This fella was selling handmade jewelry by the roadside in Mexico. It appeared as if he had been there all day when I saw him at about 4pm. So, I gave him a large pizza. He chowed down instantly. Love doing little unexpected stuff like that.
Isla Mujeres
While the population is fairly small, so is the island.
The area is called Isla Mujeres, which is Spanish for “Island of Women.” Evidently, the island was sacred to the Maya goddess of childbirth and medicine.
The exact measurement of the small island in the Caribbean Sea is 4.3 miles long and 2,130 feet wide. It is home to about 12,600 residents. The Island of Women is 8.1 miles off the Yucatan Peninsula coast.
For Cubans trying to get into the United States, this small island is one of their first stopping points to rest. If they make it to the island, they only have to take a ferry to the Mexican mainland. From there, Cubans travel through Mexico in hopes of reaching the US border and then crossing.
This is one of the 12,000+ residents on the island.
Larry the Hitchhiker
I don't always have my camera with me, but the days I don't are the days that interesting things occur. That's why I at least have my phone.
This afternoon Marty Luffman and I headed to Nashville to hand out about 10 or 15 tents to those who lost theirs in the recent flooding. While passing through LaVergne we saw a man hitchhiking down Murfreesboro Road. So of course we stopped to offer him a ride.
Larry couldn't get into my truck because it too high for his frail 68 year old body. So, I did what anyone would do. I literally picked up Larry the hitchhiker and put him in the back seat.
As we started to drive towards Nashville I noticed the tears running down his sun weathered face. I asked what was wrong and he quietly whispered, "Everything."
Marty and I took Larry with us to multiple homeless encampments so that he could have the pleasure of being a part of the positiveness. At each stop he would roll down his window never saying a word. Homeless persons receiving a tent would then thank Larry, which was awesome to see a slight smile as his words were few and far in between.
Later, we took Larry to McDonalds in the area of Gallatin Pike where he needed to be... With a BigMac in hand he pointed at an apartment complex behind McDonalds and uttered the words, "That's where I have to be."
#mcdonalds, #nashville, #bigmac, #android, #Galaxys7
She can now run free
Hands of a Domestic Violence survivor. She wrote:
“My children saw them first. "How did you get those bruises, Mom?" I looked in the mirror and saw the ring of dark splotches around my upper arms, fingerprints from where he'd grabbed and shaken me the night before. But, he didn't hit me.
My head was often tender from being banged against a wall.
My hip sported a large bruise and it hurt to walk after he shoved me hard to the ground.
My back bled from a cut I received during a struggle. But, I told myself, it was just a small cut.
During sex, he choked me and made me do things I was ashamed of. I was scared; I fought him; it did not matter; he did not stop.
But he wasn't violent, right? He didn't hit me.
My husband's rages occurred multiple times a week, sometimes during the day, usually at night, and lasted for hours. His nose would touch mine as he screamed profanities in my face. He threw things, punched walls, and spit on me. These were his favorite things to say: I was worthless garbage, a whore, a waste, a piece of trash, so terrible in bed that no man would ever want to touch me, a c-nt. My husband told me that I was such a nightmare he'd have to kill himself to get away from me. Then, as I began to grow depressed, he worked on convincing me I needed to kill my own self. I will never forget the first time he looked me straight in the eye and very calmly and matter-of-factly stated, "Why are you still breathing? You're nothing but trash. You should be dead. You need to go kill yourself." As this went on, I began to believe him until it became absolute truth in my mind. I should be dead.
In a 2-3 year period, I went from being happy and healthy to suicidal and extremely ill. I rarely slept, vomited up most of my meals, lost weight, and had no strength. I was forced into a medical leave from work, and my doctor banned me from any form of exercise as my body needed every bit of energy to keep alive. I had been a runner, a dancer, an outdoor enthusiast. I was now a shell, someone God never intended me to be.
I don't know that I ever would have left him on my own. I did not recognize the violence for what it was, and I was too ashamed to tell anyone what was going on. It took a gun-related incident to finally end it. I had no idea how physically and emotionally sick I had gotten until he was out of my life. The suicidal thoughts vanished. I am now sleeping, eating, and not throwing up. I've gained weight. My health is slowly coming back. Recently I was able to lace up my shoes and go running again. My kids and I have peace. I laugh, and I laugh, and I laugh. I am filled with the joy of the Lord, for I am now free!”
Before I left she told me that she spent many nights sleeping or hiding in the bushes next to the entrance of her middle class neighborhood. Other nights, she would sleep in her car while parked in a well-lit parking lot.
Never Again
Hands of a domestic violence survivor - Middle Tennessee.
"Just tell the nurse you slipped and fell
It starts to sting as it starts to swell
She looks at you, she wants the truth
It's right out there in the waiting room with those hands
Lookin' just as sweet as he can, never again"
-Nickelback, Never Again
Jesus Freaks
“I was ordained a minister the year after I graduated from high school by the Church of God Jesus Freaks,” he told me. “That was in 1971,” he said with a smile.
