I stopped taking photographs in the middle of last year and now, I am back at it. Do not concern yourself by wondering what camera, what frame size, what setup, what editing software I use. I have returned to my solemn aim of taking bad, not terribly well-framed photographs on my phone.

Somewhere between North Professor Street and Tappan Square, between earnest environmentalism and suspiciously photogenic sunsets, I absorbed a shame about documentation. Breathe in nature! Look with your eyes, not your phone! All manner of remarkable and unoriginal moralistic mantras had convinced me that in these lay the Truths of Life, the Secret Path to Becoming an Outdoorsy American (and Obie), and Real Appreciation of Beauty.

And today I am here to tell you that it is absolute cloggerswaggle, ripsmackle, hogwash. In better known terms: rubbish.

The anti-phone sermon is a luxury at a liberal arts college. Naturally, I recognize the power of a life lived less digitally. The point where privilege comes in is the casual moral policing of photography. At Oberlin, this philosophy emerges from lives well-travelled, being accustomed to abundant nature and recreational spaces, thinking vast blue skies are the norm. 

In my hometown of Kolkata, India, travel is an event. 

It is the fought-for result of parliamentary family debates, leave from work that must be struggled for and is never freely given, cost-cutting, spreadsheeting, and ensuring caregiving duties are not abandoned. My city of concrete and compression has character unlike any other, and the natural beauty of my nation is unparalleled, yet the number of people who are privileged enough to witness it is startlingly low. Many of us, those privileged enough to have the money, resources, and exposure to ideas of travel, still struggle through logistical chess matches that raise cortisol levels. International travel is a distant dream; traveling to a neighboring state requires a year of planning.

From within this ecosystem, I have somehow burst upon the gates of the American dream. The pride and wonder and amazement of family, neighbors, well-wishers, gardeners of nearby parks, owners of the shop across the street, all demand one particularly important token: photographs.

I need to emphasize and re-emphasize and convince five neighbors that there can still be snow in April. I must send photos of what scarves and shoes I am wearing, demonstrate that the cold has not killed me, and prove that it is possible to stay warm. For concerned grand-aunts and uncles who are checking the weather in Ohio diligently, I must send evidence that the sun still rises. I must take convincing photographs of visible grass, because despite the number of times I show my grandmother a globe, she refuses to believe the great, grand foreign lands can truly experience higher temperatures.

My father is perpetually amazed by the blueness of the sky. In the period when moralistic, Luddite-esque preaching had subdued my phone camera, he asked to see the sky again. My mother is most interested in seeing me, zooming in on photos to confirm my lack of romantic entanglements, in scrutinizing if my hair has been washed adequately. 

So if you see me snapping maniacally at Yeobie’s brown family, picnic blankets, and even the interior of Azariah’s Café, know that it stems from a responsibility to be the eyes for multiple generations that have pinned hopes and dreams on me. Remind yourself that this is the case for many international students. Maybe help us take a couple more. Believe that soon after, the Evil Digital Device will be stowed away, and I will be happily munching apples on trees I am learning to climb and reading on the grass in conformity with Oberlin laws.