Happiness for Who?

"... endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. 


If people don't have affordable health care, for some there is no Life. With a failing education system there is no Liberty, just more high school drop outs and unemployment. So how does one even think about Happiness never mind pursuing it?


August 9, 2010
©Peter Tobia

Finding

Once you forget about being right, it's easier to find the truth.          


August 6, 2010
©2010 Peter Tobia

Racism

Institutionalized racism exist. Until it is acknowledged the real conversation remains silent. 

Division is a choice. 

Acceptance a decision. 

Change is necessary to realize there is one race.

July 25, 2010

©2010 Peter Tobia

Hotel Pool

June 19, 2010

©2010 Peter Tobia

Questions

I called and asked about the war in Afghanistan, the oil spill in the gulf, Rand Paul and the Civil Rights Act of 1964, teachers being laid off, education in public schools, health care, unemployment, terrorism and the Greeding of America and was told someone would get back to me.

May 20, 2010

© 2010 Peter Tobia

Children

There is a contagious satisfaction in a child's excitement, happiness and laughter.

It is joyful, peaceful and forgiving.

Parents teach their children to be respectful, keep the circle open and to include not exclude.

Children teach parents that being a perfectionist is boring and living fully is about having fun.

Time to clean the house: Start by throwing out criticism and impatience.

Replace them with praise and self-worth. 

You buy or build a house. You make a home. Fill it with family and friends.

Children give us second chances.

            
   © 2010 Peter Tobia

Edgefield, South Carolina

Observations

Lost in the rushes of everyday, we find quiet and comfort in those who are part of us.

A man on a cell phone walking down the street during a snow storm:
"Can you hear me God?
God can you hear me? Can you hear me?
God, I need your help!"

          --S.4th St.
             Philadelphia

Along 95, by the Black River, the car in front of me displays a pro-life sticker.
As I pass, I glance to the side, the driver looks 90 and ready to die.

          --Upstate New York


September 11, 2006

Monday morning...
My head feels like loose pipes in the back of a truck.
The planes seem louder than usual today.

          --Philadelphia


July 15, 2005

Those bibles in hotel rooms
the ones you thought would keep you safe.
Bombs are exploding on the streets of London
no prayers will save you from this place.

          --Great Neck, NY

© 2010 Peter Tobia

Tables Turned

For ten years I would pass George almost everyday on my way to work. Sometimes I would roll down my window and give him spare change or maybe a dollar or two. Sometimes I'd give him food left over from a Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. If I caught the light we would chat and he would ask how the family was doing. Then he would tell me he was trying to get enough money so he could visit his mother in Tampa, FL or that the cops threw out all his belongings from his home under the Interstate 95 viaduct. He said once the cops threw him in the back of a police van, gave him the "nickel ride" and dropped him off in the middle of the night by the stadiums in South Philadelphia hoping to get rid of him. It worked for a about a week, but George would find his way back to Columbus Blvd. walking along the railroad tracks collecting change from passing motorists.  

In December of 2008 I stopped at the light and George came over. He asked me how I was doing and I told him I had just lost my job at the newspaper. A surprised look came over his face and he said, "That's tough." Then he asked me what I was going to do. I said I didn't know at the moment but would figure something out. Suddenly his empathy turned to concern when he bluntly responded, "Don't come out here."

April 20, 2010

© 2010 Peter Tobia

Nice Introduction

On a fall afternoon, I headed to northeast Philadelphia to photograph the singer/songwriter Carole King who was campaigning for John Kerry in his run for president in 2004. I waited outside for her arrival as people gathered inside a local politician's headquarters. King finally showed up and entered the building to greet the locals who were there for the fundraiser and rally. 

As five area politicians hovered around King, looking like awkward teenage boys with silly smiles on their faces, one introduced himself, shook her hand and blurted out, "I can't tell you how many times I got laid in the back seat of my car listening to your music."

April 17, 2010

© 2010 Peter Tobia

Stopping for Petro

Arriving in Conakry, Guinea, two workers with the International Rescue Committee greeted me at the airport and welcomed me to West Africa. After clearing customs, we drove to the hotel to drop off luggage and equipment and then head to a refugee camp on the border with Sierra Leone. Rebels with the Revolutionary United Front (RUF) had overthrown the government in Sierra Leone in May 1997 and people were fleeing the country for safe haven.

Sierra Leone was not getting rave reviews as one of the top ten destinations for tourists or even a quick get-away for a long weekend. Of course, if you were seeking intimidation and fear, well, this was the place to be. I mean where else could you get choices like  the rebels gave innocent people cowering in their homes: "If you come out we will shoot you. If you stay in, we will burn your house to the ground." Not your everyday "welcome to the neighborhood" greeting. As we left the hotel it occurred to me, "why did I always seem to be in places most people were trying to avoid?"

The next thing I realized was we had pulled into a gas station before making the two hour ride which would take us four. Rule of thumb in Africa: Double the time you think it will take. The attendant, a kid in his late teens, came up to the truck and was asked to fill it up. It seemed like it took him an eternity to start pumping the gas. I sat in silence looking at my cameras and thinking about the 12 hour flight.

As we sat there, the three of us noticed the strong smell of gasoline. I opened the passenger door and saw the nozzle of the pump in the gas tank of the truck with gas spilling all over the ground. I quickly got out of the truck and yelled, "What are you doing?"
The attendant calmly replied: "I'm evening the numbers."

