Transcriber: Patricia Kuo Reviewer: David DeRuwe
16 years ago, I was walking these hallways, just like you.
The clock strikes eight. Lockers slammed and students frantically ran to class,
but I would find the nearest bathroom and hide.
I was embarrassed
because I didn’t want anyone to see me walking into special ed classes.
I didn’t want anyone to know that I struggle with reading and writing,
not even my friends.
I thought my hiding skills were rather good
until I, by accident, walked into an Advanced Placement English class.
The door shut behind me. The room went silent.
I took my seat and a kid yells, “Hey, Whitney, funny, you’re in here.
This is AP. Aren’t you in special education?”
I grabbed my things and quickly left,
knowing that my secret was not my secret anymore.
I was more than a grade behind in reading and writing.
My parents, principals, teachers, all did their best to help,
worried about my future and my dreams.
Doctors even prescribed me Adderall.
They thought that would fix me, but that didn’t work.
I didn’t need help focusing.
The school was confused by my progress, so I was sent to special education class
where I was told to sit down and do my homework every day.
For years, I was in special education classes,
and I didn’t feel like it was fully helping me,
and I was ready to do school on my own.
So I told my favorite special ed teacher my dreams of leaving these classes,
and she said, “Well, that’s kind of impossible,”
so I organized a meeting with the principal, my parents, and my teachers.
And there I was, 15 years old,
explaining to them my dreams and desires of being in regular classes
and getting into a college for who I am, apart from special education.
With some hesitation, they said if I got a B plus in all of my classes,
then I could leave special ed.
I worked really hard that year.
I got all B pluses and even some A’s,
and I was officially out of special education class,
and I could take all regular classes.
I took my first photography class at age 16.
I got a camera in my hands, and I drove to my favorite place in Maine,
where the land meets the sea on Sprague Road.
The fog looked so beautiful.
I had to photograph it. I actually couldn’t stop photographing.
I advanced the camera so much. I used the entire roll of film.
I felt free.
And photography came natural to me.
And I really couldn’t believe I was going to get a grade for this,
and this was a real class.
Still, I was nervous to show the classmates my photograph,
but something happened:
When I hung it on the walls, I felt proud,
and that was a new feeling for me in school.
This time, a kid from the back yelled,
“Hey, Whitney, you’re pretty good at this photo stuff.”
Photography allowed me to see that I was good at something,
and it gave me the confidence to be myself and that I’m a visual learner.
High school had ended, and I was on my way to a good college,
but I knew I wanted to see the world first
and explore and discover photography for myself.
So I scrapped college and planned Guatemala.
My parents were a bit nervous I had made a big mistake
because to them, Guatemala was a very dangerous and violent place.
But still, I took out my little savings that I had, collected old cameras,
and carried as much film as I could gather,
and I moved to Guatemala to help develop a photography program for “Safe Passage,”
an organization that helps kids who had survived
by recycling goods and foods in the dumpsters of Guatemala City.
We gave the kids cameras, film,
and they couldn’t stop photographing - something I’m familiar with.
On my last day in Guatemala,
I walked around the kids’ homes and the pastel stucco-painted bedrooms.
I could see that they hung their photographs up under their bunk beds -
photographs of kids playing in a courtyard,
a girl with yellow flowers in her hair, and boys with peace sign poses.
I could see they were proud of their photographs and of their lives.
All along, I thought I was teaching these kids photography,
but really, these kids were teaching me about life.
Instead of the headliners about Guatemala’s violence,
I was learning love, loss, and tenderness.
I realized that these kids’ stories were and are important.
I decided to return to the States to study photography.
I enrolled in my first documentary class at the San Francisco Art Institute.
Out of the usual voices of pimps and prostitutes from my dorm room window,
one voice cried through the noise:
Cali Red would be my first photography story.
Red lived in a rundown hotel with no running water and drug addict neighbors.
Red made a living by playing music on the streets with his old guitar
in some of the toughest neighborhoods.
One night, while I was photographing, Red and I turned a corner,
and out of nowhere, a drunken man takes two Colt 45 bottles,
smashes them against a wall, and starts chasing us with these shattered glasses.
I tell my teacher the next day the story,
and in front of the whole class, she looks me dead in the eyes and says,
“Where are the photographs?” and she was serious.
I spent over a year photographing Red.
What I saw was a hardworking man that loved music enough to sing every day
while dealing with alcoholism,
mental health,
and even people trying to kill him on a Friday night.
I learned to be sensitive, non-judgmental, and open,
and to push myself harder to make the best visuals that told Red’s story.
After class, we had a major exhibition in downtown San Francisco,
and people stopped and stared at the photos of Red.
That night, people could not only see a struggling street musician,
but a hard working artist who’s just trying to survive and be heard.
After photographing Red,
I decided to dedicate my life to social documentary, photography, and filmmaking.
My next move was Stanford.
My film piece, Pigeon Girl, was about a young ten-year-old girl named Maryam.
Her mother said she was a shy kid and often teased and bullied
for dressing more like a boy and her love for animals.
Some days, she actually stayed home.
It was easier to be home than be teased and bullied on the schoolyard.
Maryam said that kids would say that she looked like a pigeon,
and they actually teased her a lot for liking pigeons.
But Maryam had an extraordinary gift:
She could save and rescue pigeons.
Maryam saw how pigeons were treated in the streets of San Francisco
with broken wings and plastic wrapped feet,
and she felt it was her duty to help these pigeons,
no matter what people said about her.
My film, Pigeon Girl, has played all around the world,
but the most important screening was at Stanford
when a group of cool high schoolers swarmed around Maryam
and loved her and admired her for who she is and what she does.
To me, a camera is not just a tool; it’s how I see the world.
I've traveled to the remote mountains of Mongolia,
to the back countries of California, telling people's stories.
I use my visuals to disassemble stereotypes of marginalized people
because I see myself in them, and I believe their stories are important.
Now, 16 years later,
I walk these very hallways, not hiding,
but knowing my struggle has led me to my passion,
and to tell these people’s stories, I must be brave and be seen.
Thank you.
(Applause)