There is a scene in the movie “Gummo” in which a little boy’s mother takes out a gun and holds it to the little boy’s head, and says “If you don’t smile, right now, I’m going to kill you.”
I know how that little boy felt.
My family was big into photography, you see. Somewhere, in houses throughout south central Texas and beyond, there are volumes and volumes and shoeboxes and shoeboxes filled with pictures of the Wang-Ka family all standing around squinting.
Yes, standing around squinting. My old man never knew a thing about photography, and the only cameras he ever owned were Polaroids and Instamatics, and his idea of a “family snapshot” involved a bunch of people standing all scrunched together, so as to get as many of us in the same shot as possible, and with the sun shining directly in our faces, so as to illuminate the shot.
What’s worse, he was one of those photographers who invariably TAKES a few seconds to half a minute to “compose” the shot, so this involved standing there, staring into the rising or setting sun, while he got his shit together long enough to push a button.
And then he’d gripe at everyone because they were squinting. From the general resemblance of everyone in the picture, you’d think we were all related to Popeye.
Hell, there’s at least one picture we call the “funeral picture” because we were all standing there so long, staring into the sun, that half the people in the picture have tears streaming down their cheeks. Judging from the background, we all just got done with a funeral for a loved one… at the Grand Canyon.
Pitched him over the side, I guess.
At least one of us wanted to do the same thing with Dad and his camera, too.
My grandmother was almost as bad. With her, it was meals. Whenever we all got together, we’d all be all over the place, some talking and having coffee, others out in the yard, the kids out playing, all of us doing typical family reunion things…
…until it came time to eat.
Then, we introduce the Ancient Rituals. The first of these was, of course, the saying of grace over the food. Nothing unusual about that.
…but the second was The Taking Of The Picture, and it, too, was sufficiently sacred that no food was to be touched until at least two snapshots had been taken. My grandmother would get up and run around the table a few times, looking for just the right vantage point…
…and then, she’d have us all look up and smile…
…and then, she’d say, “SMILE, durnit. No, you’re just showing your TEETH. SMILE!”
…and then she’d take the picture.
…and then, she’d look at the camera. “Did the flash go off?”
“No.”
“Oh, I forgot to change flashcubes. Hang on a minute.” Flashcubes would be found, and exchanged. Meanwhile, food is cooling. Children attempt to eat it, and get their hands swatted. The ritual is not yet complete.
“Smile!” says Grandma.
The camera stares at us. We’re hungry. We’re tired of screwing around. But we smile, dutifully.
“No, SMILE!” says Grandma, and with a herculean effort, we grin a little wider and try to think of happy thoughts, like burying her goddamn Instamatic out in the back yard.
This time the flash goes off, and there is a pause while Grandma advances the film for one more shot. IF that second shot is taken, and IF the flash goes off, then the obligatory Two Pictures Of The Bedlam Family About To Eat Their Food have been taken, and the meal may now begin.
It wasn’t a long thing, no more than two or three minutes, even counting the saying of grace beforehand. But it sure seemed a lot longer. And it happened EVERY time you tried to eat a meal in Grandma’s house. She even took pictures over BREAKFAST. I still have several pictures of my rumpled and unshaven father, in his bathrobe, trying to drink a cup of coffee and eat a scrambled egg, but pausing in his morning to smile cheerfully at the camera.
I rather like those pictures. He was not a cheerful-in-the-morning kind of guy, but he’d smile for Gramma’s camera. Serves the bastard right for making us stare into the damn sun for half an hour while he re-learned Basic Instamatic Operational Procedures.
But, then, he didn’t have much of a choice. EVERYONE smiled for Gramma when she had a camera in her hand. You didn’t have a choice, you see.
“SMILE! Come on, SMILE!”
“I AM smiling, Gramma.”
“No, you aren’t! You’re just showing me your TEETH! Come on, gimme a REAL smile! SMILE!”
Well, yes, Gramma, one normally smiles really big upon being screamed at by a harridan with a camera, doesn’t one?
To look at their respective family albums, my father’s world was populated by squinting people, all jammed together, standing ramrod straight. Some try to smile. Most simply squint. My grandma’s world, though, was a world of eternal mealtimes, a universe of people sitting at table with food set before them, but ignoring it in favor of staring at the camera with a gleeful rictus firmly pasted on their faces.
If my dad’s album could have been labeled THE POPEYE FAMILY, my grandmother’s could have been labeled THE JOKER’S DINNER PARTY, RIGHT BEFORE BATMAN SHOWED UP TOO LATE TO SAVE THE GUESTS.
…and one of the reasons my relatives hated my grandmother’s photo habits was because of ME, you see. There’s something about my face. Apparently, I look very different when I laugh or smile spontaneously than I do when I’m just grinning for a camera, and that about drove Gramma crazy.
“SMILE!”
She wanted to capture that happy, pleasant, carefree smile she saw when I was playin’ or watching TV, not the dutiful clenching of teeth one assumes when one is having one’s involuntary picture taken instead of eating the food in front of one. Unfortunately, it never seemed to occur to her to DO or SAY anything that might stimulate a genuine smile. Real professional photographers make a point of learning a string of jokes, one-liners, and clever remarks in order to capture a candid smile or laugh on film.
Gramma, of course, never did this. “SMILE! YOU AREN’T SMILING! SMIIIILE!”
“I AM SMILING!”
“You are NOT! You look grotesque. And don’t get smart with me. Now, SMILE!”
“Son, smile for your grandmother,” my father would say, as he looked glumly at his pot roast. It was no longer hot, and was soon no longer even to be warm.
“I AM smiling! See? Teeth, corners of mouth turned up, cheeks pinched! What the hell else can I do?”
“Well, smile BETTER,” growled Gramma irritably. “You look like someone just jammed a live wet fish down your pants. That ain’t a happy smile. That’s not even a grin. That’s just showin’ teeth, that’s all.”
“Will you SMILE for her already?” howled my sister.
And my whole family would glower at me for being unable to insufficiently fake a good smile.
And dinner would grow colder while I made a point of rearranging my facial muscles until we found an arrangement my grandmother could live with.
And this problem grew worse as I grew older.
As a teenager, I developed the kind of attitude that teenagers develop, and I remember a couple of meals that were eaten stone cold because I made it clear that I was smiling as big as I meant to, and if the universe had to come to a stop because I could not smile any bigger or better, then damn the universe anyway.
My sister has a couple of those pictures, still. She says they’re kind of creepy, because everyone manages to smile and still look pissed off, all at the same time.
But it wasn’t until adulthood that I realized how to get my grandmother off my back once and for all. I learned a new smile, you see… a secret smile… a frankly rather unpleasant smile.
“SMILE, durn you! That ain’t a real smile! That’s just showin’ teeth!”
And upon hearing that line, I decided to try my NEW smile. I would have been around thirty at the time, I think.
…and you know what? I never had to use that smile again. This is the only picture of that smile that exists…
