Photojournalism

Although one of my childhood dreams was to work for National Geographic, I will never be a great photojournalist. To this day, I’m so shy that I still have a hard time shooting strangers in public. I’d take a staged photoshoot, or a still life, over a photo-walk through Chinatown any day. The anxiety and judgment succumbs me when I have my camera in public, and although I have forced myself to do it before, I always feel sick afterwards. Blame it on the shyness I’ve felt all my life, blame it on my sheltered childhood, but it’s safe to say that I am a terrible photojournalist – at least at this point of my life.

My school friend, on the other hand, Ernesto, is an absolute beast at photojournalism. He is currently a photojournalist for Boston’s own Bay State Banner, while also attending SMFA. I guess you could say that he really someone that pushes me out of my comfort zone when it comes to photography. Whether it’s shooting weddings, workers’ unions, or even President Obama, Ernesto made me think, “maybe I can do something like that.”

Gaining courage over the last semester, a few weeks ago I found an event that truly spoke to me, and decided that it was time to try out photojournalism. Without telling anyone (in fear of judgment) I grabbed my camera one cloudy Saturday, and headed out to the Common. My heart racing in my chest as I arrived, I saw a large cluster of women (and men, but mostly women) holding up signs and chanting. I knew I was in the right place at the right time, and suddenly it’s was not longer scary – but exhilarating.

I approached the line and scooted in, I yelled to the girl next to me, “I guess I found the Walk for Choice, right?” She smiled, nodded, and continued to chant. Next thing I knew, we were standing in front of the State House.



The “Walk for Choice” was/is a nation-wide event, supporting women’s’ rights. A newly declared bill by Ohio representative John Boehner wants to take away millions of dollars to organizations that provide family health plans, medical screenings, and medical prescriptions. Think Planned Parenthood, mostly – an organization that would be useless without government funding. Although I don’t want to get into the specifics of my views, as a woman I personally found it appalling that such restrictions were being made. I have never had to use Planned Parenthood, but I’m positive that women just like me have, and for that, I fought for their rights on this day.



And through my photography it showed. I wanted to capture the emotion of the protesters, and how determined they were. I wanted to document them – so everyone who wasn’t there could see how much they wanted it. Sure, there were other photographers there – too many! But none of them were also engaged in the chanting, cheering, and the energy, like I was.



I learned a lot that day. My fear of photographing the public is still there, but I’ve learned that as long as I keep at it, that fear will soon subside. It’s something I’ve got to work on, but at least I know I’ve made a positive step forward.

New Hampshire

Although a part of my teenage rebellion was to get away from the only state I had only known, New Hampshire is my home. In fact, I’ve never lived anywhere else. I was determined in leaving the state upon applying for colleges a few years ago. I was accepted into 8 schools, only one of which was in New Hampshire. And despite that, which college did my parents think I should go to? The only one in New Hampshire.

So I did, for a year.

And I don’t regret it, but I think I’ve found my place here, among the Bostonians. Being in the city allowed me to explore a different part of myself, one that I probably wouldn’t have explored otherwise. Going to art school allowed me to meet new people, make new friends, and everything else that comes along with college experience – but what made it most bittersweet was the fact that I was away from the place that had shaped me for some many years. This town I now only resented, the town clogged with brown-nosers and snobs, the exact image of New England suburbia. Being in the city was the perfect distance away. I could visit occasionally, and could bring home dirty laundry without taking a plane. But sometimes disaster struck and all I could do was imagine myself being at home. An overwhelming load of work, a fight with the boyfriend, a sickness – all made me wish that I was at home, the smell of the pine trees overwhelming my senses.



On my latest trip home, I took some shots in hopes that looking at them would give me a sense of serenity and peace that I can only experience when I’m home temporarily. In a short walk from my house (wicked short, now that I can relate it to walking in Boston) there’s a bike path the juts into the woods off of the main road. I've known it since I was little, and the neighbor boys often dragged me to it to “hunt” for frogs and toads. Between too giant bodies of water, it’s confusing how it still exists after all these years, what from all the recent floods the region has experienced.



But it does, and it’s beautiful, and it makes me forget the politics of my small town in the suburbs. It makes me forget the drama that I lived in for the past nineteen years of my life. It reminds me of my family is simpler times, it reminds me of the little neighbor boys. It reminds me of past experiences that nobody else is attached to except for me – when my old friends Meaghan, Allison, and I ran down the path only to almost run into a giant pheasant standing in the middle. Or when the boyfriend Tyler and I ventured down, thinking we were brave adventurers, only to see a large black snake and realize we’re both cowards.



Photography will never do it justice. You cannot get a smell through a photograph. You cannot feel the sensation of the branches scratching your skin as you walk through. But whether it’s there for a hundred more years, or there just until next Thursday, it’s still a place that needs documentation – if only for my sake.