Middlebury Magazine

  • Recent Stories
  • Menu
    • Features
    • Pursuits
    • Q&A
    • Editor’s Note
    • Old Chapel
    • Road Taken
    • Review
    • Podcasts
    • Videos
    • How Did You Get Here Series
    • About
    • Advertising
    • Contact
    • Support
    • Writers’ Guidelines
  • Search

Winter 2020 Features

Learning How to See, Again

Recalibrating how we look at the world around us.

By Margaret Croy, MANPTS '18
Illustrations by Elisabetta Bianchi
February 25, 2020
  • Facebook icon
  • Twitter icon
  • Email icon

For most, light is our introduction to the world—whether at birth, or in the opening of our eyes in the morning—our first perception is always of light. Only afterward do we see the undulating wavelengths as color. Only afterward do we notice its absence as darkness and shadow. And yet, from a beginning at once simple and magnanimous, from light, stems such infinite complexity, a multitude of finite differences. How do we learn to see? And how do we learn how to see again, to see anew, to see differently, to keep seeing? 

My job, in simple terms, is to see what’s in front of me, learn from it, and write about it. I spend much of my day staring at satellite imagery of sites around the world, looking for changes over time and evidence of activity, and trying to deduce what in the world might be happening there. I squint at 3m-resolution images, trying to figure out what, exactly, might be in that building not yet covered by a roof. I rejoice when finding a 0.8m-resolution image of the site du jour, only to groan when the one spot I really wanted to see is covered by the tiniest of puffy white clouds in an otherwise cloudless sky. I’ve learned to see from above—to consider from what angle the image was recorded, at what time of day, and with what type of equipment. I’ve learned many of these skills from a man commonly referred to as “geolocation Jesus,” so dubbed for his knack for satellite imagery analysis, but also for his uncanny ability to figure out from where a ground image (what normals call a photograph) was taken. Given our focus on the view from above, geolocation Jesus is a fitting choice of teacher. 

 

“Look!” she says. “There are two gray standard poodles sitting over there, on the side of the trail.” 

“Mama,” I say, “I think that is a bench.” 

“You’re right!” she says with a widening smile and a slight chuckle. “But it looked so much like two poodles, gray, sitting side-by-side.” 

“It kind of does,” I say, squinting a bit more and tilting my head, hoping this will help me see the bench as she does. To see what isn’t there but is right in front of her, anyway. 

 

How do you learn to see from above—your eyes their own satellite—staring at and interpreting an overhead image, if you have not learned to see as a satellite lens does? If I didn’t first learn how to see through my camera, the angle control in my hand and the lens to my eye, how could I have learned to see again; this time as if a camera in the sky? 

For a long time I didn’t talk about my six-year career as a photographer. In the favorite international relations graduate student game of résumé-building one-upmanship, the fashion photographer card isn’t a wild card—it’s from an entirely different game. By the time I finished my graduate degree, I had enough “relevant” (yep, that’s the word someone chose) experiences on my résumé that including the photography business wasn’t necessary or advised. I did it anyway, but downblended it with appropriate career services blandness to “business owner.” Accurate, palatable, not so wild. 

It was only when I began full-time work at the James Martin Center for Nonproliferation Studies (CNS) that someone pointed out to me that my Adobe Photoshop skills would be quite useful in processing both satellite and ground imagery, and in creating visualizations of change over time. They were right. One way of seeing had helped me learn another. One way of analyzing the world had translated across time and profession to another. I’d learned how to see again. 

 

“Did you see that person waving on the side of the road? What were they doing there?” she asks. 

“I think it was a tree with branches in the wind, Mama,” I say. 

“Are you sure? I really think it was a person, that time. I know I see things, sometimes, but that . . . I really thought that was a man waving at us . . . ”
she trails off. 

“Maybe so,” I say. “Maybe I didn’t see it right, this time.” She nods and I wonder if maybe I missed something, after all. Maybe I didn’t see it right this time. 

