New York Magazine

Click here to see the online version on THE CUT

Portfolio by Holly Andres
Styling by Rebecca Ramsey

Interviews by Alexa Tsoulis-Reay.
On-location styling and production by Sheri Mendes and Ragen Fykes. Styling assistance by Indya Brown. Special thanks to Sidney Bailey, and Jim Stoddard.
Graphics by Jeni Zhen.

The Journey.

Like most people I've been concerned about the divisiveness of America, often feeling like I'm living in a country I don't know or understand. So in late June when The New York Magazine contacted me about photographing their fall fashion portfolio and pitched the concept of road-tripping throughout the US to photograph diverse (non-model) American Women, I packed my bags and started downloading podcasts. Sheri Mendes, my wildly talented assistant/new best pal and I hopped in a mini van chock full of designer clothing. Ragen Fykes would catch up with us through the rust belt on this 15-shoot, 8,186 mile journey around this magnificent country that would leave us all forever changed.

The route includes cities I've always wanted to visit, have a compelling visual aesthetic, or are destinations where family members or friends live. In between our shoot days, we drove 7 - 12 hours. Sheri rolled on like a truck driver, while I drugged myself on Dramamine and converted the passenger seat to a roving office. In our mobile cockpit, I could virtually scout locations, cast subjects, and produce from the marvelous glories of the road. Even with the tremendous help from the NY Mag photo department, often times we were still firming up plans the day, hour, or minutes before the shoots. Despite some subjects pulling no-shows, torrential downpour in Washington DC, heat exhaustion in Lincoln, Nebraska, and missing the opportunity to photograph a honeymoon suite in Niagara Falls—equipped with a heart-shaped jacuzzi—  because Niagara Falls has two sides; The US and the Canadian side! Nevertheless, we persisted and completed all 15 shoots. 

This is the depiction of one journey through the three distinct voices of Holly, Shari, and Ragen. 

Portland, Oregon.

I used my hometown advantage in Portland, Oregon to photograph as many different women in as many different locations as I could finagle. This experience allowed me to create a wide variety of images to present to the team at NY Mag and establish an approach to unify the portfolio. 

When the boxes and trunks of clothing arrived, I invited some of my most fashion-forward friends to help me unpack and (gleefully) try on some of the looks. Like it or not, there is something truly transcendent about adorning yourself in the intricate creations of designers like Gucci, Versace, Prada, Hermes, etc. As my friend/wardrobe stylist Ragen Fykes reminded me, these pieces are works of art and the inception of styles that ultimately trickle down to inform the clothes/trends that fill our closets today. 

Harsh sunlight, injured goats, a stroll around the neighborhood, a Prada jacket ALMOST crossing a sacred fire pit... these small and subtle moments helped bring to light the cinematic stories that I wanted to echo through this entire series. The United States would be a massive soundstage, with every city a new scene, and every subject a different character. 

Lauren Gonsalves, 24
JEWELRY-MAKER, ILLUSTRATOR

“I’d say I’m akin to Jodie Foster as Dr. Ellie Arroway in Contact, with a mixture of Wayne Campbell and Garth Algar from Wayne’s World. I try to not take myself too seriously.

“The strip of grass my bedroom window looks out at we call the kitty-cat highway. There’s a bunch of neighborhood cats, and I happen to have the loudest. Recently, I came home to find a group of three young people taking selfies with my cat, Noodle, and he was absolutely loving it.”

Los Angeles, California.

Our lap of luxury occurred on our one-way flight from PDX to LAX. That's it. For all intensive purposes, it would be bed sharing, fast food, no food, no showers, dirty underwear (and we're not being kinky), lots of sweat, lots of smells, getting lost, losing time, losing sleep, and losing shit... and in the grand scheme of things, thats still pretty damn luxurious.

After contacting every single person I knew in LA to see if anyone knew someone, that potentially knew another someone, that had a recommendation for yet another someone with a 60s/70s LA style home, car or even an exterior of a building to shoot against, we finally arrived upon Honor Hamilton. Honor— a wardrobe stylist homegrown in Los Angeles and named after Bond Girl Honor Blackman from the legendary, Goldfinger, enchanted us with her 1970's Rambler styled home, completely restored to its original 1970s motif... but way, way, cooler.

How do you NOT have a blast in a home with such fervent character? A pool, shag carpet, hanging macramé chairs, and an old white El Camino! Fine. Luxury is still living gracefully in our sojourned laps and I'm still certain to take my multivitamins daily.

