I was only 20 when I joined the staff of the Birmingham Post-Herald, but I was filled with arrogant, unshakable self-confidence. One of my greatest frustrations was being forced to work with a photographer named Tommy. Tommy was an older guy, and pretty addled. His photos weren't very good, and he often seemed to have no clue where he was or what he was doing. I could not stand to have him shoot for my stories, because a crappy photo meant poor placement.
And then one day the photo editor called me into his office and gave me a copy of this:
"Tommy Langston bled for this newspaper. He can shoot pictures for me until the day he dies."
When they were done, they left Tommy for dead. But he'd palmed the film before they took his camera. Bill Ingram retrieved the film, Clarke Stallworth put it in the paper before Jimmy Mills could stop him, and one photo changed this country.
I never minded working with Tommy again. He later became my friend, and that was an immense privilege.
I knew Tommy, I knew Clarke, I knew David Vann and Duard LeGrand and many other white heroes of those days. They didn't risk their lives for their own families' sake, or their own future, or most of all not for a place in a museum, but for simple justice. They all supported the Institute and that's all I need to know.