 

When the radio went off at 3:30, light was not my first perception. It was pitch-black and cold, but the shrill alert was the fastest intruder into a sudden consciousness. The inky absence of light was only faintly punctuated by the blinking red of the radio. Within 30 seconds I was outside with the med bag, jumping into the car, radioing that we were on our way to the scene. Under three minutes from page to scene. Not bad. 

As an EMT, my job was to triage, diagnose, and treat what I needed to in the field before transporting the patient as rapidly as possible to the appropriate level of care. As an EMT on a college campus, my patients often recognized me, and I them. No one wants to be seen at their worst, or in a difficult moment, but the anonymity of medical providers generally mitigates that feeling to some degree. That refuge of anonymity is largely gone on a small college campus, when care providers are students, and the main patient population is the student body. Sometimes, this led to obfuscation of the true crisis, intentional or not. An EMT has to assess the entire scene and consider more than just what meets the eye. I learned to see, assess, and treat the chief complaint, or the reason the patient or bystander called for help to begin with. I also learned to look for little indicators of a larger picture that I couldn’t yet see; to ask the right questions to bring the whole tableau into focus. 

Just as searching for clues to the bigger picture is not unique to being an EMT, learning how light interacts with subjects in digital capture is not unique to being a photographer (I forgot, “business owner”), and studying satellite imagery is not unique to being a nonproliferation analyst. Yet we act as if these modes of seeing aren’t transferable skills, aren’t relevant across industries, and aren’t “good enough” if we aren’t subject matter experts of a certain age. This attitude is reflected in our national discourse; “seeing” the other side, the ability to put oneself in those shoes (eyes), isn’t always considered to be a valuable or praiseworthy skill anymore. Is it any wonder that, with this attitude, we have tunnel vision when it comes to foreign and domestic policy? Is it any wonder that innovation in legislative approach has ground to a halt when we no longer count the number of ways we’ve learned to see with pride? 

I, for one, would be worse at my job if I had not learned more than one way to see. 

 

“You okay, Ma?”

“I slept on a bench last night at Disneyland.” 

“Wow! You did? Did you have a good sleep? What did you see while you were there?” 

“I saw . . . ” she pauses, tries to push herself up a little straighter in her wheelchair, and fails. I put a pillow under her arm, wheel her into the shade of the garden attached to memory care, and we continue. We have a little more time before hospice comes for their weekly visit. 

“I saw . . . the light parade. And Space Mountain.” 

“And the fireworks, Ma? Did you see those?”

“Yeah . . . yeah, I did. They were beautiful. Did you see them too?” 

“Maybe next time,” I say. “Maybe next time.” 

 

Before I was a research associate, before I was a photographer, before I was an EMT, before it all, I was a child, and my mama taught me how to see. How to notice the drops of dew, glistening diamonds on the grass in the morning; how to watch the leaves turn from green to yellow, orange, then red, over the course of a week during October; how to ride a horse and see what might scare them in the surroundings before they do, reassuring them that it’s okay before they even notice the threat. My mama taught me to pay close attention to the world around me, to notice its changes, good and bad; to be aware of my surroundings, good and bad; to learn to see and understand people, good and . . .

She sees a little differently now than she used to, and again, I’m learning how to see from her. This time I’m looking at her world—not the one we share—and it’s got some fantastical elements I’m not used to noticing just yet. I’m not sure I’ll ever see them quite the way she does, but I’ll always sit beside her and keep trying. More than teaching me to see, my mama taught me to love learning how to see in every way I could, and how to keep loving and learning to see throughout my whole life. “You never stop learning,” she tells me, time and time again. “Keep looking, and you’ll always see something new.” She’s right, of course. There is always a new thing to see and a new way to see. One is not the other. 

I’ll keep gazing down at this world, even as she casts her glance ever more upward, toward the next. Somewhere in between is the vastness of the sky and its thousands of satellites, constantly orbiting, always seeing a changed world, only seeing this one. Beyond are the stars, so far away that any change in their light takes years to reach our eyes. We’re looking from different angles toward different worlds, Mom and I. But I know we both see the light from those glittering stars.