Honor Hamilton, 29
STYLIST, VINTAGE SELLER

“Both my parents worked, so I always wanted to be a working woman. As I get older, I find I am less interested in having a family. I feel like this is the norm among my peers — we all are bearing the burdens of our predecessors.”

Las Vegas, Nevada.

It's the beginning of our trip and Sheri and I are already in sync. Whatever vibes we’ve got going on, I have to admit, this feels like the perfect preface to a free-wheeling metropolis like Las Vegas.

It's 103 degrees, and you should know that our Portland skin is thin. We reside like vampires in our continental corner of this country. We hide amongst the overgrown moss and mammoth sized evergreens. While basking amongst the deluge, we resit things like, GMO’s, President Agent Orange and… the sun. The sun is relentless and daunting on rain-soaked skin like ours. Therefore we learned quickly that the throws of hell (aka the whole month of July) hath no fury on a garment that refuse to protect our P-town coats.

For anyone that feels empowered to make the immoral pilgrimage from Los Angeles to Las Vegas, my humble suggestion is; do it on a major holiday weekend. Better yet, sojourn your expedition on a weekend that is congested with cars, human beings, dogs, cats, parrots and the like. Find any possible way to make a leisurely 4 hour journey, 8. OH! And by all means! Go the same weekend that marijuana becomes legal and 4th of July soirées are all the rage(r).

We set on meeting our subjects at our Airbnb…. Our 80’s porno, “bow-chicka-wow-wow”,  just shy of a mirror on the ceiling, Airbnb. Primped, proper and true as we possibly knew, we hit the buzzing Vegas streets— amongst strollers, fedoras, blinking penis headbands and all.

Edith Bahena, 24
Actress, Retail Associate

“I work at Neiman Marcus Last Call — not like the full department store; it’s the outlet. I don’t think I could do a department store, because they work on commission and I don’t deal with competition very well. I’m like, Let me just hide in my little corner. I aspire to be a successful actress, though. I like old Hollywood films and stars like Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, and Audrey Hepburn. When my family moved here from Mexico, I was 10. I didn’t have many friends, so I turned to movies so I didn’t feel lonely.

“I don’t go to casinos anymore. As a little girl, I was like, Oh, look at all those pretty lights. When I turned 21, my friend took me to a casino and I lost $5. I was like, I’m never going back again. It was just a little machine, and it took all my money.”

Khalilah Yasmin, 35
SHOWGIRL, WRITER

“Would I return to Nebraska? There’s so many places to see that I don’t need to go back to that one.

“When I was growing up, my mom’s other children rejected me. Mom once said they were rejecting of me because I was lighter-skinned than they were. It’s just so strange that you can hate a child for something they have no control over.”

Sante Fe, New Mexico.

Welcome to the Mother Road. We’re not far from where we started and apparently we’ve already made it. Route 66, the Main Street of America, the resplendent path that will chaperone our voyage to Santa Fe. For the sake of all things kitschy and cliche, we want Route 66 to be what our imaginative impressions expect it to be. One gas station, cracked roads, roadside attractions, a vast vehicular abyss of nothingness, a hopeful mirage. Sure, Route 66 can be that if you look for it… but it can also be a so much more.

We’d be doing you a disservice if we painted the road through Navajo Nation as an Instagramers dream. The tragic irony of decaying, cement-painted teepees towering over a wonky dinosaur park, or a monumental dream catcher gives a blind eye to the real monsters that dance in the indigenous communities of our nation. But the Southwest is undeniably enchanting. The quality of light is truly magical. Peering out to the massive panorama we transcend into a Salvador Dali painting— the rock formations literally appear to be melting— and you become intimately aware why so many artists have been attracted to this "land of entrapment". With our subjects in pleasant tow, we descend upon the mesmerizing scenery that once evoked the marvels of Mother, Georgia O’Keeffe. 

Zoë Castro, 19
STUDENT

“They call it ‘the land of entrapment,’ and like most people, when I was growing up, I couldn’t wait to get out. Santa Fe doesn’t really have a lot to cater to youth; it’s mainly older people who come here to retire. When I graduated from high school, I went as far away as I could. But I missed it so much. I missed green chile, stepping out the front door to the sight of a coyote or a deer, the smell of the rain on the desert land, and the purple mountains contrasting with the red-orange sunsets. New Mexico has the most special energy. It’s a healing land, if you allow it to be.”

