September 1, 2010 - Breakfast

A photo of my father from 1966, found on the web. From a yearbook at the college where he taught. They've scanned them in. There isn't much family history in my life. Not recent. We know where the ancestors came from, and when. But the more mundane stuff, the recent stuff, no one really find that interesting. It's undocumented.

There are a few images from the late 70s, a few more from the 80s and 90s. Then I buy my own camera. I'm sure my mother has photos, but things kept getting lost and destroyed, washed away in a flood, etc. Lots of leaving and going.

In the picture he's 34; I'm 36 now. He looks older. I'm four or five inches taller, and have been much fatter. But that softness, the sort of buttery largeness and the downcast eyes. I know exactly how that man feels in 1966. He doesn't want to be out in the bright sun with his pale Irish skin, having his photo taken. He's said a dozen ironic things as he climbs onto the risers. He's interested in the photographer's camera. He's ambitious; he still feels young. My brother is at home, a toddler. I don't exist; there are a million ways that I might or might not exist eight years later. It was so entirely optional and nothing about this moment implies me.

There's a vanity to it, imagining myself in there on those bleachers. Those people around him--I recognize some of them--were the adults, the fellow professors. I wanted to be one of them very badly; they were sophisticated and students lined up outside of their doors to see them. They were nice to me as I went by their offices on my way to see my father.

There was a vending machine in the student union that dispensed ice cream. It was as compelling and mysterious to me aged six as it is to me today.

I just learned about this. America will get the weight-loss memoirs it deserves.

Weight: 306.5 lbs