The big red chair
The things you find where you don't expect to find them.
“The things one seeks are not the things one finds.” ― Marty Rubin, publisher of only one book in 1987... The Boiled Frog Syndrome
He Humiliated Me
Domestic Violence in Tennessee... She wrote:
"He raped me, he beat the crap out of me, he humiliated me, he stripped me of my identity, and many times left me crying on the floor.
I have been to jail on Easter, it marks 1 year Sunday, I went and they let him go. I called them and they took me.
But, through it all I always screamed and begged God to help me get away. And he kept his promise!
I am free and none of it matters anymore! He is the last dark secret in my closet and I am physically, emotionally, and spiritually set free because of God whispering to me, You Got This!
That is my story."
Domestic Violence: Like a tree, we grow
Like trees, we continue to grow despite the struggles we face in life. The same is true for those who are victims of domestic violence. Once the violence is in your past, you can continue growing in a positive way.
This is a photo that captures the hands of an anonymous domestic violence survivor in Middle Tennessee.
Former Social Worker Alice Walker once wrote, "In nature, nothing is perfect and everything is perfect. Trees can be contorted, bent in weird ways, and they're still beautiful."
Walker, who worked as a social worker in the 1960's, took part in the Civil Rights movement in Mississippi. She also won the 1983 Pulitzer Prize for her 1982 novel entitled, "The Color Purple."
Domestic Violence: Our Hands
Her past Domestic Violence... She wrote:
“Hands are so important. You see, they can teach us love and compassion or total fear.
I have used my hands to care for the sick and elderly for 28 years in nursing as a tech. I know what kindness looks like when you care for someone.
What I did not realize was for 13 years I had not shown myself kindness. I did finally one day no longer desire to live in abuse and I remember using my hands to pack my kids clothes and toys, turn off location devices and drive to a shelter. This was new and I deserved peace away from the abuse.
Abuse is not love nor is tolerance to abuse. Please love yourself by no longer allowing abuse in your life or others’ lives.”
Domestic Violence: Hands
Her hands, which have always been used to serve others, were busily making spaghetti. However, those same hands have been used in an attempt to block punches from her former husband. Those hands were used to open a prescription pill bottle in an attempt to end the suffering during an eight hour ordeal that started on a drive home.
After she downed the prescription pills in an effort to numb or end the physical pain, her husband yelled that if she died while he was hitting her, no one would find her body.
Looking back to December of 2016, the same man traded his wife for crack cocaine. He then got angry at her for his actions, which was when a beating that lasted for eight hours occurred.
During those eight hours she was punched in the face and chunks of her hair were pulled out. The incident started on the roadway leaving the man’s home where her husband pawned her off. She was beat on the side of the road until a truck driver stopped to offer the couple a ride as they were out of gas. The truck driver failed to realize that the husband was doing the beating.
She wrote, “A truck driver picked us up to get gas and he told the truck driver he picked me up because I got beat up, our 4 year old witnessed most of what happened. At one point he cried and his dad told him he better shut up or he will do the same to him. We finally got home and he knocked me around the bathroom. I was lying on the floor and he kicked me in my face. I tried killing myself by downing some pills. The last thing I remember before passing out was him choking me.”
She closed with, “Now I know that if you get hit once, get out.”
Art on the empty
A boy and a girl facing one another on an otherwise desolate wall outside of a closed down factory in Asheville, North Carolina.
The mural by Ian Brownlee is one of many painted on buildings in North Carolina. Ian’s words, “Don’t Stop Believing.”
Paintings on walls that guard the emptiness inside only go to make the emptiness more meaningful. Otherwise, the building would collapse in ugliness. Now, it can be overtaken by mother nature with a little dignity.
“We become aware of the void as we fill it.” ― Antonio Porchia, Poet (1885-1968)
From Michigan and never going back
I often meet people who have a face that is covered in tattoos and I think to myself that they are likely hiding from who they want to be or from who they are. I see sadness in the eyes of so many who live on the streets of America.
“I’m from Detroit, Michigan,” he told me while standing outside of a truck stop. While looking away he said, “I will never go back.”
As for the tattoos, “I was going to get my eyebrows tattooed like a clown, because life’s a joke and you have to laugh – if you don’t laugh then somethings wrong with you.”
“The reality of the other person is not in what he reveals to you, but in what he cannot reveal to you. Therefore, if you would understand him, listen not to what he says but rather what he does not say.” - Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931)
The roots grow stronger
The amazingly talented Dolly Parton once stated, “Storms make trees take deeper roots.” I think that can also be said for humans. We all have been through stormy periods of our life, some storms lasting longer than others. For many, domestic violence is like an ongoing storms that fails to subside. However, when the storm passes, you have much deeper roots and are able to overcome many obstacles that once held you back.