Dallas, Texas.

Everything seemed to change once we hit the state of Texas. Endless farm land, wild skies, and a pace as slow as a Texan drawl. Everything really is bigger in Texas … whether they like it or not. Billboards featuring weight reduction surgeries fill in the spaces between the 8-lane freeways and the glitzy skyscrapers built during the 1980s energy boom. We pulled into the city after driving 11 hours from Sante Fe to an epic lightning storm only to have to unload a stocky van filled with designer clothes in the torrential rain. 

The next day we set out to scout Southfork Ranch, the actual mansion where the legendary 1980s TV series, Dallas, was filmed. I had pulled a photo of it simply as a mood board reference, but when we learned it was still intact and available to rent, we were ready to throw our hats over the windmill. Of course Cadillacs, long horns, and the t-bone steaks are extra big in Dallas, but as we learned from interacting with the caretakers of the ranch, so are the hearts. As if having free reign to photograph in an immaculately-styled, vintage movie set wasn’t satisfying enough, our quick stint to the Big D resulted in an impromptu reunion with two pals I haven’t seen in over 21 years. My old pal, Howie’s, lovely and ambitious wife, Kate, was one of our subjects. After the shoot the two of them and another high school pal, Rory, joined us at our Airbnb for a whirl down memory lane. It was such a cool experience to reunite with these now grown men who shared in some of the most formative years of my life. Rory reminded me that we were both nominated “Most likely to be Talk Show Hosts” in our senior year book, and while I always dismissed the award, associating it with the sensationalism of Jerry Springer or the red-spectacled tabloid queen, Sally Jesse Raphael, he fully embraced it. Rory perceived it as a an acknowledgment of his social and communication skills and his ability to listen with sincerity and empathy. His perception seems both sane and accurate. Damn! I wish I had believed this 20 years ago; I could have been Holly Jesse Raphael. -Holly

Olivia Simons, 26
INTERIOR DESIGNER
(from Dallas)

“I work in a female-dominated industry, so I don’t ever feel held back at work just for being a woman. The lag is in the dating world. It’s considered weird and uncomfortable when I am as direct with the men I date as I am with the people I work with.”

Kate Reed, 32
NORTH AMERICA MARKET LEADER, IBM CORPORATION
(from Dallas)

“Often, when I see friends I knew from growing up — ones who may only know me now from my social-media presence — usually the first few questions are ‘What does your husband do?’ or ‘Wow, your husband must do well.’ Others may ask friends about my partner’s occupation — while never really considering that I have my own independence financially because of the path I took to be where I am today. I often find myself wondering why the same people who post about ‘equality in 2017’ still have a jaded view of mutual success.”

New Orleans, Louisiana.

Where do you find the words to describe a place so unlike any other? From crawfish to frog legs,  Jazz to Zydeco, voodoo magic to catholic rosaries. The countless juxtapositions that embody “The Big Easy” are anything but easy to digest. 

Ayshane, one of our subjects, said of New Orleans, “the highs are high, and the lows are low…NOLA lives and celebrates them both.” You celebrate the life and music of the French Quarter amongst post-Katrina veneer. It’s so much more than beads and bourbon street. 

There's a certain energy in the people of New Orleans. We spent the day with Ayjshane, Charm, Denisio and Kenetha. Each of these women brought a mystical air to the room. The magic of NOLA ever-present as we danced on the balcony of iconic, and said to be haunted, Muriels, and as we moved our way through Jackson square. As Holly delicately danced her camera through the crowd, it was beautiful to watch the women dance their hearts out to the sounds of an incredible New Orlean’s street band.

No matter what magic you believe NOLA to possess, it was clear that the magic was in the hearts of the beautiful women we photographed. -Shari 

Ayjshane Winslett, 25,
TAROT READER, MASSAGE THERAPIST

“I was a very introverted child. I mostly liked to make up games and stories and plays. I grew up with two younger brothers and a lot of time to myself. When I was in first grade, my teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I told her ‘I want to be a supermodel.’ She wrote model on the board. I corrected her and said, ‘No, supermodel.’

“I don’t dress up to do tarot. I wear one of my more of my flowing dresses because it looks more goddessish and also because it’s so hot. This is such a small town and reputation is so easily acquired, so I would feel ridiculous dressing up to read tarot and not dressing that way in public, because people would see me read tarot in costume and see me in real life and regular clothing, so I just keep it simple and just dress like myself.”

