June 23, 2016
Ode to Orlando's 50
Washington, D.C.

Were the cops able to count the shots of 50 beautiful "fairies" who gave up their wings on an Orlando block? Were they able to find the hateful bullets, that turn one nightclub music into screams—a lone voice speaks from a pulpit. I do not know why it is strange to find a heart where you find one, when no caterpillar ever scorns its wings, or curses the fact that it was born with none. For me it's that simple, when a life is at stake, we ought to lift our voices in disgust and let our feelings be known. Seems to me that the gun is the obvious wrong, but we keep going to work like business as usual, and then grumble hypocritically when another mass killing takes place or a neighbor is senselessly gunned down. The power is still with the people if we all could just stay home, Congress would then be forced to listen and deal with this stinking NRA problem.

January 20, 2015
Silence | I Can’t Breathe | Series II
New York, New York

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”
—Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Hertencia Peterson addressed the crowd of about 200 people right across from the steps of the United States Courthouse in Manhattan yesterday. She spoke on behalf of the family. As the aunt of Akai Gurley, she spoke from a very deeply wounded space. She spoke with conviction, experience, and passion.

“My nephew’s shooting was not an accident, I will not be silent,” she told the crowd.

After giving up the microphone, she was given a piece of artwork, which she accepted on behalf of the family.

“Today is emotional for me. It is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, so this march has a lot of significance for me and the family. I went to see the movie Selma yesterday and I was inspired. I was truly inspired to fight more because I was able to see what they did for us back then and it made me feel like we need to do the same—so I am here.”

July 2016
DNC Protestor
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

A woman greets the mass of protesters marching to the Democratic National Convention with a raised fist in the air.

June 12, 2016
Cameron Sterling and His Mother Quinyetta
Baton Rouge, Louisiana

Cameron Sterling is only 15 years old. He is posing with a composite image he made this morning using a picture of himself and an old picture he had of his father, Alton Sterling. “The police took his phone so all the pictures he took are gone with his phone,” he told me.

The whole time I am with him, Cameron does not say more than two sentences without conjuring up some memory of his father that brings him close to tears. A song by Drake blares from his cell phone and he immediately starts a sentence with “That was my dad’s favorite song.” He tries to smile. “Today has been a peaceful day so far. There was less drama today. It’s quiet and calm today. But this morning started with my mom coming to get me so I can meet my lawyer and she had to call down to social services to get some money so our utilities would not be cut off.”

Both Cameron and his mother, Quinyetta, seem to hold each other up with words of encouragement.

“Why you crying now big boy? See I know my little teddy bear,” she said smiling as she watched her son hold back his tears.

November 8, 2016
Poverty Is the Sculptor
Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Someone in Oakland, California, recently told me that if your policy or art have nothing to do with poor people, it’s neither radical nor revolutionary.

This has been one tough year. I have walked in Detroit, Dallas, Baton Rouge, Florida, Chicago, D.C., Milwaukee, Oakland, Los Angeles, New Jersey, and Philadelphia, all the while photographing people who look like me.

It’s been a year of self-realization. Who am I and how do I fit into all of this? The overarching question though is, “How has poverty shaped the lives and evolution of black folk?”

This election year was eye opening too. Working in the media has allowed me a space somewhere on the frontline of all that has been happening.

I can tell you that it has been a very heartbreaking few weeks. I have watched the best voices and minds, from analysts to moderators talk only about “emails, small hands, and pussy,” everyday, and it has been really frustrating. But to me it showed how relevant black lives are.

I met Davian, age 10, in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, waiting for the one o’clock food truck from the Salvation Army to arrive. The truck stops in his community with ham sandwiches, fruit, and milk as a means of feeding those who are hungry. This in 2016. So when Davian grows up—if he makes it—and develops a taste for something that the truck does not have, who fills that gap?

Poverty has ravaged this whole country not just in the black communities, but I will say after slavery was abolished, the black community was left by this country to fend for themselves. Panhandling is the one word that comes to mind. It has taken legislation to bridge the gap between rich and poor, and it is still wide.

I am watching Americans exercise their right to vote today, and I want to tell folks that it is not enough just to vote. It is more important to follow up after voting with work, with protest, petitions, and letters to State Senators and Congress people who will forget their promises. It is our obligation to do so, for the growth of all human beings living in this country.

May 11, 2017
X Marks the Spot
Jackson, Mississippi

While on assignment, I try not to post images from where I work. However, if anyone thinks PTSD is solely unique to war-torn countries, just travel to the southern sections of this country and witness how black folk live in trauma. After you have entirely immersed yourself in their lives and stories, tell me how anyone can escape the ravages of post-traumatic stress disorder.

I parked up and heard the song “Ain’t No Love in the Heart of the City,” as if on cue. And while I stood on the side of the road talking to one of the residents of Mills Street, “My Life,” by Omar Cunningham, blared over the small Bluetooth speakers.

Fifty-four-year-old Mark McGee has lived on Mill Street in Jackson, Mississippi, all his life. “It used to be livelier, there was more things going on here. Movies and shopping centers. There was more activities. Now they are none. Everyone here is just basically stuck. You can’t get a decent job anywhere, you are either on Medicaid or disabilities, and there is no way out. People here get by on $5 and some drugs. No one will take a chance on me. They are afraid I will turn around and sue them.”

Mr. McGhee lost both his legs to diabetes and just six weeks ago had to undergo a triple bypass surgery.

Around another corner, I met this grandfather who was dumping pieces of furniture on the street because they were possessed by the devil. Since being here, I have witnessed a number of people apparently suffering from some form of mental illness (in my own opinion, of course).

Everywhere I go, the young people complain that there is nothing to do. And I am left speechless because at least I get to leave.

August 27, 2014
Who Is Our Black Leader?
Ferguson, Missouri

Sometimes I find myself biting my tongue in an attempt not to offend on social media. However, sometimes passion takes over, and I grapple with losing control before all my words come bubbling over.

I watched this young man walk up to the makeshift shrine where Michael Brown was killed, with a portrait of Malcolm X tucked under his arm. In the midst of a dying fire, it suddenly occurred to me that this portrait was the most I had seen of a black leader since I began walking that stretch of road.

My heart has yet to resolve what I saw in Ferguson, Missouri. I do not understand why the whole of America did not stop what they were doing and rise up to ensure that another young black youth does not lose his or her life so easily by the guns of unfeeling police officers. So today I will ask a question instead of my usual conjecture.

Where is the black leadership of this country?

I saw a son of one of our great ones at the funeral, and the way his body looked, I could tell that either he has not marched a day in his life, or he preferred to run his dad’s foundation from behind a desk. As much as I criticized his father’s non-violent methods, at least Senior was able to harness the interest of the whole world. I can tell you that I left some of Ferguson’s youth with their bright red ember burning in their bellies—others, unfortunately, had just a flicker. Nevertheless, both factions are walking around without the help of a guiding wind or hands to push their sticks together and repurposing their fire for good. Instead, I watched the clergy throw water on a movement and now all that flaming cinder and ash sits smoldering in their bellies, waiting for an indictment.