Editorial singles
The gallery below is from my work on newspaper photo columns. I explored and documented everyday moments in the nooks and crannies of Tidewater, from a drag queen’s dressing room to the pediatric oncology ward.
On Sunday mornings in the locker room of lady boys, you'll find a strong spirit of sisterhood and a serious commitment to the illusion. Some performers make the transformation before they arrive. They prefer the quiet of home or because they won't even fill up with gas unless they're wearing makeup. Others walk in clean slates an hour before showtime. Either way, underneath the dress, it's basic drag-queen math: Sculpted couch-cushion foam adds and duct tape takes away. Half a dozen stockings, both support and sheer, provide further camouflage to complete the "dudeallusion," as local pioneer Mercedes Douglas calls it.
At its core, the switch from he to she is an inner change. "You embrace this new person, and it transcends onto the stage," says Alessandra McQueen.
"It's fun to showcase the artistic side."
Since November, two Marines have stood at attention among the Christmas lights on the corner of Pefley Avenue, unwavering in the declining weather. They are the nephews of Phil and Laura Maurizio, Cpl. Brent Jones and Gunnery Sgt. Robert Mercure. Their lit portraits stand as a tribute to all the men and women who serve in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The Maurizios understand the sacrifice of today's military, and multiple tours in the danger zones of the world. Phil is a WWII Navy veteran who was at the invasion of Normandy, disengaging the ramp on a transport craft during Omaha Beach landings. He left his brother, a medic, on the beach and didn't see him again until the war was over. For Phil, the war continued with tours in the Pacific at both Iwo Jima and Okinawa. Indeed, their generation lived with war. Laura had a father that served in WWI, and a brother and five cousins who served in WWII. Of their patriotism Laura says, "It's in our blood and in our bones.”
They play games on cellphones, swing their legs, or snuggle with mom to pass the time. Flanked by the House of Prayer and a produce stand, Korey Finney's barbershop has a line of children 8-deep inside. He cuts hair of all ages, but during the school year, Saturday is their day.
Like any community shop, the banter between the barber and his regulars is familiar. "How's school been going for you, man," he shoots across to Jordan Belk, 6, the boy giving him a nod from his mother's lap as Finney finesses the fade on another customer. He ushers 4-year-old Vamaj Wise to the chair, putting a metal case housing clippers under him as a makeshift booster seat. His steady hand doesn't waver as the child wiggles from time to time, although his mother has to still him while Finney edges up the back of his hairline.
Finney has been running his shop for 5 years, and as a young business owner, is thankful for the support the community has shown him. The appreciation can be seen around his shop - trophies from the softball and basketball teams he sponsors fill a windowsill. Finney throws a back-to-school cookout every year for kids in the community, offering them free food and supplies. Another statuette bears a plaque announcing him as Distinguished Man of the Year at Gaskins Chapel A.M.E. Church.
Most of all, Finney wants to give them a quality haircut, and to continue to do what he loves. "I just want to put a smile on their face and make them feel good about how they look."
An hour before show time, there are no names in the dressing room, just workers. "Names" are professional wrestlers who've made it big, have been on T.V. "Workers" are everyone else. Names show up later, closer to match time. Workers are fighting their way up, or are on the way down, and wrestle for the love of it. They huddle in small groups talking strategy, put on their own makeup using a shared compact, or sit alone focusing on the match ahead.
Among the workers are "heels," the guys who taunt and talk trash to the crowd, and "faces," the good guys who play by the rules and carry an American flag. Tonight they are the main event in a gym at Kings Fork Recreation Center in Suffolk. Kids under 4 get in free.
The weekend warriors are well-known to one another - they share rides when traveling to another state, pat each other on the back after a rough bout, spot a brother a meal when he is low on cash. Minutes before bell-time they form a tight circle in the dressing room and say a prayer for strength, and safety. During intermission they peddle their own pictures, hoping to make a little gas money. They don't get paid much, but as local wrestler Ray Storm says about his 20-year career, "You get to love the response of the crowd; it gets in your blood."
