I ride a motorcycle. I wear a mask and helmet. I wear a face shied.

I am a photographer.

I do some work at home. But not all of it.

I wear medical gloves when I get gas. Throw the gloves away.

A New York Times reader called me incredibly selfish in the newspaper. If I was the one writing those words about someone else, I would be judged as uncivil. I would be shut down, shut up. Shame is real.

I keep wondering if I should shut up about writing a book about the travel during a pandemic. I have not been sick and I’m scared. It’s getting cold. I will not be shamed. I will not stop.

Avoid reproach.

Anonymous messages. Not civil. All of them are threatening. Anger. Hate.

Social distancing. I don’t eat out, shop, or go to bars. No family. I loathe holidays. I do not believe in god. No sex.

But I am not going to give up my work. I have been given my project a focus that does not leave out people in institutions, detentions, prisons, and who live with other problems such as HIV. How to survive both. Avoid hate.

You can’t tell the story of this pandemic, and not get out there, and see it. Avoid humiliation.

And take the photographs. Through a face shield. Eyes only looking down, eyes are shades of red. Backs bent. Lots of faces vacant. Lots of families stunned. The story of us must be told.

I never take the helmet off – it’s wierd – it feels like I am from another planet. But I am compelled to do this. There is no choice in it. Avoid contempt. The wind is in my face.