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The Girl Behind the Lens

This is the piece that I wrote that inspired my blog. 

 Everything moves so fast. Disbelievingly fast.

Blink. Gone. The figures are a blur. Shades of blue, black and white up and down the fields. Screams and cheers filling the air, from coaches and parents and the school band and fans in the bleachers. It all moves so fast. The three of us are planted at different points on the sidelines, pressing the power button. Click. Click. Click.

It’s my eighth grade year, finally a newspaper and yearbook editors and I’m becoming the girl behind the lens. Soccer games. Volleyball games. Basketball games. Football games. All kinds of scrimmages. Hour upon hour passing by in a gym and on the field. School nights and weekend mornings marked by candy bars, cokes, and rides in the back of Morgan Goldbarth’s white Toyota, after we finished checking up on her cats of course. Camera’s dangling next to press passes around our slender necks, with bags slung over our shoulders. We each had our own camera so to speak, not in possession, but when we went out to shoot they were ours. My camera, a worn silver body,  with not the longest lens, but the best quality, 200x, at least 10inches long, and over 3lbs.

The rain was pouring down on the morning of my birthday, a Saturday, the air dry and cold as ever. My cheeks were red, flushed and cold as ice, my fingers numb as I stood on the track by the side of the McCallum soccer field and took photo after photo. My scarf the color of royal blue and my school’s team color hung on my neck, swinging in the wind every once in a while. My fingerless gloves tucked underneath my gray sweatshirt, warming everything but my frozen fingers. From then on, I decided I wanted to be the girl behind the lens.

Moments frozen in time. Suspended.

Over 300 pictures of athletes contained on a sim card after one game. Scrolling, picture by picture. One after another a crisp, clear shot of a player in action, a coach giving his team a pep talk, soccer players lined up behind one of their own praying to win the shoot out and claim the victory, a jump at the net and volleyball spiked clear over.

After my first few games I noticed I was getting better, knowing where to be and when to move. I began to develop a signature photographer stance, as well as an attitude that told those around me I wouldn’t give up my spot let alone move for anything. I wasn’t afraid to push the limits of the where I could be and when, which had no doubt gotten me into almost an argument with referees every game, at least ­most of the time, but ended in some once in a lifetime shots. I found the atmosphere nothing short of intoxicating.

I had been to games before, but nothing could compare to the view I had. From behind a lens. 

Vulnerable

This is also a piece I wrote recently for a workshop. Last names and schools are censored. 

  

Be the one to stop it.

Hands rough from calices, a trophy to him from years of playing the guitar. A Led Zeppelin shirt hangs upon his long torso. He stands at 5 feet 10 inches, slender. Standing somewhat slumped at times, straight at others, he often finds his self-confidence wavering. His eyes a deep brown similar to a young beagle begging for a treat. He pushs a portion of his dirty blonde mop of hair out of his eyes with one of his hands and speaks. “Yeah, you could say I’ve been bullied,” said Kyle B-, 15, a student at __________.

 “One day I had to write a 5 page essay. I was on the computer in the library and these little assholes came over and pushed me out of my seat,” B- said. “They were doing it for the pleasure of being mean and getting attention. They said the usual bull. Like ‘you're a faggot’ ‘move over cracker shit.’ I did retaliate which I'm sure didn't help. Like I cursed back at them, made them chill out and see if they'd just leave. But of course they didn't. No one really said anything. It was at the back of the library so no teachers saw, there were a few girls but they just made a giggling noise and walked away.”

No one intervened, leaving B- to fend for himself.

“It made me feel helpless and vulnerable,” B- said. “It would have meant so much to have someone stand up for me, proving someone thought it was wrong. I was hurt by that as well.”

B- is not alone.

Images of a young girl flashes on the two screens in the Jester auditorium. Baby pictures, school photographs, and snapshots of friends, one after another. “How to save a life,” by the Fray booms from the speakers, echoing in auditorium, at least half the size of a regulation football field. Words appear. “I hate you,” “loser,” “idiot.” The atmosphere heavy, as if a black cloud hanging over every head in the room. In the center of the carpeted stage stands a woman of medium height, with a British accent, tinged with a dash of Texan. Her hands flourishing as she talked, pacing. Barbara-Jane Paris, speaking for those who no longer could.

Most bullying seminars and speeches focus on the he bully, the victim, and the bystander. But Paris says there’s a problem with this equation.

