Photos or Words
I put a “+” on a page of my notebook every time I correctly answered my grandmother. The crowded marble table, which held this notebook, seated my cheerful mother joking with my brother, my dad conversing with my uncle, and I - examining the room. Some are watching The Office. Others are scrolling away on Facebook. On the other side of the room sits a modest woman, preparing her favorite Arancini, distant from the gathering. The cold, awakening breeze from the open windows fills the lavender scented 11:03 A.M Sunday room. Nothing seems off-at first glance-but I begin to see that woman quietly mumble, as if she holds her thoughts obscured from the world. Acknowledging that a language became a daily barrier, a restless hunger rose to develop a meaningful relationship, like the window’s gust arousing my discovery into the world of Italian - a call to answer the women’s self-uttered sentence.
Every Sunday dinner, my thoughts became reflective and conscious, similarly how the withdrawn women felt. I turned to cure this neglectful and detached connection I believed to have with my grandmother by learning Italian. “Cosa significant?” and “Io non capisco!" were commonly spoken as I attempted to explore the new culture of syllables. No progress meant no satisfaction, until I discovered old photos of my grandmother in the attic. All the distance and separation I felt dissolved when the sight of my grandma sewing a pillowcase brought a sense of enlightenment. The photos were small puzzle pieces of emotion, which once stringened together, created a story that truly taught the compassion I strived for.
From internalizing photos to taking my own, I found myself sharing to “nonna” what I thought were memories to remember. My individual capturings became more than just remembering what ingredients create the Sicilian “Cuccidati”; they became the words that I couldn't pronounce. Photography became my gentle and devoted expression of my grandmother - who I then learned - I matched the image of. I wasn’t exploring a spoken set of words but I was seating my grandma at the center of the table and my life. Like her rice balls, I’ve learned to understand relationships are built by identity - to be a broadcast to others I’ve regrettably, not allowed others to be. Satisfaction became discovering my own memories and jumping into the unknown, without knowing that a camera would be my translator.
Ambition, warmth, and passion fostered my hunt into the social identity that an “above surface” connection with my grandmother created. Pictures finally filled my emptiness, and the thoughts that flooded my brain when I imagined my grandmother’s reaction, uncovered how success is measured through adaptability - now, my daily mindset. Image #1, Video #2… the larger that number reached, the more empathetic I became. I was ready to open; I felt destined to a nurturing companionship. That failing to learn the language that became “Nonna” came with curiosity to explore the unique figures that truly made her : bonds. My intuition branched out to discover a world where unison became possible. And through this, I found my chase of communication beyond complete. I found out who I sought to be through others. The bond I shared was a desire I never lost to experience; it drove my future relationships. I live through the moments, not just the ones on the wall or in the catalog on my phone. I developed humility, adaptability, and understanding in the shortcomings of the future. When struggle hits, I don’t panic. “Ti amo più della mia vita,” emphasized with my grandmother’s heavy Sicilian accent, was written on the last page of my notebook. The close of one book came the next with many more “+” to be written down. It was this decision to continue filling up pages that demonstrates the man she has raised.
