An Opera House in Vietnam

Sitting on a corner of my desk is a framed photo of our family standing in front of an opera house. It was taken some years ago, when we celebrated Christmas in Vietnam. The frame itself is plain and square and I've had it for some years now [I seem to recall buying the frame at a Target or some place like it when I moved to San Diego]. In the picture, the three women are on the left -- Ellie, Mom, Amelia [in that order] -- and to the right is Dad, myself, and Joe. Behind us is the opera house and even though our bodies block the street, there is also undoubtedly the insanity that is Vietnamese traffic. It doesn't look to be a particularly sunny day, though it's not too cold either; we're all in short sleeves [though Mom is prepared for the worst, with a cardigan folded over her shoulders, and if I'm guessing, tissues rolled up her sleeves]. We're all smiling, though I'm the only one whose teeth you can't see [I think I still had braces at this point]. It captures us as a family: happy, abroad, together. I've looked at this photo hundreds of times, glanced at it thousands more. But today -- and I don't know why -- I picked it up, held it.

I noticed for the first time ever the Vietnamese [presumably] woman over Joseph's left shoulder. She staring right at the camera, maybe waiting for the dumb tourists to finish their photo so she can walk back to work. On this not particularly sunny day, she's wearing sunglasses, so I picture her as fashionable and somewhat high-maintenance. I looked even longer, until I found myself wondering who the hell took this photo. I've narrowed down the possibilities [either Chi or a passing stranger]. But whoever it was, they did well.

The captured moment brings back so much, tells a little more, and lets the mind wander. Follow mine. We'll go from left to right.

Ellie. She looks tall standing next to Mom [who doesn't?]. Building houses, immersering herself in Guatemala, teaching english in Thailand -- that's all ahead. But right here, in front of the opera house, there's just the desire to travel, to make a difference somewhere, somehow. Maybe the smile she wears comes from a knowledge that she'll find somewhere, that she'll figure out somehow. If you look closely, you can also tell that the smile seems to be mixed in with the tail-end of a laugh. As if she's just done something mischevious [how unlike Ellie], and is enjoying the response she got. Perhaps this is a second take, because the first one was ruined by her trademark "dumb face". Or maybe she made one of us laugh just before the photo was taken. Regardless of the cause, the smile is above all else, genuine. How could it not be? Ellie, the girl who lives to travel, is in Vietnam, being Ellie.

There's Mom, arms around her two daughters, wearing dark red lipstick [probably applied moments before the photo. A rule Mom always told me, that I've never put into practice: "Always put some fresh lippie on before a picture".] The word I keep coming back to with Mom is little. How can you look at her in this photo and think of anything else?... But there is something else. Her voice. I can hear Mom saying "Oh, Ellie!" a few seconds before the camera snaps this. That's why Ellie's just finished laughing. And then there's how healthy Mom looks. Though she'll never admit it, she looks fantastic in this shot. Tan and lean. She's adapted to the Singapore life quite well; at home with a people who are as vertically challenged as she is.

I look at Amelia and perhaps the first thing I notice is what's not there -- Lilly. But of course this is before Lilly, even before she married Jim. She isn't a mother yet, though the similarities to Mom in this photo are striking [the face, the smile, and they're both wearing white t-shirts and blue jeans]. I know what is ahead for Amelia -- an Ironman finish, a beautiful wedding and marriage, a bubbly and hilarious daughter [and another baby on the way!!] -- and her smile, like Ellie's, is as if she knows this already. That soon she will be an Ironman, a wife, a mother. And exceptional at all three. There is also a neatness to Amelia -- the hair pulled back cleanly, the silver necklace lying perfect on the shirt -- that isn't accidental. No, if you know Amelia, you know that it isn't accendital at all.

When I see Dad in this - surrounded by his wife and children - I think of something he wrote. It's one of my favorite lines from one of my favorite books:

"I used to wonder why I had to fight so hard just to get the basic things, but I determined that I'd never quit, I'd never be beaten. While I had breath, I'd succeed; nothing was going to stop me. One day, I just knew it, I'd have time and money, I'd race, and I'd make a life for my wife and children."

I like to think this is one of those moments he dreamt of. That this trip, this photo is part of the life he'd always imagined. That when he was earning nothing as a journalist, chopping wood to heat his home, riding his bike so he could pay for food, he closed his eyes and saw the six of us like this: happy, abroad, together. That's what I get from Dad's face, especially his smile: "we're here."

If this were a Leonardo painting, the fact that:

a) my hands are crossed in front of my body,

and

b) I'm not smiling with an open mouth

They would both symbolize a sense of seperation from the group. An implied isolation. But I think [or at least I'd like to think] that the truth is that I just didn't know what to do with my hands or my arms. I never really have. Yearbook portraits, family photos, those cheezy pictures couples take where one of them holds the camera in front with a fully extended arm -- basically any photo where you stop what you're doing and stare at the camera -- those have always felt somewhat fraudulent to me. Or at the very least, unnatural. And you can tell in this picture. When you factor it all in -- the closed-mouth smile, the hands folded in front -- I look terribly unhappy. But happiness has nothing to do with it. I'm simply not comfortable. I'd rather be the one behind the camera, telling everyone else to smile.

And on the far right is Joe. It starts with that worn Mets cap, backwards of course, and then the matching Mets-blue polo. I'm so used to seeing him with some sort of facial hair, so it's a welcome surprise to find him clean-shaven here in Vietnam. He looks young here [I guess we all do], but again, perhaps I notice his youth so much because of the absence of a beard [or his pedophile moustache]. Law school is still years away [or as Mom might say, it's still a little star twinkling in the night sky]. He hasn't yet raced in Penticton or Lake Placid. He hasn't had his heart broken in Austin, TX, and then found someone who can do much more than repair it. He hasn't been to Lebanon. Those are all still twinkling little stars as well.

And so now we've reached the end of the story of a photo that will never change. I'll forever look uncomfortable in Vietnam. And Ellie will forever look mischevious. And there's something comforting in that permanence. That no matter where I go, there is a small square frame guarding a small square photo. No matter where I go we will always be happy, together, abroad.