Melanie Mignucci
English Hot Pink
7 December
Nathaniel Epp
I don't quite know whether it was pleasure or necessity that saw me turning towards photography. All that I've remembered up to this point is that I am always fed, and that I like what I do. I don't believe even that was expected of me, growing up in the suburbs outside of Boston with my five sisters.
As the only male in our family, I was meant to succeed my father, a printer. All he did from dawn to dusk was stay down in our basement, where we kept the printing press. When he emerged, his gloves were covered in ink, the cheap leather spotted with darkness.
All day and all night, he fretted over his precious papers. If there was even the slightest bit of rain, he would lock himself away with the press, keeping it dry all through the night. He toiled over it like the slaves over a plantation. I would not be able to live this life, this half-life that my father had chosen.
I remember one Christmas, about eight years ago. I was seventeen, and was meant to apply for university. My mother and father saved money all throughout the year, my mother taking on extra work to feed all of us and give us each at least one present. Being that I was the oldest, I was anxious about my present this year. Around the fire, we opened our presents, while my father read from the Bible and my mother unbraided my sisters' tangled hair. My parents had gotten me a camera. I was unclear about what to do with it, but quickly learned that it was valuable gift, and I was meant to cherish it.
I have cherished that camera, and it is still the only camera I use today. It was my only attribute that allowed me to be accepted to university with scholarship. I knew that it was symbolic of the fact that I was not supposed to follow in my father's footsteps, but to carve my own path in the world. I hope that I have made my father proud, and hope that he know his gift made me a rich man, richer than a printing press could ever make me. I still pray for him. Him and his ink-stained gloves.