Not quite five, she sits sideways
to the camera, looking over her shoulder
in one of those three-quarter profile
poses used by movie stars
and beauty queens in those B&W days.
But she wears her hair in neat
braids and a polished cotton dress
made by her mother. There’s no cute
smile and her eyes look up, open,
unwavering, full of quiet reserve.
This country girl was new
to revolving doors and vast
spaces like this hotel lobby
with its mosaic tiles and big chairs—
quiet and noisy, all at the same time.
When the elevator doors
parted, she froze,
looked wild-eyed at her mother,
squeezed her hand, and followed
on to the floating floor.
In the room, a studio set up—
huge roll of white paper,
carpeted step stool, and the man
who did thirty such sittings a day
in small towns across the South.
He knew his business, and his patter
smooth as his Brylcreemed hair.
Her mother, only twenty-four,
laughed at the corny jokes,
but the silent child could not be cajoled.
That day she held her ground.
Soon enough she’d give them
what they wanted—silly
grins and flirtatious smirks.
She’d work for years to reclaim
such bravery and self-possession.
