Takes out a lolly
from his pocket.
Before I can say anything more
he says he wants
to take more pictures of me.
I take a quick lick
and then he’s taking pictures—
me
on the swings
me
with just the sky
me
with the hot dog vending guy
me
striking a “fun and sexy” pose
me
pretending.
Really
I just want to talk
want Silas to tell me
everything is going to be fine
but it feels so good to not be me
to just
lick lollies & forget
so I pose
and pose
and pose.
SUDDENLY, EVERYTHING
We sip each other’s sodas.
I ask if he always drops
whatever he’s doing
to come to the park.
“Only for cute and talented girls,” he says.
His stepsister was annoying him anyway.
Picking fights.
“She’s pretty, your stepsister.”
He looks at me quizzically.
“The photo? You and that girl . . . in your room?”
He’s quiet for a minute.
Then says
oh, no, that’s an ex.
“Oh.”
I look at him then,
this guy, my first kiss.
“So how come
you still have her picture up?”
He says she’s still a friend.
“How long were you together?” I ask.
“I don’t know.
A year or so.”
Suddenly, everything feels wrong.
The trees are on fire.
The half-moon glows in the afternoon sky.
What was once a village is now a park.
I tell him I feel sick—
leave him standing there—
run all the way home.
ZOOM
Back in my room.
Try to clear away
the image in my head—
Silas belonging
with another girl.
I run my finger
along Roy’s camera.
Ask it to
give me
a new view.
Photos
that need an essay, words.
My history project
that needs cohesion, a clear viewpoint.
My mind-camera
shooting recklessly,
I force myself to quit
shifting
focus
and just/stop/click
zoom in.
SOPHOMORE RESEARCH PROJECT
Linc Malone, US History, Ms. Marshall
“Searching for Seneca Village”: Snapshots of Central Park’s Present & Past
When you think of Central Park, you think of the carousel, the reservoir, Belvedere Castle. You think of the most beautiful, peaceful part of this crowded, busy city. But—can we assume just because something appears beautiful that it is?
Central Park might be beautiful, but its beauty is tainted. Before Central Park, there was Seneca Village. From 1825 to 1857, in the upper west side of the park, Seneca Village (and the neighboring “Pig Town”) was home to African Americans. After 1840, Irish, running from the Potato Famine, and German immigrants lived there too. These people coexisted peacefully, worked the land and raised their children next door to one another.
Seneca Village even had an integrated church, during a time when most of the city lived segregated lives. That is, until wealthy buyers bought the land and forced them all out.
But what if people who lived in Seneca Village, in the neighboring villages, had had more power? What if they had had the means to stop the buyers? Would Central Park have been built somewhere else? Somewhere people weren’t already making their own peaceful lives? My photographs show how Central Park is still haunted by this history, despite modern appearances.
In my photographs, you will see where the churches, schools, homes used to be. If you use your imagination and squint, you can find the peaceful village again.
Through the course of this project, I learned that history is made up of a million stories. It all depends on whose you choose to see. To the builders of Central Park, the story here is one of opportunity. To people who enjoy it now, one of the most amazing parts of New York City. Some would even say its heartbeat. To the people who were bought out? A loss, maybe even a tragedy.
History is like colors in photographs. It is different depending on your perspective, the angle of your viewpoint. When people say color, what they really mean is light. For every photo, you can add more light and watch the colors change. Darken it, the colors shift again.
There’s no one truth.
Only stories. And light.
DUOFOLD
I print my essay.
Then work on the captions
for my photographs.
Make sure to
name each place today
and what existed then.
Sheep Meadow (filled with plastic water bottles).
Once the Old Croton Aqueduct.
The green field at 85th Street.
Once the homes of Seneca Village.
Tanner’s Spring.
Once the site of cooking, laundry.
For every ghost image, a caption.
And then I print out
the Seneca Village map.
Mark a number where I took every photo.
I look down at my desk.
My schedule,
all my important dates.
Only 6 days until the application is due.
Almost done.
Just need to print a few more photos
at the Center.
Pick up the rest I’ve already made.
I picture my A+
my acceptance letter to IAA
surrounded by gold stars.
Mom, Dad, Holly watching them—
watching me—
glow.
Imagine it
then make it
real.
PACING
When Dad gets home,
I show him the note from Ms. Marshall.
But then
I tell him everything
about
my new thoughts
and ideas.
He reads my essay.
He says these ideas are just what history is about.
But then he sounds like my teacher:
“You just need to slow down—
guide the reader—
thought by thought
example by example.
Right now, it feels a bit vague.
You need to build an argument
to persuade the reader.”
As he tells me to slow down,
my excitement
s l o w s too.
A running faucet
dialed back
to just a drip.
When I’m taking pictures,
the click of the camera matches my
mind’s quick movements.
Sitting down with the essay,
the ideas aren’t the hard part.
It’s the planning
it’s the proving
restating what you’ve already stated
requoting what other people have already said.
Drip.
&n
bsp; Drip.
Drip.
All I want is to
get into the air
get my camera out
swallow images whole.
Click/
click/
wish.
WHAT’S MISSING
Silas texts
a photo of his desk.
The picture of his family is still there.
But the one of him and his ex?
Gone.
I know he’s trying to show me
he’s sorry
but
things feel off.
I’m not sure what
to say back
so for now
I stand on my chair
take photos of my own
cluttered desk
no framed pictures,
just endless papers
images without captions
and I don’t reply.
TRAILS OF LEAVES
Dad asks me
to help him with dinner.
Mom & Holly
will be home soon.
