Monthly Archives: April 2013

Boston Marathon explosions: a few things.

(I didn’t mean for this blog to become a place to unload feelings, but I just have to speak on all of this. And if I can’t speak my mind on a dot-com with my name on it, then I’m just out of luck in all endeavors.)

Everyone knows by now of the horrific explosions at the Boston Marathon finish line and the ensuing deaths and injuries and general chaos.

I found out after coming down from an emotional meditation with myself after buying my graduation cap and gown. I took the pieces out of the plastic and carefully put them on. I saw myself in the mirror, in my wrinkled polyester robe and ridiculous cap and crimson tassel, and I felt crushed under the sudden avalanche of my memories and experiences. All the times I could’ve given up on college, but didn’t, came rising to the surface like bubbles in a pot of boiling water. I don’t often let myself feel pride in the things I do, or give myself the credit I’m due, but in this moment, I allowed it simply because I couldn’t downplay it with the very uniform of academic accomplishment on my person. And my nose turned as red as my tassel, as it always does when I cry.

My nose turned red all over again as I resumed crying, moments after calming down, reading about what happened to those poor runners and spectators. I saw the pictures—the blood, the gore, the suffering, the confusion—and my heart broke on account of the number of times it’s broken for this very reason in recent memory. Aurora had me putting my hand over my heart and grimacing. Newtown had me sobbing into my pillow for a considerable amount of time, and sensitive for weeks after. This has made an already emotional day practically unbearable.

This is not the world my parents grew up in. This is hardly the world they dreamed of raising me in, I’m sure. If things go the way I dread them going, this is only a fraction of how bad it’s going to be if/when I raise kids of my own. The terror I feel at the prospect of things like this being commonplace for my children leaves me so panicked, it’s as if the air has been snatched out of my lungs by vacuum.

Here are my ties to the noble city of Boston. (Well, a few of many.)

  • My half-sister and her precious little family live in Medford. I went to her wedding when I was in the 7th grade. I watched my dad walk her down the aisle to meet the 20-some-odd other couples getting married in that same ceremony and I thought ahead to when he’d be doing that for me. (Well, I tried to. It was tough to imagine that I’d get any older than, say, 18 when I was that young. Boy, did I wise up.)
  • My best friend and her husband live in Somerville. I’ve known her husband since the 3rd grade and her since the 9th. These two people are dearer to me than I can type out here without crying (again). They updated on Facebook, before I really knew what was going on, that they were okay. They both had the day off today, as many people in Boston did. I was glad today that neither of them is a marathon runner. Anytime I hear of Boston, they’re the first two I think of.
  • My photojournalism professor hails from there. He’s thankfully regained his Rs since leaving, but is still partial to Dunkin’ Donuts and the chapel bell on the UGA campus made in his hometown of Medway. I asked if his people were okay. He said his family doesn’t live there anymore, but he has lots of friends in the media who do, and they’re all fine.

Days like today make me wonder how I’m going to handle doing my job in such situations, whether that job is reporter or photojournalist. I’ve read countless quips today (and in past weeks) from non-journalists about how photographers are disgusting for not putting down the camera and helping. What these people don’t realize is that keeping the camera up and capturing what’s happening before them in a meaningful way is going to go so much farther, for so much longer, than moving a barricade or kneeling next to someone who’s injured. Instead of running away from imminent danger, photographers (along with first responders and particularly brave, uninjured marathoners) ran toward the explosions. As humans, our fight-or-flight response would instinctually have us do just the opposite. Tell me that’s disgusting. Tell me that’s cowardly. Tell me it’s not courageous to head towards the danger and keep doing your job like it’s a regular day at the office. This tells me that they’re made a little tougher, a little surlier, a little more selfless than non-Bostonians. I’ve always known that journalists are a special breed, and today just confirms that. Sometimes you have to have shards of ice running through your veins to serve a greater good. I hope the people who saw what can’t be unseen get the help and care they need. I hope I have what it takes to do what they did, and will continue to do after today.

Boston will be fine. The people of Boston will be just fine. I just worry for the rest of us (myself included). I especially worry for those behind these terrible acts. I worry that they won’t be brought to justice, that this isn’t the last we’ve seen of their intent (and ability) to harm.

