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Live United by Erin Haag

I grew up in south central Kansas. Summers were hot and dry, perfect for growing wheat and sunflowers. The Dust Bowl and Black Sunday were hallmarks of our education, examples used in everything from the plight of migrant farmers, the importance of soil conservation, how legislature works and economic education. Last, but not least, the photography of famous photographers like Dorthea Lange, working for the newly formed Farm Security Administration.

In high school and college, I took elective courses in photography, learning under instructors that eschewed the rise of digital photography and embraced the classic black and white images. I spent my free time in the darkroom. I took pictures of old crumbling buildings, archways of courthouses, abandoned cars, my grandmother’s leather coat. My instructors took pictures of people, a young girl spinning among the pigeons in Italy, a Hispanic woman wearing an apron looking steadily at the camera while leaning in the doorway of her home. They taught me the story doesn’t always match the photo. A favorite photograph of mine is of a woman leaning out her upper level window, looking very pensive. My instructor told me that he had been walking through Italy in the 1970s, and came across the woman leaning out her window and chatting with her friend on the street below. They were laughing and talking, and he took several pictures that day. Not knowing Italian, he wasn’t sure what the conversation was about, but the woman’s friend said something that caused the pensive look to appear.

Beyond the technical aspects of photography, I learned that the art of photography is an incredible piece of telling the story. Through sharing their work, and the stories behind the lens, my instructors also revealed themselves to be men of integrity, compassion for society and a strong sense of social justice. I’ve never mastered the technical skill for the kind of photography they did. What I did learn though was how to look at the world in a little different way. I strongly believe that these classes and those two instructors have shaped who I am today. As I work throughout the day, I often think “in pictures.” The faces of rural Kansas photographs, hard-working farmers and migrant workers, mothers caring for their children while living in rural poverty … sometimes we’re not so far off from those dusty days of the 1930s. Poverty looks different — it’s not ragged clothes and thin gruel for food. It’s about choices, choosing to buy groceries instead of paying the electric bill. It’s still poverty though, and when I look at faces of our clients, I see echoes of those photographs taken decades ago.

There’s one woman who sticks in my mind each time. With her dark eyes, dark hair and her beautiful bone structure, the fine lines etched around her eyes and mouth, and her proud bearing, she’s exactly the kind of person that could translate well in a photograph. I wrote about her once, about her frustration and disgruntlement at not knowing what to expect, or how long it would be to shop the pantry. I wrote about her behavior reversal, when she got her half gallon of milk and took a deep breath and apologized to me and another volunteer. That moment was and still is a defining moment — things aren’t always what they seem. This proud, forthright, prickly woman has now recognized she can come to us to shop. She can come as she is — hot, frazzled, worried about a thousand other things. As she sat in our waiting room this week, she beckoned me over. I sat next to her and we talked about some resources and options. Sadly, there weren’t really any. Eventually, she asked, “What do you do when you go to this agency and you get a denial letter? And then you go to the next one, and you get a denial letter? And then you go to the next one and you still get a denial letter? There’s just no funding left, what do you do?”

I looked at her and quietly said, “I don’t know. I don’t have the answers for that. I wish I did.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and said, “I know you don’t. Thank you for saying it out loud.” As her eyes got watery, I took a chance and put my hand on her shoulder, hoping to offer a little comfort. She slid down in her chair and leaned towards me, resting her head on my shoulder. We sat there for a moment — only a moment. She then sat up and said, “Well. At least I’m getting food today. I saw some watermelon and corn, and that’s going to be a good supper tonight.” Gone were the tears, gone was the flash of vulnerability, and the proud, prickly woman was back in place.

We don’t have all the answers. We can’t save the world. What we can do is to love fiercely, we can be brave enough to admit what we don’t know, admit that it’s not a perfect system. We can offer a hand, a shoulder. We can work steadily to do what we can, to ensure that we are listening, sharing their stories, highlighting the need. I might not be able to share the photographs in my mind, but these articles are a chance for me to paint those pictures for you. I thank you for reading — for reading and showing up, day after day to volunteer, for clipping and sharing the articles, for coming into town to listen to a presentation to learn more. It shows me that the stories matter, that they make a difference. While I keep enough details out to preserve dignity and anonymity, your presence matters to my proud friend. The volunteers who welcome her in and help arrange her groceries in bags for the journey home without a car. When we can’t save the world, or fix all of the big problems, we can do what we can. While I won’t be taking photographs of our shoppers to protect their privacy, their dignity, maybe there’s some room for some stories to be told through the camera.

Erin Haag is the executive director of the United Way of Freeborn County.