SONYA
I spent four months in a gang-infested neighborhood for my first assignment as a photographer. I watched as young boys were initiated into their new families at the age of nine, some even younger. Each one trained in warfare before they reached puberty. They carried guns like appendages, and shot their weapons with the expertise of those who had been shooting their whole lives. Infractions as simple as crossing the wrong street could be cause for execution. Boys who had once been friends now fought like archenemies.
One of their leaders was hunted down for taking out an opposing leader. A hit was put out on him with a reward for the first one who could offer his bullet-riddled body. When he was cornered, two of his underlings stood in front of him like a shield and took the bullets instead. The leader escaped the carnage and hailed the two boys as heroes. At their funerals, their mothers laid themselves over their caskets and begged for an explanation. None came. As I stood in the procession of mourners, I wondered why children so easily accepted it as their place to absorb the sins of their elders, even if it meant losing themselves in the process.
I arrive at the hospital with my portfolio in hand. Pictures from all over the world. I find the Human Resources Department easily, and wait to meet the department chair. I interviewed for the other two jobs first. Both wanted to hire me, but the work was only for a week or two. I needed something longer. When I told Linda the news, she bit her tongue and notified the hospital immediately that I was interested in getting more information. No promises I would accept, she warned them. They set up a time for us to meet. In the meantime, I researched as much as I could on photography as a means of therapy; there was not much to be found. But bundled in with other creative endeavors, such as music and even video games, it had shown promise in helping patients increase their endorphin levels and help fight the illnesses invading their bodies.
When I drive into the parking lot, it feels odd to be here for a job rather than for my father. My need to see him wanes with each day. There is nothing I want to say to him; I know if he was awake, he’d have no desire to see me. My only purpose in remaining is for Trisha. Once she no longer needs me, I will move on.
The Human Resources Department is large and fills an entire wing of the hospital, with people in and out of offices. Everyone here is dressed in suits, not the hospital scrubs and white coats you expect to see on the floor of the hospital. “Sonya? I’m Sean.” A tall gray-haired man approaches me with his hand outstretched.
“A pleasure to meet you.” His grip is firm, filled with warmth.
“I have to tell you,” he says as he motions me into his office, “when I received the call from your agent, I was floored. Someone of your caliber being interested in this position—well, I don’t have to tell you what a coup it would be for us.”
“Thank you.” I have never gotten used to the praise my work elicits. When Linda receives feedback, she forwards me the e-mails or letters. I usually delete or trash them without reading the words. The few times I tried, it proved impossible to believe they were talking about me. “I would love to hear more about the opportunity.”
“Our board just passed a budget for out-of-the-box therapy.” He hands me documents to review. I glance at the glossy brochure about the hospital, touting its achievements. “Innovation in health care. We, of course, have art therapy, music, even video games in Pediatrics. But photography has made headlines recently, and since our hospital is always on the leading edge in health care, we decided to see what we could do.”