Introductions first take place. The Father, blind, is named Jafar. The mother, Sittina. The eldest child, a girl, Dalila. Jamani, a boy, is the middle child and Kwame, the baby boy. The hired translator tells them my name is Eric.
I first tell them my story:
“I am traveling through your country on business.” (Pause, translation). “I am a photographer for a magazine called National Geographic. Our next issue highlights life in Sudan. I am capturing shots that entail all aspects of life here.” (Pause, translation). “If you consent, your family may be displayed in a public magazine. Of course I must first inquire: would you all so graciously allow me to take a picture of your family?” (Pause, translation).
Sittina cradles her baby intently, looking as though we foreigners may reach for the child at any moment. The two elder children gaze wildly around at my jeep, photography instruments, and fellow white coworkers. Jafar keeps his head at a constant tilt as though looking into the sky, absorbing every word coming from the translator’s mouth. They keep close to each other, still apprehensive towards us foreigners.
Jafar is the first to move after a long pause that succeeded my question. He slowly brings his head down until it faces me, as though his blind, swollen eyes can see me. I can sense he is sizing me up, in his own adapted way, considering my question. After another pause, he speaks. His words are directed to the translator, but the powerful look on his face remains directed at me. He speaks slowly but with immense pride. I don’t speak his language, but a strong demeanor and a mind of wisdom is a universal language of its own.
The translator says, “Will this disgrace our family name?”
I was taken aback by this question. I had prepared myself for more detail-oriented questions, even flat out rejection to taking the picture. This question was beyond me and my cultural upbringings. Of all things, he was most concerned about his family name? I was sure there couldn’t possibly be more than one person within 800 miles from here that even subscribes to National Geographic. I was lost for words. After a minute, I fumbled out, “Oh um, well, no. No I suppose not. I mean, oh no, of course not. This picture is for positive purposes. Your family will remain entirely anonymous. Unless you would like to have your family name in the magazine?” (Pause, translation).
Jafar spoke again and the translator said, “No. Anonymous.”
“Very well. If you would just spare me a minute.” ( Pause, translation).
I took some time to absorb the surroundings. It was practically a barren wasteland. There was no sign of water anywhere. About eight ‘huts’ embodied the village, if one could even refer to them as such. These ‘huts’ were made from cardboard, straw and canvases. They looked about as effective as strainers in terms of sheltering from wind and rain. I noticed one piece of cardboard on their hut said “VELVEX. Super Soft Napkins.” There was a small box of those stored in the glove compartment of my jeep for me to wipe my mouth with after eating. I suddenly felt guilty about my sanitary needs.
I shuffled the family until they stood between their hut and a neighboring hut. I made sure the “VELVEX” was showing. The setting sun was at their backs. That was all the rearranging I had to do as they immediately fell into the familial positioning I was looking for. They gathered around each other, holding hands and shoulders. As I looked through my lens, a secure, loving, loyal family stared back at me. I peered above the camera, smiled wide and pointed to my animated grin. The children lost their fascination with the camera and were now mesmerized with the jeep and my white coworkers. Jafar and Sittina, however, turned the ends of their lips up ever so slightly, maintaining their solemn pride.
Click.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
WA#6: First Draft
Introductions first take place. The Father, blind, is named Jafar. The mother, Sittina. The eldest child, a girl, Dalila. Jamani, a boy, is the middle child and Kwame, the baby boy. The hired translator tells them my name is Eric.
I first tell them my story:
I am traveling through this country on business. (Pause, translation). I am a photographer for a magazine called National Geographic. We are doing a special on life in Sudan. I am capturing shots that entail many aspects of life here. (Pause, translation). If you consent, your family may be displayed in a public magazine. Of course I must first inquire: would you all so graciously allow me to take a picture of your family? (Pause, translation).
Sittina cradles her baby intently, looking as though we foreigners may reach for the child at any moment. The two elder children gaze wildly around at my jeep, photography instruments, and fellow white coworkers. Jafar keeps his head at a constant tilt as though looking into the sky, absorbing every word coming from the translator’s mouth. They keep close to each other, still a little apprehensive towards us foreigners.
