Carol Samson's WRIT 1122 Familial Gaze Narratives

Students began this essay through invention and free writing, requiring them to find a quite time and write for 10-15 minutes without stopping. Freewriting questions included:
 
1. Write for 10-15 minutes on Memories. Try to explore all that you remember about this photograph.
2. Write for another 10-15 minutes explaining what is going on outside the photograph: who or outside, who is absent, why is the person/object not in the picture?
3. Write for another 10-15 minutes on the people in the photograph and why they are having their picture taken. Are there complications? Tensions?
4. Write for another 10-15 minutes on paradox and contradiction in the photograph.
5. Write one or two 10-15 minute sessions on other aspects of the photograph not listed here.
6. When you have finished all of the 10-minute inventions, consider your argument. How will you control and focus the writing? What will the purpose of your essay be? How will you help the reader find the focus and the purpose?

Students then arranged the paragraphs so that their most provocative memory came last and the essay deepened philosophically to some sort of point or surprise or poetic epiphany. Finally, students drafted a 4-5 page essay on the familial gaze in the photograph.

Familial Gaze -- A Narrative
Alisha Gucker

Here is one big, happy family. In Bali, Indonesia they say we have a perfect family, two boys and two girls, their equivalent to a nuclear family. Even though my parents have lived in Indonesia for over twenty years now, some American traditions are still grafted into our family culture. Christmas dinner is one such tradition. We often joke that everything is about food. We all love food, although it shows more on some than on others. Food, for us, is a way to touch and be a part of any culture. So whether it is the normal sate ayam and nasi kuning (chicken with peanut sauce and yellow rice) or the rare turkey and mashed potatoes, meal time has always been significant to our family culture. Christmas dinner is no exception. Even in Indonesia, as we sit down to both a ham and a turkey, we are reminded of our roots.

Our American roots, as seen in the photo however, are twisted and modified, as is our Christmas tradition in accordance with our environment. We are all wearing comfortable, cool clothes over wet swimming suits. After all, Indonesia lies on the equator and Christmas Day usually brings about 90 degree weather and 90% humidity. On the table there is salak sauce, my dads experiment that melts an American dish with a local fruit. In the background is plate from Egypt that my dad bought on a business trip. If I could scan the room, I know I would see a miniature Eiffel tower, an embroidery from China, several masks, and kain (traditionally weaved cloth) from various parts of Indonesia. When I left Indonesia at the age of 16 to live with my grandparents, my mother gave me a box of relics my dad had collected on his many trips to take with me. I brought my own kain, a few carvings, a bottle of Egyptian oil, and coins from more countries than I can remember. This was my way of remembering where I came from, where I have been, and the way each step has shaped who I am.

As seen in the photograph, Im very different from my siblings, yet they are more my base than my nationality. Each of us has a different hair color and I am the only one without blue eyes. My sister looks just like my mother, and my brothers share different parts of my father. And then there is me. But those who know us best can see the resemblance in our faces, in our manner. I know how my siblings and my parents have shaped me. We are close. Christmas dinner has gained another level of meaning as life pulls our family in different directions. Now that my older brother, Dennis, and I live in the US, our family only spends a few weeks a year complete. I set the table that evening. Counting out six plates, six goblets, and six sets of silverware almost put a lump in my throat. Every meal we spent apart over the last year has been condensed into Christmas dinner; we have both turkey and ham because Mom wanted it to be perfect. The photograph was taken to preserve that sense of completeness.

This photograph also portrays the personalities of my brothers in a single, frozen second. My younger brother, Justin, is a clown. As the baby of the family he is required to assert himself lest he slips through the cracks. In this picture his silly pose invokes Dennis need, as the wise older brother, to control the situation. In Dennis mind, Justin is about to ruin the picture. Ironically, Dennis expression is what turns this photograph into something uncomfortable. Justins expression would have drawn laughs and perhaps mockery. But the look on Dennis face stirs up something deeper, prompting the dirty word dysfunctional. I recognize that look and know the meaning behind it because I have seen it myself so many times, in what now feels like a previous life. One condescending glance from my brother can still make me feel like the awkward eleven-year-old trying to get attention. His approval as an older sibling is what each of us younger ones have strived for. Some, like my sister, attain it more easily than others. She thinks like Dennis and shares his sense of humor. She never struggled with her weight the way my younger brother and I have. Dennis accepted her quickly while here I am, after nineteen years, still stepping on eggshells. The snap of a shutter has confined all these feelings, all of the past into another piece of my personal history. This focal point of the picture cannot be glazed over by the surrounding, smiling faces, or the plethora of food on the table, or the notion of Christmas spirit. For all my mothers hard work, her preconceived desires for a perfect family gathering, one look from my brother pulls it all apart.

My mother is not in the photograph. Her desire to preserve us in time, to collect us all together on this special occasion, overrides her need to be a part of the memory. Yet she is, and always will be, the greatest aspect of the photograph. All eyes are on her. Some are filled with enthusiasm, wanting the photograph to show their personality or perhaps convey that this is a wonderful meal full of festive love. (Do you see my open grin?) Others are less thrilled, half smiling only because Mom requires it. Her fingerprints litter the table. The food she spent hours preparing. The centerpiece she arranged for atmosphere. Her favorite dishes she bought just to use on Christmas Day. My mother is more present in the photograph than those smiling back at her.

Like the paradox of my mothers presence despite her physical absence, photographs only convey half truth. The whole truth depends on the audience. Each members personality, for example, can be interpreted from this photograph. Yet it would only be a fragment and may not be accurate. My dad appears to be sullen and serious. It would be difficult to imagine him laughing if I were not so accustomed to the way his eyes crinkle and shine with a bad joke. His dull appearance masks his true, animated personality. Similarly, the side of my sister you see in this photograph is reserved and quiet. She can be these things, depending on her audience. Perhaps, like a picture, thats what personality is: a presentation of oneself that changes according to the viewer. Then there is the presentation of a family: a unit that works together, celebrates together, spends time together. There is the outer face the family displays to the world, whether through a carefully crafted photo album or through the perception given by well-dressed group of people sitting together at church. Whatever mask a family wears, it is designed to cover the dysfunction, just as an individual personality will adapt into whatever the audience may find most appealing.

Therein lays the beauty of photographs. While an album can be crafted to show certain memories or emotions and leave out those less pleasant, a raw picture captures the moment, proudly displaying whatever is there. While this photograph may not accurately depict my family in the same way I would describe them to you, it has captured a piece of my family I would rather leave out. Dysfunction. As a single moment frozen on paper, it should not offer up the complexity of my sisters personality, or my mothers warmth, or my fathers sense of humor. It should, and it did, capture the moment for what it was, bittersweet.

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