Those Were the Days

Sometimes I wonder if I randomly meet people or if it's all part of some bizarre interconnected web. I've six degreed people from all over the country. Meeting the cousin of a former classmate in New York, working with the former roommate and good friend of my sister's boyfriend, having two of my friends meet at a party in New York and coincidentally realizing they know me, are just some of my examples. Yesterday I was waiting for my train in Rosslyn when someone I knew got off.

Benita Keller was my very intimidating photojournalism professor at Shepherd University my freshman year. Her wild woman artist mood swings left me a little tongue tied and feeling bourgeois. Her trailer, behind the art center, was always hot and furnished with thrift shop couches that you sank into, making it very difficult not to fall asleep as we discussed images and places to find a good picture. I went to Cuba with her and my classmates over spring break and it remains one of the most exciting things I've ever done, with memories that only leave me wanting more. We had a saying there, 'if you can't afford film and food both, buy film. If you can't afford film and rum both, buy rum,' meaning, do anything you can to get the picture, except sacrificing a good time. I danced under the feet of Christ on an island with friends I had just made, speaking Spanglish and sign language. They taught me how to salsa that afternoon, in the dirt floor one room shack while drinking beer from down the street. I got drunk with my classmates in a pool by the ocean, when we found out we were invading Iraq. I took some of the best pictures I've ever taken, and then I quit.

Seeing Benita get off that train, with her crazy cat eyed glasses, white knit cap and black curly hair, made me remember for a minute that girl who was passionate about photojournalism and traveling the world. Who wanted to explore and do something adventurous to feel alive. But it also made me remember that once I attempted that dream I realized I didn't like invading people's lives, while hiding behind my lens and journalist's objectivity. I'm not objective, I'm bad at making rational decisions. That's why I'm good at writing commentary and opinion pieces, asking people questions and crying at commercials. Telling human stories is something I think is incredibly important, but doing it by (possibly!) exploiting the tragedies of people poorer than me is not something I can do, nor can I handle the constant heartache of such a job. Maybe because I was more fascinated by the stories I couldn't capture with my camera, the histories and subtleties, that can't be seen in the developing fluids. I wanted to tell them with my words, and tell fictional ones, ones where I create and get to control the chaos and tragedy. And I also remembered how much I hated the darkroom.