Jafar is the first to move after a long pause that succeeded my question. He brings his head down and points straight at me, as though his swollen eyes can see me. I can sense he is sizing me up, in some way, considering my question. After another few seconds he speaks, still facing me, but his words are directed to the translator. He speaks slowly but with immense pride. I don’t speak his language, but a strong demeanor and a mind of wisdom can be recognized universally.
The translator says, “Will this disgrace our family name?” I was taken aback by this question. I had prepared myself for more detail-oriented questions, even flat out rejection, but this was past me and my cultural upbringings. Of all things, he was most concerned about his family name? I was sure there couldn’t possibly be more than one person within 800 miles from here that even subscribes to National Geographic. I was lost for words. After I minute, I fumbled out, “Oh um, well, no. No I suppose not. I mean, oh no, of course not. Your family will remain entirely anonymous. Unless it would please you to have your family name in the magazine?” (Translation).
Jafar spoke again and the translator said, “No. Anonymous.”
“Very well. If you would just spare me a minute.” (Translation).
For the first time, I really took in the surroundings. It was practically a barren wasteland. There was no sign of water and maybe 8 or so ‘huts’ with other natives occupying them. These huts were hardly huts though. They were made from cardboard, straw and canvases. I noticed one piece of cardboard on their hut said ‘VELVEX. Super Soft Napkins.’ There was a small box of those stored in the glove compartment of my jeep for me to wipe my mouth and hands with after eating my fruits and steaks. I felt guilty about my fruits and steaks comparing to housing material.
I shuffled the family closer to the hut, so the ‘VELVEX’ showed and the setting sun was at their backs. My goal for the picture was to capture a sense of family. I didn’t have to rearrange the family one bit to get that sense in the picture. As I looked through my lens, it was clearly a family staring back at me as they gathered around each other, holding hands and shoulders, standing with a sense of security. I peered above the lens, smiled wide and pointed to my mouth. I told the translator to say smile. The children were now fascinated with everything but the camera, but Jafar and Sittina grinned slightly.
Click.
I first tell them my story:
I am traveling through this country on business. (Pause, translation). I am a photographer for a magazine called National Geographic. We are doing a special on life in Sudan. I am capturing shots that entail many aspects of life here. (Pause, translation). If you consent, your family may be displayed in a public magazine. Of course I must first inquire: would you all so graciously allow me to take a picture of your family? (Pause, translation).
Sittina cradles her baby intently, looking as though we foreigners may reach for the child at any moment. The two elder children gaze wildly around at my jeep, photography instruments, and fellow white coworkers. Jafar keeps his head at a constant tilt as though looking into the sky, absorbing every word coming from the translator’s mouth. They keep close to each other, still a little apprehensive towards us foreigners.
Jafar is the first to move after a long pause that succeeded my question. He brings his head down and points straight at me, as though his swollen eyes can see me. I can sense he is sizing me up, in some way, considering my question. After another few seconds he speaks, still facing me, but his words are directed to the translator. He speaks slowly but with immense pride. I don’t speak his language, but a strong demeanor and a mind of wisdom can be recognized universally.
The translator says, “Will this disgrace our family name?” I was taken aback by this question. I had prepared myself for more detail-oriented questions, even flat out rejection, but this was past me and my cultural upbringings. Of all things, he was most concerned about his family name? I was sure there couldn’t possibly be more than one person within 800 miles from here that even subscribes to National Geographic. I was lost for words. After I minute, I fumbled out, “Oh um, well, no. No I suppose not. I mean, oh no, of course not. Your family will remain entirely anonymous. Unless it would please you to have your family name in the magazine?” (Translation).
Jafar spoke again and the translator said, “No. Anonymous.”
“Very well. If you would just spare me a minute.” (Translation).
