JUST GO AHEAD, THERE IS NOTHING TO FEAR 
According to the U.S. Census Bureau, 300-plus languages are spoken in this nation's homes — a number that more than doubles when we add unique country/language pairs, so that a Spanish speaker from Spain is counted separated from a Spanish speaker from Cuba. 
My goal with this project is to speak to one of each of them and share their stories, so that we might better understand the rich diversity of thought and expression at work here. In doing so, we are creating a portion of this country, made by the people who, in coming here, have experienced love and sorrow, loss and freedom. 
To capture the sense of optimism that has for centuries undergirded the task of creating one nation from many people, I've also asked each participant for their favorite phrase of "mutual enthusiastic cooperation" in their mother tongues. Ultimately, everyone who spends time with this project will find a message of goodwill, in the first language they ever knew. 
THE FIELD
Throughout the pandemic, the state hardest hit by covid-related deaths has been neither our population centers of New York nor California, neither Michigan nor South Dakota, both home to well-reported outbreaks, but New Jersey. 
I grew up in rural central New Jersey, and I was there for most of the pandemic. Near my childhood home is a small airport, which is buffered by a large field at its northern end: In the summer it is covered in wildflowers and tall grass, and in the winter it is home to white-tailed deer, rabbits, and foxes. In this field I practiced walks of remembrance, dispersing allium seeds in 12 wedge-shaped plots of land, in proportion to the number of deaths in the state each month from March 2020 to February 2021. 
A SWAMP IS A SWAMP / LE MARAIS EST UN MARAIS
Inspired by the sounds of frogs, turtles, and insects both from my native New Jersey and from the Baie de Somme in northern France, I installed speakers on street corners within the Marais and played soundscapes that returned these animals — or, at least, the noises they make — to the place that used to be their home. 
I grew up in rural central New Jersey, and I was there for most of the pandemic. Near my childhood home is a small airport, which is buffered by a large field at its northern end: In the summer it is covered in wildflowers and tall grass, and in the winter it is home to white-tailed deer, rabbits, and foxes. In this field I practiced walks of remembrance, dispersing allium seeds in 12 wedge-shaped plots of land, in proportion to the number of deaths in the state each month from March 2020 to February 2021. 
ESSINGTON AVENUE
“One day LaGuardia’s eye fell upon a peninsula on the Queens shoreline, a dismal strip of badlands called North Beach, separating Flushing Bay from Bowery Bay and scenically overlooking the great Rikers Island garbage dump.” — Jay Maeder, The New York Daily News
Airports are built on wasteland — or what is believed to be wasteland, until more fully considered. Hundreds of endangered bird and animal species harbor in the John Heinz Wildlife Refuge, which abuts the Philadelphia International Airport. These include bald eagles, black-headed herons, and the coastal leopard frog.
I worked on this project in partnership with the artist Naomi Alessandra, an MFA student at SFAI. We wanted to investigate the nature of these refuges, which sit cheek-by-jowl with such industrial sites. My part of the project focused on documenting the liminal space between the airport and the refuge's door, beginning with the tire waste on Essington Avenue. To do so, I documented every piece of trash I encountered on the brief journey, creating this photographic record. I also recorded birdsong within the pristine sanctity of the refuge — further illustrating the gulf between the spaces we choose to safeguard, and those we leave to deteriorate.