Charm Taylor, 32
PERFORMING ARTIST

“My house has been dubbed ‘the House of Joy’: It’s full of colorful art, the scent of magnolia flower, blue sage, sweetgrass, and frankincense. New Orleans feels like an island in climate and culture. At my house, I have a small chime tree and old porch swing perfect for day playtime with my friends and family. The doorway is surrounded by glass windows draped by bamboo. The porch is brimming with passion flower; iris; and herbs, peppers, and okra in small pots. The eggplant is taking a while, and lavender doesn’t grow very well on this island.”

Denisio Truitt, 34
FASHION DESIGNER

“I was born in the U.S.A., but my household was very West African — my mom is originally from Liberia — so I think the first time I came to New Orleans I was shocked how similar it felt to like my home culture. The way people talk, even the way they pronounce certain vowels, is very familiar. It was déjà vu, and I felt a connection to the city that I have never experienced before.

“I’ve come to accept that probably nowhere will ever truly feel like home, but New Orleans is the closest I’ve felt. But I’m very aware of the past — from Katrina to the rapid gentrification of the city and all of the black people who have been displaced. I still need to be very mindful of my status as a transplant.”

Kenetha Lanée, 35
MIDDLE-SCHOOL TEACHER

“I teach theater and speech in the Jefferson Parish public system. I want to reach disadvantaged students, and — I’ll cut to the chase — I really want to help uplift my people. As an African-American female teacher, I think my presence in a classroom is important. I can’t imagine what it was like to be a teacher back when I was growing up, and I’m not even that old! And you know, as a black teacher, I still feel like I have to prove myself.

“I have family from Louisiana who migrated to the North in the 1950s. So, even though I grew up in Chicago, I always had this affinity for Louisiana, but New Orleans was just something different. I can list all the things everybody does — the food, the people, the culture, the heat, the dialect, the music — but really, I feel free here. If you love her, she will love you back tenfold, but you have to love her all — the good and the bad. It’s like how you love a person.”

Winterville, Georgia.

As we continued our voyage south of the Mason-Dixon line, we attempted to sync up our podcasts to reflect the regions. At this point were were listening to This American Life’s binge-worthy S-Town, a euphemism for "Shit Town,” which proved to be a nail-biting mystery, as well as an exploration or poor, white, rural Alabama. Subsequent podcasts about the Civil Rights Movement urged us to stop in Montgomery, where we arrived at that perfect confluence of a freshly washed, post summer-rainstorm and the golden evening light illuminating the bight white government buildings. It was Sunday evening and the city was eerily absent of people. As we stepped out of our van it felt like we stepped back in time. We stood at the steps of Montgomery where Martin Luther Kind Jr. lead peaceful marches from Selma for voting rights and were met with horrific police brutality. In Atlanta we found our way to his birth home, and the tomb where he and his wife Coretta Scott King lay immortalized. This experience felt particularly poignant at a time when racism and hateful rhetoric is on the rise. We were reminded how deep these wounds are and how far we must go to heal them. 

From Atlanta we traveled north to to Winterville where we stopped at the endlessly enchanting Sweet Olive Farm Animal Sanctuary, whose magical farmhouse amid rolling pastures sets the scene for a happily-ever-after kingdom. After a long day’s work caring for injured, neglected and aging animals, we photographed 3 salt of the earth farm hands, Delaney, Melissa and Amy. After stomping through fields of cow pies in Louboutin heels, carrying chickens around like babies and laying amongst goats in Gucci dresses, we found ourselves wrapping up the evening at a local karaoke bar where we listened to Ring of Fire, while Johnny Cash spun in his grave. -Holly

Melissa Redd, 26
FARMHAND

“Instead of being distracted by people, I listen to the sound of leaves and crickets. It’s this whole buzzing, active, and alive world which has nothing to do with people or what people have created. It has always been there, and it’s still there.”

Washington D.C.

