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I saw something that made
me question my sanity the other day. It
was a series of student photographs. They
were all of the same student, but were in various poses and backgrounds.
That
wasn’t what I found amazing. What stunned me was that the photos showed an
image that looked human. I could actually count the number of eyes and make
out the image of a nose.
School
photos are an ancient school ritual. Once upon a time, in the days before
telephones could take photographs, the likeness of each student was painted
on a cave wall in wood ashes.
Back in
the day, we academics of the worst kind (armed with wagonloads of
misinformation and with studies to avoid), and bored with scholarly
discourse, would slink through the day until we saw the poster reminding us
that it was School Picture Day (otherwise known as Bad Hair Day). This was
a fact that had completely slipped the minds of most of the members of the
male part of the student body.
One minute
we were looking cool, reserved, and detached. The next minute, we were in a
school photo panic. The peanut butter on toast high had suddenly worn off.
It was a
day when we each had the opportunity to become models. It was a day that we
learned that being a model was harder than it looked.
Pulsating
pimples, uncontrollable cowlicks, and five o’clock shadows magically
appeared. Noses began to run with vigor unmatched by even the mighty
Mississippi River.
Yes,
things were different when I was in school. I had a choice of one pose and
one background. I got to sit down and shut up while a jaded photographer,
wearing an ill-fitting suit with tie askew, bored from years of going from
school to school and taking photographs of jaded students, would attempt to
get me to sit up straight and look like a homo sapiens.
If I
remembered School Picture Day, I would wear my good shoes. This type of
footwear accentuated the attractiveness of my high-water pants. These were
my church shoes and, of course, their visage never made it into any of the
school photos. I’d even scrub behind my ears. That area never made it into
a photograph either as my ears were always in the way.
The
rumpled photographer would bark out orders, “Chin up, shoulders back, hands
down! What are you trying to do, kid? Make it so I’ll never be able to
work in this business again?” he’d say as he spit on his hand and showed me
how to use saliva to control unruly hair. All he needed was a short length
of rubber hose and he would have been a world class interrogator.
After
ordering me about for a couple of minutes, the photographer, like any
successful predator, sensed a weakened adversary.
He would
say, “Smile!” right after he’d snapped the photo. Some odd-looking youth
around my age had jumped in front of me at that point, guaranteeing that the
photo would look nothing like the real me.
The flash
would rob the vision of truck drivers traversing highways 3 miles away.
Blinded by the flash for the rest of the day, I’d stagger the hallowed halls
questioning the need for school photos.
“Retakes?”
the photographer would bellow. “We don’t need no stinkin’ retakes!”
I longed
to be one of those whose name in the yearbook was accompanied with “Photo
not available.”
The photos
were something that I’d sign and give to family, friends, and classmates.
I’d write pithy things on the back like, “To a swell guy,” or “Wow! Can you
believe we’re sophomores?” or “I’m not sure whose photograph this is, but I
want you to have it.”
The school
photos came out pretty much the same each year. One eye at half-mast. Lips
looking as though they were engaged in some sort of competition endorsed by
the American Drooling League. We looked puzzled as though we were wearing
Chinese handcuffs. We expressed a look of terror like that of a victim of
the Spanish Inquisition. We wore the pained looks of a recipient of a Dutch
rub, horse bite, or hurts doughnut. Our smiles came across as though we
were eating thistles.
We tried
to look suave and sophisticated. We ended up looking demented and
pathetic. We were crazed and wild-eyed, which meant that we looked
something like ourselves.
We
survived in spite of our school photos.
When we
reach a certain age, it is not only skeletons that we have in our closets.
We have
school photos in there, too.
©Al Batt
2005
71622 325 St.
Hartland, MN 56042
http://albatt.net/ |
