In memory of a young photojournalist

Last week, amid all the other troubling news that took place, I lost a friend.

He was not just a friend, but a schoolmate, a fellow journalist who I spent many hours with in the University of Montana School of Journalism halls. He was a fellow intern who I spent the summer of 2011 with in the Flathead Valley. He interned as a photographer at The Flathead Beacon while I reported for the Hungry Horse News.

On Thursday morning I found out that Steele Williams had taken his life for reasons I now understand better than I did last week.

We held a memorial service for him on Sunday afternoon in Missoula. All of us who attended were encouraged to speak and to tell stories about him. All I could do was listen, laugh and cry.

I realized that I wasn’t the only person at the J-School who had good memories of Steele. I realized that I wasn’t the only one who felt his friendship, who saw the goodness in him, was irritated and shocked by him, enjoyed his sense of humor and saw a future full of potential for a talented photographer who didn’t know his own limits.

I know that most of you in the community don’t know him or his name, but I also know that a number of Bigfork residents probably ran into him during that 2011 summer. And I also know that his camera probably took up a large amount of space, right in front, of whomever he was photographing.

I think most importantly, I want to share with my community what I didn’t share with my peers on Sunday afternoon. Here is an excerpt from a blog post I wrote on Thursday afternoon in memory of Steele:

You encouraged me to pursue the things I wanted to pursue. You encouraged me to be me.

You were always you. Loud, obnoxious, smiling and straight to the point. I could never doubt that what you said was what you thought. The way you were, the things you said. They were always you and nobody else.

People didn’t always understand you and sometimes I thought you were off the mark, but I know — I knew — inside of that blonde head of hair were good intentions. Inside of that body that never stopped moving there was a good heart. Driving those fingers that never stopped hitting the shutter was a passion to be something bigger than you, to right some sense of injustice you saw in the world.

You could always take it a step further, just because you felt you should. Talking to people you didn’t know, shoving a camera in someone’s face and giving people the confidence they needed to believe they are good. You always sided with your friends, you always sided with me.

Every editing class you had a huge to-go cup full of soda, you chewed gum with a swagger and I always thought there was confidence inside of you. Words fell from your tongue faster than your lips could spit them out, your random one-liners broke up time in freelance’s three-hour class and that camera backpack with your treasured Canon accompanied you where ever you went.

You always wanted to stand out and because of that you went and did something no one else in our class at the J-School has done yet. I remember getting a phone call from you before you left. Excited, scared and ready to go, you bid me farewell.

That was the last time I spoke to you. I smiled when I saw your post on Facebook, telling the world you came back from Iraq — safe. I smiled when I saw your assorted photos from the last two years, judging them, of course, but also silently commenting to myself on their strengths.

It’s hard to believe that it’s over.

It makes me sad to think I will never get another random phone call from you. That I will never hear the word “Camillioooo” fall out of your mouth again. That I won’t be able to see you become who you wanted to become, that I won’t see any new photos with your name watermarked on the bottom.

I am sad for me, but I am also sad for you. You will never get the chance to be the person you wanted to prove you could be. And for that I am truly sorry.

Steeliooo you will be missed.