One Sunday morning many years ago I set out with my camera in hand to photograph a blues landscape. I had glimpsed it from the interstate spur that stands above the east end of Newport News, Virginia. A set of projects sprawled just on the other side of the railroad tracks. I could see the crossing sign and the arms of the gate at attention. The sadness in the drab buildings, the flatness of everything, spoke in a voice like Louis Armstrong’s of being black and blue. 
I had never ventured off the interstate into this part of town. Why would I? I knew that there was more violence and crime and less commerce and trade than I would have liked. So this venture was a kind of intellectual exercise, which I justified by telling myself that I had a right to be among those who peopled this place. I had a birthright because they were black—like me.
           I would not have long to look for the blues. Although it was early, the streets were full of city-sounds. Sirens wailed. A couple of blocks after I crossed the railroad tracks, I found police covering a body with a white sheet and others drawing a boundary with yellow crime tape. I drove another block and parked on the opposite side of the street. My pulse racing, I tried to slow it with deep, deliberate breaths. 
I grabbed my camera and left the car. The scene was fresh. And I could see onlookers beginning to gather. A heavy set teenager in a shiny peach dress, carried a baby on her hip and held the hand of a toddler. Another child, about 5 years old was also in tow. They were dressed for Sunday school, but she was taking them to the scene of the crime. Juba Carning, 19, dead from a gunshot wound lay on the ground. 
There was my picture. My camera in hand. But I couldn’t take it. I wouldn’t take it.
           I didn’t know these people. I learned Juba’s name from the newspaper the next day. I did not know the teenager or the children she toted with her.  Nor the man, smoking off to the right, wearing a white button-down shirt, black tie and slacks. I had never seen any of these people before I came looking for the blues.  

Take the picture of a young woman, with too many babies in her care, dressed for church, checking out the morning’s crime scene!

The camera in my hands felt like a weapon whose reach was at least as lethal as the firearm that extinguished Juba’s life. The lens captures, it frames. The lens is a judge.  I had the right to witness. But I was not granted rites-of-passage. This was not my homeplace. These were not my people. #bluespeople#crimescene#perspective