“Damn right.” I smile back. That confidence brightening her eyes is exactly why I do this. I glance at the clock again. “Cara’s going to finish up your session, but I’ll be right at my desk if you need me… Just. Try. It.” I poke her shoulder to accent my words. “The worst that happens is we repeat the session. And maybe a visit from Reinert.”
Monique’s eyes widen and shoot to the door, as if saying his name is an instant summons.
“Only kidding.” I laugh. “No Professor. Embrace the grain. Just explore and see what works. You got this.” Her wary face breaks my heart, but pride stitches it back up when she straightens her shoulders and adjusts the settings on her camera.
It’s the third year of my partnership with my alma mater for this internship. Providing Black, Indigenous, and POC photography students a supportive in-studio experience has been one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done. There were only a handful of us when I went, and the unspoken demand for excellence was stifling. My internships were surrounded by stuffy assholes who were impressed with my work until they saw my face. Once Framed Orchid made it big, I knew I wanted to give asafe studio experience to other TAILA students so they wouldn’t have to struggle like I did.
Rebuilding their confidence at the beginning of each semester is necessary, but frustrating. They’ve already had heavy doses of the objective side of photography. My goal is to remind them that art can still be subjective amid all the rules. Most of my interns come to me completely gutted, terrified to make mistakes. I get it entirely. When you’re marginalized, perfectionism is expected everywhere. Even a tiny slip-up could be a death sentence for their budding careers. So no matter how pissed I get at the powers that be, I’ll always encourage plenty of trial and error in this space. This is their safe place to fail and fail again, until they learn to fly.
They’re still fucking here?The squeal from the masonry saw hits my ears before I put my purple crossover in park. Construction workers mill around the two homes closest to the parking lot. My head falls back with a groan as I look across the bungalow court at my solitary craftsman-style cottage at the other end. I bought one of the first reconstructed units a few years ago, and it’s perfect for me. Small, cozy, and quiet…for the most part. The only thing I don’t like is how long it’s taking for them to finish the other units.
All construction is supposed to be wrapped up by 5 p.m. daily, so I usually don’t have to deal with the piercing shriek of metal on stone. But here it is at six, with no signs of them stopping. Grumbling obscenities, my shoulders scrunched to my ears, I gather my things and scurry past the chaos through the tree-lined courtyard. There are only four rows of homes, but by the time I reach my door, my head is pounding from the noise. I snatch the potted purple orchid waiting on my coir doormat andtap the keypad, slamming the door behind me with a huff.Silence. Well, mostly.
It’s not that I can’t handle any noise. If I know beforehand, I can disassociate to cope with it. But loud and unexpected shoots dysregulation through me so fast I want to curl into a ball and dissolve. Between that, my rigid routines, and hyper-focusing on my interests, my therapist has her theories about me. That’s one reason I’m already packed for my trip tomorrow. Since I insist on going, she encouraged me to take the evening to prepare for the music festival chaos my sister talked me into.
Flipping the lock, I leave the house dark as my breathing slows, focusing on the farmhouse-style wooden beams outlining my vaulted ceilings. There’s enough light from the transom above the door to read the card hanging from the brown pot in my hands.
Happy (early) Birthday, Will! Hope this gets to you before your weekend getaway.
—Sam
I smile as the pounding in my head dissipates, dropping my camera bag on the mocha microsuede sofa on my way to the kitchen. My best friend, Samson, owns a flower shop in Fort Bender and regularly sends me plants like I’m not horticulturally hopeless. Flora enters my house with the hope of a thousand suns, only to leave as withered mulch. It infuriates me to no end that I can’t figure out the plant life cycle. Spite drives me to keep trying.
Me
Thanks for the flower, dork. Aren’t these things super hard to care for?
Sam
Didn’t you get accepted into 3 Ivy Leagues, nerd?
Me
For math, not marigolds.
Sam
Touché. I’ll send a care sheet. How’s the Dracaena trifasciata and Monstera?
Me
Translation, I beg.
Sam
Stripey Leaves and Holey Hearts…
In the dumpster with the cactus and aloe…
Me
See! My names make much more sense. Stripey and Holey are currently taking a nap.
A dirt nap.
Sam
You didn’t water them enough, did you?
