My Memories Of My Life

For the majority of my life, I had been shy, even though it didn’t seem like it most of the time, I was scared to death when I met new people. I know that it sounds extremely trivial, but I feel that when you first meet someone, you’re ultimately giving them their first impression of yourself and that is a lot of pressure. It seemed almost certain that I would lead a life of being a social wallflower until March 2017, more specifically, March 28th, 2017. This day was and still is important to me because I learned how to be confident, and through my experience, it taught me something that I will hold onto forever. Prior to this day, I was an extremely introverted person and rarely went out of my way to make friends. As a volunteer at day

Growing up, whenever I noticed camera lenses appear within my line of vision, I would do almost anything to avoid being photographed. I never really understood the reasoning behind my behavior but I would always tell myself it was because every picture of me was taken at an unflattering angle. However, as time went by, I realized that it was never the position of my face that made me feel a hint of melancholy whenever I examined the snapshots but because among the familiar ones, there were several I had no recollection of. As I became aware of this fact, I started to sense that the reason why I did not like posing for photos was because my subconscious mind knew there was a possibility that I would forget that particular moment in the future. Dejected by this realization, I stowed my portraits away within a box located in the basement because it was the only way I could postpone the thought of my youth slipping away. I did not want to constantly be reminded that some of my childhood memories were no longer accessible, and I knew that seeing the photographs around my house would hinder that.

For my creative project, I did a photographic narrative. I had a hard time trying to decide what I was going to take pictures of, that would tell a story. After awhile, I finally decided to make my photographic narrative over the stages of ones (me) life. Once I decided on a topic, it was just a matter of figuring out what my pictures would consist of. I wanted to get the point across that my pictures were telling a story of some one’s life in a sweet but simple way. After choosing a topic for my narrative, I was trying to think of what would be an easy way to convey my message though photographs. I decided to take pictures of things that I considered to be important stages of one’s life. A lot of planning went into my photos, I took about

Pictures hold memories; our pasts, the moments we want hidden, the moments we want to keep alive-- photography is indiscriminate. I cannot write a memoir on my early life with an accompanying picture, I do not even own one. It was not a lack of cameras, on the contrary, every singular moment of my early life was dominated by the obnoxious flashy lights. There are over 200 pictures of me that I know of, and many more that have yet to cross my path, however, the few I do know of are kept, under lock and key, by my father. I use my eyes as my cameras now, storing them on my harddrive, in a place only I can see. I have no picture of my presumably happy self to show, no picture holding my loose tooth, nearly drowning, or falling off my bike. All

When a camera captures a photo, what it leaves behind are vivid memories that will soon be gone forever. Photograph are things that get very close to impossible to reproduce as time pass, yet they could be destroyed in an instant of rash judgment. To me, I see each and every photograph as virtual rewind button, a time machine that would guide me back to places that I have once abandoned. The longer I gaze at each photograph, the more I realize that these times have past, along with my innocent and naive childhood.

Growing up having strict parents and many boundaries, it had always put me in a box. I believed that everything had to be perfect, and that there’s only one solution to a problem. I’d thought that for the longest time; until, I met my best friend. A distinct memory I remember of us, was the first time we met, which was in ninth grade English. She was holding a book with huge letters on it that read ‘photography’. My curiosity got the best of me, so I asked if I could see it. Her face immediately lit up, and she opened up the book. I remember seeing pages after pages of beautiful photos, and the vision behind those photos were breathtaking. A certain photo I remember was a picture of a tree. But it wasn’t any ordinary tree. One half of the tree was covered in snow; the other in ice. I found it odd that she didn’t pick one side of the tree

Though somewhat dense, and theoretical, the anthology seamlessly reads as if a narrative. Throughout her essays, Sontag attempts to critique everything photographic, ranging from the historical development of photography to the very reason why people take so many photographs. In her first essay, “In Plato’s Cave,” Sontag claims that one reason why some many people take photographs is nostalgia. By taking photographs, people forever encapsulate their experiences, enabling themselves and others to examine that exact moment of their life. Thus, photography helps shape our memory and understanding of the past. Although nostalgia breeds within us a need for preserving memories, sentimentality, Sontag argues, also creates within us an understanding of our own mortality. By filling our lives with photographs we are accepting that those moments of intense beauty and emotion are momentary, and thus we too are transient beings. “All photographs are memento mori. To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s (or thing's) mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time’s relentless melt.” (Sontag, 15-16) Like a photograph, we too age and

