Don’t Say ‘Cheese’
I took a memorable picture five years ago, on the occasion of our first family vacation. There we were, our 4-month-old son, my wife and I, watching the light begin to fade from our rented, cramped Lake Arrowhead cabin. The adults knew what was coming--spine-adjusting screams, mostly from him.
Our son was colicky. He’d sound off like an air-raid siren around dinnertime and blare on and off for hours. We tried everything to calm the little man, but to no avail. So, as he sat in his mother’s lap, mouth turned down on the edge of his first wail, I had a subversive thought, at least for an American: “Let’s preserve the moment.”
It’s still the only photograph taken of either of our two children when they were visibly upset. Today, it’s laid out in a handsome red leather album and recalls a quaint time when a set of new parents believed every baby cry signaled the onset of something serious. The frowny photo stands out in a sea of smiles--beaming faces at Christmas, Fourth of July, birthday parties and a hundred other lesser occasions of everyday life. Our collection isn’t markedly different from other family albums I’ve seen. The faces may change, but the theme remains the same: “Happy! And here’s irrefutable photographic evidence to prove it!”
My decision to take that picture, and my wife’s decision not to burn it, were the start to righting our parental compass.
I’m not sure how much of an average day is spent smiling. I live a fairly normal life, except for the mountain of anger I control by keeping my sock drawer tidy. I count myself lucky if more than 20 minutes of my waking hours are devoted to smiling. And that total includes forced, frozen and accidental smiles too.
But for argument’s sake, let’s say you possess an especially bubbly personality, and you smile twice as much as I do. I’m sincerely happy for you. That still leaves a lengthy ribbon of emotions that drifts and flashes across your face the rest of the day. Why is it that these expressions seldom make it past the photo album censors?
One explanation could be that all the sunny faces represent the triumph of light over darkness. Americans simply refuse to be dragged down by the water torture of daily existence. Instead, we focus our lenses upon moments of happiness and joy, no matter how fleeting they may be.
Yeah, right. Let me--and Walt Disney, who knew a thing or two about making people smile--explain why. Years ago, I was assigned to do a story at Disneyland, “The Happiest Place on Earth.” I can’t recall the details, but I do remember a park employee whispering a long-standing Disney myth. In this particular myth, Walt happened upon a park employee who didn’t seem quite happy enough. So Walt fired him. Or threatened to fire him. I can’t remember which, and it doesn’t really matter.
Personally, I applaud Walt. He wasn’t running a soup kitchen, he was running a business whose bedrock illusion is that everyone within its hyper-friendly confines is happy. Walt knew that people aren’t going to wait in two-hour lines and pay out the wazoo if the park’s employees are a bunch of crabapples.
Walt and his heirs have made a Matterhorn-sized pile of money out of skillfully manipulating one of America’s most obsessive fears--appearing unhappy. Americans, like Disney employees, live in constant fear that someone will detect a hint of their misery, no matter how big or small. People often think America is all about the Benjamins. Money helps, but it’s no accident that Americans enshrined the phrase “pursuit of happiness” in their founding document. Who else would have thought of such a ridiculous thing?
By Revolutionary War times, Europeans--world-weary, wise and often blindingly drunk every day by noon--had given up hope of ever enjoying a cheery state. (Still true today.) But before the ink had dried on the Declaration of Independence, Americans began promoting the pursuit of happiness as its greatest good, and today still cling to the notion as if it were a life vest on a sinking ship.
What’s lost in the mad quest to seem perpetually chipper is the humanity contained in frowns, moodiness and melancholy. In an emotionally representative photo album, you could see that people get sad, get down, get depressed--but do often get better. What I wouldn’t give for a Polaroid of my dad the day he had to fire someone at work, or of my mom the day four kids proved too much for her. If we all had such family photos, the world would be a lot happier.
Of course, most personal events, whether happy, sad or in between, aren’t meant to be photographed at all. Cameras are still a filter of experience, and no matter how many shots we take, the moment is unrecoverable, lost to time.
Who knows what my son, many years hence, will make of his unhappy-camper photo. In a flood of pictures, he may not even give it a second glance. Then again, I may end up talking to his Tuesday-Thursday therapist about it. Perhaps his Monday-Wednesday-Friday therapist will join us. But my hope is that it finds its way into his hands when he is a new father. I hope it tells him there are tears shed as children grow. But it’s not so bad, really, something to be expected, and in the end, everything will be all right. And that’s something to smile about.