A letter I will never send

A Letter to the Bald Jackass that I had the Misfortune of Working Next to on Saturday


I will not address you as Sir or Gentleman.  Both of those command respect. Some might even argue that by calling someone Sir it then puts the other person in a submissive position.  But a mountain cannot bow to the wind, no matter how loud it howls. I do not know your name. I do not respect you. I do not like you. And you are no certainly gentleman.  So I will only refer to here as Jackass.

You, Jackass,  stood behind me and berated me for an hour.  You, Jackass, tried to rush me. You, Jackass, scoffed and muttered insults under your breath just loud enough for only me to hear.  I was working with a line of 300 children that required a minimal amount direction, because a 4 year old does not instinctively understand the procedure of a Step and Repeat photoshoot, and I had one hour to photograph everyone.  Your football player was 21 minutes late. My camera is time-stamped. Even if he was on time, it was an impossible task for one photographer to handle. Instead of helping, you stood just behind me and outside of my peripheral vision about two feet away from me.  Every 5 minutes or so for a full hour you huffed and puffed like the big bad wolf. You ordered me to go faster on 7 different occasions. Thats right, it was so frequent that I started counting. You told me to stop counting to 3 while shooting. You demanded that one of me on four occasions.  You told me to just “snap” the photos. While my whole body was not fighting not to “snap” your head off. And when my camera over heated, as I predicted, and used all the energy in the battery - I paused the shoot for no more than 15 seconds to pull my spare and charged batteries from the pocket of my pants and swap it out.  To which you responded “Jesus Fucking Christ!! We dont have time for this!” You were LITERALLY shoving each and every child into the photo station. So hard and aggressively that about a quarter of them tripped and had to regain their balance as they stumbled over to your football player. Over and over you said that “We’ve been doing this for 3 years and its never been this slow”  And still I smiled for the children. I took a moment to very briefly engage and compliment each of them. “Wow thats a great smile buddy! Stay just like that for a second picture!” Again, my images are time stamped. I was averaging 5 to 6 children smiling directly at the camera, with big real smiles, a minute. Two shots each, because about 20% of them blinked. Do you know why all the children were looking at the camera and smiling even though they were all very confused by the whole process.  Because of me!! Because I am good at working with children. Because I started babysitting at 15. Because I spent 10 years as a camp counselor. Because I was a high-school art teacher. Because I’ve been a professional photographer for 10 years and joyfully engaging with children is a major asset to my income. I made those pictures extraordinary. Despite the devil screaming in my right ear behind my back. I literally couldn’t shoot faster. Cameras, even nice ones, are not meant for machine-gun style firing.  (I can only imagine the disappointment you are in bed) And that flash sitting on top of my camera? Yeah that takes at least 3 to 5 seconds between shots to recharge. It is a sharp burst of power and light shooting out of the device running on AA batteries. (I also had 4 extra batteries in my other pocket, charged and ready to go) I dont know what bullshit make believe world you are living in, but I literally could not have gone faster. My first shot of your football player happened at 8:21am. The last shot, 297 images later, was at 9:06am.  Thats final printed images, not children because we know there were some large groups. You scolded me when you looked at the line of over 100 children in the sun and yelled “We only have eight minutes left! You need to shoot faster or its not going to get done!” You scolded me again when we finished saying that the whole day was behind now.

How FUCKING dare you stand behind me, outside of my vision and berate me like that.  Your’e a slimy coward! To stand behind a woman and shit talk her only loud enough for her to hear while she is working.  You scoffed and mocked me relentlessly. You screamed at the children. You, Jackass, are a tyrant. This is my career. This is my profession and NEVER have I been so blatantly cut down and humiliated and degraded while literally on the job!  How dare you blame and fault me, for what was clearly poor planning on the other end. I had to demand a table and a chair to set up my print station. I was put in a little niche underneath the bleachers that smelled like human piss. On a 95 degree day instead of a refreshing breeze that everyone else got, I experienced the hot draft of old urine. I had to demand a table and a chair, for my electronics to sit on.  As if I was expected to set them up on the track circle. How dare you belittle me and get in my head to the point where I called my boss in tears to warn her there might be a complaint against me. How dare you screw with my head and my profession the way that you did! That 6 hour time block was hands down the worst experience I have ever had as a professional photographer. I was insulted the first hour, which broke me down substantially for the remainder of the day, I was drenched in sweat, having initially been told I would be inside, and my work station smelled like hot human piss.  

So to you, the bald jackass I had the extreme misfortune of working near last Saturday, go fuck yourself.  

P.S. I hope with all my heart that you painfully vomit every time you are about to get laid.  For the next 7 years.  Why 7 years? It takes 7 years for all the cells to replace themselves. So in 7 years you will be a different person.  Maybe all of those cells wont combine into such a cowardly misogynist degrading know-it-all Jackass.   Say that 7 times fast! You are a cowardly misogynist degrading know-it-all Jackass. You are a cowardly misogynist degrading know-it-all Jackass....

The Photographer.