Creation Spirit

Jim Young

Copyright 2003 by James H. Young. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private use–other than for “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews without the written permission of the author.

The author’s intent is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest of emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author assumes no responsibility for your actions.

For written approval, contact:

dimitrios@creationspirit.netPLEASE NOTE:

Other than the public figures referred to in this story, the names of persons in this travel through time and space have been changed to protect all concerned. The facts remain as experienced.

INTRODUCTION

It’s the first day of forging my way through the dog days of summer in Arkansas, the year of our Lord, 2000. It’s only mid-July, but already it is 98 degrees steamy, the air so thick with humidity the mosquitoes use a slow, deliberate backstroke to get from one meal to the next. Nary a soul is in sight. Most everyone is sprawled in front of a lone, noisy window air-conditioner or a cheap window fan donated by the village “gub’ment”. A few, very few, brave the oppressive heat–much like the rest of their oppressed lives– with stooped shoulders, half-closed eyes and simple resignation. It was to be that way most of my summer expedition to begin photographically sampling poverty in the vast regions of rural Arkansas, over 4000 miles in all.

My only companions are my camera and God. I rely on these loyal friends time and time again for guidance and inner peace. With the camera I hope to co-create, with whomever will let me, photographs for a photo essay on the attitudes and circumstances which contribute to poverty.

Frankly, I have some anxiety about initiating this photo essay. As a middle-class, white 65 year-old male, photographing impoverished people of all kinds, I don’t really know what to expect from people. Letting oneself be photographed by a complete stranger for some vague “project” about people in rural Arkansas can be quite intimidating to some. So far, most of what I’m photographing are African Americans, and I am as white as can be, a seeming intruder on the solitude of their own ways. Then there’s the bigotry and prejudice that have been inflicted on them that surely will make things difficult for me, or so I think. Nevertheless, I am buoyed by the prospect of embarking on yet another adventure into humanity’s inner landscape. Besides, I cannot abandon this journey no matter what. The inner calling is that strong. And the story follows.

I came to greatly admire the courage most people exhibited, just to let me explain what I was doing, let alone to eventually let me photograph them and sign a model release, which could make them even more suspicious of me. But when they let me get as far as chatting with them about the various and sundry of life, we usually hit it off and, eventually, co-creating images most natural to their being became the rule rather than the exception. It always amuses me to see how trust seems to just suddenly pop up out of thin air. Much like a heartfelt hug, it seals the moment with authenticity.

Only a few people pushed me away, and I always respected their judgment over mine and moved on to the less-reluctant souls. Even with all my experience in such photographic matters though, I had no idea what I would be treated to in this initial venture into what I came to understand as yet another voyage into my own inner landscape, or at least that portion of it that deals with the attitudes and predispositions that make for poverty, in this case my own–and not so much economic poverty as spiritual poverty–that which energizes all the rest.

Over the years I have come to learn that the camera is a penetrating tool that allows me to see my real inner-self portrayed through the images of others, to see into the souls of those I engage along the way. In many cases, even if only for the brief moments our paths cross, there is a simple, but profound, Oneness; a sense of our souls merging–a deep knowing that we humans are all of the same Essence–however one wishes to express the meaning of authentic being in the moment. It is in this Oneness that I come to know others’ and my own beauty as the similar reflection of God’s gaze, each in our own precious, yet different, but no less important, way. Photography is this for me. Never has this knowing been so clear as it was to be on this foray: God knows no favorites.

You will find in this encapsulated form of my journey that my past is inextricably linked with the present, and thus influences the future. My camera has been a faithful guide, showing me what I am through the contextual lessons of meeting and photographing all sorts of people. Various circumstances and events cause me to remember the basis of my existence, including many of the influences on my development as a whole and hearty human being. More and more, these clues awaken me to my feelings and behavior. Thus I come to savor the richness of their contribution to my life, yet modify their foundation only when called to do so; that I may manifest more and more of my highest good, for my own good and thus the good of all. I share these glimpses into my life to embolden you to be open to your own.

Yes, photography has been very good to me. I am grateful for the rich texture of relationships it regularly affords me, and for the grand gift of self-awareness that continues to enlighten me day by day.

