I was a rookie photojournalist, barely a year into my career. I had very little experience but an abundance of ambition and self-confidence when it first hit me.
As I left a late night assignment, I felt sick to my stomach — for I knew that the images I had just captured would be seen by thousands the next day and would define the way a community saw itself.
It was the end of the 1980s, the exact year I don’t recall, that I read the details on my photo assignment sheet. I had heard about this kind of thing, I’d read about it, I knew it existed but I had never seen it up close, in person. Now I was asked to document it with pictures. It was an event that would say so much about the time we lived in and the radical views of some people from my home in Southwest Missouri.
Ku Klux Klan rally, West Chestnut Expressway (outside Springfield, Mo. city limits) 1989
The Ku Klux Klan rally was held in an open field just west of town between Springfield and Willard. It drew KKK members from all over the four-state region (Missouri, Arkansas, Oklahoma and Kansas).
Klan leaders traveled up from Arkansas, as I recall, and they had widely promoted the event and had even invited the local media to come and witness their rally. They wanted the publicity.
Local law enforcement had set up along the perimeter of the private property — not to stop the rally but to keep the peace in case of any trouble or violence. KKK members knew they had the right to assemble and the right to free speech, however there was a strong presence of opposition outside the gates of the property. I remember a lot of yelling and pointing by outsiders as those inside began to assemble. From inside the property, marked off by a simple barbed wire fence, shouts returned exclaiming “White supremacy!” and “White power!”
As I entered — loaded with camera and gear — I tried to take it all in and formulate some sort of plan on how I would cover the event. I remember being treated very nicely by rally-goers, knowing this welcome would have been very different had I brought any one of my black friends.
Everyone there was white. They wore Confederate-flag bandanas and overalls. They sat in their lawn chairs, coolers at their sides, talking, visiting, laughing like they were at a family reunion.
I didn’t really know what to expect so I just began shooting any detail I saw that I felt would tell the story. At this point there were no Klan robes or pointed hats. Most of the photos I was getting only showed the overall scope of the scene. I was apprehensive about pointing my camera directly at anyone and I recall feeling very uneasy and nervous. I just wanted to pull back into the shadows and shoot without being seen, but the sun had not completely set yet so there weren’t enough shadows to hide in.
I wondered what would be my dominant image… what would happen and how could I best be the eyes for those who weren’t there? So far it had been pleasant, the air light with laughter. But that was about to change.
The last bit of daylight soon faded and the sky turned dark. White robes and pointed hats began to emerge. About a dozen leaders, dressed in full KKK regalia, walked up onto a small makeshift stage and stood in a line.
Torches provided the only light now, as several leaders made short speeches denouncing blacks, revving up the crowd into a frenzy and leading them in chants. “White Power. White Power,” they shouted, pumping fists in the air. I was shooting photos at a very accelerated rate now.
KKK rally west of Springfield, Mo., circa 1989.
As the speeches and frenzy began to die down, the speakers exited the stage. I noticed in an open area of the field, not too far away, robed Klansmen began to hoist three large homemade crosses into the ground. They slowly and deliberately started forming a big circle around the crosses. It was almost as if they were beginning a spiritual ceremony. I moved in closer for a better angle as the men lit the crosses with their torches.
It was, perhaps, the eeriest atmosphere I had ever been in. I realized I had become so enthralled with what was going on I had forgotten to do what I was there to do: Shoot photos and document the event.
So I pulled myself together. Looking through the lens, I was able to separate myself a bit and see surroundings a little less personally. I recall an adrenaline rush as I moved around the scene capturing images that would prove to be some of the most powerful images I would ever take.
It was a little late by this time, but I remember having a flash of fear that I hadn’t set my camera to the proper setting for this night time scene. In those days it was all using film. There wasn’t that instant gratification and security of instantly seeing the image on the back of your digital camera. I would only know what I had captured later when I processed the film by hand and looked at a negative image through a loupe on a light table.
Unsettling at the least. The thought of not getting the pictures because of a simple oversight or using the wrong film was gut wrenching. Back then, there were many ways to screw up an assignment. And telling your editor that you “blew it” was not on the list of fun things to experience.
Upon leaving the rally, I was so filled with adrenaline and anxiousness that I promptly backed into the brand new car behind me owned by a fellow news photographer. I had to deal with that little mishap before I could head back toward the newsroom. My deadline was looming and I only had a little over an hour to get back, develop, edit and print the top two, most compelling, photos that would tell the story.
These two images were the ones that ran on the front page in the next day’s paper. They accompanied a story written by a reporter who was there as well.
Responses to the images and story were mixed. Stories and images like these always evoked a lot of emotion from readers. We had held up a mirror to our community, and readers saw a true reflection of what happened that day near Springfield, Missouri.
As a photojournalist, I tried to remind myself each day that it was a tremendous honor to tell stories with my camera. Back then there were an elite few of us that held the enormous responsibility of being the eyes for those who were not there.
Being a member of the press opened doors to incredible experiences. The types of events I would photograph over the years varied greatly and encompassed about every human emotion possible.
I’ve always held close a quote by William Hodge who was once the President of the National Press Photographers Association. He said, ”There is no better place to learn of the world than through the eyes of photojournalists. Through their efforts, we see the comings and goings of our community, our world, that most people have neither the time nor access to see.”
Following are just a few of the short stories that defined how I viewed the community I lived in…
A man is kissed by his wife a few hours before he draws his last breath. This ran with a package that detailed hospice care and the services they provided. The reporter, Laurie Cunningham, and I won a national award for this package. We spent 2-3 afternoons per week with this family for around 6 months.
While the rest of news media stay on the ground and shoot up, I convince a construction foreman to put me in a basket and haul me up above The Shepherd of the Hills tower in Branson. I was there to see the last piece, the pinnacle, put into place. I got the photo other media coveted.
Boys get caught in a rainstorm on their way home from the bus stop. They decided to play. This ran Front Page as a stand-alone.
Mike Wingo and reporter Ron Davis spend a night in the Laclede County Jail in Southwest Missouri. The duo spent the night in several Missouri jails to illustrate the poor conditions. They won a national award for this one.
A mother and father watch their home burn. The little boy had started the fire; his brother was trapped in the house and died. This was the image that spurred Mike to leave the News-Leader because the photo never ran.
A road grater explodes and burns for more than two days.
A mother tries to calm her child, who had just fallen two stories out of a window.
An Amish man braves a snowstorm near Seymour, Mo.