“I think you’re part of the problem or part of the solution,” Paris said. “There is no bystander.”

Paris has spent the past several years speaking about bullying. She said she became involved since the day in her office when a sophomore came in; telling her one of her students was being “crucified” on the Internet. Paris didn’t know what to do, since the bullying was happening off campus. Then she realized that the school needs to get involved, but principals and authoritative figures aren’t the ones that can make a difference.

“This is the age group that can make the change,” said Paris speaking to a group of kids ranging from ages 13 to 18. “You can make a difference.”

A difference, for example in the life of Audrey H-.

A girl with kind eyes and a thick wad of straight honey brown hair, often tucked behind her ears. Soft spoken, speaking carefully at times, her eyes flickering with excitement others. H-, a student at __________, had a best friend for years, until that friend turned on her.

“She started to call me names and yell at me for having other friends,” H- said. “She would say awful things to me during class and it would take everything in my power to not cry. I never really knew why she did it, just one of those inexplicable girl things I guess. It made me feel awful because I really trusted her and she betrayed that trust by hurting me to make herself feel more powerful. I've always been a really forgiving person, but after a while I couldn't forgive her anymore and we grew apart.”

Since the incident, H- says she’s had a hard time connecting with people.

“I wish that I could say it changed me for the better, that it made me stronger, and it did, but the biggest way it affected me was in my ability to trust and open up to people,” H- said. “I find it a lot harder now to open up and I've become very guarded. I'm glad though because it taught me a lot about what I can handle and showed me who my real friends were.”

It’s that sense of vulnerability that B- understands. He’s been through it too.

 “I’ll definitely stand up for someone so that they don’t [have to] go through the same thing,” B- said.

Self Interview

This is a piece I wrote recently, as a self interview assignment. Last names are censored. 

Her black headband resting just centimeters from the beginning of her dark brown widow’s peak, her ponytail grazing the back of her neck with every step she took. Shoulders bare and gleaming with sweat. Yellow, red, and black Iron man Band-Aids clung to the back of her heels, covering numerous blisters, from the recently purchased volleyball court shoes she had been breaking in for the season. Her pink Nike workout top clinging to her slender torso, moving as she did. Equipment littered the floor, the air smelling of sweat and girls deodorant. “DIVE!” the words of “Coach T” rang in her ears as she felt her knees, cushioned by black fabric pads slam hard against the slick gym floor. This was the time to prove herself.

This had to be the fifth or sixth tryout/practice that summer by now that Caitlin A- had attended, in hopes of making the LBJ volleyball team that fall. The first day being one of the hardest. Conditioning.

“The minute we began I knew I would be in for a long and grueling workout,” Anderson said. “The feeling of the 8 pound bag above my head, my arms up by my ears as I pulled myself up and tossed it across the court line maybe 10 feet away to my partner. Half way through I could barely keep running the sidelines of the gym. My whole body ached. This was far from any workout I’d done before.”

Only an hour left before the coach would say who made the team, with a game already scheduled for the following day, emotions ran high, and the girls were out for blood.

“It’s always very competitive,” said Annie M-, a girl trying, as well as a friend of A-’s. “You have to show you’re better than they are, especially with this many girls trying out this time around.”

The practice was ending as the clock changed, reaching 6 o’clock sharp, and A- could feel her heartbeat increasing as she approached the coach along with the other girls.

“I always hate cutting girls, but I just can’t have all of you on the team,” “Coach T” said. “If I call your name you can go and I’ll see y’all tomorrow at the game. If not, stay here with me. Desiree, Maizie, Annie, Emily, Alexis, Lauren, Diamond…,” the coach continued. “Cathy, Alexa, and…,” she paused. “Mimi.”

A- froze, knowing what was soon to come. It. Was. Over.

“I felt my heart drop,” said A-, feeling herself get teary eyed. “After the last name, I just zoned out, and stopped listening.”

She and the other rejected, unwanted girls stood, motionless. It. Was. Over.

“Girls, you have a lot of potential,” coach said in a sympathetic tone. “But we can only take so many girls. I’m sorry. Don’t be discouraged, I want to see all of you at tryouts again next year.”

It. Was. Over.

“I got my bag and struggled to hold back tears, biting my lip and trying to convince myself it would be okay," A- said. "Annie came up to me and told me she had no idea why I didn’t make it, all we knew is that I didn’t. I walked out to the parking lot, where my dad waited. I opened the door, got in the car, and told myself, there was always next year.”