I used to be a newspaper photojournalist
Soccer games are important. Elementary school plays and concerts are important. Breeders of rats are important. Gay marriage, especially in a small town, is very important. So-called small stories are important to small towns. Stories about coffee shops and the insidiousness of strip malls. Real America, the tangible, unique gritty realness that has nothing to do with blue or red states, is disappearing. And newspapers are the only ones watching, recording. Little victories and little stories add up to big news. They are evidence, brag sheet and a call to change for people in those communities.
Why does it matter what the news is of the stock market or war in Iraq if you don’t know about your local city council’s misdeeds or what the 50th annual corn festival looked like this year? Every time newsroom staff is cut or newspapers fold, the community hears “Your lives are not nearly as interesting or important as our bottom line.”
I started out as a photographer in small community papers. I worked in Michigan, Florida and Illinois, but it could just as easily have been in North Carolina, Vermont or Massachussetts. My first identity as a photographer was formed in the crucible of high school soccer games, pets of the week and fast, violent weather art.
I used to be a community photojournalist. I used to live in your town.
I used to know all the kids’ names on the Little League team that one year, when they almost, almost went all the way to the World Series. I cheered for them and cried when they struck out.
I used to know the phone number by heart of late-night pizza delivery place close to the paper. And which bar was closest after a really long day.
I used to drive 100 miles a day all over the county. Once, I was tackled by the best football team in town and fixed up by their trainer. The next week they came over and apologized. It was my fault really, I was too busy watching the game and framing my shot to see them barreling towards me.
I remember that crazy lady who showed up at every single event in town. She wore hats and opened her butterfly garden to the town. Her husband took me on rides in his Piper Cub airplane so I could shoot aerials for a project on developments. I called that work and another day at the office. I loved it. I saw so much and met so many.
I photographed weddings, and funerals both.
I am now friends on Facebook with the daughter of a man I photographed for a year who had a rare form of kidney cancer. These were my people. And no matter how frustrating I found the newsroom, I always loved the community. A crazy kind of love to be sure, but they gave me purpose and a path. When the newsroom was too much drama I could always escape to the skate park and shoot features.
I know we got things wrong. I covered enough stories that came straight from a publicist’s press release to know that we got lazy. But I always believed that given the chance to work on something real and meaningful, real newspapermen would jump at that chance. I counted myself among them. I felt lucky to be a part of this world.
I used to think that at the end of my life, all the people I photographed would be able to stand up and say, “She showed us our faces; she told our story.” I felt lucky to be able to contribute in some small way to the life of these towns.
I miss my friends and compatriots in the battle on the frontlines between words and pictures. We were out there every day, working our asses off. We couldn’t phone it in or fake a picture, even knowing that the next day it was in the litterbox.
I used to be able to find three cute kid features in under an hour. I used to work for a lot of small papers that are in trouble now. And I miss that life like crazy. I make more money now. I get to travel and make my own schedule. But every once in a while I miss the chase, the intimacy and the craziness of a small newsroom. I even miss beating my head and heart against a wall trying to make them change, trying to make them see what was bearing down on them like a freight train.
I used to think I would be at a paper forever, or at least long enough to be a salty old-timer. I didn’t realize that my leaving was fortutitous timing. I was so fed up with particular brand of bullshit at my paper that I walked out and thought I would never miss it again. I was exhausted trying to fight that good fight everyday.
I live in NYC now and I work on projects that interest me and I have more time for personal work than I did at all those small papers I worked at. I make enough money to live on, instead of scraping by. But I’m that most commonplace of creatures, a freelance photographer. Some mornings I just want to drag myself out of bed to find three assignments on my desk, all due before lunch. And I want to sigh, pick up my camera and venture out to tackle them all.
