![]() ![]() She leaned back on Kyle, and as he pulled her close, he began to cry.Īnd now here we were, face-to-face in the hospital lobby. Alicia cried, and as she looked at what was left of her son’s room, she fell apart. They walked around their home, Alicia crying, and at one point, they ended up in their son’s room, which had been torn apart by the massive tornado. Most of the house was destroyed, and they were gracious enough to let me spend some time with them while they looked through their home, trying to find what they could in the rubble. Alicia was eight months pregnant and rode out the storm in her basement, about a quarter mile from St. My second day in town, the Gordons were the second set of people I came across after the team looking for survivors. I’m making my way through the lobby when someone calls my name. I’m walking out, head down, that look in her eyes burned into my conscience. But it’s especially not supposed to happen to a nine-year-old. It’s not supposed to happen to a nine-year-old. There’s a mixture of terror and defeat from being in a car that was tossed a hundred yards from being torn away from the safety of the passenger seat, where she sat next to her mom from being discovered laying in the street by a stranger who took her to a hospital, something that saved her young life. It's a part of her, and it will be a while before she’ll be able to be a normal kid again. Looking into her eyes, I know that all the stuffed animals, all the music players, all the portable gaming systems in the world won’t take away that fear. Some relatives show up with a bag of gifts. I make a few frames of her bandaged legs, then move to the back of the hospital room. “The wounds are bad, but they are clean, which the doctors say is good news,” he says, showing me graphic images on his cell phone camera of the open wounds. “I’m not,” she responds, pulling the covers up around her bruised and scabbed face, “I’m cold.” Her father lifts the covers and reveals her legs, which are the most wounded part of her, her tiny legs bruised, cut and bandaged. ![]() I walk into a hospital room, and her father is there, and she’s curled up in bed. I’m in the other hospital in Joplin, the one that didn’t get hit, and I am photographing a nine-year-old girl who was on Range Line, one of the main streets in the town, in a car with her mother when the tornado struck. Few people understand that, but when the images are out there, and people look at them and feel something, the way I feel something, then I have done my job, I have fulfilled my purpose in something like this. Recording the moment in some cases is just as important as digging. It took every ounce of strength I had not to put down my cameras and dig with my bare hands to try to find someone, anyone. At one point someone said that “maybe if someone weren’t taking pictures we could all lift this wall.” It’s tough being there, feeling like you aren’t physically helping. It’s one of those moments you want to drop your cameras, kneel down and dig through the rubble and help. I’m with a group of volunteers, and they are digging through the rubble, looking for survivors – or bodies. I’m in what’s left of an apartment building - the force of the wind had caused the second floor to collapse onto the ground. It’s dawn, about 36 hours since the deadly tornado struck. ![]() People try to figure out a floor plan, trying to determine where each room ended up, that way they can find her bed. The house is unrecognizable as even being a house. Another person says we are looking for her grandmother, who isn’t able to get out of bed. I see a group and walk over to them as they dig through the rubble of a home a woman stands nearby crying. I’m in Joplin, Missouri, it’s pouring rain, and people are walking through, dazed and looking for possessions. "It took every ounce of strength I had not to put down my cameras." ![]()
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