PRACTICE
In college I had a teacher who asked us to choose a photo. “Any photo will do,” she said.
Then write about it.
What emotions does it convey? What story does it tell? You can make it non-fiction; make it stranger than fiction.
If a picture tells a thousand words, how many words will you use in fifteen minutes to tell it's story?
Here's the photo:
Here's my practice:
We're in the Land of Smiles.
But is she happy? Her hair seems to imply an emphatic “yes” as it sways left to right.
This is my first time in Thailand. We climb the what feels like 100 stairs to the top of a Wat for a birds eye view of the city. It's our fifth Wat today.
I'm pooped. Man it's hot out. I think I've lost 1% of my slender body weight in the last hour as sweat drips, burning into my eyeballs. My Thai friends seemed worried at the amount of sweat I produce.
I came because I made a promise to visit my Thai friends.
I wanted to see what trafficking looked like first hand. I wanted outside of what I thought I knew in the states. I couldn't help but wonder what my Thai friends thought of all that I had been reading. I wonder if they knew girls their age and much younger were sold for sex daily.
So there I was, camera in tow, sweat in eyes, and out of nowhere skips this girl under flags of patriotism that would have made post 911 blush.
So where's the story in this photo?
That's what I wanted to know. Who is she? What will come of her life? Did she lose her home during the latest Bangkok flood? What does she want to be? Has anyone even told her she can dream?
I choose to believe the best for her. Pray for the best.
Some stories have a start to finish. A black and white. An is what is.
But no matter how hard I try to develop, conjure, or portray this image in words, I always leave with a sense of wonder.
Good photos will do that. They transport us to a place and time, with smells, tastes, and emotions taking the place of a pen and paper. They give words without a pen in hand.
My Thai friends call me Nok. It means bird. They say it's because I wore a hat in winter that looks like I had wings. I think its actually because I have a bit of a beak on me.
Either way, it makes me smile to know I have a Thai nickname.
I hope to return. Maybe I will meet this child someday. Ask for her story – see the hope in her eyes – the joy in her skip.
And smile as the Thai land prompts me to do.
I love the assignment your teacher gave. That is a great way to spark ideas and productivity in writing. Marvelous idea!
cool! writers should try it. sounds like a terrific and fund exercise for journaling to improve writing skills.
Great strategy for writing everyday or as life happens!
Maima
I don’t like brightly colored flags, or sunshine, or young girls with big ears, ponytails and sundresses. I don’t want to feel a sense of wonder, or stand on hot concrete looking up at a string of banners and the big, blue sky with a shit-eating grin on my face. That sort of thing is for children who don’t know any better and for silly adults who think they have time to waste, not for serious-minded people like me. Not for those of us who have real work to do.
My father loved parades. Made me get up early on Saturday mornings in the summer and go downtown with him before the crowds arrived so that we could get a good spot on the sidewalk to wave at the passing floats. He smiled and laughed and hopped from foot-to-foot excitedly as the marching bands went by. Picked up candy for me. Unwrapped it, popped it into my mouth and patted me on the head like he’d just done me the biggest favor in the world.
But what good did it do him? None. He worked on the assembly line at Ford until he retired, and didn’t have anything to show for his life when he died except of pocketful of shiny candy wrappers.
Not one goddamned thing.
I’m not going to let that happen to me. John Phillip Sousa can fuck himself.
Shocking … funny … thought provoking … offensive … just a few words of love sent your way … semper fi!
Although I don’t like parades, I’m actually a fairly nice guy. But this is what came out when I looked at the picture.
I took some time to expand this piece a bit, and I hope you or your readers won’t mind if I post it here:
I don’t like brightly colored flags, or sunshine, or young girls with big ears, braided ponytails and sundresses. I don’t intend to squander one minute of my precious time standing on hot asphalt looking up through long strings of fluttering banners at the big, blue sky with a shit-eating grin on my face and a sense of wonder in my heart. That sort of behavior is for children who don’t know any better and small-minded adults who believe they have time to kill, not for people who live purposefully. Not for those of us who have real work to do.
