*Mild allusion to corporal punishment*
I’m not sure what I’m looking at. I mean, I know it’s a photograph, taken in what’s likely the late 1970s or early 80s, grainy, featuring me, my two brothers, my sister, and my parents. My mother never believed in the “Sunday best” wardrobe customs of the time and place, and so my sister and I are dressed pragmatically, in matching red corduroy overalls with white tees, also collared with brown corduroy — seemingly the branding palette and texture of that age. My brothers are toddler- and infant-sized, respectively, so as much as I can make out, the little one is in a blanket being held by my mother, who’s in a cute mid-calf skirt and a simple knit white blouse that nevertheless commits to its fabulous late 1970s look. The older of my two brothers is in an adorable pair of blue shorts and a matching top.
It looks like a picture taken in front of our house before we moved to the United States. What’s so unfamiliar to me is that, apart from not remembering when it was taken, who took it, and why it was taken, we all look happy, even — and this is the jarring part — my dad.
My father worked his entire life, starting when he was six, helping his mother sell baked goods on street corners, before he went off to school and she went home to take care of the rest of the children, all younger than he. He was never not working, and I don’t think I saw him truly happy until I was well into adulthood. He was generous to a fault in many ways, but it was almost desperate generosity, as if seeking to retroactively fill in the gaps of childhood, both in terms of wealth and emotionally. He also rarely laughed, at least not at things the rest of us found funny — whether it was sarcasm, or friendly family jabs, or ridiculous things, like when the Thanksgiving turkey caught on fire one year. (Ok, sure, my dad’s eyebrows and my mother’s hair also caught on fire that day, but since everyone was ok, in retrospect it was hilarious, but dad really never found it funny as my mother and us kids did.) Dad’s humor seemed to manifest – again – as if in some kind of retroactive compensation. That is, he rarely laughed with us but he’d howl watching Wile E. Coyote get bested over and over again by the Road Runner. In other words, he was serious, worked hard, moved up, put in long hours, took care of the family he was responsible for and kept at it for decades.
In the picture, my father is wearing a white long-sleeved shirt; it must be cotton, because I can’t imagine it’s polyester given how uncomfortable that would be in tropical heat but it looks like it should be polyester. It’s covered in brown paisley print, with beige, orange, and sand-toned swirls running up and down the sleeves, and arcing over to the back, where I presume, they encircled even more paisley patterns. The array of browns was cinched under a belt that was ultimately useless in its purpose because the brown corduroys he wore lay easily on his waist and hips, no assistance needed. That belt though – it was one of his favorite tools in his parenting toolbox.
Anyway, that sweet paisley roller-rink ready shirt is casually and loosely draped around my mom’s shoulders, and he’s got his other hand on my right shoulder, my mom and I book-ending my sister (18 months younger than me and I’m guessing looking around 4 years old here) and my toddler brother in his cute blue short shorts.
When did my father ever own anything like that shirt? It’s wardrobe that would be at home in an episode of a 1970s police drama, worn by the shady bar owner who’s the first suspect, but not the ultimate murderer. It screams 1970s kitsch and my father was not anyone’s idea of a hippie or a hipster. He was anti-Vietnam because when he studied in the US earlier in life, he saw friends shipped off, and as a student immigrant with a visa, he could be drafted too – the idea being that citizenship would be easier to get if you fought in the military (and survived, granted) – but he wasn’t calling for making love and not war. He was too busy hustling to make ends meet while in college and having enough to send some down back to my grandmother.
My father looks happy in this picture. Content. At ease.
Why? What was happening? We weren’t going to church, that always started and ended in tears. It’s not a family reunion; he resented my mother’s tight-knit crew and was visibly stressed when with his own relatives. And he’s not happy because of the four kids he’d fathered; he always seemed confused and/or angered by our childhood doings, whether we were squabbling over a toy, or enthusiastically and messily eating mangos, or playing in a way that he didn’t deem logical or quiet enough.
The only thing I can think of is that the very camera that was taking the picture was the source of his joy. He is looking at the camera with a pride and contentment that I only saw once he had grandchildren. Dad loved photography. He spent years perfecting his technique, reading books about framing, aperture, focal length, etc., and I think that while the camera – or a smart phone now – can create a disassociating distance between the subject and the photographer, for dad it was a way to get closer, to create or preserve a feeling that maybe was too much to process at the moment, given what he went through as a kid, and later as an adult. I imagine he must’ve just gotten that camera and was showing it off, to the picture taker, to himself, to us. And because he was happy, we were also happy. And relieved.
I have no recollection of that photo but I’m glad to have found it amid other photos, receipts, and papers; some documents filed away as important but which ultimately mean nothing after death. I like to think that he kept it because he was also fascinated by his own happiness in that old picture, if not by his incredible fashion choices.
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1 comment
A picture truly is worth a thousand words ! Well done. I’m a photographer so I can understand ! It tells a story both of the photo and your Dad.
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