The town that I grew up in was officially named the Gold Coast by real estate developers.
Through urban planning, tourism boards, real estate and advertising, the town was structured to deliver a fantasy to the people who visited, as well as its residents.
I thought that the drug trade, the rape, the violence, the sleazy underworld business was just a normal part of life. I thought that everyone lived this way.
In part it was because I had learned, through visual culture, that seedy places didn’t look like this. Dangerous places looked dark, filled with broken windows and alleyways.
There was no reason to be wary when the sun shone down every day on white folk dressed in polo shirts, aqua swimming pools, luxury SUVs and endless white sand beaches.
By the time I was 13, I could get my hands on any kind of contraband I knew how to pronounce. I knew of at least two friends who had been gang raped by the time I was 17.
By the time I was 18, I’d seen two people get their throats cut and bleed to death in the living room of a friend’s house.
All of these events took place in homes that were designed and sold as a utopia of waterfront living.
They don’t tell you that the waterways that thread these neighbourhoods are literally populated by bull sharks.
It wasn’t until I was 27 years old that I moved to another city with my family.
And it wasn’t until I was 30 that I felt compelled to go back to the Gold Coast to answer the questions that drove me to become a nomad, drawn to places like Florida and Atlantic City over and over again like some Lynchian Groundhog Day, photographing what I saw but never really being satisfied.
It was going back to ground zero that illuminated many things about who I am as a photographer and the issues that drive me.
Going back and self-publishing my first book, my debut statement, about this town and my experience there has given me the answers that I need to move forward.
It has become a way for me to communicate to the outside world a fragility in the social fabric that we buy into.
Rich people can steal, white men can kill and people can cook meth in a home with a pool and a nice front lawn.
This story originally appeared in Huck 46 – The Documentary Photography Special II. Get it from the Huck Shop or subscribe to make sure you don’t miss another issue.
Check out the portfolio of photographer Ying Ang or buy her Gold Coast book.
Enjoyed this article? Like Huck on Facebook or follow us on Twitter.
Latest on Huck
In Photos: A decade growing up in pre-gentrification Lower East Side
A new photobook provides an up-close-and-personal look at the life of a Puerto Rican family, documenting them growing up as the world changed around them.
Written by: Isaac Muk
This summer taught us everything is... marketing
Months of historic political violence, memes, auras, and, of course, ‘brat’ has newsletter columnist Emma Garland asking if anything is real anymore?
Written by: Emma Garland
Rick Castro’s intimate portraits of love and remembrance
Columbarium Continuum is an ongoing exhibition of photographs displayed inside the two-story art nouveau columbarium of the iconic Hollywood Forever cemetery.
Written by: Miss Rosen
The disabled Flâneur forcing us to rethink our cities
This perspective-shifting short film follows Phil Waterworth, the wheelchair-bound urban explorer confronting a lack of accessibility in cities like Sheffield.
Written by: Alex King
Chronicling conflict and survival in the Democratic Republic of Congo
A new photo exhibition documents how a brutal conflict on the eastern edge of the country continues to devastate the lives of civilians.
Written by: Miss Rosen
A playful look at Gen X teens coming of age in 1980s America
After fleeing Pinochet, Sergio Purtell created a photographic love letter to the people of his adopted home with the knowing eye of one who has seen their homeland fall to fascism.
Written by: Miss Rosen