The Pictures Tell the Story

 I graduated from high school in 1985. As part of that experience, I wanted to get senior portraits to share with my friends. I saved money from my part-time job and scheduled an appointment at our local  Olan Mills Photography Studio,  the place that everyone went for all photos.

 My adopted mother, Virginia drove me to the studio and was going to pick me up after I was done. The waiting room was packed with families also waiting to get their photographs taken.  I was told the photographer was running behind, so my appointment was going to be late. Virginia had already sped off in the car, so I couldn't tell her about the delay. I didn't know where she was going or when she would be back. Virginia never had the gift of transparency in her communication, so I was used to being slightly confused as to what the plan was or what to expect next. After a long wait that gave me plenty of time to catch up on my People Magazine reading, it was finally my turn. I was so excited! I brought the four outfits I was planning on being photographed in, and changed into the first one in the bathroom in the studio. I bought all my clothes for the day at a thrift store and I was happy with my stylish looks. I felt good and the first photo shows that.

My first glamour shot

 After the first photo was taken, the receptionist poked her head in the studio and said someone was waiting for me at the front desk. I didn't know who it could be other than my adopted mom, but she wasn't due to show up for another hour. I told her on the way to the appointment what time to pick me up, so I didn't understand why she was early. It made no sense to me, but who else could it be?
Virginia was standing at the receptionist's desk when I rounded the corner into the waiting room. "Ok, let's go,"she said.
I protested, "But I just got started. They only finished taking my first picture."
"That's not my problem. I am here to pick you up and you should be ready to go."
I explained that the studio was running late, and that I wasn't done.
That didn't go over so well.
Virginia started yelling that she WAS ready and she had no intention of sitting around waiting for me while I pretended to be the queen of Sheba.
The waiting room fell silent, even children stopped their impatient whining to watch the spectacle. Hot tears formed behind my eyes as I willed myself to not cry. Virginia was not perturbed by having an audience.  The receptionist's attempt to explain the wait didn't stop her tidal wave of anger. "So you are telling me it is your regular business practice to overbook appointments so that I have to make extra trips to your studio because you are running late? Nice customer service, very nice. I'm sure everyone loves sitting here waiting for hours because of you." The receptionist looked like she had been slapped across the face.
Ashen, she excused herself and went to get the photographer.
When he came out the waiting room, Virginia gave him the same lecture about poor customer service and he reacted as the receptionist did, with a stunned look and stammered apology.
The scene ended with Virginia slamming the door and peeling out the parking lot, and me not knowing how I was going to get home when I was done.

After she left, I couldn't hold it in any longer. The dam burst and I openly bawled from frustration and humiliation in a room full of strangers. The photographer led me back to the studio and let me cry for a few minutes. He gently said that we had to finish taking my pictures because the others were still waiting. I dried my tears and fixed my make-up. The show must go on.

My eyes were red and I struggled to find a smile. 

My eyes were still red, but my color was coming back to normal. I still couldn't manage a sincere smile. 

We cut my session short. I was no longer interested in changing outfits one more time. We ended with a photo that perfectly captured how I felt. Clear-eyed, but determined to find a way out of my adopted parents house.
 I was done.


Happy Freedom to me!