Oh, DC… The only city where we really ran in to trouble. The irony. There is nothing like a torrential downpour, a stubborn officer nearly kicking us off of the capital grounds and a $150 dollar Lyft ride to rain on your already rained on parade.  But our spirits were lifted by the women whose passions led them to the heart of democracy with real plans to deliver a better country:  Malika, a Muslim American journalist for Al Jazeera TV, Shauna an environmental engineer making her mark in a male-dominated industry, and Molly and Charis who are working towards their graduate degrees to better serve their communities. In a time when it’s often hard to imagine progress being made, after spending time with these ladies, I have more faith than ever. - Shari

Malika Bilal, 33 JOURNALIST FOR AL JAZEERA ENGLISH “There are times I feel more conspicuous about being Muslim, especially after there has been an incident involving someone claiming to be Muslim. Other times, it’s like, This is the United States, founded on religious freedom, and this is as much my country as anyone else’s. I take precautions. Like, I won’t walk along the train platform very close to the edge.”

Malika Bilal, 33
JOURNALIST FOR AL JAZEERA ENGLISH

“There are times I feel more conspicuous about being Muslim, especially after there has been an incident involving someone claiming to be Muslim. Other times, it’s like, This is the United States, founded on religious freedom, and this is as much my country as anyone else’s. I take precautions. Like, I won’t walk along the train platform very close to the edge.”

Niagara Falls / Buffalo, New York.

Driving from DC to Buffalo feels like stepping back in time. Embraced by the trees that make up the rolling mountains of Pennsylvania, each tiny town leads you through the woes of old Coal Country, and in case you forgot, the gigantic homemade “Make America Great Again” signs are a constant reminder. We arrived in downtown Buffalo after dark, our GPS and the lamp-fires of a mini Lady Liberty led us to our final stop for the evening. The next day we made our way to Niagara Falls where the rush and roar of the falls shows an example of Mother Nature at her fiercest.

It was humid again that day. The bolts of lightning began to splinter across the sky. Armed with a plan, camera in hand, and our subject Laura dressed in Prada, we stepped onto the steamboat, Maid of the Mist. While there are many words that can describe the falls, only one word can describe a ride on the Maid of the Mist…wet. 

Laura Wieloszynski, 25 PHOTOGRAPHER “My red hair is fun, but I am not about this freckle life. One time I went on a trip to Florida and got sunburned so bad that I was in a wheelchair at Disney World. I think American women constantly struggle with the temptation to idolize perfection.”

Laura Wieloszynski, 25
PHOTOGRAPHER

“My red hair is fun, but I am not about this freckle life. One time I went on a trip to Florida and got sunburned so bad that I was in a wheelchair at Disney World. I think American women constantly struggle with the temptation to idolize perfection.”

Detroit, Michigan.

I selfishly exist in this country like a tin can telephone; the west coast being on one end of the acoustic chamber and the east coast being the other. The string… that taught supportive line that dangles like the electrocardiogram tracing of my existence to the opposite end, is the rest of the country. In my impervious bubble I laugh freely. I scoff freely. I complain of the outs, honors and disbeliefs in this bubble, freely. I call to the other side and have my fairytales improvised and solidified. I make no mention of the string. I forget about the string. I forget that the heart beat… the pulse of the connection between me and the other end. 

I fell helplessly in love with Detroit before I ever met its grace. It was a romance that bore itself from three simple words, “I’m from Detroit”.  An affair that started from decades of digesting The Miracles, The Temptations, Mary Wells, Stevie Wonder, J Dilla, Slum Village, Black Milk, Jack white and a barrage of other artist that remained in my mental scope. A deep attraction with a spirited authenticity that emitted from every being hailing from Detroit. A fondness that grew every moment my old roommate would emerge with a jug that roared, Detroit Hustles Harder. You see, I had eyes for Detroit before my tiny feet touched its robust soil. There’s an assiduousness that is deeply embedded in the fabric of the people of Detroit. It was thepeople of Detroit. It is the people of Detroit. Goddamn! How could I not be compelled to love it. I found that in Nisa. I found that in Megan. I found that in Jim. Welcome 2 Detroit. - Ragen

Nisa Seal, 24
MUSICIAN

“Detroit has a realness that no amount of gentrification can take away. As a biracial woman, I spent years trying to fit in, damaging my hair with chemical straighteners and obsessing over my appearance. In the two years since I moved to Detroit, I’ve become comfortable enough to wear my hair natural in public for the first time. Then I shaved my head, cut back on makeup, and came out as gay. I really don’t think I would’ve done any of that if I hadn’t moved here.”

Valparaiso, Indiana.

