Death as a Function of Life

Taken in the autumn of 2022 at the Devil’s Courthouse overlook on the Blue Ridge Parkway just outside of Asheville, this is the first black and white landscape photograph I have printed. On a foggy fall afternoon, this tree’s outstretched branches reach the sky as if trying to find light and life through the cold and sometimes harsh mountain elements.
 
Too often, it seems as though we act when irreversible damage has already taken place. Our answers are only short-term bandaids that temporarily mask much more significant issues that have long cast a pall. Much like the landscape has had its pleas for help ignored and even made to seem like alarmist propaganda, Black communities nationwide have faced the same treatment.
 
For centuries, Black people have sought the promise of America, only to receive punishment in the form of political policy that masquerades as help. We were given Jim Crow and Black Laws when we fought for freedom. When we fought for political autonomy, our leaders were exiled and executed by the American government. When Black communities asked for help during the crack epidemic, we were called superpredators and given jail cells instead of clinics. When we now ask to not be shot dead in the street, we are given excuses instead of human compassion. Our limbs have long been extended toward the sky, searching not for answers because we already have those but for our light through the harsh conditions cast upon us by the country we helped build.