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rAiS3d bY 5tR4Ng3Rz 0n t3h in73r\/\/3bZ

social platforms were the hallways to my bedroom – a digital carving of image and code scrapped together by a teenager. An entire history hidden behind a locked account resembles the cute diaries that became a public blog I kept from 11 to 27. Archives of photographic evidence that are still available for public view haunt a present that is also my past.

In 2021 when a white man opened fire on two massage parlors in Atlanta Georgia a hole was left in my heart. Six out of the eight people killed were of Asian descent, and my stomach still sinks at the weight of coming from a stereotype of sexual slavery. The 21 year old wanted to “eliminate” places of temptation, and drove to two different locations to execute his desire The police claimed this was not racially motivated but that he was “having a very bad day.”

My life, digital and analogue, are so intertwined – how do I tell a lover that my body is my highest commodity? Formed by the thoughts of people who treated me like “one of the guys”, I became the accumulated knowledge of men ten years my senior. This forced me to be more dynamic in the way I navigated the world when they wanted more.

RAWR, a cute way of masking a hardened sadness. L337, a series of letters and numbers that mimic broken language or code. The amount of acronyms in my vernacular is higher than I can count in Tagalog. Our various ways of communicating leaves us with endless possibilities as the meaning of a smiley face. When I was doxxed the first time, I failed to tell anyone because we didn’t have the words. I suffered quietly after the second time because I was taught that that’s what I get for being online.


My body as a woman is just as protected as an account with a weak password.

Our digital folk tale emerges from the unlivable reality we find ourselves in. A fragile body under the constant duress of stress and anxiety, I work while I walk to work out to sustain me and my meat sack finding ways to maximize time and efficiency. This is not what I thought “living on the edge” meant.

vickie -my apartment was named by a friend. Discussing life in the flurry of time that might be an effect of the pandemic or a symptom of age, the name reminded me of 90’s Euro dance acts. Amber. Gina. Katalina. vickie. Mysterious techno beings telling you to dance, with the urgency of now. The name encompassed everything I was feeling about starting life over again, and this time fr. 

On the precipice change, there’s so much to talk about, where do we begin? 

Amongst a private audience of objects is the precarious place where vickies lives.

A story from the past/future we never saw ourselves in, the remix of privacy and anonymity

excerpt is from the photo/essay published by 
Birchwood Palace Industries


additional capturing and processing by


copyright 2024 Trina Fernandez
all rights reserved

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