I’ll start off by saying this; In my heart of hearts I was SURE that once we existed OUTSIDE of Detroit’s city limits, myself and our cozy van would be the only people of color I’d see. Matter fact, every time I emerge from a bustling city I rehearse the apocalyptic, Walking Dead, Game of Thrones, “WHO YOU GONNA CALL?! GHOSTBUSTERS” fighting styles/scenarios JUST IN CASE I run into someone who doesn’t “like my kind.” Be it a problematic way to exist or not, can one really blame me??

The road to Valparaiso is lined with real life Trump signs, real life horse and buggies, a real life McDonalds castle, real life realistic statues of people doing real life activities and to my very own astonishment…  real life BLACK PEOPLE! I attempted to quiet the alarm that constantly jars my my mind in a quaint space like Valpo. The ice cream was good (Valpo Velvet is the BEST), the people were kind, and I successfully avoided any establishment that Mike Pence MAY HAVE encountered. It’s typically fight or flight in these small-town landscapes. I wrestle with my irrational ideals instead of the beauty that occupies itself around me. I twiddle with what I suppose people assume of me. I can settle in this. I can settle in these uncharted waters. I can settle with being small town, me.

Less than an hour away, that desire to fight the flight all comes screaming back. We made a “pit-stop” in Gary, Indiana (and please, take a second to relinquish all the necessary side-eye, here). 

I juggled that fight or flight as Gary maintains its settlement after white flightI wasn’t of the sheltered mindset descending on a place like Gary, Indiana. I knew Gary was real shit. I knew Gary masoned steadily after its industry ran astray. I knew, just like Detroit, that the people of Gary upheld its churning soul and strength that shimmered amongst the rubble of the city. I will say, as a woman of color, the inquiry frequently speaks, “why do they always leave US behind?” Damn, there goes those questions again. 

With a purposeful intent to, “See where Micheal Jackson grew up!,” I saw a few things that glared much brighter than the always-remembered, King of Pop. You do more than cringe when you see a black male being pulled over by two cops. You swallow hard when you watch him keep his hands in plain sight… just in case. You cry when you see someone your aunts age strung out on more than you can name. You start to slowly sob when you watch dilapidated Black owned businesses with a small whisper of what they used to be. I cry for my people. I cry for my people every day. But damn, don’t I celebrate! I celebrate the strength of being Black. I celebrate this honor that we maintain. We’ve maintained. You can leave us amongst the ashes, we’ll always create mounds of diamonds. You can squalor about “your rights”, but we’ve transcended without ours. You can leave us with your broken dreams and my god we will mend them and create destiny. I see that in my people. I see that in you, Gary.  -Ragen

Greer Brown, 21
STUDENT, ICE-CREAM-SHOP ASSISTANT

“I’ve always felt that being a woman here is exactly the same as being a man. I’ve gone fishing with my dad ever since I can remember, and I don’t remember any tasks being gender-specific. In fact, I feel that in my little corner of the Midwest, we are equal. I guess you could say I come from a minimalistic family that places zero importance on appearance and more on character. My parents don’t really notice imperfections, so I’ve never really known how to spot them in myself. One time my friend was complaining about her pores and I had no clue what she meant.”

Malia Campau, 22
STAY-AT-HOME MOM

“I’ve lived within the same 30 miles my whole life. I live with my husband. We have two dogs and then a 1-year-old son. My husband works full time, goes to school. We met when we were 16, in high school, and started dating and now … here we are. I would say that it’s easier to be a stay-at-home mom here than in other parts of the country because the cost of living is so low. I don’t think we could have done the same if we lived in a big city.

“South Bend’s come a long way in the last five years. But Indiana is very conservative. I think the biggest social issue that we have is people still not being accepting of gays and also people not supporting women getting abortions. It’s very hard to be able to openly express your feelings about any of those things when you live in such a Republican environment.”

Lincoln, Nebraska.

The only thing that resonated between our short stint in Chicago and a nine hour haul to Lincoln was the hometown of Farrah Abraham, famously from 16 and Pregnant. And while I’m being completely transparent of my struggles and flaws, I’m commonly inundated with anxiety and severe panic attacks that tend to emerge like the wrath of an underpaid reality star… Holly calls it, “anxiety with a capital ‘A’.”