For the first time, I really took in the surroundings. It was practically a barren wasteland. There was no sign of water and maybe 8 or so ‘huts’ with other natives occupying them. These huts were hardly huts though. They were made from cardboard, straw and canvases. I noticed one piece of cardboard on their hut said ‘VELVEX. Super Soft Napkins.’ There was a small box of those stored in the glove compartment of my jeep for me to wipe my mouth and hands with after eating my fruits and steaks. I felt guilty about my fruits and steaks comparing to housing material.
I shuffled the family closer to the hut, so the ‘VELVEX’ showed and the setting sun was at their backs. My goal for the picture was to capture a sense of family. I didn’t have to rearrange the family one bit to get that sense in the picture. As I looked through my lens, it was clearly a family staring back at me as they gathered around each other, holding hands and shoulders, standing with a sense of security. I peered above the lens, smiled wide and pointed to my mouth. I told the translator to say smile. The children were now fascinated with everything but the camera, but Jafar and Sittina grinned slightly.
Click.
Monday, March 2, 2009
WA#5: Final Draft
Part One
Grandpa Albert dozes in the corner, as he has been since finishing his third slice of wedding cake. The cousins are drunk, the hopeless romantics are drunk, even Grandma Bernice is a bit tipsy. She found a friend in the champagne to console her frustration with Albert’s lack of lively presence.
The pronouncement of man and wife occurred hours ago, when the sunlight nurtured and flaunted my fuchsia. The reception has been long and undoubtedly giddy, but I have unfortunately been forced to watch the days’ exciting events unfold from a spare, lackluster vase perched in the hands of the wedding planner. She rewards my remarkable patience with undying protection.
Exhilaration mounts in me as I see the reception ending. YES! The bride is making her way towards me! My guard doesn’t turn her shoulder, but jubilantly pulls me out of my hindering vase and carefully hands me to the bride. It is a sad parting from my loyal guard, but I feel equipped for what’s next. The bride tenderly grasps my stems and ties a lovely pink ribbon around them. What a nice lady. He’s a lucky man.
We climb the stage and the ladies obligingly congregate below. The dying energy in the room now feels animated and alive again. Even Grandpa Albert shows signs of life as he snorts and a long dribble of drool escapes his mouth. The ladies draw into a tighter pack, shoving for the most central spot. All eyes are on me. What a chick magnet I am!
The bride turns her back to the eager crowd of women (the men look apprehensively through drunken eyes in the shadows of the room, beer in hand). I’m soon tumbling through air approaching the mob. What a sight. Their greedy faces make me feel like a stack of a billion dollars. With what seemed to be a thousand arms outstretched, unthinkable joy mounts in me. I’ve never felt so wanted.
I feel a hand close firmly around my stems. My winner is rather piggy looking, but one happy pig at that. She prances around in circles, holding me proudly above her head. The surrounding mob of ladies is now horrified; I am no longer that stack of a billion dollars.
Part Two
I sense the guests becoming impatient. Grandpa Albert dozes in the corner, and many guests are drunk. Even Grandma Bernice is looping around. John, my husband, slows his steps as we dance: he too senses it is time to wrap up. Catching me eyes, he nods towards Lilly, my wonderful wedding planner.
Hoping to let Lilly enjoy herself during the reception, I gave her the small task of simply keep the bouquet in sight so as not to lose it. However, it is her nature to exceed expectations, so she is gripping the bouquet firmly, hiding, rejecting any company. She is guarding that bouquet with her life.
She looks slightly relieved to see me coming over, and I could have sworn the bouquet seemed to straighten up a bit too. I smile and thank Lilly, and she gratefully, yet still a bit apprehensively, hands over the bouquet.
I navigate through the congregation; the ladies excitedly follow me and group around the stage. On stage, I search for Bella, my niece, who I promised would be a lucky girl tonight, and there’s no satisfaction like that of seeing a naïve 7 year old triumph over desperate 40 year olds. I spot Bella, wink at her, and then turn around.