Deep in the woods the drumming begins. The women wait several minutes before rising to their feet, and arms outstretched, they begin to mark the beat. The pagan fire circle unfolds much like a conversation between old friends, slow and light at first, then progresses as the drums speak urgently to one another into the night.
For local pagans, the circle is the sacred heart of their community. It is a way to to pay tribute to the ancient peoples and to send positive energy out to those in need. There is respect for those who surround the flames: No drinking, no drugs, no touching. Tonight, participants groove clockwise around the burning remains of the maypole at the end of the spring fertility celebration of Beltane, one of the eight pagan sabbats that predate Christianity. “It’s hard to live an ancient lifestyle in an urban setting,” high priestess Deborah Foley says, “but we do the best we can.”
Students at Princess Anne Elementary have a comforting constant. Teachers change from grade to grade, best friends come and go, but Javon Creekmore has been custodian for 18 years, listening to their stories, their woes, their secrets.
The hallways echo with special nicknames given by this gentle tease - "Red," "Peanut," "Bunny" – she has a hop in her step – and "Wigs." Creekmore is a helper, a cheerleader, a much-sought-after lunch buddy. The students say he's their adult best friend. At home he has a filing cabinet filled with treasures they have given him over the years - a marble, an eraser with eyes drawn on it, a toy car, a note that says, "Princess Anne would be one huge mess without you!"
As third grader Katrin Hildum observes, " He seems like a very wise man, sort of like the cafeteria counselor." For the children at P.A., the counselor is always in.
Marshall Belanga, 77, grew up in rural Princess Anne County, on what is now Dam Neck Naval Base. When the military moved in, they headed south to where he still lives and runs Belanga's Seafood, opened by his father in 1949, on what would become Sandbridge Road. Back then, the close-knit community close to the sea was known as Sigma. He remembers how it was when he was young, the cinder block packing shed filled with fish they had caught, packed in ice and covered by blankets with sawdust sewn in for insulation. He recalls the telephone party-line, the kerosene lamps, and how neighbors did for neighbors.
Today, Belanga's Seafood is quiet inside. He still sells local fish in season, shrimp, and some shark in the summer. His younger brother still plants "here, there, and yonder" on the remaining land; the greens are looking good for Thanksgiving this year. Shells, knick knacks, and his wife's glasswork add to the inventory.
Some nights Belanga sits back, closes his eyes, and recalls his favorite memory. He's a child, it's Friday afternoon and elementary school is out for the weekend.
He quickly changes his clothes, puts his shoes in a bag, and starts walking. Barefoot, he heads east on a dirt road, and after several miles, comes upon the beach. He turns right and ambles south for several more. He finds a treasure or two along the way, and finally reaches his father's fishing camp, at one end of Back Bay National Wildlife Refuge.
A boyhood paradise, he would spend the weekend with his father, then journey back on Sunday afternoon. If no one had come down behind him, Belanga would track his own small footprints home.
Toby Yarbrough, 49, has one goal for the rest of his life: To be half-way normal.
The medically retired Army sergeant has spent the last ten years in a fight against PTSD, traumatic brain injury, and a trauma-induced seizure disorder. Therapy, antidepressants, painkillers, strong family support, and a service dog named Duke have been his weapons. The newest in his arsenal is Hampton Roads Hyperbaric Therapy, where he takes a waterless dive five days a week, saturating his damaged nerves and tissue with pure oxygen in a submarine-like chamber that is pressurized to 16 feet below sea level.
He's seen changes in himself – eight hours of sleep each night, a decrease in seizures, improved concentration – and he's come up with a plan. Yarbrough wants to encourage organizations, such as the American Legion, to sponsor other wounded veterans in the chamber. "Because right now," he says, "it's vets helping vets, not the government."
Samarra Galloway believes there was purpose to her childhood. At age 11, she began taking care of her siblings, cooking and cleaning while her mother worked two jobs. When her mother died last year, Samarra, 23, took in her brother and three sisters. And like her mother before her, she has two jobs to make it work.
