These were punk kids, Goths, hippies…people I had previously thought of as “freaks.” People I wouldn’t have normally talked to. But to my surprise, I found I felt far more comfortable with them than with the "normal" people I had known and grown up with all my life. My interest and fascination lived beyond the heat of that moment, and I began visiting their makeshift Shantytown on campus.

More importantly, I began talking to them. I put down the camera, and opened my eyes.

It didn’t stop there. When I began shooting for the college newspaper, I got assignments for all kinds of events and groups. I remember going to shoot something I believe they called Jabberwocky -- it was a step competition among African-American fraternities. Now, remember, I was this sheltered little girl from a part of Indiana that was all white and proud of it. Think trucks with big wheels, confederate flags, and six packs of PBR, okay? Suddenly, my eyes were opened to a whole world I knew nothing about. A world I hadn’t even known existed, and my entry ticket was this silly metal box around my neck.

I realized my camera held the key to meeting all kinds of people and seeing the full spectrum of humanity that I had never known before and to tell their stories in images. So I changed my major to photojournalism. And the rest should have been history.

Some people never discover their true passion. Some people discover it, but abandon it for a variety of reasons. I was one of the latter.

Back when I was in school, there weren’t many women photojournalists, and I faced a lot of sexist attitudes in the darkroom and in the field (sporting events were hell sometimes -- try being the only woman photographer at opening day for a pro baseball team and having to walk in front of the dugout to get to your seat. Talk about walking the gauntlet.) My photography became more about showing the boys I was just as good, sometimes I was actually better, although they wouldn’t admit it or recognize my ability. Fighting that kind of mentality wore on me. First I noticed that I didn’t want to shoot for myself anymore, or for family events. Photography wasn’t fun anymore. Then I really didn’t want to shoot for work anymore.

Since I was sort of going through the motions at that point, I decided to sell out for a higher paycheck, and went to work in the corporate PR world. This is a level of hell that Dante somehow missed.

I met and moved in with my friend, Leshia, who is a nurse. Leshia inspired me to go back to school for nursing, so I walked out on my cushy job, and moved to Phoenix to go to nursing school and start over. I knew no one. I had no job lined up. I had no apartment lined up. I wasn't even accepted into nursing school.

Some say I was brave to do that. I think "foolish" is the word.

Fast forward about 15 years, and I’m burnt out and disenfranchised with my new career. On a lark, I sign up for a basic photo class at the community college so I can have darkroom access. I’m living in New Jersey with my sister and there’s a big protest planned in NYC against the war in Iraq. I decide at the last moment to catch the train and shoot for my class.

I came full circle to another protest. But this time it wasn’t just hippie kids and “freaks.” It was those, but it was also suburban families, young couples with kids, senior citizens, war veterans, even a wealthy woman in a fur coat…it was all races and religions and status levels. I saw -- and felt a bond with -- the full spectrum of humanity again for the first time in a very long time.

I felt like a drowning woman coming up for air.

And so I found a second life in photography. Why do I do what I do? I don’t really know, but I can’t imagine not doing it. And I won’t ever make the mistake of not doing it again.

Some photographers use their cameras to hide behind and build a wall between themselves and humanity, but I prefer to use mine to open doors and let it in. And to capture those universally human moments for posterity, and eternity.

Diana Price   
June 24, 2006

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