Anniversaries, funerals, and memorial services have always given me mixed feelings. I completely understand the need for a nation to gather on a historic day to reflect on lives cut short by hate, but on the purely personal level, memorializing is not something I relish.
It has something to do with asking to feel the turmoil, pain and anxiety again. Reflecting on days of great tragedy become days of great tragedy again, something that makes me want to run and hide on an emotional level. But I have done so all week, reading many reflections, viewing many photos and listening to many recollections on NPR.
It’s necessary to feel the pain again, to feel the anger again, I just don’t like it. A part of me feels like we’re letting the terrorists invade our psyche again. It’s the same feeling that many athletes and boxers understand: Never show the opponent that you are hurt. Don’t let them see your pain. Make them think everything is okay.
I’ll be glad when we can put the anniversary behind us and go back to “normal” lives. Of course, in hindsight, that’s what we tried to do as a nation 10 years ago.
Below is what I wrote for the Aurora Photos News Blog.
The phone rang, jarring my wife and I from our sleep. Dawn was just creeping under our bedroom shade, but the feeling of dread had already enveloped the room before I grabbed the handset. I had no idea why the phone was ringing, but I did know that the likelihood of the other person bearing good news was nearly nonexistent.
“Turn on the TV” my brother in Rhode Island hollered into the phone. “Quick!”
I hung up and scrambled across the house to turn on the television without waking our five-year-old son. The phone began to ring again. I managed to catch a glimpse of Tower One on fire while grabbing the handset fully expecting to hear my brother’s frantic voice again. But this time it was Martha Bardach, TIME magazine’s West Coast Photo Editor, asking that I get to downtown Los Angeles as soon as possible. No one knew where other attacks might occur, she said, but one rumor had it that a plane was heading for Los Angeles.
I made it to LA and began photographing as people assembled on the streets, talking on their cell phones, looking skyward with a sense of disbelief. The plane, thankfully, never materialized and people started to make their way home only hours after arriving for work. By this time it was being reported that the U.S. had been attacked by terrorists, yet LA had not directly been hit. I ventured across the city to the Federal Building near UCLA and found that the FBI were guarding the facility with assault rifles while listening intently to earpieces. At a nearby newsstand, a growing number of people were gathering. I stopped and began photographing as Angelenos (or were we all Americans at that point, I remember wondering), desperate for news and information, scrambled for position and thrust their money at the clerk in attempts to claim a copy of the LA Time’s extra edition published only hours after the terrorist attacks. “TERROR ATTACK” screamed the headline.
Hours later, I was sent by TIME to document citizens lining up at a Red Cross facility to donate blood for the victims and then onto a large, non denominational prayer service where tears flowed, heads bowed and prayers went out to victims and their families.
I then drove home to my wife and son who were safe and healthy. I cried along with my wife that night, knowing that the world had changed fifteen hours earlier when I reached for the phone.
It was the morning of my son’s 9th birthday and the phone rang before I had even finished my coffee. Before I picked up the receiver I knew the celebratory trip to San Diego was not going to happen for me. After watching Hurricane Katrina destroy everything in it’s path from the safety of my home nearly two thousand miles away, I knew the phone call was likely to result in me heading to the devastated region. Looking at the Caller ID confirmed it was a call coming from within the Time Inc building and less than three hours later I kissed my son and wife goodbye at the airport and headed to Louisiana for People Magazine.
