My private yearnings for vindication growing up as a South Korean immigrant in Buffalo, NY hang in limbo or suffocated between the towering lenses of K-pop boy band BTS, and the government subsided apartment building my family lived in upon arriving in the U.S. that denoted our status as "poor." My childhood photos, while mildly denser in substance than the diaphanous visages, cannot compete with their scale and visibility and are relegated to a recessed status behind their inescapable and interpretive frames. In one close up shot, my bedroom window (marked with pink lines) is visible.

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