I managed to keep this debilitating worry the crevasse of my Carhartt pocket, but on the road to Lincoln that fear and loathing surely did materialize just the across the Iowa state borderline. After about four hours of driving, the road started to become a visually hypnotic white noise machine. While your eyes are being transfixed on the nothingness splattered outside of you, your thoughts… your fucking thoughts become this dreadful matter of clumsy “what if’s” that accompanies it. “What if I have a seizure while I’m driving… what if I pass out… what if I have a seizure AND pass out while transporting Holly and she never takes another photograph again?! Where’s the next hospital? What if there’s no hospital nearby and no one can save us in time? What if I’m the only black person when I get to this small town hospital?!? Am I driving erratic? What if I’m driving erratic and I don’t know it?! Oh my god… my chest… this is it I’m having a heart attack! I’m going to cause us harm! Danger! Danger!” and within a few moments the fear overgrowing on the inside makes a subtle guest appearance on the outside, “Hey, Holly… how do you feel about driving for a little bit”. No sooner before I turn off that hypnotic highway to mental hell, I’m crying from these farfetched and unwarranted fears in a cultish-looking church parking lot (hell 2.0). 

Holly is the most considerate person. The wealth of care and kindness that exist in her, exist beyond words. There’s also a genuineness that resides in her. She is willing to aide the human being you are and encouraging to the human being you desire to be. After my fall off the horse (or the van), I got back on. I got back on because of the person that believed in me. The person that was empathetic to the human in me… to the woman in me. 

Once we arrived in Lincoln... 103 degrees and humid, Lincoln, exhaustion overwhelmed us. No matter what task you oblige to, a depletion can strut effortlessly around you. We eyed each home as we slowly scoped our accommodations in Nebraska. Each humble house mirrored the perfect set of a TV sitcom.  “THAT’S IT! THAT’S THE HOUSE!” We crept undeniably in front of a home that housed eight smiling faces; Jesse, Meg, Lilly, George, Ellie, Jesse Kate, Sam, and Luke. Each one of them smiled a familiar smile. Each one of them housed a familiar face. Each one them existed in that same wealth of care that Holly couldn’t help but demonstrate. Holly’s kin had it. Kelsey, Allison, Sophie, and Cecilia had it. The middle of us… the U.S. undoubtedly had it.  

We can trudge through our scope with our dogmas, ideals, and skepticism. We can look past what we don’t want to see. We can poke fingers and blame… call it right. Call it left. We can conclude that its totally you and most certainly not me. We can exist in this place… in this very strong place and forget that the state of us lies not only on the other end of the tin can, but that there’s also a precious connection for the line that’s in-between. - Ragen

P.S.

There’s Black folk in Lincoln, too!

Sophie Costello, 19
STUDENT

“One thing about Lincoln is that I don’t live on a farm or drive a tractor to work while listening to country, like a lot of people think. I actually hate country and would rather throw on some Mura Masa while driving my Jeep. I don’t even own cowgirl boots. But the sunsets — I know every state claims they have the prettiest sunsets, but nothing compares to the bright-red color of the sky on a summer afternoon in the heart of Nebraska.”

Standing Rock, North Dakota.

By this time we were so far from home… yet it felt like there we were. Once again we arrived late at night. The sunset was beautiful, but on the backroads we quickly lost sight in the dark. Our GPS failed us, and we found ourselves pulled over on the side of the road. Almost immediately a vehicle approached us. “Can I help you? Are you guys ok?” It was this kindness and genuine care that would guide us through our time at Standing Rock. 

The next day was spent with Alexis, Darlene and Billi Jo. We met them at the Prairie Knights Casino & Resort, where they brought their cherished jewelry, belts, and head-pieces to augment the wardrobe. We photographed on their Uncle Syd’s horse ranch until the prairie sun set. You couldn’t put into words the beauty in such kindness, generosity and overall spirit of each one of these people. Even so far from it, Standing Rock was a place where we really felt at home. -Shari

Alexis Archambault, 24
GEOLOGICAL-ENGINEERING GRADUATE STUDENT

“I’m moving to Grand Forks, but for the majority of my life, I have lived on a reservation, where I’ve been surrounded by many women who have demonstrated strength, love, and perseverance. I look to them for guidance when I’m struggling, because where I’m from, no woman is alone. If I had five minutes to speak to the country, I would talk about the struggles Native American communities face from poverty to suicide to cultural appropriation.

“My dream is to help restore damaged areas of the Earth while raising my daughter. I hope she chases her wildest dreams and never settles.”

Cody, Wyoming.

