a year from you.
a memoir through photographs. by romel mamaril
Dedicated to: my grandfather.
I still haven’t changed, but Time’s have changed on me. Times have changed... - Sean Leon
Prologue
The back of my hands tell time.
One of the most fondest lyrics that I’ve held close to for some time now, was written by a good friend of mine. The words were “the back of my hands tell time.” And from what I remember, he explained how those particular words were from his grandfather who had just passed away during that time. Though I don’t remember exactly all the details of our conversation as it was over six or seven years ago. However, I do remember that his grandfather kept a journal that he would write in after the passing of his grandmother. Those lyrics were some of the words that were written. After the years have passed, I still think about those words. To be completely honest, I probably think it over at least once a week. During the times when I’ve felt my stress just take advantage of certain situations that I would be in, I found myself thnking of those words. The words continue to provide me with comfort as I grow older. With it’s meaning tending to transform to me over time. I guess the words resonate well with me because it’s acted almost as a way for me to remind myself that the situations i’ll come across and the decisions I ultimately make may not be remembered by anyone. And that’s ok. The back of your hands, your skin, scars, and everything else about you will tell your stories, when the time comes
part 1 Barahona, Republica Dominicana
Barahona
Staying true to your experiences.
In 2016, after losing two of my uncles to cancer, one of my closest friends to a heart attack, and my grandfather (we called him Daddy) to old age, I began to rethink and re-evaluate what it is in my life that I need to prioritize or at least hold myself accountable towards. I remember clearly, the day Daddy passed away. It honestly felt as if it were written in a script. The morning my mom told me to visit Daddy at centernary hospital, I remember thinking to myself about how difficult that was going to be. I had a huge assignment to finish by 11:59pm. I was at Robarts library downtown, and centenary is back in Scarborough, which is about a 30-40 minute transit commute. I told myself that morning, I’d have to rush through my assignment real quick. And I did. I managed to finish my paper by 8:00pm. I bolted to Spadina station, and made my way back to Scarborough. When I reached the next station to catch the bus to the hospital, I recieved a phone call from my mom. It was the second time in my life, I heard my mom cry. The first was in 2015, the day after thanksgiving, when I was sitting in the living room of my parent’s home. To paint a picture for you, the living room had two couches. One couch was placed far left against the wall facing forward, with a perfect view of the window on its left. The second couch was placed against the wall where the window is, but further down. I was seated on the second couch. My mom was on the other couch, just looking out the window. Her face showed very little expression. She sat with her
body slightly leaned back comfortably with her left hand gently placed on her right. We stood in silence for maybe four or five minutes, while she continued to stare out the window. She started to rub her right hand, pressing down on her knuckles one by one. My mom glances away from the window for a moment, staring at me with this blank expression on her face. After ten-fifteen seconds, her blank expression started to crumble apart. Her skin told all kinds of time, her eyes widened and her mouth shivered as she took a deep breath. Right before she spoke, tears fell. Her eyes cried openly, as she looked at me and said, “I can’t feel anything”. On Thanksgiving day, my mom suffered through her first stroke that paralyzed her entire right side. In all honesty, I didn’t handle it very well. Looking back on some of the words that I said to her during the times when she was letting go of the things that mattered to her most, made me sick. She needed comfort and reassurance that things would be fine and that no matter how terrible her situation was, life would mean something. Maybe not what she was hoping, but nonetheless, her life would still have meaning. By 2016, I learnt that my mom needed a different kind of son. One that was not an advocate of tough love -- something that she raised me on all my life. She needed a son who recognized that she was no longer the mom that raised him and remembered each day that the well being of her mental health was fragile. Each day since then I would ask my mom for hugs and high fives until her heart was full. Or at least until she told me NO! which still meant her heart was full. As much as I prioritized my mom’s well being, I still had no idea on how to handle the personal losses in my life.
