My evolving autobiography. It’s loose and unfinished. Fairly disorganized. Enjoy.
I took a photography class in high school. Partly because I was intrigued by photography and my friends were doing it. But, if I’m being honest, it was because the teacher was said to be fairly oblivious and readily signed excuse slips for his students bold enough to lie to him and tell him they were going out on an ‘assignment’ around campus. He never took role, and had a very difficult time remembering in which period his students were supposed to attend his class. The temptation and promise of ultimate adolescent freedom was too great to resist. I hated school in the form in which it was crammed down my gullet and the thought of a self-guided study through… well, any topic really, was more appealing than the proposed curriculum.
I enrolled in the mixed beginning and intermediate class, and almost immediately, my dreams began to pale in comparison to the glorious reality that was Mr. Wright’s photography class. Of course, there were a couple weeks of learning the basics of photography; f-stops, ISO, dark rooms, forging Mr. Wright’s signature, exposure, spooling film, etcetera. More importantly, there was field work to be done. And by field work, I mean, screwing around on campus with a cheap black and white camera, a couple good friends, and nearly an entire day to waste. So, when the day came for us little chicklettes to spread our wings and fly the coup, we did so with gusto.
I excelled at field work. My mind blazed and my creativity blossomed with the exercise of conjuring up world-changing photography projects and excuses to be anywhere but in the classes to which I was obligated. Even better, the ‘yellow jackets’ – as they were called for the ensembles they wore sporting the gold and black school colors – stopped asking for passes after a couple weeks of consistent field work.
Then a tiny dragon appeared and killed me with a mighty fireball.
Translated by: Jeremiah Allen Gifford