When new to Cornell, being asked where you’re from is one of the first things everyone wants to know. My usual response is to answer, “Dallas”, as that lets someone know the general location of where I grew up, but I’m actually not from Dallas. My hometown, Highland Park, is a separate municipality completely encircled by the City of Dallas. Though, saying that I live in Dallas avoids confusing my hometown with a suburb of Chicago or me giving a crash course in Dallas municipal history.
Speaking of that crash course, Highland Park was planned in the early twentieth century to be a refuge from the widely-thought-dirty Dallas. As time progressed, the town obtained its own municipal services, school district, and sizable tax base which allowed the city to operate independently. Further legal structures, such as zoning restrictions, racist deed restrictions, and redlining, contributed to the enclave becoming increasingly white and wealthy. This was a stark contrast to the increasingly diverse Dallas Metroplex. It’s no surprise that with this walled-off legacy, Dallas residents commonly describe living in Highland Park as being in “the Bubble”.
Growing up right in “the Bubble”, it’s easy to not leave the town’s limits. After all, when you attend the local school and there is a plethora of restaurants, shops, and entertainment to be had, why bother venturing to Dallas? This train of thought was something that my ninth-grade photography teacher clashed with, as our first assignment was to go into Dallas and explore through the lenses of our cameras. Having zero idea where to go, I recall asking my mom to drive downtown until we came across something interesting. As we drove along, I would impulsively say to turn right or left on a street. Soon enough, I found myself amid Deep Ellum, a neighborhood right next to Downtown Dallas. It was an urban environment alien to me with abandoned warehouses, bars, nightclubs, and storefronts preserved from the early twentieth century. Finding a street with the neighborhood’s characteristic storefronts, I waited until sunset to capture the half-illuminated street, portraying what I perceived to be the neighborhood’s authentic grit. After framing the photo, I was enthralled not only with how my photo looked but also with how my camera allowed me to share my perspective of a neighborhood in physical form. For my next assignment, I utilized the same strategy of driving to a random part of Dallas, and I was now hooked on urban exploration.
While I found the pure act of discovering new neighborhoods exciting, it was the accompanying restaurants, architectural styles, and local cultures that I soon began to appreciate the most. One week I went to Trinity Groves, a recent development project, to take photos of the ongoing construction. Driving all the way there at sunset, the ideal time of day to photograph architecture, it made sense to grab a bite to eat there. So, my father and I visited Hofmann Hots, a local, historic establishment that sold hotdogs with a distinct West Dallas style. Through my urban photography trips, I wasn’t only experiencing the different visual aspects of each unique part of the city but also the flavors and scents. Waiting in line at local restaurants I would interact with the neighborhood’s residents and get a feel for the local atmosphere. While it sounds stereotypical, breaking out of the Highland Park bubble helped me break out of my shell. I no longer regulated myself to the same local restaurants and shops I had frequented all of my life until then. Photography allowed me to try Peruvian empanadas in East Dallas and po’ boys at a Creole-inspired food stand in South Dallas. Soon enough, I was bringing my friends along with me on my adventures to new parks, cultural landmarks, and local hotspots. Both a geographic and mental barrier had been broken, as I found exploring Dallas helped me develop a more active, open-minded perspective.
Interestingly, to this day, I have very few photos of Highland Park. To me, the myriad of Dallas neighborhoods I have represented in my photos is symbolic of the dynamic, ever-changing nature of the city. Granted, Dallas is a lot larger than Highland Park both in population and sheer geographic size. However, it’s also true that Highland Park is and has been stagnant, culturally and architecturally. On the other hand, my Dallas photos are so fascinating to me because they serve as a physical record of a rapidly-changing metropolitan area. The storefronts of Deep Ellum, the subject of my first photograph, don’t exist anymore, as Deep Ellum’s rapid gentrification has led to the propagation of countless luxury apartment buildings. In contrast, my photo of Rolex’s recently constructed headquarters in Downtown Dallas represents the new jobs, architectural styles, and people that are being transported to the Dallas Metroplex.
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