Witnessing History.

My latest blog entry.

As the sand runs out on yet another calendar, we all look back at the year that was. Our favorite moments, the best and worst of the world around us. What made us laugh and cry, and look forward to what the days ahead may yield.

The best part of my job, is I get to witness history. Sometimes, it's history that generations long after we're gone, will read about in textbooks. But often, it's moments that quietly slip past most that mean so much to me.

June 4th, marked the passing of John Wooden. Growing up in Southern California, you knew John Wooden. The Wizard of Westwood, the Pyramid of Success. A legend that legends aspire to be.

Wooden had been sick for a few days, and the media was keeping vigil outside the hospital on the UCLA campus. I was there just to be a second set of hands, to help out with Suraya Fadel's live shot. But we had gotten word that some UCLA students had planned a "8-clap" rally in front of the hospital so I was sent over to get some "b-roll" for later shows.

I was making my way around to the front, when the phone rang. "John Wooden just died."

I stopped. Its rare for anything to make me stop in my tracks, but this did. John Wooden was gone. I knew the whole story had changed. I knew everything had changed.

I got over to where the rally was to take place, and a few students were already there, waiting for others to arrive. I didn't know if they knew, but in moments they did. I grabbed a few quick interviews, getting the thoughts of those who organized the rally, and some who were just showing up.  

And they kept showing up. By the dozens. Then the hundreds. Then the thousands, as if the heart of UCLA opened up and poured out into the streets.

Then it started.

U..... C.... LLLLLLLLLLLLL...... A. U-C-L-A FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT.

And again.

And again, louder and louder, as if to reach the heavens for Mr. Wooden himself to hear.

These were kids who were some 80 years Mr. Wooden's junior, born decades after he had coached his last game. And they kept coming. The street overflowing with students. I was caught in the midst of the crowd, and could not see the end of either side.

Mustafa Abdul Hamid, a Bruin basketball player, grabbed the bullhorn. His words were as eloquent as a king, pouring from deep within his soul. Mr. Wooden's presence flowed through the crowd, for indeed, he was UCLA.

And it began again.

YouTube video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bHwFL7h4Qmg

Somewhere, amongst that sea of blue, is me. Somewhere.

I knew I had only moments, but I called a friend, a UCLA alumn, and held the phone up above the crowd: "Diana, today, you should be proud to be a Bruin."

I was still alone, Suraya wasn't able to get over right away, so I started interviewing anyone who would talk. And they all talked. And they all praised a man whom most had never met, but his presence had influenced their lives. Tears flowed as if a loved one had just passed, and a moment of silence that culminated in the loudest 8-clap the campus has probably ever seen.

The crowd began to thin, it was finals week and most had to get back to the books. Many stayed. Candles were lit. Tears were wept quietly. Friends held friends. Hands clenched hands.  

John Wooden was gone.  

I knew I was witnessing history. Not simply the passing of an iconic sports figure. Not simply the passing of a great man. I saw the gap of generations fade away. I saw the power of a single human being touch the lives of thousands.

I was in awe.

2010 was unsual. There were few "big" stories, the kind that distant relatives call and wonder if you're a part of. But it was a small part of a huge story, that will forever grace the mental calendar of the year that was.

I was very proud to have witnessed history.

A life, ended.

I’ve watched a lot of people die. More people than I care to count honestly. In my former life in Emergency Medicine, you almost got used to it. Most of the time, it was a mere formality, watching the line on the monitor go flat, and with it, a soul slipping away. It was routine. Print out a strip, hand the run sheet to the charge nurse, hit Starbucks on the way back to the station.  Just one of a dozen calls that day.
 
Then there were the times where you arrived to a living, breathing, talking human being, and delivered a corpse to the hospital. Those stuck with you. Those were real.

But yesterday, I watched a life end. There was no trauma, no heart attack, the line didn’t go flat.

I sat in a courtroom in Orange County, and watched Andrew Gallo’s life end.

51 years to life. 51 years to life for the deaths of three people in a hit and run DUI crash.

A 24 year-old who will spend the next half century in jail.

A lot of my life is viewed in black and white, through the viewfinder of the camera, disconnected from reality. Tunnel-visioned in on the task at hand. Cut-aways, B-roll, audio, no time for emotional investment. I bear witness often, but rarely testify.

Yesterday was different. I was only there to run a live shot, which wasn’t going to happen for hours. I took the last empty seat in the back row, next to a friend, furiously scribbling notes for her story. I was directly behind Gallo, a clear view up the aisle. I became oddly fixated with the sign “defendant” on the table in front of him.  His foot twitched, nervously tapping up and down. I f as the families of his victims fought through the tears, pleading with the judge to sentence Gallo to the maximum sentence allowed. I caught slight glimpses of his face as he turned away. He motioned often to the Bailiff for tissue. His foot continued to twitch. I kept reading my friend’s notes.

The trial had played out in the media. I had seen Gallo many times before, but never in person. The prosecutor, the judge, the families of the victims, all characters in a tragic reality show played out a minute and a half at a time.

People I didn’t know sobbed about victims whose names were familiar, but I had never met. It echoed through the courtroom. The young man in front of me buried his face in his hands, openly weeping. I pondered his connection to the victims. Stories that had no meaning to me, of childhoods, laughter and dreams painted a picture of three people, anonymous before today. I hung on every word.  I still didn’t know who they were.
Gallo’s foot twitched. I kept watching his foot. Did anyone else see his foot?

His life was about to end. It was only a matter of time.

I started to think about what was going through his mind. He sat there, “defendant”. A life in prison only moments away.  What is he thinking? Life in prison. I studied his blue dress shirt. The last dress shirt he would ever wear. What can he be thinking? I kept glancing out the window, maybe in my own desperation to cherish the world outside, knowing that all it would take is one bad decision, and it could be me, “defendant.”  What would I be thinking if I knew my life was about to become a 6 foot square box for the next half century?

The Judge allowed him to address the court, to apologize to the families.  I listened in soundbites. My personal biases keeping me from absorbing a single word. It was the first, and last time I would ever hear his voice.

Then, the executioner’s blade fell, “51 years to life in prison.”

The sobbing from the gallery overwhelmed the silence. He stood, the bailiff shackling his wrists, and he was led from the courtroom, disappearing through the door, heading for a life in prison.

I watched as a life came to an end. 

And so it begins.

I've been contemplating this for years now. I don't know how many people will be interested, maybe this is more for myself than anything else. Years back, when the camera I held went "click" and the pungent odor of developer permeated my every fiber, I wrote a column. (That's what "blogs" were called back then kids, and you ink on your hands when you read them.) I called my column "The Camera, I"

I wanted to give people an insight into the world of being a photojournalist. The saying goes "A picture is worth a thousand words" but for me, I wanted to tell the story of the thousand words behind every photo. One of he great things about my job, is I get to see things, go places, meet people, that most people will never be able to do. It's also the worst thing about my job at times.

So I embark on this once again. Hopefully some insight into the world I see every day. I'll try to keep it current, every day I head out into the world with a camera on my shoulder there are a million stories waiting to be told. Maybe I can tell one or two

And I promise you won't get ink on your hands.