Today we’d like to introduce you to Brad Bailey.
Hi Brad, we’d love for you to start by introducing yourself.
I grew up in rural Georgia, where stories were currency — passed down on porches, in pews, and through the rhythms of everyday life. That early exposure to oral tradition shaped my worldview and planted the seeds of my storytelling journey. I knew I wanted to explore the ways narrative could drive awareness, change policy, and connect people across divides.
I began that pursuit at UC Berkeley, where I earned my Master’s in Journalism. While there, I created a short documentary on disability rights icon Hale Zukas — a founding figure of the independent living movement. That project taught me how one person’s story can illuminate an entire civil rights struggle and helped clarify the kind of storyteller I wanted to be.
Still, I found myself wanting to go deeper — to create space where people could speak fully, not just be quoted. That desire led me to Columbia University, where I earned a Master’s in Oral History. It was there I became interested in memory, testimony, and the ethics of representation. Oral history didn’t just change the way I listened — it transformed how I told stories. It also inspired me to begin “Her Fight, His Name: The Story of Gwen Carr and Eric Garner”, a documentary rooted in the voice and vision of Gwen Carr, the mother of Eric Garner.
What began as a single oral history became a multi-year film, developed with mentorship from figures like Doug Blush and several others in the documentary field. I also engaged in fellowships and a Master’s in Education at Harvard, eventually earning a New England Emmy nomination.
Alongside my work on the film, I’ve produced media projects that engage issues at the intersection of justice, public policy, and health disparities. At Harvard, I’ve led content strategy for high-level symposiums, introduced cultural leaders like Gwen Carr at the Institute of Politics, and conducted Ed Talks and media that amplify underrepresented voices.
Today, I remain committed to creating films and multimedia work that elevate voices too often ignored — stories shaped not by spectacle, but by resilience, memory, and the possibility of change.
I’m sure it wasn’t obstacle-free, but would you say the journey has been fairly smooth so far?
Definitely not a smooth road — but I don’t think the best ones ever are.
There were moments early on when I questioned whether there was space for someone like me in this field. Coming from rural Georgia, entering elite institutions like Yale, Columbia, and Harvard wasn’t just culture shock — it was identity shock. I constantly had to prove that my perspective mattered, that my background wasn’t a deficit but a strength.
In the industry itself, I’ve faced the emotional toll of telling heavy stories — especially with “Her Fight, His Name”, which involved sitting with grief, racial injustice, and systemic violence. It’s a lot to carry, especially when you’re also navigating low budgets, and the slow grind of independent filmmaking.
There were times when the project stalled, when funding didn’t come through, or when I felt the weight of telling someone else’s story and wanted to get it exactly right. But each of those struggles sharpened my sense of purpose. They made me more patient, more resourceful, and more grounded in why I do this work.
Thanks for sharing that. So, maybe next you can tell us a bit more about your work?
I’m a documentary filmmaker, oral historian, and media strategist focused on stories that live at the intersection of justice, memory, and public policy. My work specializes in centering underrepresented voices — especially diverse families, grassroots advocates, and everyday people navigating systems that weren’t built for them.
One of my early films was a short documentary on Hale Zukas, a pioneering disability rights activist and founder of the Independent Living Movement. That film won a Student Academy Award — making me the first African American to receive Documentary Gold in that category. It was a powerful turning point that affirmed both the reach of these stories and the urgency of telling them through a socially conscious lens.
I recently completed “Her Fight, His Name: The Story of Gwen Carr and Eric Garner”, a documentary inspired by my oral history training at Columbia and developed across several years through fellowships, labs, and my time at Harvard. It won the Duke University Rubenstein Library Digital Story-Telling Award. for its contribution to human rights storytelling, and we hope it continues to spark conversations in classrooms, community centers, and cultural spaces nationwide.
I also produce films that examine health disparities, especially in Black and underserved communities, weaving together personal testimony and institutional critique to show how public policy impacts everyday lives. This work has been recognized with a New England Emmy nomination, but more importantly, it continues to open doors for deeper conversations around equity and access. Whether I’m documenting the lived experiences of marginalized people, or capturing the insight of a changemakers, my focus remains clear: tell the truth, elevate dignity, and create change.
What sets my work apart is the intentionality behind it. With a BA from Yale, a Master’s in Public Policy from Princeton, in addition to my other degrees and experiences, I approach each story with a blend of rigor, empathy, and strategy. I don’t just want to move audiences emotionally — I want to move systems.
The most meaningful moments come when a story resonates beyond the screen — when Gwen Carr speaks and a room falls silent, or when a student reaches out to say they saw themselves in the film. Those moments remind me why this work matters, and why I’m committed to continuing it.
The crisis has affected us all in different ways. How has it affected you and any important lessons or epiphanies you can share with us?
During the height of the COVID-19 crisis, I was in New York, stuck in a small studio apartment. Day and night, all I could hear were sirens. I witnessed death firsthand. It was the most terrifying stretch of nights I’ve ever experienced. The city felt like it was unraveling — not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually.
That time stripped everything down to the essentials. It made me realize how fragile our systems are — especially for the most vulnerable — and how urgently we need to tell stories that hold power accountable and make people feel seen. It deepened my understanding of grief, isolation, and survival — not as abstract ideas, but as lived, daily realities.
The COVID-19 crisis reinforced a lesson I thought I already understood: stories aren’t luxuries — they’re necessities. During lockdowns, disconnection, and grief, storytelling became a lifeline. It allowed people to process loss, reconnect with community, and make sense of a world turned upside down.
For me personally, the pandemic also exposed — with brutal clarity — the depth of our health disparities. Longstanding inequities in housing, employment, and healthcare rose to the surface, especially in Black and underserved communities. It wasn’t just a public health crisis; it was a policy and justice crisis. That realization pushed me to explore, even more intentionally, how film can be used as a tool for health communication, advocacy, and systemic change.
It also taught me to slow down. To listen more closely. To work with care. Because when things fall apart, people don’t need spectacle — they need something real. Something that helps them heal. Something that gives them hope.
Image Credits
Brad Bailey image credits
