YakimaHeraldPhotos.com

I met the Metties the day they brought their son, Evan, to Yakima’s Garden Village. He’d been injured in Iraq on New Year’s day of 2006, and 22 months later, had finally been able to come back to Yakima. The assignment was a press conference — which is pretty limited visually. I made a portrait of Evan then listened in as his parents, Denise and Dave were interviewed by a YH-R writer and television reporters. Although the story of Evan’s injury and journey through treatment was compelling, it was all in the past, unable to be photographed. What caught my attention was when Dave mentioned that as excited and thankful the family was at having Evan back, there would be the new challenge of getting to know their son again, their new son. It was this idea that Evan’s homecoming would be the beginning of a new journey for this family that captured my interest and I was excited that the family was willing to let me document their life as they adjusted to having Evan home.

Although we do many kinds of assignments and projects at the paper, my favorite stories tend to be long-term projects of several months or more. Working with a subject for several months allows me to understand and tell a story with far more understanding and intimacy than the usual hour-long assignments we shoot on a daily basis.

There are both challenges and rewards to shooting a longer project. On the one hand, doing a longer project is impossible if the subject doesn’t believe in having their story told and your ability to tell it. Fortunately, Evan’s parents have seen the positive effects that media attention can have in changing policy and getting help for wounded soldiers. They know that if a problem — such as the VA not funding private rehab for injured soldiers — isn’t seen, then lawmakers and the public aren’t going to work to correct it. They also know that the effects Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI, which has been called the signature wound of the Iraq war) isn’t widely reported in the mainstream press, although thousands of soldiers are returning from war and suffering from its effects. Their story would help give voice to others. The flip side to this is that subjects of photo stories have to be willing to open their lives — the good moments and the tough moments — to the photographer, and, by extension, the public. Without the real moments, the ups and downs of whatever journey the subject is on, the story loses its power. The photographer has to balance the privacy of the subject with the need to make pictures of real moments, the difficult along with the easy. The photographer also has to be there. Whereas assignments are scheduled to fit into a photographer’s normal work shift, projects demand that the photographer be available to the subject as their story happens.

For me, entering into a long-term project is a commitment I don’t take lightly. I am open about what I need from the subject — to be informed about when things are likely to happen so I can plan to be there, communication about when unexpected and important things happen so I can get there, and access to private situations and intimate moments so I can tell the story with depth and meaning. In return, I commit to tell the story as honestly and as best as I am able. I commit to being there for the important parts, even when those moments don’t happen during work hours, and doing whatever I can to be there when the subject calls.

The return on this investment, I’ve found, has always been worth the work. It is my favorite part of this profession. I think that thoughtful, in-depth stories have the power to change lives. For the community, these projects really let us get to know what’s going on in the lives of one of our own. For the subjects, the story is a witness to the triumphs and tribulations of his or her life. Sometimes a story can affect change on a myriad of levels, from provoking the rest of the community into helpful action to changing laws. Lastly, I have never walked away from a long-term story that hasn’t challenged and changed me personally.

Throughout the year, I watched Denise Mettie work tirelessly for her son — the son that doctors, the Veteran’s Administration bureaucracy and many others — had written off. I watched her tackle challenges over and over and over, all the while holding firm to hope and optimism. I witnessed the grace with which she met the unpredictable challenges that cropped up day in and day out. All of these are reminders to me about the power of hope and will and love. The opportunity to witness Denise and Evan is their gift to me, and you, the reader.