My First Family Reunion - Original Writing

The photos you see depict my family perfectly. I am in the top row on the left, top center is a photo of my grandfather, top right is a photo of my dad. Next, in the center row on the left is a photo of my grandmother

While men have been consistently involved in family photography for decades, and are ultimately responsible for the establishment of family photography as fine art, “family photography” as a genre is assumed today to be “women’s work.” There is in fact a prominent and compelling collection of photographic work that exists and illustrates the way men capture family within a frame. For better or worse, male photographers were crucial in the establishment of family photography being accepted as a genre of fine art photography. Family photography can serve as a means to form a human connection. While the darkest moments of family life might not be included in a family album they are relatable at the deepest, purest level. Male and female family photographers alike were responding to a need to depict domestic pains felt through the universality of family. The images retained within a family album diverge from fine art photographs because they attempt to only memorialize the idealized stories of childhood and family travels and traditions. The ways men and women grapple with public and private spaces are inherently very different. Consequently, the perception of family work that brings the private to their eyes of the public falls along gender

Most professional photographers use these Family Portrait Ideas for their photography work. There are many occasions in

This picture is one that I passionately hold near and dear to my heart due to the fact it is of myself and my late grandfather. Reflecting on this image brings back warm memories of all the wonderful times we shared together. This snapshot is my lock screen on my phone to serve as a constant visual memento of his everlasting love. Seeing my grandfather’s arm around me reminds me of how incredibly prideful he was for his family. The visual of my hairdo and stage makeup calls to my mind of how much my grandfather used to enjoy watching me dance. Lastly, I am reminiscent of my grandfather’s smile that could always light up a room.

Drawing all this photos made me think how beautiful my life is, is beautiful because I have a family which love me and I love but What is Family? Well for me family is when people you share not blood only but good and bad memories. For me my family is my mother she is so sweet and lovely but gets mad easily but that's normal, my Dad he is very overprotective but very cool and helps me calm my mom when she is mad, my little sister, she is nice very friendly and is always there for me she's my rock and a very intelligent and strong girl if it wasn't for her I wouldn't be here today since she keep pushing me to finish school , my little brother he is just a kid but he do a lot for me when I feel bad he can make me feel a lot

Not every family is as picture perfect as they seem. In my family, we like to take family photos to show our growth and to get to see each other all together. While these family photos are always pleasant beforehand, they turn out to be a total disaster. Just a couple weeks ago my family had our pictures taken. The photos turned out extremely well, but if only the camera could see the turbulent ride that led to a disaster at our house. There were so many people with attitudes and the atmosphere was so chaotic that everyone was stressed out of their minds.

In my picture, people may assume that my family are all having a good time, but that is not all the picture depicts. In fact, right before the picture was taken my family and I had been riding bikes and it came a monsoon rain. We were all ill and frustrated at each other because we were uncomfortable due to the wetness of our clothes. When we got to an overlook that oversaw The Rocky Mountains everything changed. Our moods differed from just a few minutes earlier and we were all happy looking at the skyline of the mountains. Pictures show many memories and aspects of things that the viewer may not see. My picture says a lot about my personality and how I live my life. Looking back at this picture it makes me realize how I am an extrovert. This picture is an expression of how I am not only adventurous but also it reflects my leadership qualities, outgoing nature, and is a visual representation of my family values.

At first glance most people wouldn 't describe my neighborhood as, “ beautiful and appealing.” In fact, most people probably wouldn 't even describe my neighborhood as, “livable.” Broken glass, bags of chips, cans of soda and wrinkle pieces of old newspaper litter the ground; making it seem that the people who live here consider the ground their own personal dumpster. Several houses are boarded up; abandoned for such a long time I don 't even know if people actually lived there in the first place. Graffiti is scrawled across the sides of these houses giving a somewhat vibrant appearance to these otherwise gloomy homes. No one’s yard gives the suggestion that it 's being maintain. The grass grows in sporadic patches like spots on a Dalmatian. At night, nothing illuminates the deserted sidewalks as a result of the broken street lamps. This causes outsiders of our neighborhood to be warily of taking shortcuts through it. These people who look at my neighborhood and see all those things are just simply refusing to see the beauty within.

We want to escape from our mundane routines, fly somewhere tropical with plenty of booze, and forget about Sharon in the opposite cubicle who never stops snapping her gum. Resort hotel or cruise ship, it doesn 't matter. Just let me enjoy my measly two weeks of vacation while I can. We will then reluctantly return with embarrassing raccoon eyes from falling asleep on the beach with our sunglasses on and get back to work. When Sharon, between gum snaps, peers over the cubicle wall and asks how our vacation was, we 'll merely shrug and say, "Relaxing." And then it 's back to waiting for the next opportunity to return to "Kokomo." While this type of vacation may be rejuvenating and necessary for some people, more American travelers should strive for adventure rather than convenience in their travels. Instead of soaking up the sun, try soaking up the culture. You may find you 'll have a lot more to talk about when you return.

