delicate complexity: an essay
* An August day at my mother's grave.
My last semester, first semester back in college, I was asked to write about an event or person who has helped shape our identity. This writing was for my Studies in American Life class which stretched me as writer and allowed me time to recollect on a time that deeply affected me and my life. I loved this time and am thankful to my professor, Dr. Schur, for this challenge. It has taken almost a year to post this essay for fear of people reading such intense and internal thoughts but I will knowing that all of us deal with what life gives us, losses and grief are forces that unite us all at some point in time.
Identity is a strange phenomenon. The dictionary defines identity as the state of having unique identifying characteristics held by no other person or thing. These special characteristics can be described through imagery, possibly distorting the truth or shielding the viewer from the true magnitude of a moment. Identity is too complex for a photograph to capture. Life happens in single frames captured by our eyes, sent to our brain and turned into thoughts, opinions and most importantly, memories. Miraculously, photographs have the ability to instantly reveal our catalogued memories that are locked in our subconscious mind. Through the use of a camera our identity is documented for eternity. History is preserved and exposed in a photograph. Life is a dance between the past and the present that takes delicate balance. Opening my leather box of family photographs feels like revisiting a storehouse of tragic memories and feelings held deep down inside me. An extremely intimate slice of my identity exists solely through these images now. This is the beginning of my story. My family has remained a source of my greatest happiness and deepest sense of loss. Staring deeper into these photographs, I see a family of dreamers with no concept of mortality.
The family portrait, professionally taken when I was just a baby, shows my mother Carolyn and my older siblings in our best outfits. This represents the ideal image of my childhood. Who knows how long my mother had to save up for this 8 x 10 and some wallets displaying her beautiful family. The brown-toned background and fabric surrounds us, my mothers embrace and quiet look of contentment shows proudly on our faces. It is a photograph of new beginnings. A quietly reserved expression is adorned on my oldest sister's face of the same complexion as my mother's, born to a different father than the three youngest children. Proud to be the protector of us, she presents the only toothy smile of the bunch. My mother had the most mesmerizing emerald eyes that were deep in thought, severe in gratitude. I can still smell her scent--patchouli, bringing her almond shaped, green-eyed gaze to the forefront of my mind. Her hair is thick and curly with a streak of grey reaching out from the right side of her bangs. A big crocodile-tear hangs on just below my left lash line. This is the single photo where all five of us exist together. No one could see the imperfections, the struggle, the complexities that existed in our lives. Photographs hold illusions of perfection hostage for the viewer to witness no matter the reality. Unlike the box of photos with a more realistic appearance: hand-me-down clothing, barefooted and sweaty from a full day of play and discovery, this family portrait portrays a touched-up version of our life where innocence remained.
The 26th day of September was the life-altering day that changed my identity forever. At just 35, Carolyn was a strikingly beautiful and vivacious single white mother on welfare working and attending horticulture classes at The University of Illinois, Champaign-Urbana. She had three children with my father, Rudy, their tumultuous and highly abusive relationship is the reason we left him. We ventured north from Los Angeles, to regroup in a women's shelter in Tocoma, Washington soon after I was born. I have no recollection of my father. By 1986, my mom and the four of us were just getting back on our feet, having moved to Champaign after my mother's research for the best place to raise "mulatto" children turned out to be the Illinois town. It is this same level of persistence and relentless drive that I see in my portraits of her.
As the oldest daughter of a Harvard-made surgeon with a secure country club lifestyle, my mother dealt with her fair share of issues growing up. Fiercely independent, she decided to take the road less traveled and lived her life on her own terms no matter the recourse. She fell madly in love with my father, starting a family and never relied on her family name. My mother's identity was a unique and constant work in progress. Simply put, she was extraordinary. With a warm energy, she was a mixture of open reservation and unassuming intelligence. She traveled in search of herself and became alarmingly aware of the world around her. Passionate, her love was to better those around her when she could. She taught struggling mothers on welfare how to better nourish their children on a budget and decided to go back to finish her degree at age 35. She was naturally gifted artistically, a plethora of photographs illustrate her ability with beautifully crafted tie-dyed hangings in front of our windows, her embroidery and handmade creations hidden behind her--both seen as pieces of art frozen in time forever.
No one could have told me that my life wasn't going to always be how the neatly placed pictures in that leather box. My early memories are jolted as I flip through the multitude of family moments secured in time by developed film. The most vivid memories of my early days are so deeply embedded in my conscious mind I am still amazed at the power of the brain. My favorite memories don't need a visual memento to accompany them. My childhood was spent emulating my older siblings who were inseparable. We shared joyful walks down the sidewalk to the neighborhood park around the corner, following the chain-linked fences and street lights. Summer nights were spent waiting in anticipation for nightfall so we could catch fireflies in large glass jars. Our life together was short-lived, almost like a faint dream that I could never revisit except in these old photos.
That day in late September began like any other and ended with the death of my mother, Carolyn. She died from an aneurysm in her brain, a weak blood vessel that burst filling her brain with blood, making death a certainty. The doctors took her off of her respirator so her wishes of organ donation would be possible. Her organs, skin and eyes were harvested for research, her final act of kindness to those less fortunate. Death destroyed a part of my identity and left me embarking on a journey to discover who I am. It is for that reason, photographs of her became so vital to discovering who I was then, who I am today and the woman I am yet to become. Carolyn left behind four young children, Alexis, 12, Taifa, 9, Allewa, 5, and myself, 3. At 3, I was too young to comprehend the magnitude of the loss of my mother. It's odd to think that events occur and you spend the rest of your life picking up the pieces both mentally and emotionally thus changing who you become. Life has an odd way of shifting at just the moment where everything is thrown on its axis, my life included.
Even with my private collection of family photographs taken so long ago, I won't ever get to reveal certain aspects of who I am since aspects of who she was will never be revealed. Knowing my mother's favorite song, reliving her best memory or relishing in her greatest achievement will never be known for certain despite these photos existing. To reveal her deepest, darkest secrets would be uncover an additional piece of my internal makeup that is my puzzle called identity. My family photographs will never get to tell their side of the story or be understood entirely. I search the faces of my brother and two sisters in deep reflection in hopes of finding clues that will manifest into lifelike sequences. A wildly exuberant smile permanently placed on my brother's face is a staple of many Polaroids. I can almost hear the rambunctious yelps of excitement that only kids can make. I'm transfixed on the energy in our eyes, the depth of our stares even as small children. These lasting impressions on film are the most prized possessions I have, they often leave me frustrated at the mystery that still remains. A world of unanswered questions combine with undeniable happiness in each image of my life when my family was together. I wonder what my life, my goals, my personality would have been with greater exposure to her gentle disposition, my siblings influence.
Carolyn is a distant dream that is regal, alluring and unforgettable. Sitting here, I thank my mother for the life she chose to live and realize just how great her identity shaped my own. Today, I enjoy the private times of personal reflection where I strain to remember all that I can of my childhood. I capture my life through the lens of my camera as often as I can, making sure to leave evidence that I existed in this world. The leather box of Polaroids, the 8 x 10 portrait of my mother and my siblings are preserved permanently and leave an everlasting impression on me. Carolyn is and will always be my mother, and for that I am forever grateful. I love her from the deepest part of who I am and she will continue to live on through the assortment of timeless family photographs that I cherish with all that I am.
