A self portrait Michael made in North Dakota. Photo by Michael Williamson/The Washington Post It’s the one question Michael and I heard most: Did you fight? The truth is, if we had, I probably would’ve blogged about it. There was a moment early on when Michael told me how he grew up in foster care and how easily he could’ve turned out like some of the more vulnerable people we were meeting. We were barely getting to know each other--we hadn’t met before this assignment--but I had to decide that night if our personal conversation was part of our journey, if it ought to be part of Half a Tank. On June 8, I posted a piece about our exchange under the headline: Mirrors, Thin Walls and Cheap Motels. As newspaper journalists, most of the stories we cover require us to step out of the picture. That’s where both
Danny Glass holds a photo Michael took of him four months ago, just days into our cross-country road trip. Photo by Michael Williamson/The Washington Post When we first met Danny Glass, he was sitting in a tent, half-naked, too weak to put on pants. He knew he was dying. "Can I ask a favor?" he said to Michael Williamson, the Washington Post photographer with whom I traveled across the country this summer. "Can I use one of those photos for my obituary?" That was in June. Flash forward to a couple of weeks ago: Michael and I stand in that same tangle of woods behind a motor vehicles office in Woodbridge, but we see no Danny, just the rain-soaked remnants of his belongings: a stained couch cushion he used as a mattress. A plastic water bowl for a dog he surrendered to a better home. A hospital wristband with
Scene outside of Kokomo, Indiana, one of the areas hardest hit by the recession. Photo by Michael Williamson/The Washington Post Because of you, a young couple can now buy the wedding ring they desired. A family of five who feared every day that their lights would be turned off no longer needs to be frightened. And an out-of-work engineer who struggled with moving his family into a shelter now has housing options. All summer long, Michael and I saw people helping one another survive across the country. Still, the outpouring here on Half a Tank surprised both of us. Several of you didn’t just comment about the stories you read, you acted. Right now, five envelopes sit on my desk, each with a check addressed to either Justin Hamby or Holly Rogers, the couple who got married without the $186 ring they wanted. The lowest amount on any of
Michael and I met Ron and Yolanda Vazquez at a homeless shelter in Woodbridge and they agreed to share their story with us, even though it was difficult for them and their children. The story will appear in the Washington Post print edition tomorrow, but in the meantime, here is the story with photos you will not see in the paper or online elsewhere. Ron Vazquez was earning $85,000 a year, but after losing his job in January had to move his family into a homeless shelter In August. Photo by Michael Williamson/The Washington Post Ron Vazquez was not a drunk. Not a drug addict. Not mentally ill. For weeks, he repeated those three phrases to himself and anyone who would listen. He and his wife used to fight over walk-in closet space and which BMW to buy. Yolanda Vazquez is the quintessential PTA mom -- organized and energetic. Ron's
Juan Rodriguez had one final wish: To die where he was born. Photo by Michael Williamson/The Washington Post Juan Rodriguez never called. He was supposed to when he got to San Antonio. The 75-year-old, who had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, hadn’t seen the city of his birth for more than half a century. He had no family there, no sense of what it looked like now. But it’s where he wanted to die and he said nothing was going to stop him from making the trip there from Sacramento. Not his rundown motor home. Not his broken van. Not his empty pockets. The last time we saw Juan, he estimated it would take him two weeks to reach San Antonio. That was a month and a half ago. He should've called by now. He promised he would. There are some people Michael and I met on our summer-long
