Two deaths in the past week. As a journalist, are you a recorder of history, or a scavenger?
You wait for the moment the widow breaks down. Your frame is perfectly set up, adjusted for light, and you lie in waiting for that human element of misery.
Like the vulture waiting for the Sudanese child to die in Kevin Carter’s Pulitzer winning photograph.
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The first death was on Saturday, a B/M/27 stabbed multiple times on his torso:
Bernard “A’jah” Wannamaker was not a perfect man, but his story fits in well with the “just another black guy knifed in the hood” narrative. At his wake, his family said that he was talented – he was a barber, a DJ, and “so fine” that girls dropped at his feet. He fixed bikes, and got his GED in prison. He was a month out of prison. People called him a thug, but he was so much more, his family members said.
He had a dispute with his ex-wife over a baby daughter – people in the area call it “baby’s mamma’s drama”. He got stabbed multiple times at a block party by the ex-wife’s boyfriend. Simple. He was 27 years old, a month away from 28. He died two blocks from the house he grew up in. He hadn’t gotten very far in life.
Does his story deserve more than two sentences in the New York Post? Or does it not? Can you tell everything about this man because you have heard about him already, so many times, in so many places? It is the same narrative. It harkens to so much more – the poverty, the lack of opportunities in this land of opportunities and white picket fences.
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The second death was on September 11. A construction worker fell five stories to his death. He was was wearing a safety harness but had not tethered it to the building. There were no nets:
Miguel Rodriguez, 38, was an undocumented worker from Ecuador. He was a day laborer like so many in Jackson Heights who linger under the El on Roosevelt avenue. They are picked up by contractors and taken to construction sites where they work, often without proper O.S.H.A. training (which requires documentation). Rodriguez is survived by his widow Berta and two children: 17-year-old Luis and seven-year-old Kevin.
Since January, 21 day laborers have died in New York from construction accidents; 17 of them were Latinos.
This morning, the assemblyman for the area (Jackson Heights, Elmhurst and Corona) called a press conference about a new bill he is going to introduce to improve Occupational Health and Safety (OSHA) legislation. The media showed up in full force. Fox news was there, HDTV and a few spanish language channels, 4 newspaper guys and a couple of photographers. And me.
I’m not judging but it’s so easy to judge. The boy has just lost his father; the widow her husband. While the politicos and officials pontificate about OSHA, Berta stares off into space. She grips her son tightly. She is a tiny woman, hardly five feet, dressed in black – a weary, faded black as though she threw on whatever she could find. Kevin is handed a photo of his father as soon as they arrive – a newspaper cut-out of Rodriguez hastily thrust into a frame. They are made to pose for the TV crews and photographers, precisely. Berta never relinquishes her hold on Kevin, and Kevin never relinquishes his hold on the photograph of his father.
The journalists are taking notes. One perfectly dressed guy in a brown suit asks the widow to say a few words. She doesn’t want to really but finally agrees. The photographer hovers around finding the perfect angle. He clicks when Kevin finally moves his head in a motion of grief.
I feel like a vulture by association.
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Kevin Carter killed himself eventually.