My father, a buffoon and jokester to the core from the first day I remember meeting him to the day he died, loved parades. Thought they were great fun. Made me get up early on Saturday mornings and go downtown with him before the crowds arrived so that we could get the best spot on the sidewalk to wave at the passing floats. The noise and activity, the colors and smells, the masses of people—ordinary people just like him—energized him. Made him smile and laugh, excitedly hop from foot-to-foot as the tubas and trumpets triumphantly marched by, the sunlight bouncing off their polished brass, their owners blowing horribly off-tune notes into our faces like so much spittle and venom.
Sometimes the beaming parade marshals or the painted clowns in their rainbow-colored wigs threw candy at the masses. My father, ever the child, made a great game of catching it, or picking it up off the streets and stuffing it into his coat pockets. Every so often, he unwrapped a piece, popped it into my mouth and patted me on the head like he was doing me the biggest favor in the world. I grinned at him to make him happy. But as soon as he turned away, as soon as his attention was caught by the Shriners in their ridiculous maroon fezzes or by the happy-go-lucky Chinese dragon-walkers, I spit that shit into the gutter. Candy is too sweet. It’s sticky and unhealthy, a waste of money that rots your teeth and makes you fat and stupid. I’m neither, and I never will be.
Yes, my father loved parades. St. Patrick’s Day. Christmas. Easter. Thanksgiving Day. The Fourth of July. Columbus Day. Anytime anybody got together in our town to stomp up and down the boulevards in costume with a high-stepping, baton-twirling majorette in the lead, my father was there, with me at his side.
But I ask you, What good did these celebrations do him?
None.
My father worked on the assembly line at Ford. Bolted heavy steel hinges to the frames of Ford station wagons and pickup trucks five days a week, fifty weeks a year until he retired. But he didn’t have anything to show for his career at the end of it except a meager pension, a 35-year-service lapel pin, and of pocketful of crumpled-up candy wrappers. His silver and gold wasn’t precious metal, it was tin foil, and worthless. My mother couldn’t even afford a decent headstone for him when he died. Just a flat stone set flush with the ground. A thin slice of granite engraved with his name and the years of his unremarkable birth and even more unremarkable death. No room on the plaque for an inscription, and what would it read anyway? “Here lies a man who worked at a factory, married a woman, raised a son and loved parades?” It’s a pathetic non-monument to a failed life. You can hardly even see it when the grass gets high at the cemetery. My mother shouldn’t have bothered with that stone. Should’ve saved the money for groceries, or something practical.
So what good did parades do my father? What good do they do anybody?
Not a goddamned thing.
My father’s life was a waste. But I learned something valuable from him: I learned that I’m not going to let my life add up to nothing.
Semper Fidelis, my ass. Stars and Stripes Forever, my ass. Bang your drums and cymbals all you want; I’m a man now, my father is dead, and I don’t watch parades anymore.
John Philip Sousa can fuck himself.
I think the contrast between the happy father and miserable son is much clearer here but maybe too clear. I think something in between the two (this post and your last) would give us all the information we need but not belabor the point.
I’m sorry you felt the need to expand — I hope it wasn’t on my account, I couldn’t help but notice one addition that made me think so … my original comments weren’t meant to inflame … they were what came out after reading your piece.
I liked the first version better. The expanded version said too much.
I think this is good. I like the ending a lot. I hope that he had more than than the wrappers 0r at least memories of more. The narrator seems so angry that it makes me sad though (that’s a good thing – having a distinctive voice for your narrator). You writing is very clear and straight forward and makes me picture what you are talking about.
Nathan, I like that your practice is more questions than answers. It’s personable and showing your thought process. It took me to Thailand. (And reminded me that I haven’t recently read the blog of one of my friends in Thailand on World Race).
Katie
I had a teacher in college who also asked us to write a paper on our favorite photograph! It was fun because I always try to find stories in photographs. 🙂
Great writing prompt 🙂