My roommate Mark is upstairs playing a beautiful banjo version of Radiohead’s “Creep” and singing along. He has this earnest baritone timbre that is impossible to ignore as it floats down the staircase to my ears. He told me earlier that he got the banjo as a gift; it had been sitting in his sister’s garage with two t-shirts stuffed inside of it, one of which read, “I was present at the birth.” He showed it to me and we laughed. All of those details are perfect and soothing to my heart. (Details are always soothing to my heart.) My dog, the 13-pound creature that I rescued three years ago and who in turn rescued me, is sleeping on my bed, still getting used to her summer haircut. She’s snoring, and her tiny paws are twitching. She’s no doubt dreaming of chasing squirrels and eating her body weight in chicken and bacon and nibs of cheese.

These are the sweet things, the good things, the worthwhile things that I have to cling to if I have any hope of still being able to function after the sobering realization that there are people who aren’t disgusted, but rather delighted, by hurting others on such a large scale.

First Sunday: an audio slideshow

Back to back audio slideshows that both take place in churches, but were created a year apart! Pure coincidence, I assure you.

I spent a weekend in late February of this year traipsing around Lavonia, Ga., with my photojournalism class for what’s known in the UGA visual journalism program as Weekend Workshop. It’s mentioned from the intro class and alluded to as a time of intense immersion and exponential learning. And it is. You’re literally immersed in your story by staying in the city where it’s happening for three days (well, two and a half, but who’s counting). I learned a lot about shooting, about people, but I also bonded with my classmates in a way I hadn’t before that weekend.

(Another funny coincidence: I saw a photo I took of myself from last year’s weekend workshop that I attended briefly, and I wore the exact same chunky white scarf both times. It’s now the Weekend Workshop scarf in my mind.)

I’ll recount to you how I fell into finding my story subject. There I was, standing at the front counter in the newsroom of the Franklin County Citizen-Leader, paging through the newspaper in a desperate attempt to find a story (since my first three had fallen through in a matter of hours) when in walks a very confused-looking man.

My many years of working customer service-related jobs trained me to greet and try to help such confused-looking people, so I piped up and said, “Hi! How are you? How can I help you?” Like I owned the place. Given my intermittent social anxiety, I surprised even myself with that.

He introduced himself as Adam Tripp, the pastor at the Lavonia Church of God. He said he was looking to talk to someone who worked there, so I directed him to my professor (who, for the record, doesn’t work at the Franklin County paper, but I figured he would be able to direct Pastor Adam to someone who does). They chatted for a bit, and when the pastor revealed that he was new in town and had just been hired but days before, I decided then and there that if it came to blows between myself and the other students looking for stories, I wouldn’t go down without a fight.

Thankfully, we avoided that nastiness altogether (though let it be known that I would’ve won). I went full Hermione Granger in my enthusiasm in claiming coverage of Pastor Adam’s story. And the rest, as they say, is an audio slideshow that you can watch below.

Oh? That’s not what they say? I’ve been living a lie.

Anyway. I don’t know if I can really say that I’m from the South in the same way that the people around me can. But no matter how much time I spend down here, I’m still consistently floored at how warmly I’m welcomed by strangers. Pastor Adam, his family and the rest of the congregation were unspeakably, astonishingly kind to me and I will forever be grateful for, and touched by, their generosity of spirit. A genuine thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone at the Lavonia Church of God who had a kind word or a smile for me that weekend. And there were many.

In Good Faith: an audio slideshow

I had fun with this one.

My darling roommate (who was simply my friend at the time) was talking to me about her sister about a year ago, and when she told me that her sister worked in campus ministry and lived off of donations, my ears perked up, as they are wont to do when I hear something that would make a great story.

(Thankfully, this journalistic instinct has developed over the years. I used to pass on things like this with little more than a “cool story, friend! Now what am I going to do a story on?” I know better now.)

I told her that I just so happened to be looking for a good story for my photojournalism class, and her sister Adeline graciously agreed to let me follow her around with a camera and do a brief interview. The results are below.

Actually, before we begin: I swear on Flying Spaghetti Monster that my photos were sharp. I’m not sure what happened between Soundslides converting the slideshow to a video and uploading it to Vimeo that made the images look like they were shot on a cell phone camera from 2003. Please just trust that yes, I know how to focus my camera and yes, the photos were originally sharp.

Cool? Cool. Here we go.