Chapter One

It is now July 17, and I am winding away from Little Rock toward the small towns leading to Pine Bluff, armed with my pre-dispositions about poverty, especially when juxtaposed with the supposed affluence of the new Millennium. I am confident I will know poverty when I see it. And I find myself saying a prayer of immense gratitude for yet another opportunity to express my highest self with all whom I will be blessed to meet.

As I turn off the main road toward Woodson, I see what looks like thousands of insects swimming in the river-like mirage created by the ribbon of steamy asphalt which spills out ahead of me and heat-wise I know it’s going to be one tough day. Woodson turns out to be quiet, really quiet; nary a soul to be found. I wind my way up this side street and down that one, but it’s just too hot and humid for anyone with any sense at all to be outside. “What does that say about me?” I wonder. Even the leaves on the trees seem to be drooping already, portending the summer’s drought just ahead.

Just as I’m about to head to the next community down the road, I sense a couple of folks moving on the left side of my peripheral vision and nearly careen off the road as I crane my neck to gain a better view. It tempts me, so I retreat and turn down the road to a tiny lot, occupied for the moment by two men. One of them, a middle-aged man clad only in bib overalls, with a piece of twisted white twine clinging to his sweaty chest, leans this way and that on his metal cane to pick up empty soda and beer cans so the older of the two men can mow the lawn, or what is left of it. As the mower approaches, it becomes obvious that for the most part, he’s mowing plain dirt. The grass is already burned beyond reclamation, but the chore must be completed as assigned, conditions notwithstanding.

Frank, the one in overalls, bare-chested, with a tattoo of a woman’s body embroidered on his forearm, ambles over to a barrel at the corner of his own lot and perches his tired body precariously on one edge of it. His property looks like a collection basin for all the trash in Woodson: pieces of bicycles here, cars there, empty cans and bottles form their separate piles of remnants–on it goes. I ask if I might create a photograph or two, explaining my purpose. Fred agrees with a simple nod and I proceed. I tell Fred about my desire to collect stories from folks along the way, asking him something like, “If you had just one story to tell about your life, what would it be?”

I can see the creation experience churning in Frank’s head just as we are interrupted by Frank’s wife appearing out of the front door of house that shares the small lot. She’s considerably shorter than Frank sporting the mustache of a woman slightly out of chemical balance, and is obviously curious about what’s going on. I explain and request permission to photograph her, and she consents, even though she is considerably more uneasy than her counterpart. Even so, we exchange a few words, and I return to Frank and wait for the opportune moment to continue photographing him, while keeping his wife in the corner of my eye. Frank suddenly blurts out, “Idn’t much I can tell, ‘cept she’s the best thing that’s happened to me! Been laid up six, seven months–my back, laid up bad. Still hurtin’ some. That’s my story. I would never have made it through my accident without her. Nope. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me–gonna be a mighty hot one today.” As abruptly as the story began, it ends. It’s obvious by the measure of silence that follows Frank’s testimony that my welcome is worn out, so I thank everyone and move on to the next town, Hensley, just down the road.

The flow that began in Woodson repeats itself in Hensley. I have a feeling I’m in for a long, sparse day of imaging. Again, I drive down this street and up that, winding back and forth across the main highway through town. And again, just as I am about to leave, I catch some movement to the left, out of the corner of my eye. I pull to a halt and reverse my direction, parking past a corner lot adorned with a well-used 12-foot house trailer, a few tattered folding chairs, a large blue and white cooler and a well-worn motorcycle. I foolishly wonder how someone could pull a trailer with a motorcycle. A smile crosses my face at the thought of the absurdity. There hunches a man with closely-cropped hair, in his mid-40s I’d guess, in light blue jeans and dusty boots, his tattooed shoulder glistening in the sun. His companion is a somewhat older, wisp of a fella, clad in jeans, a short-sleeved shirt, and his ball cap is shading a deeply creased carnival of life. Eugene is his name. The younger man doesn’t give me a name, so I privately call him by his tattoo: Outlaw.

After explaining my purpose and gaining permission from both, I traverse from side to side, forward and back, looking for just the right angles and images to portray what my soul is urging. I amble slowly toward the trailer, trying to figure the best way to use the large, cracked mirror that is propped against the weathered chair next to the entry. My fathoms gather no response, so I abandon that approach as too gimmicky in any event. I lean on a tree and chat for awhile, letting ease take over our time together, all the while snapping a photo here and there as images appear to beckon my finger on the release. Outlaw seems a bit on the reluctant side, but Eugene doesn’t seem to mind several close-ups I snap, even when the snout of my 35 mm lens is almost touching his own.