Holding the bouquet close to my chest, I peer down and consider its significance. It’s my right of passage, signifying me from the women standing below. I take in the moment, steal one last glance at the bouquet, and toss it. I spin around in time to see it land in the hands of… Cousin Maggie!
What a pig! She ruined the night of a precious 7 year old! The bouquet gleams in the reflection of Bella’s watering eyes. I can’t bear the sight. I jump off stage into John’s arms and escape the scene before it mounts to chaos. Just as we turn out the door, I catch one last fleeting glance of Grandpa Albert stirring in the corner. What commotion a single bouquet can cause!
Grandpa Albert dozes in the corner, as he has been since finishing his third slice of wedding cake. The cousins are drunk, the hopeless romantics are drunk, even Grandma Bernice is a bit tipsy. She found a friend in the champagne to console her frustration with Albert’s lack of lively presence.
The pronouncement of man and wife occurred hours ago, when the sunlight nurtured and flaunted my fuchsia. The reception has been long and undoubtedly giddy, but I have unfortunately been forced to watch the days’ exciting events unfold from a spare, lackluster vase perched in the hands of the wedding planner. She rewards my remarkable patience with undying protection.
Exhilaration mounts in me as I see the reception ending. YES! The bride is making her way towards me! My guard doesn’t turn her shoulder, but jubilantly pulls me out of my hindering vase and carefully hands me to the bride. It is a sad parting from my loyal guard, but I feel equipped for what’s next. The bride tenderly grasps my stems and ties a lovely pink ribbon around them. What a nice lady. He’s a lucky man.
We climb the stage and the ladies obligingly congregate below. The dying energy in the room now feels animated and alive again. Even Grandpa Albert shows signs of life as he snorts and a long dribble of drool escapes his mouth. The ladies draw into a tighter pack, shoving for the most central spot. All eyes are on me. What a chick magnet I am!
The bride turns her back to the eager crowd of women (the men look apprehensively through drunken eyes in the shadows of the room, beer in hand). I’m soon tumbling through air approaching the mob. What a sight. Their greedy faces make me feel like a stack of a billion dollars. With what seemed to be a thousand arms outstretched, unthinkable joy mounts in me. I’ve never felt so wanted.
I feel a hand close firmly around my stems. My winner is rather piggy looking, but one happy pig at that. She prances around in circles, holding me proudly above her head. The surrounding mob of ladies is now horrified; I am no longer that stack of a billion dollars.
Part Two
I sense the guests becoming impatient. Grandpa Albert dozes in the corner, and many guests are drunk. Even Grandma Bernice is looping around. John, my husband, slows his steps as we dance: he too senses it is time to wrap up. Catching me eyes, he nods towards Lilly, my wonderful wedding planner.
Hoping to let Lilly enjoy herself during the reception, I gave her the small task of simply keep the bouquet in sight so as not to lose it. However, it is her nature to exceed expectations, so she is gripping the bouquet firmly, hiding, rejecting any company. She is guarding that bouquet with her life.
She looks slightly relieved to see me coming over, and I could have sworn the bouquet seemed to straighten up a bit too. I smile and thank Lilly, and she gratefully, yet still a bit apprehensively, hands over the bouquet.
I navigate through the congregation; the ladies excitedly follow me and group around the stage. On stage, I search for Bella, my niece, who I promised would be a lucky girl tonight, and there’s no satisfaction like that of seeing a naïve 7 year old triumph over desperate 40 year olds. I spot Bella, wink at her, and then turn around.
Holding the bouquet close to my chest, I peer down and consider its significance. It’s my right of passage, signifying me from the women standing below. I take in the moment, steal one last glance at the bouquet, and toss it. I spin around in time to see it land in the hands of… Cousin Maggie!
What a pig! She ruined the night of a precious 7 year old! The bouquet gleams in the reflection of Bella’s watering eyes. I can’t bear the sight. I jump off stage into John’s arms and escape the scene before it mounts to chaos. Just as we turn out the door, I catch one last fleeting glance of Grandpa Albert stirring in the corner. What commotion a single bouquet can cause!
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