These Little Boys: On Life and Death and Race

This past Saturday a 13 year boy became a Bar Mitzvah, an occasion marked by the gathering of his family members and cherished friends, from camp, preschool, Sunday school, and junior high. Dressed in their finest, guests ate well and danced to everything from that old classic "Shout" to "YMCA" and the latest hits by Nicki Minaj. There were ice cream dessert bars for adults and kids alike, and amped up versions of childhood games like musical chairs and Coke and Pepsi. There were glow sticks, blinking plastic novelty rings, and plenty of smiles and laughter, all celebrating the greatest accomplishment, so far, in a boy's life. Maybe this doesn't mean anything to you, this religious ceremony that welcomes teenage Jewish boys into assuming responsibility for their actions and for their Jewish faith. But for these boys, and the girls who become Bat Mitzvahs, these occasions will help to prepare the ground for their future accomplishments as adults. 

I am not Jewish, but as a photographer, present for these important life events, I have often wondered about the lives of these little boys compared to the lives of my three African-American nephews and their friends of color.  Two of my nephews, ages 14 and 12 and attending struggling public schools, are already experiencing the frustrations of being left behind academically. And we're trying, my family and I, we're trying and praying with all of our might to right this ship, to protect these boys in their boyhood and, yet, prepare them for an adult world that is forced on them all too soon. Try as we do to give them ice cream filled Saturdays, and happy family times, on a night like this, I feel powerless, but not hopeless. My nephews, these 3 little boys, are my little boys, and your little boys. So for tonight, before I feel discouraged, I'm going to look at a photo of my little boys, and I'll keep on, we'll keep on, loving you and protecting you, and all of these little boys.

My beautiful three nephews

Did You Feel the Earth Move??: I'm Just Saying's First Earthquake

Almost three hours ago, I and several million of my now closest friends, experienced a 5.8 magnitude earthquake. And you know what? I didn't like it at all. I was in a parking lot in Washington, DC, about to head home. I'd put the key in the ignition and was set to pull off when a sudden, and violent shuddering began. Now, as the owner of a late-model Jeep in severe need of strut work, I had confused the earth's trembling with the last gasps of my car.

The shaking soon stopped and I headed home, and as I sped down the highway, I heard my Blackberry chime as new text messages were being delivered. I thought nothing of it, and kept on towards home, but with a short stop at the Panera. And that's when I saw a sight that was a bit confusing - hundreds of workers gathered on the sidewalks outside of the office building that sits adjacent to the Panera. I thought maybe there'd been a bomb threat - these things happen sometimes - and all I could think was, "damn! I hope I can get my Greek salad before the whole plaza's evacuated". And that's when I thought, maybe, it'd be a good idea to look at those text messages, and whatdayouknow?? My husband had texted me about the earthquake. Now, I knew I wasn't getting my Greek salad!!

The next few minutes were an exercise in frustration. Frustration that I couldn't make a call or send a text message from my Verizon Blackberry to my husband and family. Frustration that now my husband, loyal AT&T customer that he is, will have permanent bragging rights. Frustration that I wasn't going to get my lunch! But hey, there at least is one bright spot and it's this: I was able to send and receive messages with my mobile Facebook and Twitter applications. Woo-hoo!

This was my very first earthquake, and while the sensation of being tossed around on land was foreign to me, sadly, this combo-pack feeling of vulnerability/fear/confusion is very familiar.  This is the post-9/11 world, after all. On that September day, as rumors of attacks, fatalities, blackouts and curfews flowed, and as public officials and news media struggled to tell the public what to do, thousands decided to forgo the waiting and head home, clogging Metro platforms and the streets and highways around Washington, DC. Today's been no different and while I type this, images of a jammed 395, 495, and 95 are playing on the local newscast. I guess Dorothy was right - there's no place like home!

And that's where I am now - home. Safe, right now, and attempting to comfort my freaked-out house cat without resorting to a Valium. Tonight, I'll turn off the news (and they're frequent references to Haiti and Christ Church, New Zealand), and drink a glass of wine with my husband with a new-found respect for my West Coast brothers and sisters. And, maybe I'll sit down with a good book, or, better yet, my homeowner's  insurance policy! I'm just saying:)

Preventing the Next Casey Anthony

While the head-scratching and the shock and the pageantry of the punditry roll on in the aftermath of the most talked about "not guilty" since O.J., all I can think about is what happens next. In a few weeks, Casey Anthony will strut her stuff out of the jailhouse for good, no doubt under the protection of armed private guards after all of the death threats and the angry mob gathered outside of the courthouse during the trial, as well as the legion of press and pappers who'll camp out in front of her new home. Already, talk of book deals, movie rights, and first interviews with Casey have begun. And discussions of whether or not she will return home to the family her defense attorney characterized as toxic and dysfunctional has led to even more speculation about Casey's future.

