I have been photographing protests, demonstrations, rallies, marches for over half a decade now; I have seen people passing out markers to write on their own bodies legal aid and bail bond telephone numbers to call in the event of arrests, I have seen volunteers hand out bottles of water and granola bars, even hand sanitiser and masks in 2020, but never have I seen anyone hand out borscht.
This to me is what makes America great, that we can celebrate our own and each others’ heritages, experience each others’ cultures, embrace our differences, and better ourselves from learning about one other, and in doing so become stronger together.
I spent the next several hours running with stampeding protestors as the police charged, photographing make-shift barricades from trash dumpsters, a police cruiser flipped on its side, another on fire, protestors getting arrested, all before running out of film and realising that I should head home to safety.
All of a sudden, a woman stood up, walked down the aisle, yanked off her pants, and began to dance.
“In the name of God and of the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nationhood, Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom.”
I would describe driving to the west coast of Ireland as like flying into the Death Star; it is fine for the first half of the four and a half hour drive, but then the roads just get narrower and narrower.