No one needs my story right now.  Except it’s a familiar one.  Born and raised in a small, white countryside community, race was simply not a point of dinner table discussion.  At least, not as I can recall.  Moving far from home and into the city of Chicago, my exposure to diversity began, but my understanding did not.  I sang alongside people of color and began to experience their culture through music and even prayer, but I did not seek to know their struggles.  I began working at a church in a diverse community, but the people of my church all looked the same, and I thought very little of it, only to be reinforced by the neighborhood in which we bought our first home.  We toured the country and embraced a canvas of music, celebrating what we heard, but not engaging with what we didn’t.  A role at a new church and I began to understand.  Occasional Sunday conversations around the topic of racism that brought to my attention a hurt I hadn’t sought to discover.  I began to look at our firstborn, and then our second, with an intentional hope to invest in diverse relationships, that they would experience the beauty of skin in a way that I simply did not.  

And then the world was set on fire, and in moments I felt a weight that spoke to every thought I had ever carried, and every nagging nudge of guilt that made me think little of myself in the face of the suffering.  I realized very quickly that I have not done enough, if anything at all.  But when you see a fire you had your back to, and you turn around only to be carrying a watering can, the task feels unsurmountable, and your guilt becomes despair.  

This is my story.  

Mine is not what we need, and yet it may very well be what we feel.  I fight with a watering can in hand, a lack of understanding as my story, and shame as my motivator. 

Perhaps one of the reasons we are so wrecked with guilt is because the social media accounts, neighborhoods, and church gatherings that we fashioned have become merely a way to let our eyes see ourselves.  Now that we are truly looking, we realize all that we have missed.

Yet this shouldn’t be my story.  Not any longer.  I have had these moments before in other areas of injustice, and guilt has not served myself or the burdened well.  When your eyes have been opened, you do not gouge them out for having been blind.  Now that the light is pouring in, you keep them open, but in the direction they were made to look. 

The thing about your eyes is that they point away from you.  We were not made to look at mirrors.  We were made to see. 

This conversation stems so much more deeply than from my pursuit as a photographer, but as this art form is a part of my gaze, it requires a lens adjustment. 

1. Follow POC photographers on Instagram. 

• • • I can lend my support by following someone’s art, even if I do not actively use their services.  Increased followers may in turn mean more business for that artist.
    • This also shifts my lens when being inspired by other photographers through my IG feed

2. Connect with local POC photographers

• • • My focus is family photography, so when I have someone approach me looking for a headshot or wedding photographer, my referral list should not reflect exclusively white photographers.  Referrals can be a great way to encourage the support of black business owners.

3. Photograph more diverse families

• • • Those families that become clients most often begin as friends.  So naturally if my circle of friends all look like me, then my photography will reflect that circle.  Friends, should NEVER be viewed as potential clients.  Although recognize that simply by association, my work will reflect my friendships, so if I want to become a photographer that celebrates diversity, I need to be a person that cares to invest in diverse relationships.

Three simple things.  This is my watering can.

Perhaps this can serve as the start of a conversation.  What are some other ways that those of you who are small business owners are promoting racial equality through your business?