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| Mark Lent |
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Most journalists will tell you that getting involved with your subjects is bad journalism. You lose your edge and objectivity. But every once in a while, you run across someone while covering a story that changes your whole life. Someone who is so extraordinary that you're drawn to them. In my career as a photojournalist, I have one such person and his name was Jack Williams. Jack, you see, died a few years back of cancer and I, to this day, miss the conversations and friendship that we had. I consider myself a journalist- even today, but also, and above all else, I consider myself a human being who cares about those around him.
Thoughts of my friend come to mind especially around NASCAR race time at the local track. Jack lived under a bridge that I regularly cross to get to the Talladega Superspeedway.
It was 1989, and I was working at the Daily Home in Talladega, Alabama. While on lunch one day, I read a small feature story in our sister paper, The Anniston Star, about a man who was dying of cancer and living under the Choccolocco (pronounced Chalk-O-Lock-O) Creek bridge on Highway 71–about ten miles from town on the way to the Talladega Superspeedway, home of 2 yearly NASCAR events. Immediately intrigued, and since I wasn't busy that day, I decided to go down and take a look for myself.
There's a large hill that overlooks the bridge as you're driving towards it. I could see a small plastic-tarped abode on the far left side of the bridge with a small dirt road leading to it. It was a cold day–the sky matched the grayness of the tarp. I turned onto the dirt road and was shocked to see 10 cars parked out of sight and began to wonder "what is going on?"
Leaving my gear in the car, I walked up to a large group of men and asked if I could speak to Jack Williams. A tall, thin man stood up and declared in a raspy voice: "That's me."
I have to admit that after seeing Jack and his living conditions for the first time, I felt sorry for him. The story I had read earlier in the day was written sympathetically, so I guess this shouldn't have surprised me. Jack came up to me and asked all of the usual questions: "What paper do you write for?" "When will it be in the paper?" "What are you going to write about?"
I answered the last two questions and told him I didn't know what I'd write about. That was up to him.
He shook my hand and I was amazed at the strength of his grip. It wasn't something that I had expected from such a frail looking man. I went back to the car and got my cameras and tape recorder and sat down with Jack near the roaring fire. Jack sat across from me and started the conversation by asking "What do you want to know?". It was a refreshing remark for a journalist to hear.
I immediately liked Jack's frank, open personality. For the next five hours, Jack and I talked. I found out that most of the trucks belonged to Jack's former co-workers and friends. Jack was a house painter by trade and was considered one of the best in Talladega. I didn't shoot a single image that first day simply because I was so intrigued by his words.
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