Working Children

A Story About Photography
 

A childhood of work and play is how I remember it.

Tough love was always there, also love.

I am the second oldest of four children. My sister, brothers, and I were born in a small import/export town in Mexico. The house we began our lives in, sits on one of the most humble neighborhoods in town.

From a very young age, our parents taught us how to work. We all cleaned the house, cooked, washed laundry, raked leaves, picked pecans, and socialized with people. We also watched TV here and there. My family all worked together. We grew up with unity and discipline.

"Your momma would line up all you kids into one line and have you fold and put away your own clothes. It was a sight to see. Your sister was maybe six, you were five, your brother 3, and your little brother was a baby. Little kids that would work like grown-ups," my great grandma would tell us later on in life. She never liked kids working too hard. (She said all of this in spanish)

My mother and father moved us to our new home one day. We were now living on the other side. What a clash of culture! One river dividing two nations. Two Towns. Two lifestyles. Two economies. Two governments. Two cultures.

My sister, brothers, and I spent the next years growing up in the United States of America. People really dislike the idea of children working here.

Eventually my father began making more money as a professional photographer. He quit his day job and went all in on photography.

Soon, my siblings and I were learning how to prep lights, develop film, sell portraits, and shoot photography. To some it was like sweeping and washing dishes. To my youngest brother and I, it was cooler than popcicle.

When I learned to drive I was given a ticket for driving without a license. I was 14 years old. There was no driver's license for that age.

"What are you doing with this car?"

"Mr. Officer, I took it without my parent's permission." This is what my parents told me to say.

"You will have to leave the car here. You can NOT drive it. Your parents will have to pick up the car. Sign here for your violation."

I scribbled my name. I didn't have an official signature yet.

The real reason I was driving the car was business related.

I was selling kindergarten graduation portraits my dad had taken the weekend before.

He had sold plenty, but I had the addresses of all the parents who did not buy.

Naturally, I worked to pay off my ticket.

Most frown upon the idea of children working. In my culture, it is a right of passage. Teaching children only to play gives birth to adult babies. I learned to work.

A short story by:
FullStackLeo