The Wolves of Division are Still Here
A lens turned inward and outward— a Brazilian / American documentary photographer challenges mainstream narratives about Chicago's most marginalized and finds his own identity along the way.
Chicago is plagued with racist stereotypes—“Don’t go to the Southside.” When I moved here in 2021, I quickly realized how deep segregation runs, woven through streets steeped in graffiti and hope.
Make no mistake: once you step onto the Red Line and head south of the Cermak-Chinatown “L” station, there’s a heaviness. But that heaviness isn’t the streets themselves—it’s the burden of white supremacy inflicted on the people living there.
I’ve been photographing marginalized communities on Chicago's Southside and Westside for several years. Some people get stuck on the “what if” questions: What if I get robbed? What if I don’t make it home? But those thoughts never cross my mind—not in fear, anyway. I am seen. I am part of the community, just another person of color walking around—the only difference is the camera around my neck and the backpack strapped to my back. The people I interact with don’t see me as a threat, and I don’t see them as one either. There is a mutual respect, often exchanged with nothing more than a simple nod.
How can a mechanical tool that captures light and shadows help fight this systemic battle of hate within the country?
The willful ignorance of what we don’t understand leads us to label one another as “other.” In someone else’s view of me, I am the other—I am the foreigner, the immigrant, the invader of this colonized land. But the way I see it, the photograph gives us permission to confront our ignorance on our own time. We might glance at a photograph for a second or even a minute, but the photos we return to are often of people and places we don’t inherently understand. They raise questions and challenge us to face our biases without the pressure of society hovering over us, judging us for not having the answers to cultural differences we’ve never been exposed to.
How can we expect others to learn about different cultures if we’re too scared to ask? More importantly, how can I expect others to confront their ignorance if I’m unwilling to do the work and battle my own? When I first came to Chicago, I carried the same notions: avoid certain areas, you’ll get shot, and so on. But I can’t expect other people to treat me with humanity if I’m unwilling to extend that same respect to them. The camera isn’t just a tool—it’s a self-portrait of my time on the streets, a step-by-step process of confronting and dismantling my ignorance.
“Fear is a construct of hate.”
I realize my photographs may not be for everyone—some might see them as too gritty, and others might find them uncomfortable. But to be blunt, these photographs and my journey aren’t meant to make you comfortable. I’m confronting the subtle biases you hold about places you’ve never experienced, shaped by mainstream media narratives about socioeconomic status, systemic racism, or the fear of gang violence. This work isn’t about comfort; it’s about reflection.
When you realize that we’re all just trying to make ends meet, put food on the table, and build a better life, you start to see these neighborhoods for what they really are—alive and proud. But if you enter with fear, it reeks; you can feel it. Once you let your shoulders drop and your tension fade, you’ll start to notice the little things that reveal a strong, vibrant community. The stories you’ve heard—those rooted in fear—are narratives shaped by white supremacist structures designed to devalue these neighborhoods through redlining and gentrification. It may be quiet, but it’s there—a form of colonization hiding in plain sight. The first step in confronting it is simple: show up, be present, and witness the history and culture that thrive in these communities.
I’ll be the first to admit that growing up, I benefited from white privilege by proximity; I grew up in a predominantly white residential area, and my adoptive parents are white. As a child, I internalized unconscious yet racist narratives about communities of lower socioeconomic status and majority Black and Brown neighborhoods. I had no representation of who I was as a young boy or who I would become as a man. When I hit puberty and was suddenly seen as a “threat” through the white gaze, I wasn’t prepared. It affected me deeply.
These narratives that surrounded me were fueled by the mainstream media and carried by people who had limited experience interacting with marginalized communities. When I began using my lens to document Chicago's Southside and Westside neighborhoods, my perspective started to change. With a camera around my neck, watching how the chaos breathed under pressure, the neighborhoods and people I met showed me the racist realities of systemic gentrification and segregation. I was also living on the Lower Westside of Chicago while doing this work, and communities I previously viewed from the outside became my own.
This shift forced me to confront the illusion of being “colorblind” that I had learned as a kid and as an international adoptee. It pushed me to educate myself on how these archetypes have endured—still shaping perceptions over 400 years after the transatlantic slave trade.
The role of a documentary social justice photographer is to be a bridge—connecting you to communities you may never walk through, events you might never witness, and stories you might otherwise never hear. It’s about more than just capturing images; it’s about creating a visual dialogue that challenges your perspective, amplifies voices that are silenced, and asks you to confront realities that are easy to ignore but impossible to forget once seen. The historical context of a photograph matters as much as the composition, if not more.
A photograph gives us the tools to confront our own biases, but the real question is—are we willing to face them?
Fantastic photos!
That part of Chicago and the people that live there don't get near the attention, or respect, they deserve.
1/2 & 1/2 flag, that b cool