It is then that I notice the glint in Eugene’s eyes. He is capable of considerable mischief, I can tell. Sensing that he relishes playing off others, I take this opportunity to tell them both that I am collecting stories and play out my request. Outlaw, being more private, begs off, leaving the impression that he thinks he has nothing to contribute. I have a hunch that if I were to stay there a few hours that his demeanor would soften some, but my decision is pre-empted by Eugene’s words: “Ya won’t see no rabbits around here today; too darn hot. Used to be lots of rabbits here years ago. They all went away, ’cause there’s no place to hide no more with all these houses and stuff. I went to the post office the other day and saw one, though. Must be he went to see if he had any mail.” Eugene’s turn of a smile engages mine, and we at once understand one another. I try to engage him in more, but the best he gives me is a brief commentary on years of yore, and the sparkle in his eyes turns to studied memory: “Yep, years ago, during the depression, people used to use a stick or board to get the rabbits. They didn’t have nothin’ to eat and no way to hunt for’ em, so they just used a stick to kill ‘em. That’s how bad it was then.” Eugene’s eyes lose focus in a cloudy reminiscence.

I create a few more images and decide to amble down the road to see what’s happening at the 1960s pickup truck parked near the corner of the side street that connects with the main drag through town. As I approach, I see it’s quite an enterprising operation. Two fellas, one lean and tall, Lennie, and the other, shorter and stout, without a name he’d give me, are selling watermelons off the back of the truck–and doing quite well at that. Nameless has on bib overalls, a short-sleeved shirt, a ball cap and large, dark sunglasses, beaded with sweat. Lennie, Lennie Louisiana he tells me, has on jeans, a cap and an open plaid short-sleeved shirt, which his friend is chiding him to button up. His strange looking stomach is glistening from the morning heat.

I introduce myself to them and tell them what I’d like to do and they readily agree, even seemed buoyed by the request. While creating a few photos I request a story from each of them. Nameless refuses, saying politely that he “don’t have no stories to tell.” Lennie, brightened by the query, quickly responds: “I got one. I got in an accident ‘while back. Hurt my back. Almost lost my leg, here, had a hole in it–and had to take out over 65% of my stomach. See here? Retired from 3 M over here. After 23 years–age 59. Yep.” I think, “With all he’s lived, can you imagine that his most recent tragedy is what occupies his thoughts?” Currency seems to be the image. Upon reflection, I can see why that would be the case, and my observation was to be affirmed again and again with others along the way. Lennie suggests I photograph his emaciated stomach, or at least, it looks like that: a remnant of an old-fashioned washboard imbedded in a bulimic tummy.

Just as I finish that image, I catch Nameless grinning from ear to ear, so I ask him what’s going on. He responds, “Oh, nothin.” “C’mon,” I say, “there’s something behind that wonderful smile.” “Oh,” grins Nameless, “I gots a story all right–but I can’t tell it.” “Oh, c’mon,” I beg, “sure you can.” “Nope, I gots a story, but I sure can’t tell it.” We laugh, like friends who know what’s really behind the unrevealed of the moment, and I feel like I’ve known Lonnie and Nameless since childhood. That’s how familiar the humorous exchange is to me.

I pack up my gear and head toward Pine Bluff, with places like Altheimer and Wabbaseka on my mind. The memory of the earlier exchanges brings a glow to my being and optimism surfaces in a wave. I am intrigued by the setting in Redfield, just short of Jefferson, a town bordering Pine Bluff, and decide to stop in the corner store to inquire about possible sites for my work. I ask the two white women inside if they could point me to any areas in or around Redfield, or even on the way to Jefferson. After momentarily pondering my request, they both say they can’t think of any in town and don’t really know Jefferson that well. Jefferson is primarily an African American community. They then suggest that I speak with Grenadine in the corner restaurant across the street. “She knows everybody around here,” one of the women concludes. I sense a bit of denial from the two women, but decide to follow their lead and cross the street to find Grenadine–and find her I do.

