinking about?’ Her response was simply ‘home’.