I find Brenda, 25, at a park bench, enjoying a snack. She’s in blue scrubs. I ask if I can talk with her for a bit. She tells me she only speaks Spanish. I figure Google translate might do a good enough job. We struggle a bit to converse but we manage.
She tells me she’s only been in the US for a month. When I tell her how long I’ve been here, she tells me I must learn Spanish. When I ask how it’s been, she moves her hand in a gesture I interpret as “so-so.” She’s adapting, she says. She came here, alone, single. I enjoy the way she refers to Dominica Republic as “my country.” She tells me in her country, she worked as a nurse and she loved it. Here, she’s working at a hotel, eight hours a day and she’s made a few friends at work. She tells me soon, that she’s tired, both of talking and typing.
We sit for a while and soon, I make a few photographs. We agree that I’ll send them to her. I want to ask a few more questions, about what it’s like back home or what she makes of the future, but for a common language. I leave her still sitting on the bench.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024.
I meet Alison and we share a smile. I nod as if to acknowledge but she begins to say something. I take off my headphones. She asks if I’m listening to music and we enter a conversation about music. She asks if I rap myself. I don’t. I tell her who I’m listening to but she doesn’t know them. She prefers hardrock herself. She mentions one or two but I don’t know them either. We agree that we’re from different times. She’s 55. She guesses that her youngest son might be around my age. He’s 29.
We talk about other things, about Manchester, how many streets bear names of trees – Pine Street, Beech, Elm, and so on. Neither of us know why it’s so. In the middle of a conversation, I blurt out that she has beautiful eyes.
She tells me about herself too. She feels free, the happiest she’s been in her life. She tells me of her history of abuse when she was a child and how her mother had her own demons too. She tells me about her Bachelors in Psychology, her job as a GED instructor, a place she lived that had fault lines, another home with her ex, and her neighborhood getting flooded with meth. She tells me these as if narrating events from a past life. I don’t ask what happened.
She tells me of her interest in the camera. Once, with her 35mm film camera, she took a photograph of a butterfly. When she developed it, it turned out to be tens, maybe dozens of butterflies perched on each other. It’s a small story that feels out of this world. I tell her it must have been a beautiful photograph. I would have loved to see this.
I ask for a photograph and she helped to suggest a good place to make one. We settle on this one.
As I leave, she tells me to be careful. She tells me this just the way my mother would.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024.
I hesitate to go talk with him. I keep walking until I see him, more clearly now, scribbling away in a book. I don’t want to bother him but I do anyway. It takes a bit of back and forth before I sit with him. He finally asks me what I want to talk about. I ask about what he’s writing.
He writes everything that’s going on in his life. His anger and frustration. He writes instead of taking it out on someone or himself, or doing something foolish.
He tells me more about himself. He’s been homeless since he was 18, that’s near a decade. He tells me he’s trying to do better now. He wants his girl back. She loved him. He took it for granted. I think that’s a very relatable story. I ask where she is now. He points at her. On the other side of the park. She has a baby now, with his cousin. They’re all at the other side of the park, he glances at them periodically. It’s too far too see. I wonder if they’re glancing at him too. He was there for her when he was in jail. “Valley street is the worst. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.” He was there for a year in 2022. He’s been in the hole too, where you only get one hour of light and 23 of solitude. He was in for possession and assault. He cut her off so she wouldn’t worry. When he called her mother, wondering if he would still have a girl when he’s out, she told him she didn’t think so.
He wants her back. He loves her, he tells me. He still does.
He has to go. I ask for his name. “Junior,” he tells me. He thanks me for listening to him. I thank him too. We agree to meet again.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024
There’s a tornado watch but that seems to have passed with only some rain, lightning and thunder. It’s night and I’m outside looking for portraits to make. I don’t find much success. I turn to the interaction between lights and architecture. I pause at this building and make a few photographs. I enjoy the symmetry of two backlit windows with a door in the middle. It’s an almost perfect symmetry.
It’s about 10 pm. The door creaks open and two middle aged hijabis are revealed in the light of the shop. They share a very hearty laugh. If I knew them, I would probably call them alhajas. My mother has a friend down the street. Often after dinner, she would go visit her friend and return just about the same time as these women here. I wonder how long they’ve been friends.
I make a few photographs before they spot me. They ask me if I have a friend in the building, if I’m spying on them. I introduce myself and show them the photos I’ve made. They don’t mind. I say goodnight and leave. I don’t remember if only one of them leave or if they both do.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024.
“How do you photograph someone without focusing on one aspect of their lives?”.
On Pine street, I walk up to him, “I like your hair”, I say. It has a bluish tint just at the top. He accepts the compliment and I ask for a picture. He tells me his name is Joseph. Mine’s Samuel, I say. I wonder if it’s a half-lie. Samuel’s my middle name, but I never introduce myself as this. I don’t dwell on it.
I make a few photographs. I want to show them to him but he waves me away, “I never look good in photos.” I argue that that’s not true. Later, I wonder if there might be another reason why he doesn’t want to see the photos. I wonder why then he’s allowed me to make them at all.
We don’t converse much. We bump fists, I leave. I imagine he continues to light the cigarette he’s been holding the whole time.
Manchester, New Hampshire, 2024.
Like life and everything else that’s a constant battle, first you must learn to move your feet.
I am conflicted about what project to do here. I think I’ll like to photograph boxers and dancers for a side project. I search on Google Maps for boxing gyms close to me. I walk a mile from the residence to one. The director welcomes me. I try my best to tell her what I’m looking for while asking myself “what am I looking for?”
The gym is a beautiful place. An old factory they’ve taken the pain to turn around. In the new space is a boxing ring, and ropes. It’s a place for boxers and dancers, and many more types of art. I don’t take a photo but I seek permission to return.
I return the next day. In the basement is the training space for boxers. They go up when it’s time to spar. On this day, I take many photographs. I look through them. I select a few. I don’t know what this one says but it says something – the pose, the covered up tattoo on the arm, the stillness, the motion, the rocks, the wall hangings – they say something. I am still listening.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024.
R. excerpt: “She misses him. When she woke up, the first thing she did was look for him”.
I meet Denise, 20, on a walk. She’s with her daughter, 1. I ask to take a walk with her so we can talk for a bit. I introduce myself. We settle at a closeby park where we spend some time talking.
She’s a tattoo artist in training but she used to be a nail tech. I make a quick portrait of her. She has a look and responds with something like “So Dominican Republic.” I figure that must be where she’s from. I can’t tell and I forget to ask if she was born here or if she migrated here at some point, perhaps with family. Her accent is American so I’m fairly certain she’s been here for a long enough.
I ask about her family – her daughter’s dad. He’s been gone for a little bit; maybe a few days. A post she made on snapchat about relationships upset him. She was hoping they might spend father’s day as a family. She tells me their daughter misses him. I think they will reconcile soon.
Manchester, New Hampshire, 2024.