I reside blocks from the site of the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre. The massacre resulted in the firebombing of one of the most affluent black communities in the US. On my daily commute, I imagine what the former Black Wall Street (aka Greenwood) district was like, in texture, in sound, in color, in taste, in smell, in memory. I search archives for shelved witnesses while fast-forwarding past land grabs, community rebuilding, urban renewal, and gentrification. I apply tactile layers of paint, like scars, on archival photographs. As we approach the centennial of the Tulsa Race Massacre, Red Summer, and other race riots that took place across the United States, I offer one hundred mini-monuments with which to meditate on the future of our complicit fictions, suppressed memories, and united histories.

Walk with me.
I am in search of an elevator. A black man. A white woman.
Escaped goats.
Walk with me.
I am in search of traces of a former community thriving in exile
because of segregation.
Walk with me.
I am in search of pennies, melting together by fire.