Redlights and Redeyes

This past Saturday, I got a reminder of why we do what we do and how amazing it is.

We’ve had a recent spike of murders in Manatee County – 24 to be exact – and while that may not seem like a lot to those that call New York or Detroit home, it is around here.  We’ve already topped the murder counts of recent years and it is only August.  Hence the story.  There were two murders last week:  One of a doctor’s wife who was found beaten to death in her home in a very well-off, quiet neighborhood.  The second of a 18 year-old recent high school grad and sports star who came home to boys in his home with his younger sister when there rules against that.  He confronted the boys in the backyard with a baseball bat.  One of the boys pulled a gun, shooting and killing Dejuan Williams.

On Saturday, the doctor’s wife was buried at a rather large church in master-planned community of Lakewood Ranch.  Even though media was not allowed inside of the church for the service, I was sent to get shots from across the street as mourners headed in to say their good-byes.  Not necessarily the best feeling in the world sitting there with a 400mm photographing people you can’t talk to, get names, or explain why it is you are photographing them.  It is part of the job, unfortunately, and I struggle for justification every time it happens.  In this case, getting photos were next to impossible logistically because of where the public property was, even more so mentally.

Defeated, I drove to my second murder assignment of the day – and all I was given was a photo assignment to head to the home of the aforementioned Dejuan Williams to see if there was anything to photograph at all.  I found the home finally, not because I had the address, because I didn’t, but because I found the 18 year-old’s faded blue Buick parked in the driveway with a few roses and some hand written notes on it.  The car lettering on the trunk had been rearranged to read “D.Will1ams.”  The number “1″ replacing one of the i’s in his name.  While I’m photographing the car I hear a dog barking and a woman trying to get her to stop.  I introduce myself, and she says to come to front door.  Not exactly sure who I’m talking to yet, I head into the duplex and she leads me into a bedroom and starts talking to me about her son.  Immediately, I begin to realize it is Dejuan’s mother, who the reporter had been trying to reach for days.  I’m not exactly sure why she choose me, but she told me of her desire not to let any other media around during the day’s event – which I had no idea what said event was.  She opens up, introduces me to the sister he was trying to protect and allows me to photograph the intensely personal and heartfelt shrine they had put together – complete with their letters to him, his track shoes, and his toy car collection he still held onto even as a young man.  She then says that his friends are coming over to add to it.  She got in touch with all his friends and told them she would open up her home and the bedroom for the teens to come by and pay their respects.  I ask if I can wait around briefly to see if anyone shows up, and they did as if on cue.  I sat in the corner on my knees making frames quietly, and when two of his friends embraced as they cried, I knew I should move on and let the family grieve in peace as they wanted to in the first place.  I thanked her, left my info behind and left feeling a bit of “wow” over the whole chance encounter.

The only reason I recount this experience here is not because it is the best photograph in the world, but that it was a wake-up call to me.  I’ve been in a little bit of a daze over the state of the industry and personally how it has affected myself, my friends and my work.  We’ve gone from eleven photographers three years ago to four.  Four.  Needless to say, it has been crazy trying to cover the same community over three large counties with the same amount of energy, passion, and dedication that we were all used to.

It always amazes me who we get to meet and what we get access to as photojournalists, and this was a reminder of why it is I chose this profession in the first place.  We are there on the sometimes the best – sometimes the worst – days of people’s lives, and that should never be taken lightheartedly.  We have a responsibility to the people we meet and photograph to make sure the voice we give them is heard.

This entry was posted on Monday, August 10th, 2009 at 2:31 pm and is filed under photos. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.