Walking along the main rode in San Martin Etla, a small town outside Oaxaca, Mexico, I found myself looking for a cab back to the city center. Soon I stumbled upon a community baseball game from what was presumably two local teams. Me, a large black man, standing quite awkwardly near the entrance, unsure if I was welcome here, taking pictures of this wonderful Sunday afternoon baseball game. Eventually, as it always happens to me for one reason or another, someone took the liberty to introduce themselves to me. An old man with a weathered, warm face reached his hand out to me. “Cole,” I said awkwardly. He didn’t say his name back here so I presume he thought I meant the rock (he made this joke when I said my name again). As a foul ball popped up, I took the opportunity to make an elementary joke “Cabeza! [head]”, I yelled as the ball fell through the trees and into a group of people sitting on the small set of bleachers on the side. I think I got a few pity laughs from the 6-man group.
Returning from the concessions stand, the old man’s friend brought back some snacks and cigarettes. Essentials only. He graciously offered me one; I regretfully declined. Alas, he asked me if I was Cuban. Not sure why as I couldn’t quite understand his reasoning, but it was interesting nonetheless. I told him I was from San Diego and for a minute he thought I was referring to the town in Oaxaca. Not quite however. “California,” I proclaimed lightly. At this point, I’d begun chatting with the entire group of friends. Light hearted conversations in an attempt to connect with my fellow baseball fans.
Before leaving, I found myself stumbling over my words trying to ask this welcoming group if I could take their pictures. “Puedo saques tomar uhhh…”, I mumbled pulling out my camera.
“Fotos,” one saint blurted out as I turned on my old canon point and shoot camera.
“Sí”. I pulled out my camera, not use adjusting settings, this cheap camera has the quality of an iPhone 4 but the spirit and soul of a late 90’s automated film camera, niche. “Uno, dos, tres. Queso!”, I blurted out as a few men laughed. I thanked everyone and ran down the street trying to catch that elusive cab.
On the way back to the city center, I began reflecting on that small interaction. My nervous request to take their photos reflected the intimacy of this seemingly mundane situation. Pictures, taken every day, still carry the same weight they always have. The photographer has so much power in how they choose to display their subject as Susan Sontag declared, but together, the photographer and their subject create beautiful work together. It is just as any other communal activity is, careful, considerate, and intentional. It requires participation and connection. Without these pillars, photography can quickly turn into a pornographic oeuvre where the subject is sensationalized to elicit a reaction from the audience. This experience in turn lends no autonomy or understanding to the subject’s existence.
Processing this, the weight of the question “Can I take your photo?”, can be appropriately understood as a meaningful communal activity that holds monstrous weight in such a simple statement. Through this, we can connect, learn, and love. Things we all desire.
Who knew an old camera could cultivate such profound possibilities? For you to have and me to take
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