April 11, 2010

© 2010 Peter Tobia

On Being a Journalist

I miss what was
   not what is
But it will be in my blood
   for as long as I live.
           -30-

April 10, 2010

© 2010 Peter Tobia

For Those In Prison

The calming perfection of nature’s presence, if only fleeting,
offers hope for the weary heart tired of beating.

March 13, 2010

                       

© 2010 Peter Tobia

Change

The Right Response

A call came into the newsroom on Thursday evening that the Camden police were dragging the Cooper River in Camden, NJ for the body of a young woman who had been reported missing since Monday. As a photographer for the local newspaper, working nights, I was sent out to cover the assignment. 
As I arrived at the scene, I noticed a police helicopter with search lights hovering over the river as divers below assisted in the search. A crowd of on-lookers and other media had gathered at a bridge which was blocked by a police car. I greeted the reporters who told me the cops weren’t letting anyone through. Looking around I noticed I was the only photographer present. 

As I surveyed the scene, I thought I might be able to get a picture of the activity on the river if I could get to the middle of the bridge; I started walking toward the police car. 
As I approached, a young police officer stood in front of me and said, “No reporters allowed!” 
I replied, “I’m not a reporter. I’m a photographer.”
Without hesitation, he said, “Alright. Go ahead.” 

© 2010 Peter Tobia

January Hands

January hands bless these city streets with soundless softness
bringing simple comfort and smiles as wide as the sky.

February 12, 2010

©2010 Peter Tobia          

Regrets

Once the song leaves the singer's heart
The voice spits out empty words and lies.

He stepped off the stage, packed his guitar and walked past empty tables and chairs.
He had waded into mediocrity gradually, laboring in vain
to save something that was only half right and throwing away good songs on bad love.
He was tired of feeling sick and tired and wasting precious time.

February 2, 2010
Fort Worth, TX

©2010 Peter Tobia

Humility

The sound of clouds moving across the sky.

A subtle reminder that we do not own this world;

rather we have been granted the privilege of visiting.

January 18, 2010

©2010 Peter Tobia

Act I

Act I

Bath water drawn into the comfort of white porcelain.

Act II

Knife of electricity rips open the sky
Seconds of silence.
Rain bleeds into the night
Leaves tremble, faces wet. No part untouched.

Act III

The applause of thunder.
Nature bows.
No understudy needed.

January 18, 2010

©2010 Peter Tobia

B/W

I bought the black kid in the laundromat a popsicle for .50 cents.
I don't know his feelings, but he said thank you, and we just talked at intervals about basketball, baseball, etc.
He was washing his sneakers and I thought it was the only thing to say.

I gave the black kid, who was short a quarter the .25 cents.
Maybe I was taken, but maybe he didn't have any money.
The cashier, he told me it was standard procedure for "them."
"Yeah, they'll do it every time," he said.

I don't care for spare change too much these days. I have holes in both my pockets.

Martin Luther King Day
January 18, 2010.

©2010 Peter Tobia

ROCKY MOUNT, NORTH CAROLINA

My hand is wrapped around a pocket full of change as I push the button for the third floor.

I toss suitcases onto a luggage cart and weave back down the hall… bumping into hotel walls.

The door opens on floor two. A women from housekeeping steps in.

She glances down at my luggage and the Caterpillar trucks my son received as a Christmas gift.

“My husband worked for them for three months,” she said.

“He collected the little yellow dump trucks and put them on our window sill at home.”
A slight smile showed comfort in the short lived security.

She said after he started his job he got laid off because of the recession. Her face showed little disappointment. It seemed more familiar with acceptance.

Her husband is diabetic and is in the process of  trying to collect disability.

Her hands, white and clean, ruffled dirty bed sheets as fluorescent light colored her skin with a green sickness. I stopped looking into her eyes.

As the elevator door opened, she wishes me a Happy New Year and a safe trip home. She moves away slowly, pushing her basket of laundry down a hall she has walked for eight years.

As the door closes I am left alone looking into a mirror framed by

shiny metal and sick lighting; my face and clothing absent of color.

I linger…looking. A revealing portrait is seen as I move away.

Sunday morning

January 4, 2010

 ©2010 Peter Tobia

SOUTH LAND

Silver-green moss; dangling Spanish thread…a glimmer of hope.

A symbol of southern mystery and dangerous beauty.

The pride of the south embarrassed by its past…
hooded-ghosts on tombstones drawn by weather’s hand.

Foolish minds believing "good ole boy" smiles and hand shakes can heal.

Made in '37, rusting bus on soil soaked in sorrow. 

A suspicious calmness prevails before the question is quietly asked:
"Is it over?" or "does the disease continue to grow in silence?"

History is what one person remembers. Sometimes it's rewritten
by a blind-witness who says he heard the truth.

Empty, broken billboards signs; like the memory loss
of an aging mind not remembering what was said or who said it.

The music, thought simple, is complicated in its simplicity.

Songs of well-traveled roads, dirt-red honesty and finding
peace through prayer.

Songs about finding your own way, but when you do, how much do you find?

Lost in a song played over and over because a single phrase stops time.

January 13, 2010

©2010 Peter Tobia