Picture Day.

[1 - 8x10] My most consistent historical visual record was compiled through time capsules delivered in paper envelopes with cellophane windows: my annual school photo. The Mondrian-like layout of large, medium and impractically small shots were all on one page, which (because I did not grow up in a fancy X-Acto knife house) we could never quite cut out perfectly. The assortment was designed to satisfy relative demand, or more specifically, the demands of relatives: one BIG one for the grandparents, a couple of decent sized portraits for parents (one for home and one for an office), several to share with interested parties (say aunts and uncles or very close family friends), and then teensy ones to pass out among classmates. There were always some left over, as the individual social popularity of each and every student could not, scientifically, match the (too) generous image supply. The most one could hope is to watch your grandparents place this year’s photo in front of last year’s in the frame that they kept on the mantlepiece, so you could get a “Wow, you’re growing up so fast!” affirmation before they close the weary metal latch on the back that bows a bit more each year against the expanding stack of glossy prints. [2 - 5x7] Picture day was always exciting, but a bit stressful. Whatever you looked like on that day would be what you would look like in the yearbook, which means you’d look that way forever, so there were lots of combs about. The photo sessions were always scheduled before lunch and recess, the two periods most likely to muss and stain us. As we stood in line patiently waiting our turn, we could watch the folks alphabetically before us being coached by staff as they moved us steadily along their assembly line. Although we weren’t Catholic, my mother enrolled me in a grade school that was - in addition, they had just opened their doors to admit young men as well as women, and initiated a program to support more financially challenged families. As a result, I was in the first class with African-American students. The nuns and other teachers worked hard to include us evenly, but after our first picture day it was discovered that the photographer had not adjusted their cameras for our skin tone and we all came out as shadows - so they scheduled a secret second day and had us all re-take our shots. After that first year, things went fine. [4 - 3x5] My forehead is the most prominent thing in my school photos. I grew up, sure, and my body changed its size over the years, but my forehead is a clearly established constant, maintaining the exact ratio through all my developmental stages. My smile is the most consistent thing in my school photos. It was my honest reaction to the command from an adult stranger to “smile”. I couldn’t re-create it now; back then, I didn’t need anything to smile about, whereas today I require pretty significant reasons. My hair is the most unpredictable thing in my school photos. It’s not great. It is on my head, but seems surprised from year to year, as if it didn’t know this was happening TODAY and would have done something completely different had it been properly warned. My clothing is the most odd thing in my school photos, because for grade school we had blue uniforms, but in high school I had no idea how to put clothes together and ended up wearing outfits that made me look like a hillbilly in a Broadway musical. [6 - wallet size] kids today have cameras in their pockets all the time to them, time is not merely captured, but fully domesticated but those photos, endless and instantaneous, prove wholly ephemeral whereas we curated tiny analog galleries, compiled through decades priceless moments of light and time reflected stored in wicker boxes behind the couch - as fragile and steadfast as paper Get full access to :lowerblackpain at lowerblackpain.substack.com/subscribe