When I was in high school, freshman year, I went to a journalism conference at a nearby university. I was a photographer for the school’s newspaper, so those were the classes I focused on. Main lesson I learned was to take a look at your subject and if at all possible, get three feet closer. You want an image of the subject, not a wall and the subject, somewhere in there. However, as we all know, the main questions when it comes to journalism are who, what, where and when? Who did something, what did they do, where did they do that something and when exactly was this to have happened?
So, I posed the question to myself recently, because I so very much want to write about someone, who did something, in various places, along the timeline of my life, but I’m simply not brave enough to do it. How does one write about someone, without writing about someone? No details, no real clues as to tip off the subject, out of fear of retaliation. Interestingly enough, I think I may have figured out a way to do so.
Funny thing is, so many people fit the description of what this person has been in my life, that any number of people could be this person. I wonder, how many people will think that I am writing about them, because they too, have done what this person has done or not done for that matter. Gosh, it makes me wonder about myself actually, how many people have I allowed to treat me in this manner that multiple suspects will be questioning the true identity of my subject matter?
Is this person dead or alive? Are they presently in my day-to-day life or not? Do they care if they are or not? Odds are, the answer to the last question is, no. Way too many people have allowed me to be present in their lives only when it is convenient for them. They seem to know me when they need me, but not more than that.
How many people have abandoned me in my darkest hours? Never to utter a word of concern until I reach out to them begging for assistance. I’m someone that looks good on their life’s resume, so when the paperwork is required, I am requested to be a reference. “Yes, I know this person and at some point, they were nice to me, we even seemed to have a closeness about our relationship, but the reality is, the fact that I am there or not, is inconsequential, but I will still vouch for them, because that is who I am and they know it.”
The lies, the betrayals, and the abandonments are too many to document accurately. There are memoires so vivid, it’s as if they happened yesterday. Then again, others are completely washed away, as if my mind is protecting me from the truth, because if I really remembered how poorly I was treated, I may never be able to speak to another human being. Instance after instance flood my mind when I think about this person, but then I think about how my family members think/thought of them and I question my memories, and I question my conclusions.
I always go back to the movie Rashomon, a Japanese film I saw in my aesthetics class while at Columbia College. The film is known for the plot device that involves various characters providing subjective, alternative and contradictory versions of the same incident. It is so very true in life that one’s past, influences their interpretation of the present as well as their past. Maybe I have this person wrong? Maybe I have colored them with the memories of my childhood experiences, helping me to interpret their actions or lack of them, because my mind simply cannot understand why someone would treat this way.
Then again, the facts remain the same, the convenience of my presence and how it benefited them at the time. The lies, so many lies and the betrayals and yet, somehow, I manage to forgive, never forget, but I do forgive because I do not believe that people are disposable. I am asked how I could possibly even speak to this person, let alone be kind to them and the answer is, because harboring the anger would do me no good, only harm.
If I were to take a picture of this subject, would I be brave enough to get three feet closer? What would I see? More importantly, how would I feel about what I see? Would it be darkness or light? Would it be a sense of despair or hope? Would it be the truth, or just more lies to make me feel less worthy of being in their presence?
I saw an image today, of a woman surrounded by pink flamingos. The quote that was posted with it was, “She decided to free herself, dance into the wind, create a new language. And birds fluttered around her, writing ‘yes ’in the sky.” -Monique Duval. No, I don’t image that pink flamingos will visit me anytime soon, but it would be very cool if they did. However. When I sit in my tiny backyard, the birds do tend to visit me. More so, they are stopping for a refreshing sip of water from my new fountain or hoping to spy a juicy worm in my garden, but I welcome them as a sign. I welcome them as a sign of the possibility that not is all as it seems. Maybe, I have colored my reality incorrectly and though remote, there is a possibility that this person meant me no harm, they were just being who their experiences led them to be.
I’ll never know the truth, just like I will never know the truth about my father, my ex-husband or John the Pilot. It’s impossible for me to know the truth about my mother and who she really was. All I can hope for is to find some understanding of who I am in this lifetime and try to get three feet closer to the image of myself. I want to know who I am, what I am to others, where I’m going and when I’ll get there.
If I can manage to do that… Wow, what a story!
#thelieswechoosetolivewith
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