Dignity in wake of shooting

The Baltimore Sun

"Double shooting in East Baltimore. On the 2000 block of Guilford."

I got that call from photo assignment editor Chuck Weiss one recent Monday morning. I'm working as a photo intern at The Sun and this is my first extensive newspaper experience. I'd done only one shooting before, and that time I was kept very far away from where the shooting actually took place.

I drove to the scene and was shocked to see that it happened behind a school. I had heard that Baltimore crime was out of control, but now I was seeing it firsthand.

One of the things that a mentor here has drilled into my head is the concept of context. On the previous shooting I snapped a photograph of a dead body; I failed to capture anything else.

Here I wanted to make a photograph that meant something other than "Oh, there's a dead body." I wanted to make a photograph that showed how this sudden violent death was affecting others in the community.

The two victims had already been taken away when I arrived, so I walked around looking for a picture.

I was frustrated at first: The crime scene was taped off in a way that blocked a clear view of the actual site of the shooting. I walked up and down the street, making some general shots and trying to gather information from onlookers.

Ten minutes had passed when a black SUV rolled to a stop.

At first I thought I heard a sob, but I really couldn't make out the sound. Then two women came out of the car, and crossed the yellow tape. One seemed older, and was sobbing loudly now, and another was younger and looked to be holding back her tears.

"That's his ma, I think," said one of the observers.

I raised my camera, and began to press the shutter release.

Then she looked directly at me. Her red eyes had a look in them that I'd seen once or twice before. Hidden behind the sorrow of the tears, behind the despair of the moment, was a little glimmer that maybe it wasn't her son. Maybe her boy was all right, and it wasn't his blood spilled on the steps of 2025 Guilford Ave.

For about 30 seconds, I kept the camera to my eye, but did not fire a frame.

Another photographer had told me, "You should always leave people with their dignity." The moment before to me seemed like I was taking something from her, like I was intruding on her private grief.

Then the younger woman, whom I later identified as the girlfriend of the victim, came over and embraced the woman.

This moment felt more dignified. I saw these two people helping each other through a difficult time. I made a shot of their shared grief.

Later, after they and the police officers departed and all the tape was gone, I walked up to the spot of the shooting with the reporter.

Blood was everywhere. I tried to make a photo of it. It made me physically ill to look at it. It gave me an idea of the pain that the victim had to have gone through before finally passing on.

It made me feel for that woman even more. It made me want to reach out and tell her how sorry I was and offer to help instead of simply asking if I could get her name to use in the newspaper.

The same mentor who counseled me to leave people with their dignity also told me to remember my own humanity. In that moment I felt the power of his advice.

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