The night Daddy died, I visited my grandmother (we called her Mommy) at the nursing home, and she had that same blank expression my mom had when her mind was trying to understand what her body had just lost. Mommy was seated right up on her bed, with her wallet in her hand. Her wallet had old photo’s of Daddy throughout his life. Some of them was of him in his twenties, family portraits, and more recent ones of him during christmas. When she began to explain some of the photo’s to me that she had, her eyes would smile. I didn’t see the same in photo’s the way Mommy did. At least not my own. I was going through a time where I felt like social media was ruining every bit of photography and I wanted no part of it. I mean at the time I held most of the blame towards Instagram because it seemed like people that I knew that would post on the gram felt that their photos only had some sort of value when people liked it. I watched friends delete photos that they really enjoyed telling me in person about. They would delete their photo because it hadn’t received a validating amount of likes on Instagram that satisfied their social (media) status. Looking back, I saw a change in what I was posting on social media. Because of the shift in culture; the photos I posted went from my dslr to strictly being taken from my phone. Eventually I got so tired of the Instagram trends, like the grey gloomy downtown photos, that boost the clarity for a more grimy look. I was seeing that every time I scrolled through my timeline. I didn’t understand it at the time, and I didn’t want too. It wasn’t because I was jealous though. I was open about how I felt towards trendy photographers and made sure the grain knew I was against it. The culture turned me off and I felt social media killed the photo. The last photo I posted before going to Barahona, was on February twenty-second.
With that in mind, I hope I don’t sound like some snobby perfectionist that thinks my shit is better then anyone elses. The reality of how I felt was not because I didn’t appreciate or respect the photographers from the city i’m from that was making a name for themselves. My problem was with how many other photographers just hopped on their wave and the way people just bought into. In my particular case, I had just bought a new camera before leaving for Barahona. I still had enough learning curves that I had to hurdle over during my time there. But I knew that when I commited to buying it under such an important trip. I remember being on the plane and thinking about how I needed to approach this trip. I really thought heavily about what was more important to me. I knew that I was for sure going to be filming and quite frankly, I could’ve cared less if I didn’t end up taking any photos at all. My main concern was with when and when I shouldn’t be filming. There’s been too many times that i’ve scrolled through portrait photos on social media timelines of homeless people, or videos of people hiding far away, filming their friend give something to a homeless person. I wasn’t that kind of person and I’m still not -- well the giving part, i’m always down for. I enjoy giving, but it’s the filming of a good deed part that doesn’t sit well with me. It doesn’t feel genuine or in good intent. It just seems like this person wants to show people that they’re going out of their way to do something good for someone else. Not to throw my faith at you, but for me there is was a verse from the bible that I kept in mind the entire time I was in Barahona. The verse is from the book of Matthew 6:2. And it basically says
that “when you give to someone in need, don’t do as the hypocrites do -- blowing trumpets in the synagogues and on the streets, to call attention to their acts of charity!”. As I thought it over and over each day I was there, I found myself stepping away from my camera and the job I was asked to do. The place we were staying, was about five hours away from the capital city. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Our spot had wifi as well which was mad surprising considering how far out we were from all the tourist areas. On the first two - three nights I would check what some of my friends were posting online. Curiosity truly kills the damn cat because as it turned out, I had about four friends in the Dominican during the time I was there. They were all staying at different beach resorts, but mainly in Santo Domingo. The Dominican Republic that I was being exposed to was much different from theirs, I mean at least from what I was seeing online. But it was a good reminder to me on how much more there is behind a photograph. The photos that I was seeing online was not the Dominican Republic that I was seeing. And that perspective cemented how I wanted to approach the relationships I was going to make with the people there along with the photos that could potentially come from it. So I put my trust in faith, as cheesy as that sounds. I felt that I needed to experience the people and culture for myself before I did anything else. I wanted whatever photo’s I was going to take to represent genuine moments with the people I met. I wasn’t trying to come back with loads of “for five dollars a day you could sponsor this child” type photos. I was beginning to learn that taking a photo really comes with so much more responsibility.
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EVERYTHING THEY OWNED ON THEIR BED.
There were so many people that wanted to exchange stories with me and as a person who is predominantly an introvert, I really put myself out there to embrace them wholeheartedly. I found the more I did this, the more I felt I was really in the Dominican Republic. I wanted to see as many perspectives of Barahona, and the Dominican Republic as a whole. I exchanged stories with children, teenagers, young adults, elders, financially wealthy and poor people. Their stories led me to believe that we are all truly after one thing, no matter where we are in the world -- to be happy. Let me explain. See when I spoke with people from the city of Barahona, many of them have their reasons as to what makes them happy. For the fire fighters that volunteer their efforts night in and night out, helping people during tought times fulfilled their happy. For the children in the Batay’s that don’t really have much to live on, they’ve found their happy in the mundane little things. A simple game of soccer with a half pumped ball or basketball with friends brings happiness despite their living situations. The parent’s i’ve exchanged stories with made it clear that their children’s well being is what fulfills their happy. There was one mother that lived four houses down from where we were in the Batay’s. I kept hearing a loud noise to my left and there she was a hundred metres away waving for me to come to her. I had no idea what she wanted, so I had asked my friend Yngrid who spoke fluently in spanish to come help translate for me. When we got to her home, which was probably the size of most peoples tool sheds in Toronto, she invited us to her backyard.
