The first 20 minutes are always the most difficult. I leave my car, strap on my backpack, and begin to walk around the Gomper Homes. I always feel out of place, an outsider who is trying to gain some understanding of the people who call this place home. I walk slowly, looking to my left and right for people who will question my motives for being there. A question is a relief, an opportunity to explain myself and hopefully engage in conversation. Everyone looks at me. No one knows why I am there, but they all know that I am out of place. This becomes evident through my body language. I make eye contact with several people, but I am afraid of invading personal moments and so I frequently will fix my eyes on the pavement in front of me. I hold my styrofoam cup in my hand and occasionally drink its contents. I am nervous. Will I meet anyone today? Will I be greeted with hospitality and understanding, or presumption and preconceived ideas? I make a complete circle around the Gompers Homes and start my second trip. The first trip is understandable, but the second trip is suspicious. I understand this very well, and pray that I will recognize someone or have the opportunity to meet someone new. As I visit the Gompers Homes more frequently, I begin to realize that this journey is as much about myself as it is about the residents of East St. Louis. Walking down the street, I think about my role in this project, my relation to the residents, and the feelings that I encounter as I photograph. Who am I to photograph people in and around their homes? I am constantly plagued by the issue of exploitation, and whether or not I am simply exploiting the lives of these residents. I must look to the documentary style as a method for unraveling truth and exposing important issues that need to be addressed. I often wonder how I would react if a photographer came through my neighborhood and asked if he or she could take my picture in front of my house. Sure, why not? I would be happy to help, but does that willingness translate into a pure motive for my own work within an impoverished housing project?

I continue through the Gompers Housing Project and stand on the corner. I realize very quickly that walking is completely different than standing. As I stand, I force myself to be in one place, resolute and firm. I am no longer strolling through, but claiming a certain corner, a certain place, and claiming the right to stand there. I am nervous. I hold my styrofoam cup and fish out the small lime that rested on the bottom of the cup, the last remnants of my lunchtime soda. I put the tangy lime in my mouth. I am overwhelmed by the jolt of flavor that rushes through my body, and relieved to find a small respite from my nervousness. I stand on the corner for five minutes, until I am relieved by the sound of a man across the street. “Hey man, you alright,” he says. “Yeh” I reply. I take the opportunity to walk over to him and start a conversation, telling him what I am doing, and asking permission to take his photograph. He and his friend comply, and I walk back to my car and take out my camera. The first 20 minutes are over.