015: Bearing Witness on Buford Highway: A Black Photographer’s Reflection

Bearing Witness on Buford Highway: A Black Photographer’s Reflection

Some moments in history demand to be seen, to be held, to be remembered. This past weekend, I found myself on Buford Highway, camera in hand, drawn not by obligation but by something deeper, an unshakable need to document a piece of the world as it unfolded before me.

On Saturday, February 1, 2025, more than a thousand people gathered near Plaza Fiesta, their voices rising in unison against recent ICE raids that had swept through metro Atlanta. They marched, not just for themselves, but for families, for futures, for the right to simply exist without fear. And as they moved, I moved with them, witnessing, listening, framing moments in time. (WABE)

Though I was born and raised in Decatur, Buford Highway is just as much a part of me. My grandparents lived directly across the street from Plaza Fiesta, a landmark I’ve known longer than I’ve known the weight of a camera in my hands. I went to elementary school on this side of town, walked the halls of Chamblee High, split my time between these streets and the ones back home. To document this moment here, in a place woven into my own story, felt like a full-circle moment—like honoring a history I know in my bones.

As a Black man with a camera, I understand the weight of seeing. Of recording. Of making sure stories, especially the ones that might otherwise be overlooked, are told with honesty, dignity, and truth. This is a responsibility I carry with intention, knowing I follow in the footsteps of the great Black documentary photographers who came before me.

Eli Reed, whose work has always balanced raw reality with an undeniable grace.
Gordon Parks, who showed us that a camera is not just a tool, but a weapon against injustice.
R.C. Hickman, who captured the quiet resilience of Black life in the South.
Keith Calhoun and Chandra McCormick, whose images have given voice to the unseen laborers, musicians, and incarcerated souls of New Orleans.
Robert H. McNeill, who preserved the depth of Black life in Washington, D.C., during a time of rapid change.

Their images did more than document history. They demanded that history be felt. I think about that every time I lift my camera, how each frame holds not just what I see, but what I feel, what I understand, what I refuse to let slip away.

When I left the darkroom earlier that day, my hands still smelled of fixer and developer, the last remnants of another body of work coming to life. But this, here on Buford Highway, was a new moment waiting to be held. And so I raised my camera once again.

For those interested in the process, the craft, and the journey of being a documentary photographer, I invite you to read my recent post, "Emerging from the Darkroom: A Photographer’s Journey".

Because in the end, it all comes back to the same thing, the act of seeing, of remembering, of refusing to let stories fade. And this? This was a story that deserved to be told.