Anyone who has covered disasters knows that you just have to roll with whatever is thrown at you. Major catastrophes make planning for things almost a useless task. People magazine had assigned a number of writer/photographer teams to create their coverage. The writer and I were first told to find some incredible tales of survival amid the masses of refugees in Shreveport, Louisiana. With thousands of people taking shelter in hotels and arenas, it wasn’t hard to find those who had escaped death in the streets of New Orleans. As is often the case, our directions from New York took a turn the following day when we were told to find Doctor Ronald Myers in Greenville, Mississippi, a small town not far from hard-hit Jackson, Ms. Doctor Myers had had his own home heavily damaged but was taking care of others in a Ramada Inn as well as a nearby Red Cross shelter. Known for his dedication to aiding the poorest of the poor from the Mississippi Delta region, Dr. Myers was a classic tale of country doctor coming to the rescue despite his own misfortune at the hands of the Category 5 hurricane. We spent most of a day with Dr. Meyers before receiving new directions as People altered it’s coverage:
Head to flooded New Orleans and document the plight of a refugee family being evacuated from the city. See, the city of New Orleans was ordered to be completely emptied of residents. Everyone had to go with no exceptions.
Talking our way through police checkpoints with nothing more than my PGA Tour press card from Sports Illustrated, the writer and I found our way to a staging area for fireman doing house-to-house searches by boat. The vast majority of residents who had stayed behind to ride out the storm had already been rescued, but no one could be sure if others remained. Once on a rescue boat and navigating down Airport Road, we soon encountered the bloated body of a man tangled in some flooded bushes. Pushing past, the firemen hollered into homes and searched open areas for any sign of life. Parking the boats near armed guards, we got in our SUV and made out for Louis Armstrong airport, the epicenter for the city’s evacuation.
Helicopters swooped in, rotors turning violently, and emptied their bellies of newly rescued residents, all clutching the few belongings they could carry on their backs. Men, women and children were rushed to a carts linked together that are typically used for luggage transportation. Whisked to the terminal, the evacuees filed through a row of volunteers who pushed basic amenities such as soap and toothpaste into their outstretched hands. Once inside the chaotic airport, registration and a basic medical check up were provided before each evacuee was told to wait for their flight at a particular gate. They had no idea where they were going, nor did they have any say in the matter. Grab whatever you have and wait with others at the assigned gate, they were told. Once a flight was filled and the doors to the aircraft closed, the evacuees were told where they would be going. Together with the Chaney family, who the writer and I had chosen simply based on my observation of a serene looking older woman fanning herself with a Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr fan as she was whisked to the terminal, we pushed off for Ft. Lauderdale, Florida.
Arriving in the rain with only my camera bag, computer and clothes on my back (everything else was left in the rental car at the airport), I was immediately struck by the contrast in environments. We left a destroyed city in chaos and were soon eating a hot meal at a shelter at a renowned thoroughbred training facility in upscale West Palm Beach.
Having documented the plight of the Chaney family the next day at the shelter, we received notice that the magazine was doing a piece on Katrina’s Kids. I had seen many children traumatized by the deadly hurricane at the shelter, so I went back the next morning and spent with several families with children. It never amazes me how people can endure such trauma. Many were upbeat and philosophical about their future, whatever that might hold.
I returned to LA the following day and spent a day at The Dream Center, another Katrina shelter, photographing for TIME magazine. The Caesh family, who the magazine had asked me to document, was gracious and steadfast in their determination to find work and go forward with their lives despite the hard working, proud family having to rely on borrowed clothes and handouts from strangers..
It’s my hope that all those I met and photographed have found peace and a degree of normalcy in their lives five years after Katrina.
When you meet a legend, you don’t expect him to answer the door.
When you meet John Wooden, he’ll apologize for not having answered the door quicker.
When you meet a legend, you don’t expect to be greeted like a truly important person.
When you meet John Wooden, you discover he’s as interested in you as you are in him.
When you meet a legend, you don’t expect to find he lives in a small, unpretentious town house in the “Valley.”
When you meet John Wooden, you discover his home feels like your home, warm and comfortable.
I only met John Wooden once, but it was one of the greatest hours in my life. I arrived to shoot a portrait of the legendary UCLA basketball coach at his home and left with the feeling that I had just learned more from listening and conversing with Mr. Wooden than at any other time in my life. His demeanor, speaking tone, genuineness and strong opinions on etiquette, sportsmanship and civility were embedded in me during that assignment.
