More Than Kids

Seven, Eight, Nine

I have accepted that I may return to edit this posting for a while, because numbers are a little more important to me than I thought, so I am still processing. I love numbers, almost romantically. I can hear little children voices ask, "then why don't you marry them?" Well, I married my wife on February 2, 2002 at 2pm. And, not because I think numbers have mythical power. Numbers seem easy. Math was easy, fast. Reading was slow. I moved numbers around. Letters moved around on me.

As I have gotten older, I am beginning to forget birthdays and important dates. I figure, if I don't remember, it wasn't important. The reminder function of Facebook, doesn't impress me. These reminders seem unsentimental. If people really cared, they would remember. Sometimes, I remember incorrectly. For about twenty years, I have confused an old friend's birthday. Today, she turns 39. I thought her birthday was 8/7; instead it is 7/8. At least I remembered.

Numbers look good. Usually.  They don't flip around on me like letters. I don't mix up sixes and nines the same way that I mix up "g"s and ''d"s. I don't mix up the ie rule with numbers. And even when I see numbers backwards, I know what they are. I process them differently. I love the number 3. I love 33 even more. 

But I don't like 23. It just seems ugly. 32? not so bad. 

For someone who photographs faces, I would think that I have the same relationship with faces as I do with numbers, but faces and letters are similar. I forget what people look like. However, I remember composition. I remember an entire photograph years after I took it or saw it. The person just doesn't look like I remember...and yet, I can still feel the emotion, I can feel the entire photograph.

Sentimental Numbers - Images by bryan farley

Ten Years After

Ten years ago, I moved to San Francisco from Santa Barbara. In the Fall of 1987, I began college at UCSB and I lived in Santa Barbara for twelve years. I thought I would stay forever. I loved the community, the lifestyle, my church, the color of the sky, and the smell of the Eucalyptus every fall. But eventually, I outgrew SB. As my friend Mark Wirtz said, "Santa Barbara has everything except a pulse."

I moved to a place that seemed to be "all pulse." When I drove into San Francisco on the evening of July 5th, 1999, it was one of those days that led Mark Twain to comment something about the "coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco." The City was cloudy, windy, cold, brutal. It was unforgiving and harsh. Concrete and loud. Except when louder. Appropriately, I moved into a dark grey three story flat squished between two other houses. I didn't understand how people could live without seeing the ocean.

It took years before I felt comfortable in the city. Time helped. Experience. Meeting my wife and having children changed how I see the city. I look at it through my children's eyes now. Surviving the city has also given me confidence. I can walk around any downtown in America, and I know that I can survive...look anyone in the eye, and I do. And mostly, I enjoy the people I meet.

I love San Francisco and Oakland now. I love the cement and the noise "and the traffic reports on the 8's."  It isn't the same kind of love that I had for Santa Barbara -- my first true love, but this love is different. This is where my children were born. So in many ways, it is more real. 

The photo gallery helps me understand how I see the last ten years. There is Santa Barbara on a bad Winter Day and SF on a pleasant summer morning (Santa Barbara still looks better.) There is a A New Year's Day photo at a Santa Barbara park where I feel like a tourist. Photos of urban trees planted into cement, my first Bay Area home, the gray flat, just one block from Golden Gate Park, but 335 miles from tranquility. And finally, my daughter and son in a much different Golden Gate Park.

My children see the Bay Area differently than I do, and they always will. This is their birth place...their FIRST HOME. When I drove by the flat where I first lived, my daughter asked me if I knew my neighbors in the yellow house. I explained that we didn't; we lived too close.  Maybe my daughter will continue to see things differently, maybe she will meet her neighbors in nearby yellow houses...or maybe she will grow up and move to Santa Barbara.

Ten Years After - Images by bryan farley

Independence Day

When I was younger, Independence Day was about fireworks, family and BBQ. I remember the bicentennial, and the anticipation...I collected the quarters. I loved the history. Now that I am a parent, I think about Independence Day differently, though I still love the fireworks, the family gatherings, the BBQ, and this year, the squirt gun fights.

As a parent, I realize that I have been teaching my children about Independence since they were born. When my children trip, I ask them, "What do we do when we fall?" They always answer, "get up," even if they are crying. (When they can't answer, I know they are really hurt.)  I encourage my children to have their own thoughts and ideas, and when they say something original, I am excited. 

Our country's history has taught us that gaining independence may require hard work. Independence may require sacrifice, or difficult choices. I want everything for my children, including the ability to make difficult choices.

Now that I am a parent, I am also able to reflect on my own path of independence, and I realize that interdependence and independence are not mutually exclusive. To be in relationship with others, one must know oneself. After all, independence is about relationships. There is always a preposition implied. America gained independence from England. Children earn independence from their parents. Individuals, whether they are people or countries, are never alone, even if it feels that way sometimes. Even when we think that we are independent.

Independence Day - Images by bryan farley