At some point or another in our lives we all must face our past. It does not matter if it was good or bad. Either sights, scents, sounds, tastes, or touches will trigger memories which come back to surround us. I had a wonderful childhood. However having lost both of my parents, whom I loved so very much, I now find the memories extremely painful. I realize I should be grateful to even have them, and I know that many people never get that. Photographs have always held great power for me. I have long admired Edward S. Curtis and his mission to document the vanishing Native American Indian tribes during the last part of the 19th century. I own two of his pieces and hope to acquire more. Painted portraits I have never cared for, although I am aware that before photography that’s all there was. One has only to study historical sculptures and paintings to acknowledge they were designed to flatter — primarily because they were commissioned. However well-intentioned, I have always believed art falls subject to its interpreter, whereas photographs cannot lie. Pictures capture moments both contrived as well as candid. I will concede that now anyone has the ability to alter photographs. For me airbrushing and photoshopping hold no appeal. Rather, I enjoy the magic of a photo that is a real moment frozen forever in time. I find it very apt that many Native Americans did not want to have their pictures taken. In a wide range of traditions, taking an image of oneself was to trap part of one’s soul. Lately I have finally started sorting though my late parents’ private possessions and photos. Mama looked extremely glamorous and Daddy very dashing. Their pictures go from black and white, to “colorized,” to “living color.” My daddy went home to be with the Lord in 1998 and my mother joined him just five years ago. Opening boxes I have discovered Daddy was a bold and dedicated romantic, faithfully writing Mama passionate letters from Korea. I have also learned my mother loved Daddy devotedly and, despite the chance to marry “up” (into great wealth) she politely eschewed it. I chose this picture because it holds such fond memories of being with my family in Santa Fe. It was taken in 1997; the last year we would all be together. It is a picture of a picture, so I’m sure it’s fuzzy, which seems very much like my memories: some are crystal clear, while others are blurred. It is a struggle for me to tell my only child about my parents without dissolving into tears. Most of the time I just try to live out their examples, and know she is absorbing them despite their absence from this earth. The New York Times bestselling author Gretchen Rubin said:
“One of the best ways to make yourself happy in the present is to recall happy times from the past. Photos are a great memory-prompt, and because we tend to take photos of happy occasions, they weight our memories to the good.”
I know my parents would want the best for me and for my own little family. It is a very painful and lonely journey for an only child to sort through their deceased parents’ things. I persevere because I want to share them with my husband and I need our child to know them. There is not only power in photos, there is a power in sorting through the past.
