by Carrie Arcos
I’ve been to church and a mosque, too—multiple times. Both left me feeling disappointed. Like they were trying to capture something wild and give it a name and a place and a time.
Dad is Catholic, and Mom is Muslim, but they’re not exactly devout; both my parents only attend their respective places of worship on religious holidays. We’ll go to midnight mass on Christmas and sometimes to mosque for prayers during Ramadan. Still, we do have a Quran in the house, tucked away on the third shelf of a bookcase, directly next to the Bible. I’ve read pieces of both, trying to understand God in the pages. But it’s all pretty dense.
My parents have a healthy respect for each other’s beliefs, but religion isn’t something we talk about. It’s like my parents think it’s too private a thing. I’ve only seen Mom pray a couple of times, and always through a crack in her bedroom door. On her knees, alone, like she’s keeping a secret. It doesn’t really feel like something I can ask her about.
At least they’ve never tried to force either religion on me. It’s a good thing, too, because the two religions are difficult to integrate. There’s no middle ground between them, other than simply believing that God exists. Both are a maze of dogma and practices that I don’t completely understand. Throw in the thousands of years of both sides trying to kill the other, and, well, let’s just say neither one has done a great job of winning me over.
But it doesn’t mean that I’m not a spiritual person. I believe in God, but it’s not like I pray or have this intimate relationship with Him or anything. I just know that I feel close to something when I create. Like there’s this godly force I’m interacting with that’s bigger than just me.
I watch the glory taking place in the sky. It’s so beautiful. To me, God lives in sunrises and sunsets. It’s in the middle where I’d like to catch more glimpses of Him.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
“You got some great ones,” Audrey tells me later at her house after I show her my photographs.
“Yeah? I won’t really know until I develop them.”
“Look at this. Is this real?” She’s focused on one where it almost looks like I created it in Photoshop. The colors in the sky are so vibrant as they stretch above the dunes, making the sand look like sienna whipped cream.
I nod. “And I haven’t even messed with it yet.” I’m thinking of adding greens to the sky, playing around with the tone.
“I think you should take our senior pictures. Forget going through the school and their crappy company with the lame backdrops. I bet you’d make tons of money.”
“Tempting, but portraits are kind of a different thing.”
“Yeah. A thing that people would pay for.”
I don’t tell Audrey that straight portraits rarely capture the emotion I look for in a photo.
Her mom, Rebecca, pokes her head into the room. “You girls want some ice cream?”
“Sure, Mom,” Audrey says.
“Great! Come and get it.”
Audrey moans and rolls her eyes, but we get up and follow Rebecca to the freezer.
I’m always amazed by the ease of Audrey’s relationship with her mom. Their conversations trail and loop along without any tension or hidden subtext you might wander into like an invisible minefield. They shop together, get pedicures and seem to genuinely like each other. It’s completely different from me and my mom. If I had to categorize our relationship, it’s complicated wouldn’t even suffice. More like it’s nonexistent.
Rebecca talks to me like I’m a normal person. She doesn’t make me feel like I’m constantly disappointing her. Or that I can’t be myself. That I’m not organized enough or sweet enough or just not enough, period. A couple weeks ago, I told my mom that I wished she could be more like Rebecca. I wanted to hurt her, but Mom only stared at me and walked away. Sometimes her indifference is worse than the anger.
Audrey hands me the scooper. I pack two vanilla scoops. Rebecca passes me the caramel syrup.
“After ice cream, you should probably make a packing list?” Rebecca says it more like a question than a command. My mom would have given an order. “Tomorrow we can run to the store for anything you need and last-minute party supplies.”
“Ugh,” Audrey groans. “There is that.”
“Less attitude, please,” Rebecca says. It surprises me a little how sharp her tone is. But secretly, I’m glad. It makes me feel better that despite how it looks sometimes, not everything’s perfect with the two of them.
“Fine,” Audrey says, pouting. She takes her long black hair and quickly ties it up on her head in a bun, something she does when she’s irritated.
Audrey is leaving for her dad’s in a couple of days, right after the Fourth of July party her mom always throws. She goes for a whole month every summer. I call it the month of gloom.
We take our bowls of ice cream back into Audrey’s room.
“Don’t be sad,” she tells me, probably because of the look on my face. “It’ll go by like that,” and she snaps her fingers.
“Oh, wait.” I turn around and look. “Is it August already?”
“Besides,” she says, ignoring my sarcasm, “you’ll be busy with your photography class. Think of me, I’ll be the one babysitting two kids by the pool.” She’s not too thrilled about having to spend that much time with the three-year-old twins her dad has from his second marriage.
“True,” I say. And she does have a point. At least Benny is a pretty cool kid. I tried to hate him at first. I had a good thing going being the only child; I didn’t want a little brother at ten. I’m pretty sure I asked for a puppy. But he turned out to be a surprise in a good way.
I know he’s my mom’s favorite, which kind of stings, but the truth is he’s my favorite too.
“Plus I’ll have better weather, food and the ocean.”
“Brat,” she says.
