It’s 7:00 am on June 6th, 2020. As an accredited member of the press, I plan to go take pictures of protests and of police brutality… the moment I finish my stats final. Between studying chapters 7 and 8 of OpenIntro Statistics 4th edition, I glance at Twitter. I’m shown the world outside my apartment I haven’t left in a week because I’m afraid to catch the virus. This world is so strange and different it’s almost hard to comprehend, but the pictures and videos force me to engage with its reality.  I watch an Associated Press photographer get shot in the face. I watch two news reporters’ faces get pushed against pavement while they are zip-tied and arrested on air. I watch a photographer get bludgeoned with a baton. I click through a content warning and see a picture of a street photographer who lost their eye, and another. I’m incredibly squeamish. I see more gore than I’ve ever seen in a single day. I can’t look away. This feels too important. I am sick to my stomach.  I become abruptly educated on what rubber bullets are. Rubber bullets are not what I imagined. I enter paralysis for a moment as I try to imagine what happened after the arrests that they didn’t want me seeing, but can’t. I exit this paralysis into a mental image of myself as a journalist being shot. I can imagine this image because I’ve seen so many versions of it today. I take the stats final without learning what happens in chapter 8.  

 As a Jew, I am reminded of my relatives who died in Germany. Of the Jews who helped the Germans in the beginning. Of the Jews who resisted. Of the Jews who were too afraid to resist and for good reason. Of the Jews who survived and their conspicuous non-overlap with the Jews who resisted. Of my European family who died and left no records. Of my American family who only learned about the Holocaust after the war concluded, because pictures of Auschwitz were uncirculated prior. They could never have imagined what had happened that the Germans didn’t want them seeing. I’ve read that the allied forces took these pictures in many cases because they thought no one would ever believe what happened without proof. I am reminded of the importance of pictures.

It’s 1:00 pm on June 6th, 2020. I am terrified of being shot, my stats final has finished, and I decide what kind of Jew I’m going to be. 

I ink my roommate’s phone number onto my left forearm in black sharpie in case anything happens to me. I put on my fencing shoes because they’re best for running. I put on a pair of Adidas track pants, then switch to my other pair of Adidas track pants that has zipper pockets. I consider my press vest but do not bring it because it appears the press is getting shot at first. I consider putting on a fencing jacket because it’s made of bullet-proof fabric but decide it’s too conspicuous. The worst thing to do in a crowd is to draw attention. I pack 2 water bottles, travel sunscreen, gaffers tape, zip ties, band-aids, medical gauze, and super glue into a small backpack to hedge against uncertainty. I pack lab goggles and milk in case of tear gas. I put the important things in my pocket in case I need to ditch my backpack. I rubber band my driver’s license, insurance cards, press credentials, a credit card, and 40$ cash together and slip them in my right pants pocket alongside my keys, phone charger, and a slim external battery. I slip my phone into the left pocket, alone so nothing slips out if I reach for it, but within reach of my free hand while I’m holding my camera. I attach my 70-200mm F2.8 USM lens to my Canon 1DX Mark II body and sling all 8lbs over my shoulder. 

My phone buzzes with a message from my friend declining my invitation to come to the protest. He says he supports the movement. He doesn’t want to support violence. He doesn’t want to experience violence. Twitter shows him pictures of violence. I want to see for myself what the protests are like but I understand why he’s already convinced. I’m reminded of the importance of pictures.

It’s 1:20 pm on June 6th, 2020. I get in my car and drive downtown.  

I park outside the police perimeter and walk a long distance to the park where the protest is happening. I look down each alley I pass taking note of which ones dead-end and which ones don’t. 

I arrive at the field full of thirty thousand protesters. I’m struck by the realization that only white people are wearing goggles, running shoes, zipper pocketed pants, and backpacks of supplies. It strikes me that everyone in the crowd is afraid of being shot, but this fear is only novel for some. The black people in the crowd seem less uneasy. I presume it’s because they are accustomed to fears of being shot. Privilege is having the active choice to face this danger on rare occasions rather than experiencing its persistent presence in the everyday. I am experiencing privilege.   

