Rave music from the neighbors’ vibrated the walls at five am this morning; oddly comforting in the half awake morning. I woke up much later and lay on my bed in the sun with my kitty. I made my bf’s fabulous spicy cream cheese eggs and waffles, settled with my cup of coffee, and read the New York Times. I didn’t read the thing cover to cover mind you, but I did my best. The Sunday Times is one of my favorite indulgences, along with $2.50 beers at ‘Mars Night and those ham and cheese croissants at Apple Cellar. I love the way the paper and ink mix together to make an almost earthy scent, and the satisfying crispness of the folds makes me crazy giddy. I know; I’m special.
Regardless, while I soaked the sausage from my eggs in the syrup from my waffle, a headline on the front page caught my eye: A Family Divided by 2 Words, Legal and Illegal.
Immigration is a topic in my Italian Culture class this spring so I began to skim the article. The basic gist is that immigrant families are now mixed, meaning that at least one child from a family of illegal aliens living in America has residency. This article followed a family of immigrants from Ecuador: a father, his wife and their son and daughter. The parents have split since their move to the U.S. and the younger son, still a junior in high school, is a U.S. citizen. Their daughter, 22, has a college degree afforded by the law in New York stating that an illegal resident may pay a resident’s fee to attend a University, but cannot find the kind of accounting work her advanced, well educated brain is qualified for because she has no social security number. The mother also feels trapped, having given up a computer analyst position to baby-sit for children in cramped apartments and broken down homes in Queens, unable to obtain a driver’s license or a better position for herself. Tensions are caused by the mother encouraging her daughter to marry an American husband, by the son wishing to return to Ecuador and by the pressure felt by all four of them to succeed; to obtain the American dream.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/26/nyregion/26immig.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1&sq=immigrants&st=cse&scp=3
If the above link doesn't work go to nytimes.com and search for "immigrants." The article should be the third down or so.
For the last two weeks I have been struggling to capture moments on film for my Picturing the Other project. I am struggling; my pictures are missing a dynamic energy. I could describe the same photographs with words and be more effective. This story moved me; in so many ways I am living the American Dream and I do catch myself taking my life for granted from time to time. Not only did the story move me, but the pictures drew me deeper into their world; I achieved a different level of understanding by seeing them.
My favorite picture is of the daughter in her attic room; her hunched frame heavy in the center, bathed by the rickety window frame’s light. Her poverty is evident in the matted carpeting, narrow bed and hodgepodge of furniture. Her hope sleeps there too though, in the girlish knickknacks displayed on her bureau and the way she is poised to launch herself out the window, come flight or fall. The practicality of an illegal immigrant’s daily thoughts are in the pockets of her sturdy rain coat and serviceable hat; far from the plaid Burberry coat and smart matching cap that chase the asphalt between puddles in New York on a daily basis. I feel life in this photograph, despite that my first sight was of a smudgy news print copy that I accidentally spilt coffee on.
The family had only agreed to be followed and photographed if they could maintain their anonymity. As such, all of the photographs are of shoulders and the top of a head vanishing into a crowd, a blurred profile or a back lit, faceless shot. What caught my attention about this photo was the way the triangle at the top of the frame lined up with the square and the circle so well. The eye was carried up off the page; maybe that is why her hope seemed so strong to me here. I also appreciate the irony of the female archetype here, the damsel in distress. Too bad her hair isn’t long enough for some handsome American prince to climb up to rescue her. The light coming from the center of the page also seemed like a conscious choice on the part of the photographer. This is a faceless portrait that tells more than story; it tells a life.
I don’t know much about photography; I am learning though. I do know that this story and these pictures moved me. Here is an example of Picturing The Other on a daily basis. Here is a story, diametrically opposite of my own, presented with grace and dignity. Not only that, but here are people who really are working to live. Maybe only having one morning a week to myself isn’t so hard after all, or maybe I should remember to just be grateful every day that I wake up, go to school and be surrounded by people I love. Maybe by picturing the other I am really re-picturing myself.
My favorite picture is of the daughter in her attic room; her hunched frame heavy in the center, bathed by the rickety window frame’s light. Her poverty is evident in the matted carpeting, narrow bed and hodgepodge of furniture. Her hope sleeps there too though, in the girlish knickknacks displayed on her bureau and the way she is poised to launch herself out the window, come flight or fall. The practicality of an illegal immigrant’s daily thoughts are in the pockets of her sturdy rain coat and serviceable hat; far from the plaid Burberry coat and smart matching cap that chase the asphalt between puddles in New York on a daily basis. I feel life in this photograph, despite that my first sight was of a smudgy news print copy that I accidentally spilt coffee on.
The family had only agreed to be followed and photographed if they could maintain their anonymity. As such, all of the photographs are of shoulders and the top of a head vanishing into a crowd, a blurred profile or a back lit, faceless shot. What caught my attention about this photo was the way the triangle at the top of the frame lined up with the square and the circle so well. The eye was carried up off the page; maybe that is why her hope seemed so strong to me here. I also appreciate the irony of the female archetype here, the damsel in distress. Too bad her hair isn’t long enough for some handsome American prince to climb up to rescue her. The light coming from the center of the page also seemed like a conscious choice on the part of the photographer. This is a faceless portrait that tells more than story; it tells a life.
I don’t know much about photography; I am learning though. I do know that this story and these pictures moved me. Here is an example of Picturing The Other on a daily basis. Here is a story, diametrically opposite of my own, presented with grace and dignity. Not only that, but here are people who really are working to live. Maybe only having one morning a week to myself isn’t so hard after all, or maybe I should remember to just be grateful every day that I wake up, go to school and be surrounded by people I love. Maybe by picturing the other I am really re-picturing myself.
No comments:
Post a Comment