Needy
I tend to complain a lot. I know, I know, I can see some of you nodding your heads in agreement. But my first assignments of the year have made me realize how fortunate I am. For several days in a row, I worked on The Neediest Cases, compelling stories of people in some of the most dire of circumstances. Not only did I witness some of the most
abject poverty I've seen in New York but I also witnessed one family struggling
with practically insurmountable medical issues. Eight year old Kevyn Bonet has severe Spina
Bifida. He lives in Queens with his mother Gilma and his older brother,
Jose. Catholic Charities had donated an air conditioner to the family because
Kevyn's body is unable to maintain the normal 98.6 degrees when the temperature
rises outside. Paralyzed, unable to walk or to breathe on his own, Kevyn
undergoes painful, life saving medical procedures more than 70 times a
day. Nurse Lavern Franklin, who spends 16 hours every day caring
for Kevyn, since his birth, I'll never forget an editor who once said to me as he reviewed a photograph in my portfolio of a child with cerebral palsy who was undergoing a difficult session of physical therapy, that in his view was too wide of a shot: "I want to see saliva on the lens..."
The photograph that accompanied this story did not address the lifesaving procedures that Kevyn has to undergo every day. What was selected, instead, was much simpler and added to the story in a way that being there with the writer made the picture and story all the more compelling. I had noticed that Kevyn clutched a black ballpoint pen in his right hand, much the way another child might clutch a well loved and well worn blanket or stuffed animal. I asked Kevyn about the pen and he said its name was Pita, after nothing in particular. When Kevyn had to undergo his tracheotomy suction procedures, he clutched Pita even harder. When I read writer Aaron Donovan's poignant piece on Kevyn, I noted that he took the same notice of the importance of this small possession in this little boy's life. I couldn't help but think about the small things in one's life, the small things, like a ballpoint pen, or an air conditioner, that make all the difference in the world in terms of one's ability to cope.
While Melody is committed to raising her sister's children, she is also completely overwhelmed. I wanted to get a sense of the children vying for her attention but there were too many other people whose attention there was to be had. And Melody had a hard and fast rule: no kids in the kitchen, afraid that one of the little ones could get burned. So, I asked Melody to take a few moments and come into the bedroom to do a portrait. It was getting dark outside and there wasn't a single light in the room so one of the older kids brought in a dim bare bulb lamp. I had brought lighting with me but I, too, was afraid of a tipsy light stand crashing down on the children. I was also afraid of blowing their fuses. Thank goodness for portable battery powered strobes.
At one point as I was sitting on the floor,
a couple of the children climbed into my lap. I told them the only joke
that I can ever seem to remember. (Q: Why did the chicken cross the playground?...
A: To get to the other slide...) The kids were in hysterics, saying I was
"sooo funny." Except for little Jakwan, who came back with his own
joke (Q: Why did the chicken cross the river? A to be with the chickens
on the other side...) I remember
And as I left both families, I thought: Melody Williams and Gilma Bonet had each just had a short reprieve from the difficulties of their daily lives. But when the social worker, the writer and the photographer all leave, and the excitement from their photo in the newspaper dies down, Melody Williams and Gilma Bonet still have to get through tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, with no furniture, no lights, 12 mouths to feed, a severely disabled child, hope, and a prayer that they can make it. Susan B. Markisz
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performs
tracheotomy suctions every 15 to 20 minutes, inserting plastic tubing into
his nostrils and throat, in order to aspirate secretions that would otherwise
block his airways. Kevyn is fed through a feeding tube into his abdomen,
he is hooked up to a ventilator 24 hours a day and he is incontinent, requiring
catheterizations to empty his bladder of urine. I had some qualms about
taking these pictures, because Kevyn was clearly uncomfortable with the
procedures; he gagged and choked during the aspirations; but shoot I did,
a few frames as the aspiration procedure came to an end, although I did
not think these pictures would be used. The procedure itself was painful
for Kevyn and I felt that these photographs compromised his dignity and
portrayed him in humiliating circumstances.
"With
all due respect," I told him, "I've seen saliva on the lens and it's not
always necessary to get in someone's face simply for shock value."
In hindsight, it was a brazen thing for me to say since I was looking for
work from this editor. That being said, however, we repeatedly face
dilemmas when shooting this type of photograph. We often have to
make split second decisions about whether to shoot in a situation that
may compromise the dignity of the people we photograph. We have to
ask ourselves: Does this picture add to the story or is it purely for sensationalistic
value? Does it further the reputation of photographers as being callous,
heartless individuals (and does this argument even matter?) At what point
do we STOP shooting? Or do we continue to shoot and hope that we
and our editors can justify the use of such a picture?
Melody
Williams is coping, though barely, with a family of 12. She is raising
her own 2 children, as well as her sister's six children. Her sister
is a crack addict and the children would otherwise be in foster care if
not for Melody. On the rainy evening that I visited her apartment on the
10th floor of her apartment building in the Bronx, I walked into an apartment
to the happy sounds of children of all ages, dancing to music coming from
a small boom box on the floor of the small living room. There wasn't
a stick of furniture in the living room and the only light came from the
entrance hallway. Melody was in the kitchen preparing dinner for
her family of 12, which includes several other family members. The dinner
on her stove would not have fed my family of four. The table that was outside
the kitchen seats only four people. The Children's Aid Society had
just donated bunk beds and mattresses for all the children and they were
giddy with their new beds, and the attention from the writer, the photographer
and the social worker.
While
this wasn't exactly the picture I had in mind, it did, I think, illustrate
the overwhelming nature of Melody's life. But on Melody's way back
through the living room to the kitchen, a few of the children clung to
her for a few seconds, asking for a piece of fruit, or a hug, and I got
my picture.