After I shot this photo, I asked her to write about her past. Below is what she said:
“I remember the overwhelming sense of relief as I escaped. No more walking on eggshells, hiding bruises, constant insults. I knew it would be hard rebuilding life after but it was so worth it. Finally free from that grip....Freedom! Free to be me, free to find my way without fear, hurt, heartache and pain.
To all the survivors and those that feel trapped and want out......you are beautiful. You are strong. You are worthy of self-respect, dignity, love the right way.
Getting away isn't easy, but I can promise you that it is worth it! Reach out to other survivors, to the resources out there.
There is a quote from the book ‘Why Does He do that,’ that I clung to afterwards. The quote read, “When people conclude that anger causes abuse, they are confusing cause and effect. Ray was not abusive because he was angry; he was angry because he was abusive. Abusers carry attitudes that produce fury.”. That quote helped me to realize it wasn't me and what I did. It was him and who he was.”
The hands of a 13 year old survivor
Domestic Violence: While taking this photo she told me, "I remember hiding in the closet." Today, she is 13 years old.
“Childhood should be carefree, playing in the sun; not living a nightmare in the darkness of the soul.”
― Dave Pelzer, A Child Called "It"
Hands
Hands are an amazing thing when you think about all that your hands have been through. Below are the hands of a woman who is raising three children while living in a specialized home for victims of domestic violence.
I am currently working on a big project with the local Domestic Violence Shelter and we are focusing on the hands of those who have suffered from domestic violence.
Hands tell a story, much like the eyes of someone suffering. Hands show scars and life in so many different ways.
I hope to post more details in the weeks to come. I am just excited to be working on such a project.
"I looked at my hands to see if I was the same person. There was such a glory over everything. The sun came up like gold through the trees, and I felt like I was in heaven." - Harriet Tubman, Conductor of the Underground Railroad (1820 - 1913)
He is now a registered sex offender after being abused
A sex offender by the name of James who lives in Middle Tennessee will soon find himself behind bars after violating his probation. He told us that he will likely spend the next six years in a small cell because of his actions.
James, whose last name I agreed not to use, said that more needs to be done in rehabilitating offenders. He further suggested that more needs to be done for those who are victims of sex abuse and treatment should be readily available.
The man whom I spoke to said that he was sexually abused by at least three adults as a child and the abuse was long term. As he grew older he never told anyone about the abuse and he levitated towards pornography.
Many victims of sexual abuse turn to drugs, alcohol, sex addiction or pornography as opposed to seeking help, so his addiction was not uncommon. That addiction later turned more dark as he started to have a fascination with child pornography. With his addiction in mind he went to his church for help... However, the church basically shewed James away which grew his appetite for pornography.
After a separation from his wife and a lack of anyone to turn to, his addiction turned into real children, which was his next step. Luckily, he was arrested before real children came face to face with his pain.
Today James wants to be a voice for the abused and the accused so that others can get proper help before it is too late.
While sitting in the California San Quentin State Prison he wrote:
Dear Lord,
How have I been so blind for so long? How did I ever think… ever conceive… that I understood your Grace?
I thought it a flickering candle, but have found it as strong and blinding as the sun.
I looked at it as an ember, a glowing coal of warmth. Instead, I’ve felt its inferno, roaring, raging, consuming me.
When I have said that your Grace is sufficient for me, I mistook it to be sufficient like a crust of bread thrown to a starving man. Enough to live on, but no more.
Instead, I find it as sufficient as the oceans are to fill a cup. The deserts to give a grain of sand or the forest to supply a single leaf.
For yours is an extravagant sufficiency.
Forgive me, Lord, for the sin of pride of thinking that your Grace could be understood. I could no sooner capture sunlight in my hands or the winds within my arms. I am so grateful that I do not have to rationalize your Grace to receive it, or comprehend it to be covered by it.
Thank you, Lord, for showing me just how little that I really understand. I can’t wait to spend my lifetime discovering how much I didn’t know.
Amen.
A real key to get inside the room
Walking into old and decaying motels is like stepping back into history. The doors that connect the adjoining rooms are narrow, which today would not be allowed. The walls were paper thin and you could likely hear even the faintest whisper from the neighboring television set, that had rabbit ears on the top.
Yet, there is something romantic about the simplicity of old structures. The bright colors that once adorned the walls. The idea of random people stopping along the highway for a good nights rest for $19 or less. The doors used a real key as opposed to a plastic card.
A roadside motel in ruins
What's left of an old roadside motel in North Carolina...
"There is something uniquely American about the motel: It speaks to the transient nature of America itself, one enabled and encouraged by our roads and highways."
- Hanya Yanagihara, American novelist and travel writer
Tupelo Honey of Asheville, NC
A master chef at work inside Tupelo Honey of Asheville, NC.