The motto for a photojournalist: “...a picture is worth a thousand words”, meaning there is many semiotics to be drawn, and opinions to be made. Photos have taken the world by storm over the past century. Who can forget the most memorable photos from the 20th century, the horror of the holocaust, the joy of a sailer returning home and the faces of the world. We have been a part of history through the eyes of a camera lens.

Firstly, the first photo Is me and my family at the youth fair. My family love to go to the youth fair every year. What my mom loves more than the food and rides is taking pictures. When we went to the fair as we walked in to enjoy the rides the photographer comes and persuades me and my family to take a family photo. We weren’t going to take the photo but then my mom was

I was at times repulsed by my family’s earnestness in picture taking. Every wall and corner of my parents and grandparents’ houses was lined with photographs. When I was little, I never linked this obsession with photography to the preservation of our own history.

In an instant, my life had changed. I have no memory of my mom and dad being together and being happy. Just the terrible things that led up to their divorce. The fact that when I thought back to my childhood and all I could remember were the sad and depressing moments made me turning to photography. As soon as I got my 3rd generation iPod touch for Christmas in 2012, I was obsessed with taking pictures. I would take pictures of anything that i found beauty in. I didn’t care that it wasn’t the best quality or I didn’t know the right angles. I knew I would learn and upgrade and that in the meantime, I would document everything on my shitty iPod camera in hopes to make up for all the lost memories. I would grow to use photography as a tool to cope with a dreadful, fleeting childhood, emotionally hard times I went through, and my biggest fears in life.

“Know therefore that the LORD your God is God, the faithful God who keeps covenant and steadfast love with those who love him and keep his commandments, to a thousand generations” (Deuteronomy 7:9). Through all generations of my family leading up to today, my family, on my mother and father’s sides, all practice the same faith. All of my family is Catholic, most of my friends growing up were catholic, and everywhere I looked, my faith was an important part of my life. I went to private school for nine years; the same one many of my cousins and my siblings attended. All of the people around me when I was a child prayed and worshiped like I was taught to do. They were the ones that influenced me to go deeper into my faith. Through the daily religion classes and weekly masses, to the teachers and priest that influenced my morals and values, I look back on those days as times I cherish. I had learned to open my heart and let others in to take a part in my life. I set boundaries for myself to be a respectful person and keep my faith. And most importantly, I am a life worth living as we are all made from the same image of God. Private school is the reason I am the person I have grown to be today and I will become tomorrow.

My first memory was of my cousin and I playing on the balcony of our two-bedroom apartment in Silver Spring, Maryland. We were throwing a tennis ball back and forth and when it was my turn to throw it to my cousin, I threw it a smidge too far. The tennis ball went behind a broken mirror table, and my cousin insisted that he should go and retrieve it. So he did, and we continue to play without a clue that my cousin had actually been deeply cut on his cheek by the broken glass. My aunt realized it as soon as we came indoors. It was a deep wound and the scar of it is still there today. This event may seem irrelevant, but that was how my life was structured-- going on with life without realizing the pain.

I only have one memory of my Uncle; he was like a star, nice, warm, caring and would never do anything to harm someone he loves…or loved. When I was little my family visited my foreign family in Scotland; the only thing I remember is when my Uncle screamed “Happy Birthday Kiddo” and threw me into a bouncy castle. That’s all I remember about that trip…and my uncle. If I only met my uncle once why should I have to leave school to go to his funeral? I won’t know anybody; nobody will know me; I will just take up space. What’s the point?

One of the memories that is more permeate in my mind is when my father had to travel to China for business intentions. I remember when he leaves the country, but not more than when he arrived home. Usually, when he came back home, he usually bring with him some gifts for me and my mother, and he never forgets to bring me my favorite gift which I still love when he give away to me. I like to call it as the God´s dessert because of its curious shape of production, intense flavor, and delightful meaning.