Now, as I reflect on a man I pray will live for 20 more years (he’s 99), I am reminded of the book “The Five People You Meet in Heaven.” The novel spins a tale about how one person can impact another person so deeply, even in a passing moment, that you will meet them again in heaven. I can assure you that Mr. Wooden would not remember our hour together years ago, but I can assure him that he will be one of the five people I meet in heaven.
That’s the impact that John Wooden, small in stature but enormous in life, had on me.
NOTE: Moments after posting this Mr Wooden passed away. His life was lived in full and may he find the eternal happiness he so deserves)
Sad day fifteen years ago. A day when a lot of lives were lost, a lot of people were injured, and a lot of hate spread by another fringe character who was motivated by intense hatred for the federal government.
On April 19, 1995, Timothy McVeigh parked his truck next to the Alfred P. Murrah federal building in downtown Oklahoma City and proceeded to detonate a massive bomb that killed 168 people including nineteen under the age of six. Hundreds more were injured. All for hate, all for nothing.
McVeigh was stopped by Oklahoma State Trooper Charlie Hanger less than two hours later for a missing license plate and arrested for unlawfully carrying a weapon. Evidence later pointed directly at McVeigh and his accomplice, Terry Nichols.
A memorial was built on the site of the federal building and opened five years to the day after the bombing. As you can imagine, it’s a somber site with chairs symbolizing all those lost in the bombing, a reflecting pool and a ominous clock that goes from 9:01 to 9:03, the time during which the blast occurred.
On June 11, 2001, I was assigned to spend a day with a survivor as he went about his life on the day McVeigh was put to death by lethal injection. It’s tough to say how he felt that day, but on this day I always think of him and the hundreds of others who were attacked by a pair of cowards.
It’s hard not to look back over the previous year. As tumultuous as it was for most of the country, if not the world, it still was a pretty good year. I have my health, as does my family, and I continue to make a living doing what I love.
I’m blessed and thankful for the diverse clients who continue to call with assignment work. From a lifestyle shoot on the Mexican Caribbean to hanging out with disabled vets learning to play sports again, Sports Illustrated continues to prove that “sports photography” is not only about being at the Rose Bowl, Final Four or World Series.
The second half of the year also presented some heavier subject matter such as shadowing a hate group, The Westboro Baptist Church, for the Southern Poverty Law Center’s Intelligence Report as the church members spouted extreme messages of hate against (in no particular order) homosexuals, Catholics, Americans, and Jews.
On a more positive, yet equally significant shoot, I met Margo Bouer, a wonderful, intelligent senior citizen who smokes marijuana daily to combat severe nausea and other symptoms of Multiple Sclerosis. Meeting Margo was also the first time I had been hired to shoot a story for a radio program. As convergence becomes a common term, I was hired by NPR to provide a gallery of images on Margo to accompany their radio report. Great story from a storied journalistic institution that I’m proud to call a client.
Later in the fall I was trekking through Joshua Tree National Park with an undercover federal agent for Preservation magazine. It was a enlightening story to say the least as I discovered that one agent is responsible for protecting a vast array of ancient Native American
culture spread throughout our public lands. Petroglyphs, arrowheads, pottery and other artifacts are common in and near Joshua Tree National Park and are sought after by looters who sell artifacts to dealers. It’s a lost soul who will chisel a piece of rock adorned with ancient drawings just to make some money. The undercover agent said many are “twiggers,” a word combining “tweaker” (meth fiend) and “diggers” (those who dig for artifacts). Sad but important story, for sure.
One of my oldest clients, the Chronicle of Higher Education, is one of my favorites. I had a chance to shoot a university freshman on scholarship. He had only been in the counry 18 months and came from El Salvador with his parents. He excelled in his one year in high school in Los Angeles and was the first in his family to go to college. Polite, punctual, well spoken and heading off to study after our late Friday afternoon shoot (how many 18 yr olds study on a Friday afternoon?), he reminded me that its important to be thankful for all the opportunities we have.
I know I am.