Wednesday, September 24, 2003
the tale of the photo booth
my mother never liked having her picture taken. she would always shy away from the camera. the most recent photo i have of her was stolen out of her desk, taken two years ago, when she was doing the teacher stint. everything is from a long time ago when there are a thousand pictures of me just sitting or staring or standing or playing or brooding. my sister had rare visits with the camera but her's are magical -- tutus, stuffed animals, crying at her own birthday party.
my dad had to move away to washington when i was seven years old. we took a polaroid of him, so i wouldn't forget what he looked like. he's standing in his white naval uniform. that's the way i like to think of my dad now fifteen years later -- an important man in a nice suit. my mom always told me she liked that uniform, and i liked wearing his hat.
sophomore year of high school, i remember being disappointed i was barely in the yearbook. i'm hiding behind a book or smiling jaggedly at the camera. i never looked like i was at the right place. a misfit. i was voted, "most likable." senior year, i plastered my face on every page since i was on the yearbook. i knew this would be the last time i would belong in any place. i wanted to be remembered.
my high school has a wall of all the graduation photos. i remember spending the afternoons staring at the older ones to the newest -- picking out the people i would never see again. each year i lost someone. i loved seeing the dresses -- it was my version of watching the Oscars. i picked my dress out the day of graduation -- black sleeveless with shooting stars and moons -- it was my grandma's beach dress. everyone looked like cinderella at the ball and i looked like i was ready to play volley ball.
i used to carry around my photo albums to show people. strangers. anyone that would look. they were all pictures of me with various rock stars. i couldn't have been more proud to say that i had met reel big fish, smashing pumpkins, less than jake or the gadjits. it's funny how i keep them in the closet now. just memories of a time i can't relive.
now, there are photo booths. i can't help but want to be inside one when i walk by. i crave the attention of the lens. once instead i forget about the poses i have prepared and end up doing the same blank stare at the camera. i stare at the strips for hours.
¶ 1:54 AM
|
my mother never liked having her picture taken. she would always shy away from the camera. the most recent photo i have of her was stolen out of her desk, taken two years ago, when she was doing the teacher stint. everything is from a long time ago when there are a thousand pictures of me just sitting or staring or standing or playing or brooding. my sister had rare visits with the camera but her's are magical -- tutus, stuffed animals, crying at her own birthday party.
my dad had to move away to washington when i was seven years old. we took a polaroid of him, so i wouldn't forget what he looked like. he's standing in his white naval uniform. that's the way i like to think of my dad now fifteen years later -- an important man in a nice suit. my mom always told me she liked that uniform, and i liked wearing his hat.
sophomore year of high school, i remember being disappointed i was barely in the yearbook. i'm hiding behind a book or smiling jaggedly at the camera. i never looked like i was at the right place. a misfit. i was voted, "most likable." senior year, i plastered my face on every page since i was on the yearbook. i knew this would be the last time i would belong in any place. i wanted to be remembered.
my high school has a wall of all the graduation photos. i remember spending the afternoons staring at the older ones to the newest -- picking out the people i would never see again. each year i lost someone. i loved seeing the dresses -- it was my version of watching the Oscars. i picked my dress out the day of graduation -- black sleeveless with shooting stars and moons -- it was my grandma's beach dress. everyone looked like cinderella at the ball and i looked like i was ready to play volley ball.
i used to carry around my photo albums to show people. strangers. anyone that would look. they were all pictures of me with various rock stars. i couldn't have been more proud to say that i had met reel big fish, smashing pumpkins, less than jake or the gadjits. it's funny how i keep them in the closet now. just memories of a time i can't relive.
now, there are photo booths. i can't help but want to be inside one when i walk by. i crave the attention of the lens. once instead i forget about the poses i have prepared and end up doing the same blank stare at the camera. i stare at the strips for hours.
¶ 1:54 AM
|
