The little picture
fascinated by…small stories
I often say that, as the oldest granddaughter in my family, I know where the bodies are buried. This is technically true; I am in fact the keeper of all the paperwork on our ancestral resting place. But, in this case, I mean that I know a lot of family stories. I can tell the grand, sweeping narratives, the ones for simchas and funeral repasts. But I also collect the stories that the grownups didn’t even remember they told me.
This sounds ominous, and my metaphor probably doesn’t help. But I have come to realize, after a lifetime of listening, that you can’t really appreciate the bold, big stories unless you also know those little stories.
When I was an avid photographer, years ago, I discovered the problem with walking around with a gigantic Nikon around your neck at a family function: people expect you to produce family portraits, little clumps of perfectly-composed smiles for social media.
Meanwhile, I was trying to document little stories, catching my grandfather presiding over a domino game with his grand- and great-grandchildren, all with furrowed brows, learning from the master.
My favorite photos capture moments like those. A faded photo from 1978 I will keep to myself—6-month-old me has finally tired herself out playing. I’m asleep, lying across my grandmother’s lap. She’s gently, quietly brushing my hair. Her hair is in a scarf, she’s wearing a housedress, and she is smiling to herself. Her expression tells a whole story I could not possibly remember on my own.
In Maya’s Journey, Maya is a little girl who loves to tell sweeping, imaginary stories. She learns that big stories are really a collection of tiny stories, and that the story of her blended families will always be the biggest story she tells. She collects images: Martha and her own grandmother at the piano, or Essie going into a Settlement House to get out of the rain. All of these little stories become part of a story of danger, migration, and romance that, in its own way, is really just a tiny part of a giant and ongoing story.
Those were the kinds of stories I could hold and understand and retell. Those little moments. They were small enough for me to claim as my own. I still write about them.