Found

Self portraits by Austrian artist Egon Schiele.

Pen and ink portraits by German artist Albrecht Durer.

Paintings by Portuguese artist Jose de Almada-Negreiros.

Full Service By KENDRA ALLEN It is black Friday. I am wearing a black hoodie with the words RACIALLY PROFILED printed in white across my chest. I am selected, randomly, at check in. Hands in my hair, down my back, in my hometown airport. Never touching my skin, only the fabric that is covering it. I am slightly embarrassed by all the eyes on me, the culprit, I can hear the What Did She Do’s? clearly. This is not coincidence. I wore this hoodie to the airport on purpose, I always do. My hands are swabbed with something that resembles a big band-aid and processed through a machine making static-like noise. They are finally tired of my black ass antics. The guard asks am I ok with this as she takes off her rubber gloves, as she finishes the job. I stare at the machine that holds my fingerprints inside. This is something I expected to happen at one point or another, yet right now I am mad that it is happening. She asks again, am I ok with this. She knows, but she doesn’t know, that I have become accustomed to being looked at as if my face is made of the darkest of chocolates, but I am still dirty. She doesn’t want to touch me. She never lays an ungloved finger on me. This is something I pick up on and now I am scared of accidentally rubbing my flesh against her tension. I know I will immediately say sorry if I do. I do not want a white girl to feel uncomfortable by my presence. I go out of my way to show my teeth. I have to prove that I am harmless and clean. My cocoa butter lotion will not rub off on you and make your skin look like mine, I promise, believe me. As she throws away her rubber gloves, I don’t ask her why she chose me because I know she cannot tell me the truth. When I get to my terminal, I am met with blue and green eyes that scurry to the floor in fear that I might take a seat next to them—I hope that it is because I am talking on the phone too loudly; it’s either that or the purple braids that are literally down my ass. I can feel myself changing, growing blacker in all the stereotypical ways that bring about love and loathe. I can feel myself changing. These braids are so long and separate from who I am. This is making me angry, presenting myself to this terminal only to be rejected. I quiet my speaking voice on the phone. I move my purple hair out of the way. I try to fix my face into a nice one. This anger is blocking my blessings. It never shifts. It is always there, showing niggas what they can and cannot do. The boarding process begins, they call Zone 2 and I make my way into the line. I am being watched, again, by white toddlers who look as if I am a rare stone they have never seen up close and personal. I am watched, again, by their mothers who move them out of my way to stop them from engaging with my walk of shame. I am being watched, again, what I do, what I say, how I move in the vicinity of the majority, it is hard for me to pass, I am not a passive girl. Although they get a pass, for being white, for having man-made authority. They get smiles and welcoming body language. On the other hand, I cannot even publicly claim that I matter without a: but not more than me echoing in my autobiography. I am boarding a plane on black Friday and I just got off of my period yesterday. I am feeling empty. There is no more blood left in me to shed. I sit down in my seat and the flight attendant is making jokes about picking your favorite child in case the plane happens to go down. I am sitting on a plane, black— in black pants— in a black hoodie—on black Friday. If this plane goes down, it will land no lower than where I already am on the all lives matter totem pole. At takeoff I close my eyes and say a silent prayer that if this is my last day on earth, Lord, please forgive me for my thoughts about white folks.

Installations by Chinese conceptual artist Ai Weiwei.