Grenadine is a real ball of fire, in her 60s I would think. I introduce myself and tell her what I’m looking for and she bowls me over with, “Well, you got the right place! Take my picture. I’m the poorest snake in town!” to which everyone in the place explodes with laughter. No indigestion in this place, for sure. She then asks a patron, a middle-aged man weighing about 300 pounds, who is eating cake for a late breakfast, if he knows any place I might go. Getting nothing but a blank stare, she then asks one of his friends sitting in the next booth over, and obtains a similar blank stare. Both deny knowing anything by their silence. Then a man who appears to be the owner asks what’s going on, and between Grenadine and me he is informed of my desire. After careful reflection he determines there’s no one like that in Redfield.

I conclude that no one is going to admit that they have poor folks of any kind in their midst–even though some people sure as cotton don’t mind pointing out the Black neighborhoods with regularity. Or it could simply be that they are suspicious of my intrusion and don’t want to divulge anything to a stranger. It makes no difference really; at this point I’ve already decided that I’ll use other sources to obtain appropriate information. I thank everyone and decide to forge down to Altheimer, one of the places everyone has told me is a haven for what I want to witness. The owner walks out with me and I freely express my delight over Grenadine’s energy. He responds by rolling his eyes up in his head, saying, “Yeah, she’s my mother-in-law!”

Still amused by this most recent encounter, but a bit buffered by the mounting examples of blatant denial, I slip through Wabbaseka, determining that I need to revisit this community of many offerings. Much like the earlier towns, it offers a wide array of poverty and neglect, a symbolic presence of the spiritual poverty I see all too much of in our country these days. I spot a young woman sitting in a chair, looking rather forlorn and sad. Pulling over, I ask if I might photograph her, and her posture changes dramatically, signaling to me that she feels flattered. “Who, me?” she asks, confirming my understanding that photographing people makes some, at least, feel they are being respected and honored.

She no longer is the same woman I saw from the road, not by any stretch of the imagination. Nettie is her name, and she now sits tall and poised, yet portraying her humility, or is it her shyness, by not quite looking into my lens. All the while I’m snapping photos she’s asking what I’m going to do with the pictures, what’s my purpose, and where I’m from. We have a pleasant chat, and others from the surrounding houses begin to collect and watch the goings on. Several men slip by, not wanting my attention, but a young boy slides into the scene and bares his pearly whites in a pose of innocence. I ask Nettie if she has a story she might want to share with me. Screwing up her face as she ponders my question, she haltingly responds: “Don’t know what I would say. You help me,” she laughs nervously. “Well, I’d tell ’bout my family–my children. Yep, thas my story. And about my mom, yep, my mom and my kids. That’s the story I’d tell. That’s wha’s important in my life: my kids and my mom.” I am reminded in this instant that the most telling stories are simple, yet nonetheless profound.

The temperature has reached the 100 degree mark by now and there’s virtually no one in sight at high noon. I slurp from my bottled water, and consume a few crackers and an apple to restore my rapidly depleting energy. As I do, I am amused to discover that the heat doesn’t seem nearly as oppressive as I thought it would be. When I’m totally present with those I’m photographing, such conditions simply don’t exist, much like the time that disappears into nowhere. On an even deeper level, I realize that whenever I surrender myself to the sacred act of authentic engagement, the moment is unfettered by human concern or condition. Suddenly I understand the truth of nonlinear time, that all-elusive concept I have tried to decipher in my reading so many times before. Experience does indeed inform.

Passing the ‘Welcome to Altheimer’ sign, I become abundantly aware of the row of dismal buildings bisected by the already all too familiar railroad tracks. Except in Altheimer, destitution appears to occupy both sides of the tracks; at least by first appearances this is so. I immediately discern that Altheimer is going to be a fertile field for me to plow.

As I turn down the first street on the north side of town, I spy a woman and two men sitting on the back porch of a simple, rather dilapidated house, sipping a drink in the shade of the overhanging maple trees. I turn my car around and park in front of their house, exiting with a smile and a genuinely friendly, “Good afternoon, folks.” I can feel the tension in the air as the woman straightens up in her chair and the two men look upon me rather suspiciously. I ignore these signs, knowing that I’d probably feel the same way if the conditions were reversed. I explain my purpose, and the woman, holding a can of beer, suggests that I could photograph the men, but not her, and retreats quickly into the house. The men are not happy with her proclamation and one quickly says he “don’t want no picture took.” The other becomes belligerent and says he’s just a “nigger,” and nobody wants to take a “nigger’s” picture. I am broken by his declaration and ask him to repeat himself to be sure I heard him correctly. He repeats himself, and I quickly let him know I don’t think that about him at all, but it doesn’t seem to matter. In his own way he has told me he doesn’t want me to photograph him, so I tell him I’m sorry he feels that way, and thank him nevertheless. Such exchanges are the kinds of things that go bump in the night, awakening my soul to some deeper understanding. This one girds my loins for more, firm in the promise that somehow this project could well help bring hope for a better world.

