This Q & A came to be as part of a book of conversations with various women. The book deal fell through. The Q & A lives on.
What is your first memory of an image that moved you? I remember the first time I saw a photograph that had been framed and signed. It was a coastal scene, something even then I recognized as sort of cliché. What struck most though, and I still remember this, was the photographer’s signature. I remember thinking: why did he sign this? He didn’t make the ocean! Of course, as a kid I had no clue about the authoring of things. But the original thought has lingered. Photography, for me, is always somewhat collaborative. People share themselves with you, yes, but it’s a version of themselves; it’s what they choose to share. It’s like sculpting. Our subject matter is the world. We sculpt meaning out of it. I work mostly in solitude, but I work in collaboration with the world.
Where were you born and raised? How did your surroundings (thinking here of family, friendships, culture, community, geography, climate etc.) shape you? As a person? As a professional? I grew up in small town New England in the heart of Massachusetts in what was at the time a center for plastics manufacturing. The marquee on the border said, “Welcome to Leominster, Plastics Capital of the World.” The Nashua River wound through town, its color changing depending on the chemicals the factories pumped into it each day. Sounds horrifying, I know, but as a kid I remember thinking how vivid and beautiful it looked. This was all I knew and it was rich. The factories eventually all closed. I grew up in a place that in a way no longer exists.
I came from a large family, raised mostly by my mother. She had several sisters, warm and funny and colorful and just all around terrific people. My parents split when I was young. Looking back, I see now that a matriarchy raised me.
I come from tough stock. My father was educated but my mother dropped out of high school and waitressed her whole life. She was very bright—always a book in her hand. In her 50s, she earned her high school diploma. She taught me so much by example: kindness and empathy and valuing character over status.
Were you a child, teen who was interested in current events? At what age and stage of life did you realize that journalism was to be your professional path? My family read newspapers. The local paper served as an important community institution. My parents were interested in politics and the world; newspapers helped them understand both.
The Vietnam War figured into my earliest memories of the news, particularly the nightly news, which was a household fixture in that era. After that, Watergate. Americans mostly shared common references at that time and relied on the same revered sources of information. I saw the news as a powerful force that could help shape society for the better.
At what age and stage of life did you realize that journalism was to be your professional path? When I was about 19 I moved to Brooklyn. New York is such a visually dynamic place. I began seeing pictures everywhere. I borrowed a friend’s camera and the connection to it was visceral and immediate.
That camera, that little black mechanical box — I am entirely unmechanical — became my voice. The deeper I delved, the better I got, the stronger my voice became. It was as if I had become or was becoming a more whole person, like somehow I was born, or reborn. Everything about it was expansive, purposeful; it became the organizing feature of my life, the thing around which all things became reordered.
I eventually left New York and wound up working at that same local paper I grew up reading. And I moved up from there.
What kind of training did you do and how did it prepare you (or not) for your profession? I didn’t go to journalism school. Maybe that slowed down my career trajectory, but it had its advantages. I brought a kind of outsider perspective to situations and stories. The difference slowed my growth but also made me stand out — stylistically and in terms of how I saw the world. That sense of being an outlier was for a long time dislocating. But the (perceived) deficit turned out to be a real asset.
What kind of stories are you drawn to? Do you get to choose or are most of them assigned? At this point in my career I do a lot of longform type stories and projects. Longer stories tend to be more satisfying to work on, but they can be a months and sometimes yearslong slog. So a balance of things is helpful. I do love a quick turn around assignment.
Challenges of your work? Benefits? It’s always satisfying to work on a story that bears witness to and amplifies the experience of a person who has been unheard, unseen or ignored. Sometimes the only one listening is the newspaper, you know? It’s rewarding when those stories prompt change. Lives can often transform as a result.
A memorable moment or experience in the field that left a lasting impression? When I was starting out, I photographed inside a second-grade classroom on report card day. One boy opened his and gave a crestfallen expression. Everything about the scene had a classic Americana feel. So I took the picture. I think it ran on the front page. Everyone loved the photo, including readers. But it occurred to me, a little too late, I know, the pain this may have caused the child. So I wrote him a letter, gently telling him that life offers good days and bad ones, good teachers and maybe not so good ones, and that none of us are defined by our worst moments. There was more; it was a long letter. I tracked down his family’s address, dropped it in the mail and moved on. About a week later, I walked into the newsroom to find the biggest bouquet of flowers I’ve ever received. It came complete with stuffed dinosaurs and lollipops. The boy’s family had sent it. The lesson, for me, was powerful: One assignment can shape someone’s whole life. Journalism can impact people’s lives, sometimes profoundly, sometimes forever. I never forget that.
Portland, Oregon, where you live, was thrust into the spotlight in 2020 during the Black Lives Matter protests in the United States. What was that experience like for you? Against the backdrop of a global pandemic, Portland found itself at the center of the largest protest movement in American history. Then-President Donald Trump routinely referred to journalists as the enemy of the people, and declared Portland an “anarchist jurisdiction.” That summer, I became a conflict photographer in an American city, my city. Journalists, me included, were working in complicated and sometimes explosive, even violent, circumstances on the city’s streets. We wore bulletproof vests and helmets to go to work each night. Nothing felt safe. Our profession, and our bodies, took hits from political extremists on all sides in a sobering reminder of the fragile nature of democracy and our role as journalists in protecting it.
How has journalism changed/evolved since you embarked upon your career? Journalism is a reflection of the culture and communities it serves. The world is different, unrecognizable even, from the one I came up in. Americans are divided politically. Fragmentation replaced those common cultural references. Newspapers have suffered. Too many Americans live in news deserts, glued instead to news and social feeds that sow mis and disinformation. It’s fair to say it’s an entirely different industry from the one I entered.
The work, over time, has become much less about me. I still do it for myself, the sense of satisfaction I derive from it. However, I now view what I do almost entirely as a public service.
Bottom line is I am an utterly ordinary person. Maybe that’s part of the alchemy here. Deep inside, I’m still that scrappy New England kid who understands the world owes me nothing. And yet I found my way to a career more rewarding than I could have ever imagined. I feel incredibly lucky to do this work each day.