It was a breathtaking 101 degrees Fahrenheit in San Antonio that day. I was so fulfilled when I seen my grandma but I was also so anxious to see my cousins when we got to her house. It was amazing how big the city was because I lived in Wytheville, Virginia which is nothing compared to San Antonio. When we arrived at my grandmas and all my cousins came running outside to see us my heart filled with emotions. I got out and gave all of them enormous hugs because I haven’t seen them in 6 years. As we settled down me and my cousins just caught up with each other and how one another was doing.

The first time I took a risk, I was eighteen. I was sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen. A large painting of “The Last Supper” hung on the wall, next to it, rosary beads hung reverently and with care. The beads swung softly as the fan circled lazily above me. My grandmother, mi abuelita, my second mother sat in front of me. She has always been smaller than my siblings and I. Standing at below five feet, we often had to bend at the waist to hug her, kissing her cheek in welcome or in thanks. But in that moment, I had never felt so small and young because here I was about to come out to my grandmother. Here I was sitting in this small kitchen covered in Catholic imagery, her religion the most important thing to her, with the fear of wrecking this relationship..

As families go, mine was what I thought of as normal – whatever normal may mean. We always took our summer family vacations in Durness in the Northwestern Highlands of Scotland. My Seanmhair, Skye Sutherland on my father’s side lived in a converted crofter cottage on the edge of the cliffs above the sea. The cottage is made of the same stone as the low walls near the cottage. I always loved going back each year to my father’s childhood home. The Highlands of Scotland were more than just the 5,333 miles from my home in Woodland Hills a suburb of Los Angeles, California. There were no malls and no traffic, no housing tracts in the Highlands – only the beautiful green cliffs above the sea.

Everyone was very patient and kind with me when I while I am mourning the loss of my mother until my Aunt Laura decided to come to town. My Aunt was older than my mother she was fifty and would never admit to being older than 45. My Aunt Laura always ignored me and almost never visited. She would acknowledge my presence or even be nice to me so it was very strange to see her here so soon before the funeral. She came in in an all-black attire. She had a black lacy dress with a black boa and a black hat with a veil. My aunt has very dark reddish brown curled hair and over caked on make up to hide her age. She hugged my maid and cried “Oh Amelia what a shame your mother has passed so young.” I looked at her with a tilted head and was like I am Amelia. She quickly came over and repeated her actions. She wiped away some imaginary tears with a laced hanker chief to make herself look dignified and told me “Well that’s enough of that, can you show me to my room?” My aunt had seemed to pack her whole house into one car. I hoped this stay was temporary but it had seemed like she had plan to stay forever. All my aunt seemed to care about was when the reading of the will would be arranged. My grief had kept me from even starting any of the funeral plans so I left it to my maid to start. My Aunt seem to laugh at my idea and insisted on arranging the will plans for tomorrow.

Where was I expected to go now that my father no longer wanted me living in his house? I remember asking myself this question over and over. I had just been dropped off, back in my home town, at my grandparent’s house after a long and excruciatingly quiet car ride. I had sat in the backseat of my father’s SUV, not a single word spoken between us. The entire time all I had to think about was where I would go once we arrive at our destination. I can’t stay with my grandparent’s for the next two years while I’m finishing high school, and there was no way I was going to return to his house if I was just going to be forced to leave again. I unwelcome there, so I knew that I would be living with my mother by the time school started, which was great, except for the fact that nothing is ever permanent with her. Spending time with her on the weekends as a child I remember it always seemed like she was at a different house, living with another friend, or back staying in the spare bedroom at my grandparent’s. It was always unknown to me where I was going to be going when I stayed with her. Half-way through her college career I was born, so her only choice was to quit school and get whatever job she could, in the hopes that one day she would be able to go back and earn her degree. I never realized the importance of attending college, neither one of my parents had attended or finished their higher education, all I heard about it was the debt I would accumulate if I decided to go to a

I was raised in Jellico, Tennessee, a quaint town bordering Kentucky with my parents, and three older sisters. My family was extremely religious up until I was nearly a teenager. My family attended church every week, in addition to leading the church youth group. One would be under the impression that the Hughes family was an exceedingly wholesome family that did little wrong, I was under this impression also. Being a white family in an old-fashioned town in both the south and the bible belt, this was not completely accurate. When I was still a young child, no older than ten, my paternal uncle taught myself and my youngest sister a derogatory noun that referenced to those descending from Africa. My sister and I, being children that had not learned right from wrong, repeated this word. I quickly realized that I was not scolded by my parents or older siblings for using this word, as I was for saying less harmful words such as “crap,” “fool,” “darn,” and “jerk.” Due to this, I was under the impression for multiple years that this word was inoffensive to any person. Soon I learned that this word was suitable for both home and school. Multiple classmates used the word often, and teachers either never noticed, or simply overlooked it. Ten years later, I am completely aware, no thanks to my family, that that word is unacceptable, and should never be repeated by a Caucasian person. Parents are not always aware of what is truly right for their children when it comes to how to treat