I like to think that Mom sees those stars up close, now, in all their radiance and glory. In the middle of a work trip to Rome, Italy, where I was presenting at a geospatial conference on synthetic aperture radar and its applications to the nonproliferation space, I got a call . . . the call. “She’s not been doing well these past few days,” said Lee Andrew, the director of memory care. “If you want to say goodbye, I think you should come soon.”

Knowing that Mom would want me to push on, I bit my lip and gave my presentation that next morning; it was good because I knew it had to be; she would have wanted it that way. It was a Thursday. By Friday morning I was on a plane; by Friday evening, Arizona time, I was at her side, stroking her hair, telling her that I was there, that I was never going to be ready to say goodbye. In the same breath—that she could go, if she was tired of fighting, that she was so brave, that she was so strong, that she had taught me well, that I would be okay. That I would be okay.

Once again, Mom saw what I needed; a little more time. We sat together that night, she and I, knowing in silence that communication is more than talking, connection is more than consciousness, and love is stronger than death. I sat and held her hands and talked of all those who loved her, how they loved her, and how I did, too. 

Mom slipped quietly out of the room and out of this world in the predawn hours of Sunday, October 13, 2019. It was a beautiful exit in the face of the overwhelming cruelty that is early-onset Lewy body dementia. Somewhere between Vaughan Williams’s “The Lark Ascending” on repeat from my iPhone and the sound of peaceful breathing coming from my sleeping husband and me, Mom took a last glance around the earthly plane and began her ascent to the stars. When I awoke, realizing only then that I had fallen asleep at all, clasping her hand in my left hand and my husband’s in my right, I knew she’d just slipped away, and that she’d left just how she wanted, albeit far too soon. I knew she had held tight to my hand, to this earth, until my husband arrived to hold the other, to lead me forward once she was gone. Mom had seen.

Seeing through the grayness of grief poses an unprecedented challenge for me, and once again, Mom is teaching me how to see. The outpouring of kind words, in reply to the original publication of this essay in Inkstick, and then in response to my mother’s death, has left me profoundly moved. In my childhood, Mom and I said our “gratefuls” each evening before bed; now, I say my gratefuls for all of the lessons I learned from my mother, one of her most profound being that one small act of kindness begins to change the world. I’ve been the beneficiary of a thousand small acts of kindness and a million wonderful lessons taught by a mother gone too soon, but more than anything, I’ve been the beneficiary of having Marilyn Elise Bradburn as a mother, and for that, I am forever grateful. 

This is for you, Mom. 

This essay is an adaption of a previous essay of the same title, which was published by the digital magazine Inkstick. 

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.

Recent Stories

Features

View Finder

For years, photographer John Huddleston has been walking the woods near his home in Weybridge, Vermont, capturing the transitory nature of the forest with his camera. An excerpt from his latest book of photography At Home in the Northern Forest.

By John Huddleston
Photography by John Huddleston
March 12, 2021

The Man Who Saw in Technicolor

Two years after his death, remembering Jason Spindler up close.

By Ellen Halle '13
Illustration by Vanessa Lovegrove
January 29, 2021

What’s The Deal?

The story behind the critically acclaimed podcast, hosted by Middlebury Institute professor Jeffrey Lewis, that tells you everything you need to know about the Iranian nuclear deal.

By Rhianna Tyson Kreger
Photo illustration by Paul Dahm
December 16, 2020

Hunger Fight

How two Middlebury alumni are building on the local food economy to help hungry Vermonters.

By Jessie Raymond '90
Photographs courtesy ShiftMeals
December 3, 2020

Dispatches

More Than Unwelcome in America

Reflections on what it feels like to be Asian in the United States.

By Bochu Ding '21
Photograph by Getty Images
March 26, 2021

One for the History Books

Working at Middlebury for nearly 50 years, Bob Preseau had experienced just about everything that can happen on a residential campus. A retirement party on Zoom, however, was a first.