Instead of packing, Audrey and I stage photos of us eating. My favorite is the one where she peeks over the rim of the bowl at the camera. She looks like she’s about to do something that’s going to get her in trouble. I ask Rebecca to take a couple of us together. And then I get a few in of Audrey and Rebecca.
“Pass. Pass.” Audrey looks through the pictures. “No. Ooh, this one. And the other one with my mom.” Audrey picks a photo of us trying to give our best serious model faces, but it’s so ridiculously bad. We look like sad children. I love it too.
“Crap,” I say. “I almost forgot my 365 shot.”
365 is a yearlong self-portrait project I started last October with the other members of Blur. We post the pictures on our individual pages and then give each other feedback. At first, I tried to work within a specific theme, but it was too difficult to keep up. Now I try not to overthink it and just go with whatever I’m feeling in the moment. The results have been both surprising and disappointing. But the point is to challenge yourself and learn. I had planned to take one at home after dinner tonight, but as usual, the drama with my mom took over.
“Want me to take it?” Audrey asks.
“Nah. That wouldn’t be a real self-portrait. I just need to think.”
I walk around her house, searching for what, I’m not sure. I go out the front door. The light is on, so there are a healthy number of insects hovering by it. I get an idea. Audrey stands in for me as I set up the shot. I set the timer and then take Audrey’s place.
“Creepy,” she says as we look at the result.
I’m staring at the camera, but most of my face is in shadow, and the light is skewed and full of slightly blurred insects. There’s a larger mosquito type thing with long, droopy legs in the foreground. It’s not the best, but it’ll do for today.
I tell Audrey I’ll see her on the Fourth, hop in the car and head home.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
I park the car on the side of the road, avoidin
g the gray gravel driveway. I think Dad had the stones installed purposefully for my teenage years, so he could hear me coming and going.
The lights are on in the front. I glance at the time and see it’s after ten.
I tiptoe across the grass so I can enter back through my bedroom window.
Rounding the corner, I see Mom sitting at the kitchen table, smoking. If I could go closer, I’m sure her usual scent—a mix of coffee and cheap perfume—would be gone.
She brings the cigarette to her mouth, takes a drag and exhales a long plume into the air. After, she sips from a wineglass. Cigarettes and wine. Mom only smokes when she’s really upset.
I take her photo and look at it. From this angle, or maybe it’s the moonlight, she looks so young. Like she’s only just a kid.
July 2
THE NEXT MORNING, after the sound of Dad leaving for work wakes me earlier than I’d like, I stumble down the hallway and plop myself next to Benny on the couch. He’s watching his favorite cartoon. It’s the adventures of two larvae, which is gross and silly, but I like being with him. I pull some of the blanket up over my legs, and he snuggles into my side.
He laughs at the yellow larva farting and using the gas to propel himself forward like a race car.
This show is seriously messed up.
“Benny, breakfast is ready,” Mom says from the kitchen.
He jumps up and sits at the kitchen table. My stomach stirs at the smell of scrambled eggs, so I follow him and do the same. Mom sets down a plate, and Benny eats noisily, eyes still locked on the TV.
I know she sees me, but Mom turns and walks back to the counter. She doesn’t say good morning or offer me breakfast. So that’s what kind of day it’s going to be. Not a yelling-at-me-in-anger kind, but the silent treatment. Dad says it’s a coping mechanism from whatever trauma she experienced in her past.
I say it’s her weapon of choice.
This morning her silence is full of gibes that hurl themselves at me with full force—
I’m disappointed in you.
I don’t like you.
You are not the daughter I wanted.
Why can’t you be more like Benny?
I’ve learned to deflect them by pretending they come to me on thin slips of paper. I crumple them up into small balls and eat them.
The kettle issues a sharp wail, signaling it’s done. Mom’s making coffee the Bosnian way. She measures three spoonfuls of ground coffee into the small copper-plated pot with a long neck, called a džezva. She pours in half of the boiling water from the kettle on the stove and stirs it. Next she puts the džezva on the burner. Once that boils and rises to create a thick foam, she turns off the heat. Then she pours the hot water on top of the boiled coffee. She stirs it again and sets it on a tray next to a sugar cube and one small cup.
The one cup is significant. Normally she would offer me some. But not this morning because I’ve obviously pissed her off and she wants me to know just how much. Drinking coffee together is the one ritual Mom and I have. Dad can’t stand coffee, and Benny is too little. When I was young, I remember watching her prepare it and begging her to let me have some. She finally let me at twelve, and even though the taste was more bitter than I thought it would be, I pretended that I loved it. It was something we shared, something special. Over time I grew to like the taste, and of course, sugar made it better. But mostly I liked that it was ours.
Today it becomes her way to persecute me. I don’t let her win. I get up and grab some cereal from the cupboard. As I pour it, Mom sits next to Benny.
“Mom, which is your favorite?” Benny asks her.
“What?”
“Red or yellow?”
She looks over at the screen.
“Yellow.”
“Mine too.”
“Zara?”
“Red,” I say.
“Hey, did you know that Zack watches it too? Can I have a playdate with Zack today, Mom?”
