By David Magallanes / Guest contributor
The following is an essay I wrote several years ago. In the Hispanic world, Christmas isn’t over until January 6, so I can still slip this one in:
It was that time of year: time to decide on Christmas gifts. This time, I felt like giving something different — not gift cards (which are practical, but — let’s face it — an easy way out), nor food items (which are not lasting), nor clothes items (I never could seem to choose the correct size or color or style).
No, this year I wanted to stand out as the “creative,” the “original” — hell, the enlightened gift-giver!
In fact, if I were clever enough, I could kill two partridges with one stone.
I could:
a) give photographs derived from a vast, unorganized, deplorably scattered collection of prints, slides and negatives; and
b) force myself to face the reality of a task I’d put off for decades for “when I have time.” Of course, I never made the time, so therefore I never had the time.
Or for “when I get sick and have to stay home.” Well, I turned out to be healthy as a horse and accumulated years of unused sick leave.
Or for “when I retire.”
“Well, Mr. David,” I told myself, “you retired last May, so now what is your excuse?” And then in my usual manner of talking to myself since my stint in the military as a young man, I said, “Then what the hell are you waiting for? Get off your ass and do something with that sorry mess of a photo collection of yours!”
So I rolled up my proverbial sleeves and got to work. I targeted the first photos I’d ever taken in any quantity: my 35 mm Kodak Ektachrome slides. I lowered some twenty-five boxes of slide carousels from the closet shelf and pulled out the now-archaic slide projector, the stone-age predecessor to PowerPoint presentations.
I ceremoniously set up the projector to display the slides on a kitchen wall, and with a sense of trepidation and reverence for my past, I took a deep breath of anticipation and placed the first carousel on the device to begin the process of selecting images that would be converted to enlarged prints, framed and given to my loved ones.
The next two hours were a roller coaster ride of emotions as I experienced what the dying allegedly see: my life literally flashing before my eyes.
I laughed when I saw my brother acting goofy, and then wished he still did in his more mature years.
I sensed the momentum of the passage of time as I saw my beautiful sisters in their youth and watched them age, so slowly, so inexorably.
I marveled at the journeys I used to take in other parts of the world, and wondered why I hadn’t done that lately.
I cried when I saw my mother, now deceased. “Que Dios la tenga en su Gloria” — “May God have her in his glory,” as my Mexican Catholic family would say, but which I can appreciate even metaphysically.
I waxed proud when I saw my little nieces and nephews, who were “all grow’d up now,” as accomplished young adults in their own right.
I grew perplexed and sad and angry and compassionate when I saw the aging images of my father, still alive, and wondered why he couldn’t love me. I cringed at the thought of our estrangement and wished it would dissolve into a final, loving phase of our lives.
And then — I had to face it — there was I. I saw myself, too, aging before my eyes from a brash young man of 18 to a more disciplined, mature man, now on the threshold of his 60s.
I saw the passages of my life, my careers, my chapters, played out in front of me. I saw the women I’d dated; the women I’d wedded; the women I’d wanted to wed; the women I’d loved; the women I’d left; the women who walked away from me. The only constant in my life with women was change.
But what brought me immeasurable joy was seeing the images of my daughter, Amanda, from the first moments of her life until her debut into the adult world at her quinceañera — the uniquely Mexican celebration of her coming of age — some ten years ago. I could feel myself steeped in the satisfaction of knowing that I had contributed heavily to raising this child into the mature, dependable, independent, successful adult that I know today. She is even in a stable, long-term relationship. I can’t claim credit here.
Amanda is my greatest accomplishment. I had a part in raising her. “Well done,” I told myself, “a job well done.”
Her subsequent years are not in a carousel — they are recorded in digital technology in my camera, on my computer and in cyberspace. Images of her echo, my grandson, are likewise archived and ready to be sorted, organized and transformed into images that he will someday give to his grandchildren, long after I’m gone.
Among the photos I chose as gifts for my family, I gave my daughter a frame of four photos: one of me and her mother when we were together and in love, and three of me when I was her age, 25, on one of the grandest pilgrimages of my life — living in Mexico City for a semester, studying and traveling and discovering the Mexican roots that had all but been severed from me in my early education.
In one of these photos, I appear as a bearded young man atop the Pyramid of the Sun at Teotihuacán, one of the greatest archaeological sites in the world. In the background is the Pyramid of the Moon.
For as long as she lives, my daughter Amanda will know that her father once explored his world, took risks, and climbed toward the stars to understand himself, just as I taught her to do.
— David Magallanes is about to embark on a speaking and writing career whose purpose is to promote and facilitate the attainment of the American Dream. As an optimistic American of Mexican descent and an educator in college mathematics, he brings a unique perspective to issues of our day. He may be contacted for speaking requests or for commentary at adelantos@msn.com