Historical Irony

I love these pictures of my grandfather's life as a church leader. They mark his journey from "The Door to the Pulpit" (the name of the memoir that he long ago told me he fancied writing about his progression from usher to deacon to pastor), one of the most important rites of passage of his life. Since my mother shared copies with me, I've been struck by their intimate yet journalistic quality. I used to wonder who took them. Not long ago, I got my answer.

The irony that lies beneath these images is just as fascinating as the moments they preserve: Grandpa told me that he and the photographer both worked at the Galveston Wharf Company. Grandpa first worked with the Wharves as a janitor and through the Civil Rights years was gradually promoted until he had a "respectable" desk job.

In any case, in addition to the photographer's job at the Wharf Company he had ties to the local paper and, rumor had it, to the local branch of the Klan. Grandpa shared this in a very matter-of-fact way, with nary a note of anger. Almost like he was recalling the score from a sports match.

Was grandpa extending collective forgiveness toward the photographer and all that he represented by not only inviting him to our family's place of worship, but also granting access to such a private and sacred moment in his life? Or was it simply fear and submission?

A finished photograph tells as much about what a photographer sees with his heart as what he sees with his eyes. Say what you like, but to me these images say that in some small corner of himself, the photographer was testifying to the beauty and tradition of this ceremony. Else how would he have known that the congregation of elders crowning grandpa's head with their arms extended like beams radiating from the sun was worthy of preserving? Why was the photographer interested in attending in the first place?

Such is the irony of relationships in the South.