We traverse westward through North Dakota, passing by that monumental holstein in New Salem. I know this dairy cow well, I’ve waved at her from the window as we drove by at least a dozen times as a child on our pilgrimages to Minnesota to see our grandparents, but I have never met her. This time, Sheri and I pull off of the highway and make the slow drive up the steep, narrow, twisting gravel road to take pictures beneath her massive udder and to feel the fast wind whip through our hair. We are on our way to Cody, Wyoming the Rodeo Capital of the World, to photograph the 16 year-old barrel racer, Hadley. We intend to stay with my sister Julie and her family, but it’s fair week and they’ll also be busy competing with their market pigs.

Located near the eastern entrance of Yellowstone National Park, and originated in part by THE Buffalo Bill, Cody is a fabricated Disneyland-esque Wild West fantasy for tourists. During the summer it hosts a nightly rodeo, it’s home to the the largest firearm museum, and is the birth place of Jackson Pollock. Incidentally, across the field from my sister’s house lies the remains and historical wounds of The Heart Mountain War Relocation Center where over 13,000 Japanese Americans were incarcerated during World War II - a number that exceeds Cody’s current population. After the war many of these citizens had nothing to return to on the West Coast, but were prohibited from homesteading in Wyoming (an alien land law that remained in place until 2001). After all, tourism is the town’s primary industry and the Old West facade crumbles in the face of racial diversity. Cody, Wyoming is a place where Americans flock to proudly wear Stetson and red MAGA hats with hopes of experiencing the last frontier of their Louis L’Amour fantasies. -Holly

Hadley Tate, 16, STUDENT “My dad was a professional cowboy for 18 years. I have been riding and competing since I was 3. I love America. I love how women can be independent here. If I had five minutes to speak to the country, I’d say: ‘Everyone, please stop complaining and look around and try being grateful for what you do have.’”

Hadley Tate, 16,
STUDENT

“My dad was a professional cowboy for 18 years. I have been riding and competing since I was 3. I love America. I love how women can be independent here. If I had five minutes to speak to the country, I’d say: ‘Everyone, please stop complaining and look around and try being grateful for what you do have.’”

Missoula, Montana.

Although it wasn’t intended, it somehow seems appropriate that our last stop happens to be my hometown. We stay with my oldest friend, KayCee, born two days before me in the same hospital, I have known her my entire life. Now the mother of three, she allows us to take over the basement/playroom with our wardrobe crates and by now busted up cardboard boxes. Once our subjects Chloe and Halisia arrive we pack up the van and head to Missoula’s favorite greasy spoon cafe and 1940s Americana time capsule, Ruby’s Cafe. Here I am channeling David Lynch, also born in Missoula, whose oeuvre has consistently offered inspiration to my own aesthetic and narratives, so when we wrap up our shoot (and slice of Ruby’s berry pie), we relocate to the train tracks and evergreens. As forrest fires rage on the outskirts of town, the sky is violet as the last of the day’s blood orange sun starts to sink into the horizon. While shooting near the tracks a man in a big white Ford truck screams out to us. With a newfound courage, perhaps from enduring the rigors of this journey, I scream back at him even louder. Rather than speeding off though, he turns quickly, driving in our direction and I immediately regret provoking him. When I see the Montana Rail Link signage on his foreboding truck, a wave of relief overcomes me; the worse case scenario is only a trespassing fine. 

As we wrap this final shoot Sheri and I are both overcome by an urge to weep. We’ve given this magnificent journey our all. We’ve had the opportunity to reveal our best and brightest assets and the experience has both humbled and empowered us in ways we didn’t anticipate. We are weary, but after 30 days the pace of the trip has become our norm. In the subsequent days, idle time will produce anxiety as we recalibrate to our respective homes and lives. This journey and its route, like the veins through our body are indelible. -Holly

Chloe Sky Dittloff, 18
RESTAURANT HOST

“I’m a member of the Blackfeet Southern Piikani community, and at the heart of being Blackfeet is the ability to strive in the face of adversity and maintain humor and compassion.“As a child, I faced a lot of the adversity early on, with my aunt being murdered and large swaths of my family ceding to alcoholism. I thought it best to play the harmless role of the jester — making people laugh in between their inevitable bouts of sorrow. I thought this was all good and fine until that sorrow found its way to me.

“I never want to be a stagnant person. I think you begin to fester when you stop growing — and I do not want to be the human equivalent of moldy Tupperware.”