I don't think Casey's post-trial life will be all that shocking. I think we're all jaded enough at this point to know the drill - after the first exclusive broadcast interview, Casey will make the rounds with the other news organizations, then it's onto People magazine who'll do a story and photo spread. After these initial top-tier media organizations then it's off for a makeover and a little rest and relaxation (called "healing" in the media/infotainment biz) while Casey and her team (oh, yes, Casey definitely gets a team, hell, she'll insist on one!) read movie treatments, scout homes, watch "Dumb and Dumber" (Casey's favorite movie, according to one of her prison missives!), and the more media speculation as to Casey's next move. While her legal team moves to tie up loose ends, and other private forensic teams volunteer their services to re-examine the prosecutor's evidence, Casey will stay out of sight, and her story will go back to the minor leagues - the tabloids. As one juror in the Casey Anthony trial said, "not guilty does not mean innocent," and that distinction will make Casey a pariah.

I'm more interested, though, in the hundreds of potential Casey Anthony's out there now. From all of the contested bits and pieces of evidence, from video tape of Casey and little Caylee at play, to still photos of Casey drinking and partying, the one thing that can be said of Casey's relationship to her daughter is that it was complicated. I'd always theorized that Casey was an irresponsible young woman who'd gotten pregnant and, like those girls on MTV's "Teen Mom", had been pressured into having and keeping the baby by parents who thought that the maternal instinct would simply kick-in, in time.

But, what this case shows is how much we over-value the maternal instinct and that's why I'm worried. Casey Anthony was a disinterested mother. She didn't betray the maternal instinct, she just didn't have one. She's not the normal abusive parent that the neighbors call Child Services to investigate. She simply had no interest in being a parent to her child, and was either too weak or too arrogant to acknowledge that and to give Caylee up for adoption. The disinterested parent wants their needs met first and last, and look at their children as accessories. They figure that if their child has food, shelter, and clothing, then the parenting job is complete, so don't ask them to do anymore. Underneath that disinterest, though, is a volatile mixture of entitlement and rage. The disinterested parent is a petulant child who doesn't want to share the spotlight, and, as Casey Anthony has proved, they are among the most dangerous of all. So let's do the world a favor and take away the spotlight. The show's over, nothing to see here, I'm just saying.

Right and wrong

I found myself doing something atypical for a Saturday night - watching the news. I also found myself wondering about what's happening in our world, in our country, on the corner. I thought about that William Butler Yeats poem that I had to read back in high school, "The Second Coming." The poem was published at the close of World War I, and its striking, graphic and violent apocalyptic imagery grips most readers who encounter it. Yeats' intention in writing this poem was not to provide a sense of peace and an "all is well" calm. There is a chaos, a twitchiness in this poem that borders on hopelessness at the state a world that can no longer be navigated by reason as it explodes into violence. In this realm, "the best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity."

We saw the "worst" in a supermarket parking lot in Tuscon, Arizona on Saturday, and by tomorrow morning, odds are that someone else will experience the "worst" in an unalterable way. For Yeats, there is no comfort, and there is no way to make sense of it all. How do you reason with a madman with a gun who is convinced of the rightness of his cause?  How do you agree to disagree when to disagree carries the threat of violence and death?

I'm just saying.

The Parable of the Lottery Winner

Well, it's done. Jim McCullar, age 68, and the winner of one half of the $380 million Mega Millions jackpot stepped in front of television cameras, with his wife of 41 years, Carolyn, by his side, and told their tale of lottery luck. After weeks of office-place lottery pools, fueled by "Take This Job and Shove It" fantasies, the winner is a man who lives a quiet life in Small Town USA, a heart attack survivor who delivers turkeys to families having a hard time! What gives???

Look, I hate to profile, but this story is so common in the annals of lottery winners that it's almost cliche: lottery winners are people of modest means. There's the mother of 3 who works 4 jobs and living in a tiny apartment who hits the jackpot; or the man who escaped from Vietnam with his family who would live the lottery fairytale along with his co-workers in a meatpacking plant in Lincoln, Nebraska.

You get a sense that these lottery winners are somehow predestined, that they paid into the karma pool and came out with a winning ticket! I think that these stories of lottery winners are such feel-good stories because they fulfill our desire for justice in this world. That the "have-nots" will become the "haves"; that those who are hungry and desperate will find relief. This is a swift justice, not that far-off stuff we talk about in church.

There's a thunderous Gospel tune, the first line of which is, "He may not come when you want him, but he's right on time." The "he" refers to Jesus, and this line taps into a central human experience, that of people who have weathered hard times and may have sometimes felt as if their prayers and pleading to God had not been heard, only to have felt God's intervention in the nick of time. The lottery stories have become the modern equivalent of a parable in the lives of both the winners and the ever-faithful who hope one day to "hit the number." The belief is not just that the money will make right all that is wrong in their lives, but that the winning of that money is really God showing mercy, and exercising justice. The meek inherit the earth with one giant cardboard check!

But like any parable, there is the "turn". After the uplifting stories of those who have hit the lottery, there are  countless tales of those for whom their mega millions have become their personal nightmare. One man was murdered after winning $31 million, another man was the intended victim of a murder-for-hire scheme, and the crop of newly-bankrupted former lottery winners grows every year.  Just this past summer, HBO premiered its documentary, "Lucky", that followed the lives of several lottery winners. Some lost their great fortunes through bad investments, others retained their fortunes but lost friendships. They all, though, found something more profound - they found an appreciation for what was truly important in their lives.

I'm just saying:)