When we got to the back, her husband was placing clothes onto the drying line and her child was running around playing. She spoke out to her husband in spanish and right away he called his son to sit with him on his lap. The woman sat down next to him and she made a gesture with her hand for me to take their picture. After speaking with, my friend Yngrid explained to me that the lady didn’t have any photos of her and her husband or her child. She said to me how many of the families that live here have had children and loved ones who have passed away without any photos to remember how they looked like. When I heard this, I was immediately hit with an entire new outlook on what the photos I would be taking could actually mean for some of these families. I was fortunately, given a real reason to take photos. Looking back on it, I remember being way more open to asking people for photos after that discussion I had with Yngrid. I always made sure to ask each person I had the intention of taking photos of, if it was in fact alright if I did. The interesting thing behind all the stories and people I came across during my travel in the Dominican Republic was with how unaware people are with what’s happening with a few hours away from them. When we visited some of the Universities in Barahona, some of the students couldn’t believe the stories and photos we shared of how people were surviving there. When we met some people in Santo Domingo, they were shocked that four-five hours away people were living the way the were in the Batay’s of Barahona. At that time, I remember not being able to understand how these people weren’t aware of what was happening so close to where they were living. All the disparities and injustices were all
left unnoticed by majority of the people I spoke to that lived only a few hours from Barahona. I remember initially I was so frustrated with this idea. The more I thought about it though, the more I realized that a lot of people from Toronto are no different. Indigenous communities all across Ontario and Canada as a whole, suffer from huge wealth disparities and lack basic essentials. A First Nation reservation in Ontario called Grassy Narrows has been without clean water for over a decade and a community that I often visit in the summer, called Serpent River First Nation, just five hours away from the city has been under a boil water advisory for years now. These communities have been suffering from environmental damages, yet the government fails to provide for them and the majority of Canadians that live in major cities either choose to do nothing, don’t feel they can do anything, or aren’t even aware at all. The reality is that the people in Santo Domingo that I had spoken too, who were unaware these living conditions, was really no different then how the people in Toronto are often unaware of the things happening just outside the city. I think sometimes we tend to forget this. At least for me, I know that I tend to forget this. That there is so much more, that we don’t see before we hear each others stories. And in a way, overtime during my trip I felt that I had a responsibility to share the stories of the Dominican and give justice through each photo I took. Looking back on the photos from this trip, I remember some of the purest moments of my life. It was a liberating feeling to understand the importance of taking a photo and the burden of responsibility that each photo comes baring.
With that said, that responsibility also didn’t stop me from remembering to put my camera away. There were moments when I got so drawn into what was going on and having a great time that I just put my camera away. When you, the reader, look through some of these photos of the Dominican I hope you keep that in mind. With some of the photos, you can get an idea of how unsure. When I compare the photos to the ones I take now, I can see right away that I was extremely uncertain with what I deemed appropriate or even what I was trying to accomplish. Images of street cars and side streets with no real meaning -- it was a way for me to ease into the country but it was a clear sign that I had no real experiences with the locals yet. The photos eventually warm up from the things I learnt and so you begin to see photos of people and children. At one point I felt a need to take a photo of this one families entire possessions laying on their mattress outside their home. I felt people needed to see this and be grateful for what they have, but also understand that there needs to be a change. With that said, there is no chronological order in how I placed my photos in this chapter because it was an everday struggle to understand why I was taking them in the first place. I had moments that felt good when I didn’t have things figured out and moments when I took a photo that didn’t feel genuine when I thought I had already sold that approach. It took a few times for it all to properly click. In the end I only kept the photos that I felt were genuine in its own way. In all that I remembered from this trip and the struggles that I endured while finding my way through it all -- I know for certain that this trip really provided me with a new perspective that set the foundation for when I touched base back in Toronto. Real shit, Barahona showed me the importance of photography.