Isle de Jean Charles is disappearing into the Gulf of Mexico. The gravel that holds the 3-mile road leading to the island is slowly erodeding into the saltwater. The island is now one-third the size it was when a Frenchman first settled there in 1876 after being shunned by his family for marrying a Native woman. Today, there are less than fifty residents left on the island. Their last names are Naquin, Dardar, Verdin, Chaisson or Billiot. Family bloodlines run deep and intertwine.

On the Island, I stay with the Chaisson family: Hilton, his wives Sue and Judy, some of their twelve children, and twenty-one grandchildren. From the time I arrive to the time I leave I am the willing butt of their jokes. One minute someone is farting in my face, the next minute someone is trying to marry me off to an eligible cousin, uncle, or brother.  The way that I am taken in and tenderly tormented upsets the photographer/subject power dynamic, highlighting the frailty of ethical boundaries in documentary work.