In a previous blog I explained the four different classes that I'm currently enrolled in here on SAS. My travel writing class has interestingly been the most educational for me. Writing is something that I have never been comfortable with. Conveniently, I chose a major where writing is not entirely necessary, making me more and more uncomfortable with the skill. My first day in the class I felt like I was back at my first day of University where I sat there and felt like the dumbest person in the class thinking what am I doing here? WHAT AM I DOING HERE?
In the last class before getting to Cape Town our professor sat us all down with fifteen minutes of class left. We had been discussing a book we'd read called Life is a Journey where a traveler writes about her experiences. She then told us that she was going to read a piece to us that she'd written. I got really excited to hear her writing and sat there with a grin on my face, thinking I was ready for what I was about to hear. She started off by explaining that she'd grown up in the south with the Jim Crowe laws. She said that her parents prepared her very well for the racism and managed to make it so that she never felt discouraged or ashamed of being black. She told funny stories of her and her brother drinking from the "white" water fountains and justifying it to officials by claimed that they though CO stood for cola only, not colored only and then explaining that they didn't want cola, they wanted WO, water only. She told us how well prepared she was for the racism and separation she'd experienced as a child, and how it didn't affect her as much as it could have, because of this preparation. There was one thing that she was not prepared for though—being fat. I say fat so bluntly and not a "softer" word like overweight or heavy because she herself explained that she hates those words that "beat around the bush" and chooses to use this word. We heard story after story of her being terrorized by kids and even her teachers for being this way. It was truly moving to hear not only her work, but her own voice reading it, and I found myself in tears at the end of her reading. There were two reasons I found myself feeling this way. One reason was the obvious one—the plain subject matter and sadness of it. The other had to do with the fact that I couldn't believe how vulnerable this woman had just allowed herself to be on paper and in front of all of us. It was so beautiful to see someone that can allow herself to share such experiences and feel comfortable feeling vulnerable. I thought about the first day of class where she asked us all to write a short piece about anything that has to do with SAS and then share it…I remember panicking and being terrified to read mine to the class…and that was something small and insignificant. I have a new found appreciation and respect for writers, especially ones that are able to write about such intimate, personal topics, it takes a lot of guts, and it's something I'm trying to be more and more comfortable with.
After this experience, I decided to email my family a copy of the first paper I wrote for this class. Then, after some encouragement from them, and my experience hearing my professor's paper I decided to take a step forward in my goal of "feeling more comfortable with being uncomfortable" and post my paper here. So here it is, I hope you like…if you don't then you're stupid...JUST KIDDING, I won't be offended!!!
Pressing a button- that's how today's generation chooses to make memories. Nerve signals travel through highly specialized neurons from the brain to its destination, the forefinger. Click. The finger pushes down a small button on a universally recognized object- the camera.
On an Amazonian adventure in Brazil, our river-boat docks at some rickety old stairs leading up and up and up. As I make my way towards an indigenous village called "Terra Preta," meaning Black Land, I hear the shuffling of footsteps, and whispers in a language that I don't understand. Tiny eyes of children peer out at me. I smell natural scents not interrupted by the pollution I'm all too used to experiencing. I get to the top of the stairs to find a few small homes surrounding a soccer field where barefoot children play.
Before I begin to take in the richness of the scene, the noises of shuttering camera lenses distract me. Suddenly, the kids playing soccer, the homes, and the faces of my peers are all gone. Instead, all I see are cameras pointed in different directions with flash after flash briefly lighting up the sites I had been trying to look at.
We are always taking pictures. Our two eyes are constantly taking in different images and placing them in our minds forever. Every time we think of memories, not only words and thoughts flow through our minds. Our minds are full of colors, pictures, and even video-like memories that we choose or don't choose to remember. Even when we are sleeping, our dreams are created from past experiences and memories inexplicably pulled from deep within our subconscious.
Typically, our minds are wired to maintain those experiences and images important to us. But, the camera now allows us to replace that innate ability within us and move those images out of our memories and onto our walls. Now, it seems that many people end up spending their time traveling by observing everything through a small glass opening and eagerly waiting for the right opportunity to press that small button we all know so well.
Back in the indigenous village, we enter a room filled with people and children and my eyes go straight to the little boy. He must be about two years old. His dark skin makes me look pasty and un-touched by the sun. His black eyes make my brown ones look blue. His bare feet and lack of clothes—he has on only underwear-- make me feel odd for being so well clothed and covered. I watch him hungrily reach for his mother's breast, an act so taboo in our culture, yet so casual here.
If someone walked into my home and wanted to take photos of me eating breakfast at the table, and just hanging out with my family I would find it very odd, yet everyone around me is relentlessly snapping picture after picture. It doesn't bother me so much, because I too relate to the unfamiliarity and excitement of grass skirts, bare tops, and tribal headpieces.
The introduction and ritualistic demonstrations cease and I walk around, playing with the kids and trying to interact as much as possible. Then I look over. My heart sinks into my stomach, my throat swells up, and tears form in my eyes. I look at the little boy and see flash after flash-light up his otherwise black eyes as he is passed from person to person. Suddenly he has no name, no mother, no personal story. I wonder how he would act had he not been made into a cute prop for smiling person after person. He would probably be jumping and dancing the way he was when we first entered the room. I hope he would not look so confused and scared. I hope he would have the same huge smile he wore earlier in the day.
A picture is nice to take home to Mom and Dad, and I'm guilty of giving into this desire too at times, but it will never live up to an actual experience. Imagine if the time used to take pictures had been spent actually playing with the boy, learning his name, watching his face light up from laughs rather than the flashes of cameras. The desire for a picture to take home prevents us from enjoying the moment and the pleasure of having real interactions with real people.
Last summer, on a visit to New York City's Times Square, I tried to take a picture of the jumbo screen. No matter where I stood, tons of other hopeful picture takers got in the way. My picture was just one of thousands. When I put down the camera and looked around, I took the mental pictures that I carry with me today. The digital photograph? It went straight to the trash.
When in Brazil, I did take along my pocket-sized camera. I took a few pictures here and there. But, the pictures I take home with me are not the digital ones; they are the mental ones.
Stephanie Lessans
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