It’s 7:00 pm on June 6th, 2020. Everyone is leaving the park. I take the most visually compelling picture I’ve ever shot. A cloud diffuses sunlight evenly across each subject. An African-American woman is equidistant from a white TV reporter and his cameraman. I’m at an angle offset from the line they form, such that you can see both her face and the reporter’s in their entirety, and just enough of the TV camera pokes into the frame that it’s recognizable but doesn’t draw attention away from the figures. There are thousands of people out of focus in the background walking towards them. The woman is hinged at the waist mid-stride, with her arms in fists behind her, face looking up, neck veins visible, mid shout. Her eyes are focused on the back of his head staring through him to the camera. He stands tall with his shoulders back relaxed and a TV-news-anchor smile on his face, the asymmetric kind that shows half his perfect teeth in the midst of a word. The juxtaposition of their composures is striking.  

It’s the type of picture that my press contacts would buy for their content pools. It’s the type of picture that would be chosen by editors to appear on the thumbnails of news articles across their syndicates. It’s the type of picture that would be all over Twitter. It’s the type of picture that should be none of these things. This isn’t an uncirculated picture of Auschwitz in 1940. It’s 7:00pm June 6th 2020 and this is a perpetuation of the angry black woman trope. 

It’s a picture that misrepresents the lived experience of that day. Thirty thousand people gathered peacefully in that park. Thirty thousand people sat and listened to slam poetry about injustice. Thirty thousand people chanted slogans of unity. Thirty thousand people listened to impassioned speeches. Zero arrests were made. Zero property was damaged. Zero tear gas was fired. Zero rubber bullets were shot. When it ended, the organizers directed everyone to pick up trash on the field and they did. This is not the world that Twitter showed me this morning. More accurately, this is a different view of that same world without the selective bias of the media. There is some violence across the country at the protests, but not all protests are violent. The world is more nuanced than its trending narrative. 

It’s 7:01 pm on June 6th, 2020. As my camera shutter opens, she finishes proclaiming just one word: “Justice.” Her stride is unbroken. His reporting is uninterrupted. She pivots away and walks off. In real-time this moment is unimportant. 

It’s 7:02 PM on June 6th, 2020. I delete the picture.  

It’s 11:00 pm on June 6th, 2020. My friend calls from Hong Kong. He asks how things are. I tell him I’ve been at a protest. He fears for my safety. I tell him things are peaceful here. He sends me dozens of articles about the violence in America. He says America is erupting in violence. I tell him I don’t fully agree. One article is about the protest I was at. The picture on the thumbnail is charged and combative. I search the content pool and learn it’s from a different state and was taken three days prior. It fits well with the narrative of the article. 

It’s 11:30 pm on June 6th, 2020. One of my press contacts responds to the peaceful pictures I sent. She isn’t interested. She calls them bland. I’m reminded that peace isn’t visually compelling in the same way as violence. I’m reminded that Twitter only previews the headline of a news article, a brief summary, and the thumbnail picture. I’m reminded of the importance of pictures.

I began the day by asking myself what kind of Jew I was, but as I, a white man in 2020 America, lie in bed that evening I instead asked myself what kind of German I might have been. I wish it mattered that I was someone who deleted a racist image. This is a wholly masturbatory wish. I will instead remember myself as someone who failed. I failed to capture an image of the moment compelling enough to share the reality of the world I experienced with those who didn’t leave their room to see it. The article about today ended up with a combative image, and it’s not important if it was the one I took or someone else’s. It’s still my failure. Pictures for me are power. Specifically, taking them gives me power to influence the narrative they accompany. My pictures and their power are a privilege. More specifically a white man in 2020 America kind of privilege where I have the media contacts and a $10,000 camera that takes the kind of pictures they are looking to share with the world. But this power is mediated by selection and competition. Editors always choose the most compelling image, so my power only exists if I can create a “most compelling image” that fits the narrative I believe is correct. Correct I believe is using privilege and power for the benefit of those who have privilege. On June 6th, 2020 I was powerless and the truth of that day was lost to the violent world constructed on Twitter.