This requires tunnel vision. There is only time for things that keep the family, including her three-year-old son Isaiah, together. In 24 hours, she may only get several hours of sleep, a half hour at a time. Night shift at one job, shuffling kids to school, dance practice, another shift at the second job, sometimes she feels like her head is gonna explode. Homework. Chores. Pleas to go to Burger King.
She feels they belong together, and they will make it on their own. "I'm sleepy most of the time, and don't have the life of a typical 23-year-old, but I think I like my life."
Ron usually goes it alone. He has been homeless for the better part of three decades, because, according to him, he has no skills, never made it through school and just can't get anywhere. "Everybody is on the street for a reason," says Ron, who doesn't want his last name used. He's tired of living in the woods. At 55, he is worn out from it. Raccoons give him fits, he wages epic food battles with them and has tried everything from hot sauce to urine to hanging bags of rotten food in the trees to keep them away from what little he has to eat. Bad weather is more than annoying when living in a tent. And sometimes, it just gets really boring out there by himself. "I'm behind in my cable – not paying it, watching it."
Garland C. "Jack" Fentress was "Pa" to his grandkids and to the greats, and he always had a hidden stash of peanut butter and oatmeal cookies for them, though they better not let Ma find out.
With his neighbors, Jack lent what he had with ease, and if it never came back to him, no matter. "If you can live with it, I can live without it," he would say.
At the service celebrating his life, friends and family pored over newspaper clippings from his Coast Guard service during World War II and pictures of him hunting and farming. For years, he had a produce stand on the edge of his yard. If you were lucky enough to be the last customer of the day – well, you ended up with everything he had left, even if you were looking for just one cantaloupe.
The sisters snuggle up under Abby's special pink blanket in the pediatric oncology ward. Abby smiles as Maggie recounts how their younger sister Emily, 3, was scared of a boy in a skeleton costume at the school's fall festival. They open a gift sent from Maggie's former fourth-grade teacher, a game called Gone Fishin'. It's not obvious, but the first time they play Maggie gives her a few extra fish. The next time, Abby wins outright.
Soon Abby's had enough, so Maggie follows her lead and just lays with her. "If nothing else, Maggie and Abby have been the first level of support for each other, kind of built-in best friends," says their father Joe, a result of the many military moves the family has undergone. Maggie willingly sacrifices her wants and needs as the family focuses on Abby. She understands that she can't have both parents at home right now, and with poise, goes with the flow of the day.
After an hour it's time for Maggie's dance rehearsal. The parents make the handoff, and the sisters say goodbye. Abby wraps one arm tight around Maggie's neck for a long moment, and their very different days continue.
Native corporation shareholders are those Alaska Natives who were alive on December 18, 1971, and have proven lineage to their respective region and village. Congress termed them “shareholders,” although being an ANC shareholder is more comparable to a tribal membership – it is a lifetime enrollment that cannot be bought or sold.
Being a shareholder enables the Alutiiqs to live as their ancestors did, hunting and fishing in their village of Port Lions on Kodiak Island, a remote community of 200 people in the Gulf of Alaska. They continue the tradition of taking “banya” with family at the end of the day, a communal steam bath with its roots in Siberia. Shareholders pay elders to teach the native tongue to the younger generations, keeping tribal languages alive.
William Duncan was homeless most of his adult life, mired in addiction and depression. At age 65 he came off the streets for the last time with the help of antidepressants, family, and an unshakable faith in the divine. Duncan, as he was known on the streets, began Hope in the Upper Room, a homeless advocacy group, and spent most of his days as a one-man salvation army, caring for those he used to live among.
As his mission grew, Duncan expanded along with it. He planted a garden, giving the homeless a place to spend their days. He sought out the recluses and brought them clothing. He found his way back to the Catholic Church of his youth and was baptized. He eulogized those who died in the camps, a mate to many still out there. Even street pigeons depended on him, waiting en masse for the stale bread leftovers from food pantries.
After three years of leading Hope, Duncan was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He could no longer go to his people, so his people came off the streets and out of the woods to him. He died several months later. The hope, and Hope, that Duncan gave to those on the streets is now memorialized around the places where they gather in Virginia Beach.