With a knife,
I carve flowers out of tomatoes,
starfish from red peppers.
Dad asks if I’m sculpting
or cooking.
By the time Mom & Holly get home,
I haven’t even washed the lettuce.
Rush to get it done,
trail of leaves at my feet.
At the table,
Mom says she’s thinking of taking
two weeks’ vacation this summer.
Something she rarely does.
She wants to take us to Ireland,
where most of both
her and Dad’s families are from.
Holly does that thing where she
moves her lips from side to side.
Cracks her knuckles.
Seems more anxious than excited.
Mom’s phone buzzes,
she gets up to check it.
When she comes back,
she looks hard at me, says,
“Linc, your advisor emailed.
We need to talk.”
I look down, away
from Holly’s pitying look,
back to
my pepper starfish
now drowned in dressing.
BLANK PRINT
Holly excuses herself.
Mom says,
“That was an email from Mr. Chapman—
you’re failing math,
in chemistry too you’ve fallen behind,
your English essay: the worst of the year.
Creative but rushed.”
I explain how
I’ve been working hard on history,
on every subject really.
How she’s seen me.
Dad backs me up.
“Well, when are we going to see it pay off?” she says.
I sit still
a print
in a solution bath
waiting to develop
something worthy of display.
Mom looks at me
like I might have something else to say.
When I don’t,
she gets up,
walks away.
I stay still
& blank.
PUSH IN
She’s angry.
Again.
Will she even let me out of the house?
I need to get to class tomorrow,
I need their scanner and printer to finish my project & portfolio.
Think quickly.
Holly trusted me
with her secrets.
We’re sisters.
Knock on her door using
our secret knock
3 times
quick, quick, quick
drumroll
2 taps.
When she opens,
I push my way in,
close the door behind me.
Before she can open her mouth
I say:
“Holly, I need a big favor.”
TRANSPARENCY
“So—
remember that guy I told you about?”
She nods.
I tell her
we’re in a fight,
how I need to see him tomorrow.
I don’t mention
class—
the real reason
I need to go.
Then:
“Mom’s so mad
I’m scared to ask to go out.”
Holly sighs,
sounding exasperated like Mom,
says fine, she’ll say we’re doing
some early Christmas shopping.
Surprised how quickly Holly
comes up with a lie too.
I just hope her eyes—
always transparent
showing the truth—
don’t give us away.
A BLOCK AWAY
Next day
Mom won’t even look in my direction
but she buys Holly’s lie,
tells us she and Dad are
going to go out shopping too.
Outside the wind bites cold.
First snow of the season lightly falling.
Holly walks close beside me.
Asks why we’re fighting.
I say he has a long-term ex
he didn’t tell me about.
They’re still friends.
Silas meets me on Amsterdam,
where I asked him to be,
leaning against a building,
vaporizer in hand.
I point him out.
Thank her.
“Hope it works out,” she says,
but I see the flash of concern
in her eyes as I
go.
REPLACING
Silas, dusted with snowflakes.
Blue hair,
growing out a bit.
Replacing itself
with brown.
Tell myself to forget about the ex.
I reach out to hug him,
lose myself in his tall frame.
He gives me a smoky kiss.
I pull away quickly.
Don’t want to be late for class.
He asks who that was.
“My sister—
she’s adopted.”
Suddenly realize
how much he doesn’t yet know about me.
“Why didn’t you introduce me?”
We walk down the block
in silence soft as snow
as I realize
it never even occurred to me
to do so
so I lie and say, “She was in a rush.”
Then:
we push in the door
to the Center.
He leads me in.
IMAGES
PHOTO CLASS #4, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10TH
5 DAYS UNTIL IAA APPLICATION DEADLINE
Before class,
I take my prints
from my folder.
Look at the original images,
the ones without the ghosts stitched in.
I ask Fiona:
“Can I print some new ones during class?”
She nods yes.
Fiona says she’s finished
with my recommendation,
already sent it in.
With my mind-camera
I see someone at IAA
reading it, smiling.
&nb
sp; Just then I get a text
from Holly,
How long will you be?
Give me two hours, I write back.
After my critique
I’ll get my prints
then duck out early.
Switch the ringer to vibrate,
put my phone away.
MINUTES LEFT
Fiona teaches us
about juxtaposition.
How photographic subjects
work to emphasize
or deemphasize
each other.
For example,
an image of a bike wheel
at the edge of a photo
of a carousel
might emphasize
the circular motion of both.
Or how a live horse
next to a carousel
might make the viewer
think more about
imitation versus
reality.
Minutes pass.
I keep one eye on the clock.
I print doubles of my photos
then it’s critique time.
One classmate
shows us photos of bubbles
in banks
tollbooths
convenience stores.
Bringing childhood into mundane spaces, she says.
I feel myself floating too,
then see Silas frowning.
Clearly he thinks they’re cheesy.
Another person is up.
These photos are of animals.
From the park,
the zoo,
the sky.
They are harder to get lost inside.
Just lots of animal eyes.
I watch the minute hand move.
Four more critiques.
In between
Fiona teaches short lessons
relevant to the artist’s work
until finally
it’s my turn.
The ceiling opens up,
sky pours through.
HISTORY UNSEEN
My heart flips.
I show my prints.
Explain what I’m trying to do.
Someone says beautiful,
another so cool,
a third visionary.
My heart swells.
I stop looking at the time.
Fiona says I’ve done
a great job with the
perspective and juxtaposition.
Then one person asks
if we need to know the history
The Way the Light Bends Page 12
