Dorothea Lange & the Tough Times

Breadline, photograph by Dorothea Lange (1932, San Francisco)

When we think we’ve got it bad, just remember the bad times of former generations were much worse that this!
by Charlie Leck

We’ve been hit with some hard times. There’s no doubt about it. I listened in on some Public Radio conversations yesterday with a number of couples who have had their retirement plans destroyed. A cabin in Vermont that won’t be built and retirement right there in Hartford instead. A couple who needs to postpone their retirement for several years. Another who thinks that retirement will never come. I was doing yard work while I listened and it was sad to overhear such personal conversations.

Our portfolio was hit hard. We’ve had to adjust, but we can do that.

Unemployment is as high as it’s been for the last 50 years. Food shelves are extraordinarily busy and their inventories are very low. I hope you’re helping out and contributing to those needs. We’ve decided to be much more careful with our grocery shopping, but also to give as much to the food shelf in our region as we spend on our own groceries.

Don’t hear that as boasting or self-promotion, please! Receive it as an idea. We can all give some thought to how we can help out in these times. We can try to share what we have and we can try to find some time to volunteer where we’re needed. It’s tough to worry about when you’re going to get a round of golf in or what you’ll wear to the theatre this weekend when there is so much need surrounding us.

I had some conversations with my parents about the Great Depression – the real depression in America – but I wish I’d had more serious talks with them about it. They were just married and living in New York City when the big one hit. My dad managed to hold on to his job, but his wages were seriously reduced. My mom realized she was pregnant shortly after the depression hit and that news was shocking. Fortunately they both had parents nearby who helped out all they could. My mom’s father held on to his job with the city and he worked straight through the bad times. My father’s old man had his business rocked and seriously weakened, but he also kept his head above water by cutting way back everywhere he could. There were cousins, brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles who were all seriously impacted by the crushed economy and the stories of the family pulling together and helping each other were poignant and touching.

Stranded, a photograph by Dorothea Lange (1935, California)

A couple of decades ago, I became familiar with the photographic work that Dorothea Lange did during those difficult times in the ‘30s. To feel something of the reality, the pain and the challenge of the Great Depression, one needs only to go through her spectacular photographs. I’ve used a number of them to illustrate my blog from time to time. I’m posting a handful here for you now, so you can see what a story-teller she was.

[To see more Lange photographs go to this U.S. Gov't web site.]

Street Demonstration (photograph by Dorothea Lange, San Francisco, 1932)

Auto Camp for Citrus Workers (photograph by Dorothea Lange, 1935, Tulare County, CA)

Migrant Mother (This photograph by Dorothea Lange is her most famous. Note that the mother has a baby in her arms. There have been a number of recent stories about the little girl on the right. At the time of the photograph this woman was caring for 7 children.)

Mississippi Redux

Something draws me back to that place I said I needed nothing more of!
by Charlie Leck

Come back! It is almost like the mysterious sirens of the sea calling me back to the places I fear the most -- toward the dangerous rocks and ledges that protrude from the rolling water. Their call is that of alluring temptresses. A note from Kentucky arrives and tells me there is still work to do.

There are many reasons to dislike Mississippi. It remains a place brimming with hideous hatred. The summers are so hot that your biosystem loathes you for bringing it there. It’s not a pretty state either and it ranks lowly in so many categories of comparison with other states – in education, general health, infant mortality, employment, standard of living, and average annual income. Mississippi is still a redneck state and the pickup truck, the rifle and the shotgun still rule.

Yet, my few days there last summer go with me wherever I am. The faces of the kind black Mississippians with whom I visited are implanted solidly in my memory. We gathered to remember bleak and awful times, but we celebrated our time together with victorious song and precious words.

It is as simple as this: I want more of it! I want to pay my respects again to Chaney, Schwerner and Goodman – the great, fearless heroes of my youth. I want to walk up dusty Rock Cut Road with a rock from Minnesota in my hand. I’ll place it there, at the spot where they were slaughtered, and allow a tear to drop to the ground with it. We’ll sing again, “We shall overcome, some day!” I can’t purge them from my memory. I may as well celebrate their unforgettable lives and deaths.

A large group of men co-conspired to murder them. Most of those killers who are still alive continue to walk free. Soon there will be none of us who were there left to mourn the dead and protest the great injustices that live on. I swore in the summer of ’64 that I would never forget them and never stop lamenting over them. I have kept that vow.

I thought I would hate my journey to Mississippi last summer, but I returned to Minnesota stronger and more inspired than ever. Huddled together, we were cautiously hopeful about Barack Obama then. We’d wink and smile at each other, but we didn’t dare imagine it could ever really be. This summer we can celebrate, dance and howl about an African American living in the White House. Can it be? Is it only that far from the summer of ’64.

My wife and one of my kids accompanied me last summer. They saw I would need their support – that they could prop me up if I was overcome; however, we found out there were other veterans of the civil rights movement who were there and they leaned lovingly on one another. This year I can go alone and know I’ll be just fine.

On Rock Cut Road, where they died, I’ll bend low and whisper to them triumphantly.

“Can you believe?” I’ll ask them. “Is that Michelle Obama not beautiful? Isn’t she the finest first lady of our lives? And doesn’t that man know how to be a President of all the people? Out there among the stars, are you whoopin’ it up? Are you singin’ the old songs of those days in Mississippi? Can you believe we’ve come this far, yet we can’t get justice for you guys? We tryin’ man! We tryin’ hard. I’ve never forgotten you and I won’t ever – never!”

Yeh, I’m goin’ back to Mississippi. I want to ask all those folks about our President. I want to whoop it up a bit.