Indeed, there is more, a great deal more, to be seen and photographed in Altheimer, and I commit here and now to return for a segment of several days, so I can let the folks become more at ease with my being here. It occurs to me that Altheimer might make a great single study of a community in despair–or even better, I privately wish for it to be a study of a community that survives, even flourishes, on its healthy spirit.

On my way through Stuttgart turning toward Hazen, I halt my car at a stop sign, and proceed, adhering to the 15 MPH sign on my right. Seemingly out of nowhere, a police car stops me. I immediately break into a sweat, even though I don’t have the vaguest notion what I might have done wrong. The officer approaches me asking, “Sir, do you know why I stopped you?” “No, officer, I really don’t. It may be that I was a mile or two over the speed limit.” “Nope,” he responds, “not even close. Your registration expired three months ago.” “It can’t be. I never received a notice for renewal,” I rejoin. “Well, you can look at the strip on the plate and see for yourself.” I pull out my registration form, and to my great surprise, my registration has indeed expired. “Can I take care of it right now, locally?” I ask. “Sure, just go straight up this street to the next major intersection and turn right. The office you need is just a half-mile on the right. You’d better get it taken care of right away; a State policeman won’t be as lenient, I can assure you.” I thank the officer profusely for the gift of mercy and kindness and head on my way to correct the situation. I am grateful for the generosity and good fortune that can emerge out of a potentially fearful situation.

I am still bathing in the glow of that incident when I pull into Hazen. Turning down the first street I come to, I see two men sitting on the porch of a ramshackled shanty. One of them waves to me as I pass by. I turn the car around so I can examine the setting more closely and as I pass by the same one waves again. I park the car, take my camera in hand, explain what I am doing and they agree to let me photograph them. As I approach, however, I am startled to see the man who had waved at me jump off the porch and hightail it down the street. As he departs, the remaining one, whose house it is, asks suspiciously, “You’re not doing this for the police, are you?” It dawns on me that fear of “the law” might well be the reason his companion left so quickly. “No,” I laugh, “nothing like that,” and briefly explain the project again. This time he seems to understand–and trust. I create several images with him and as I finish he asks,” You’re not going to buy some land or a house here, are you?” Once again I respond in the negative, and he seems to be relieved. After making a notation in my journal to return to Hazen for further investigation, I wave good-bye and bid him a good day. He returns the courtesy and I have a sense we’ll meet again.

Heading toward Sherwood I feel some disappointment over having only a few photographs and short stories to show for today’s work. On the other hand the day did give me a wonderful start to get past most of my anxiety, begin collecting some splendid images, and hopefully some new “relationships” to cherish. Besides, it’s terribly hot, so it’s no wonder there aren’t many folks out of their houses. It is interesting that even in the midst of poverty, many folks have at least one window air-conditioner, a car after a fashion, and most have a TV antenna perched on a roof top. The definition of poverty I began with starts to reshape itself in my mind, but I decide to keep my mind open for the time being.

As I travel the vast open spaces between the rice and soy bean plantings on both sides of the road, I can’t help but notice the huge machinery which now replaces the farm hands of the depression era. I suspect my “catch” will be greatly inhibited by the new farm age. I hope the changes have helped, and not just dislodged people into uninhabitable dwellings in the middle of nowhere. Time will tell. Anyhow, farmhands are nowhere to be seen.

I am grateful for the lessons of the day: to be sure to show the people somehow, especially, but not only, the African Americans, that I think of them as equals, particularly by my behavior toward them and respect for them; to explain my life’s work in simple terms that all can understand; to double check my recorder and camera so I can do what I set out to do with as few mistakes as possible. And, of course, most important of all, to be with those I’m photographing in heart and spirit–and to see everyone with love in my heart as the spiritual energy we all are.

With a deep sigh, I realize I am tired, after all. Human emotions take some toll, no matter what importance we give them. Even so, I smile inwardly at my deep sense of gratitude for the events of the day.