“Maybe after swim lessons.”
“Did you know I’m learning to dive? It’s not that hard. Well, it was scary at first, but now I go in without making the biggest splash. It’s all about the splash.” Benny starts cracking up at something happening on the screen.
The whole time, Mom acts like I’m not even at the table. I don’t know how long she’s going to last, but I know she can go a full forty-eight hours—so can I—and I have too much work to do to let her stifle my creative energy today. That’s what all of this negativity is, a creative suck.
I decide to get it over with.
“Mom, I’m sorry for what I said last night.”
She doesn’t look at me, but she says, “Okay.” Then she stands up and gets me a cup of coffee. When she sits again and passes it to me across the table, I know we’ve made a truce. I bite down on the sugar cube, which has lost a little of its sweetness, and take my bowl and cup to the couch.
From the kitchen, I hear Benny say, “Mom, are you going to watch me swim?”
“Of course.”
“But sometimes you leave.”
“This time I’ll stay.”
“Good. Remember when I did the belly flop?”
He laughs and then she laughs, and it’s like they’re in perfect harmony.
I feel something like loneliness and hurt creep across the floorboards toward me. But I shove the spoon into my mouth and stuff it all down.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
Later, I show up to my first class of the summer photography program I’m doing with Mr. Singh, a famous local photographer. I haven’t had much formal training, so I thought it would be a good idea to learn from a professional, and Mr. Singh has an excellent reputation as a teacher. But it wasn’t as simple as just signing up for the class. We actually had to apply and get accepted. For the application, I had to submit a portfolio, which I agonized over for weeks. I had never applied for anything like it before. Fortunately, the Blur girls helped me select which photos to include.
When I was accepted, I freaked out. Dad made a big deal about it too, buying me a new lens for my camera. Even Mom congratulated me.
I look around the room, trying to size up the other students. Of course, I can’t tell their ability based on outward appearance, but I can judge confidence. The place is oozing with it, along with a bored indifference, which masks an anxiety I recognize.
To my left, a girl bites her nails.
Mr. Singh begins by showing an image on the large screen up at the front. It’s a woman in red standing in the middle of many tents in what looks like some kind of refugee camp. He asks us to tell the story.
“Story?” a boy behind me asks.
“Yes. What is the story this picture tells?”
We’re all quiet until a girl in the front row says, “It’s a story about a girl all alone, abandoned by her family. She has endured great hardship, but there is something that suggests she is rising above her circumstances. That’s why her red dress is whipping up. Her back’s to us because she’s facing her future. She’s actually getting ready to leave the refugee camp and make a life for herself.”
“Good,” Mr. Singh says. “Anything else?”
“Or, she’s an alien,” a boy to my left says. I follow the gaze of others as they turn to look at him.
Mr. Singh raises his eyebrows. “How so?”
“She’s on Mars and walking through her city after it has been decimated by a sandstorm. She’s on her way to search for the wind god, who can lead her to where the water is.”
Mr. Singh points his finger at the photo where there is an empty jug at her feet.
“Interesting, um . . .”
“Javier.”
“Javier. Anyone else?”
No one can top Javier. I could try, but I’m not usually one for speaking up in class.
“Okay,
then. This course is going to focus on photography as storytelling. There’s single-frame storytelling, like what we’ve tried to read in this image. Then there is the photo essay, multiple-photo stories. We’ll be working on both. During the course, we’ll discuss story techniques in general—what makes a viewer linger. What makes a viewer ask questions? Is it lighting? Composition? Long exposure? Motion? The ‘rule of thirds’? Edges? Leading lines? As you work, you must ask yourself, what do I want the viewer to feel? To see? Before the end of class I’ll go over some equipment recommendations. But for now, let’s look at another photo.”
This time it’s a picture of a long pier leading into a still lake. On the edge of the frame are a pair of feet.
As with the previous photograph, the class discusses what the story could be. We move on to another photo and then another. Mr. Singh starts pointing out the technical details as we continue, explaining what the photographer did to get the image, and what she could possibly be trying to say with it.
I’ve filled four pages of notes before class is even finished.
For the last fifteen minutes of class, Mr. Singh walks the room and looks at the photos we have brought with us today. I chose one of the photos I’d been working on when Mom and I got in the fight. It’s Audrey and Sibyl running down the street toward the camera.
“Very good, Zara. What would you say the story is?”
I stare at the picture. Audrey is looking straight at the viewer, her mouth open in the middle of a laugh or a breath, while Sibyl’s face is turned, looking away from her. Her hair is covering the side of her face. I heightened the blur around their feet and their arms so it almost looks like they’re not even touching the ground.
“I’m not sure . . . maybe something about having fun with friends.” My voice, nervous, comes out scratchy like the texture of the light in the photo. “I was more caught up in the moment. They just look really happy.”
He only nods, doesn’t say anything more and moves to view the person’s work behind me. Fun with friends? Lame. I look at my picture again and see something that could be in anyone’s social media account. I should have used the one that got Mom all freaked out. At least it would have caught his attention.
