The Stranger in the Photo is Me

The wordsmith in Disneyland 2012

I have never been one to fantasize over photos; I rarely spend time glancing over old memories on my phone. Why dwell on the past? If you stay in the past, the gift will pass you by. But with the never stopping ticks of the clock, I find myself reminiscing, as I assume most teenagers do, for one last chance to capture the magnetic moments of their youth.

In gazing at mine, I become appreciative of the moments that I have snapped over the years, it still astonishes me that in less than a second and one click, you have stopped time in that single second forever. Michael Jackson is one of my favorite artists because of his ability to make you remember the time and stop moments with his deceptive dances.

The people in my pictures are all mysterious. My parents were vibrant, seen before I came into this world or as I saw them as picturesque parents. They seemed so naive then and so wise now. And I am, to me, the most innocent of all.

There is a photo of me sitting on the basketball court with my dad before that court got ripped up and replaced; in another, I am dressed in a sleek sharp swashbuckler suit when I was 4 and lived in the complex behind my current home. I cannot remember the suit but even now, studying the photo, I am intoxicated by the memory of its fuzzy feel, and time is slowed.

In the photos, I pass from curly-haired to long hair and inevitably, end up with short hair. Looking at the relatives in the photos I should have known.

Through other photos, I am a pirate, movie star, ninja; I loved to dress up to become the characters on a screen, and suspect I still am the kid who dreams of being on the screen myself.

It would be socially appropriate to convey on this day that I reflect on all those who are gone, but the truth is that my mind is drawn to my peculiar self in these photos.

And the picture that draws my interest the most is one of me in a costume, one I proudly earned in the world’s happiest place. I believe it was taken in Tomorrowland from the design of the structures behind me. I have cut off the flowing curly afro, a product of my mother who didn’t want it unkempt.

My brown robe with its long hood is pulled over my small shoulders, my hands high on the lightsaber right hand higher because of how heavy the saber was in disregard for the speaker that was giving directions and to not take pictures during the show.

The face that is innocent in the photograph will soon be torn with tumbling tears, mature memories, heartache, and many of the life lessons that come with years on this earth. This facial expression was more a matter of purity in a young mind– or a juvenile reality.

The star smiles as if he knew his innocence and is both on the verge of fading and ready for those few years of what is left for him.

I try once more to enter the photograph and become the star I was when the summer sunlight barred the whimsical walls and I was so unprepared to experience the hardships of life that God had planned for me. He knew I needed to learn to lose in this toughened society.

When the photograph was taken, my grandfather had dreams of seeing me in graduation glory, of a young man with a diploma that reads “High School Graduate”. I had not yet become the person who had to nod yes at every “Are you okay” when relatives asked, to make my decision against my own heart to speak at his rosary. When this photo was taken, he had not yet grown sick, his life slowly slipping, his steps stagnant and his family feeble.

My father was still blooming with energy, and his father who didn’t really raise him had not passed as I had never met him or spoken to him. The friends who I saw every day and who I grew with had not yet moved on in their lives. I had not yet seen my first dead person of color, had not yet felt the sinking pain of thinking that could be me as the young boy lying lifeless on the cold street as the white sheet is rolled over his body.

I had no idea my life would become as joyful or as miserable as it has been, that I would eventually stop playing basketball, have no siblings, and not speak to what was my step-brother. I could not have imagined that I would actually flourish as I am now able to become whatever I set my heart to– even then I simply cannot travel to that time of ease.

I had a somewhat simple or cheerful childhood, I had done well at school; I was not Superman, but life has been easier and further challenging than I could have imagined.

In our youth, we are fascinated by the mystery of our past, why opportunities were taken and not taken, and our elders encourage this as they develop a sense of remembrance.  A son discovers his passion through the many news stories and movies that provoke his mind and another way to have his world changed. He is surprised at how much he can change. That is me.

I would not wish for a child or grandchild of mine to witness a country broken by a prominent pandemic and the infinite battle for the racial equality of my life so one can only hope things will change. In photos taken so many months later, I have a look of maturity in my eyes. It was probably inescapable but I imagine a world where the teeming tragedies did not occur, and I find I cannot enter such a reality, where a young boy did not lose his innocence and is now mysterious to me, still baffled by the tender torture one man can deliver upon another.