By Jessie Raymond '90
Illustration by John Dykes
March 25, 2021

Whiskey*, with a Twist

What does it mean to create a line of craft spirits that hews tightly to sustainability practices? Will Drucker '08.5 thought he'd try and find out.

By Jessie Raymond '90
Photograph courtesy Split Spirits
February 26, 2021

May I Have a Word?

During the pandemic, as the arts have struggled to stay relevant in a virtual world, one artistic director came up with a brilliant idea to showcase local talent.

By Sara Thurber Marshall
February 12, 2021

Otter Nonsense

Who had giant mutant otters on their 2020 Bingo card?

By Matt Jennings
Photograph by Daniel Houghton '04
December 17, 2020

Marble Works

How recycled stone from a College building has a second life in the local arts world.

By Jessie Raymond '90
Photograph by Todd Balfour
December 16, 2020

Home Schooled

With COVID restrictions temporarily halting normal campus activities such as in-person lectures, a pair of faculty members devised a digital alternative that should have a shelf life for years to come.

By Sara Thurber Marshall
Illustration by Harry Campbell
November 5, 2020

Home, Heart

A student-designed affordable home wins major architectural award

By Stephen Diehl
Photographs by Lindsay Selin Photography
October 8, 2020

Catching Up with Elise Morris

Our colleagues in Athletic Communications talk to the women's soccer player about one of higher education's most pressing issues: sexual assault prevention and awareness on college campuses.

By Ali Paquette
Photography by Ali Paquette
October 7, 2020
View All

Pursuits

In the Line of Fire

What it's like to be a firefighter in California, when each emergency is more extreme than the last.

By John Devine
Illustration by Stuart Biers
February 12, 2021

Q&A

On the World Stage

Only a sophomore, Nordic skier Sophia Laukli makes her World Cup debut for the U.S. National team. We catch up with her to talk about the experience.

By Matt Jennings
Photograph by NordicFocus, GMBH
February 12, 2021

Editor’s Note

A Brilliant Fogg

Saying goodbye to a dear colleague and friend.

By Matt Jennings
Illustration by Jody Hewgill
February 25, 2020

Old Chapel

The Magnitude of Systemic Racism

Acknowledging a national scourge and examining the work that must be done at Middlebury— individually and collectively—to combat it.

By Laurie L. Patton
Illustration by Montse Bernal
June 9, 2020

Road Taken

What to Wear Now

Through accrued life experiences, a writer discovers that a common question has become a statement of identity.

By Samantha Hubbard Shanley ’99
Illustration by Naomi Clarke
March 11, 2021

Quotation

A summer immersed in a language can do wonders, as veterans of Middlebury College’s famous language-learning program can attest. The lockdown is clearly going to amount to the equivalent of about two summers, and there are mini-Middleburys happening in millions of houses worldwide.”

—John McWhorter, writing “The Coronavirus Generation Will Use Language Differently” in the Atlantic.

Podcasts

Alone Together, Ep. 9 with Jessica St. Clair ’98 and Dan O’Brien ’96

Dan O'Brien ’96, a playwright and poet, and Jessica St. Clair ’98, a comedian and writer, join President Patton for our final check in with the community during COVID-19 self-isolation. Dan and Jessica are a true power couple in the arts that met in a Middlebury improv group. They discuss Dan's magazine essay "Life Shrinks: Lessons from Chemo Quarantine," how reopening the country feels a lot like remission, and how their art is evolving to reflect the pandemic.

By Middlebury Magazine Staff
June 15, 2020

Alone Together, Ep. 8 with Dick Clay, Covid-19 Survivor

In this episode, Dick Clay, a student at the Bread Loaf School of English, shares his story of recovering from COVID-19. Dick discusses when the seriousness of the virus hit him, the "wilderness path to recovery," and how he will process this experience through writing.

By Middlebury Magazine Staff
June 8, 2020

Alone Together, Ep. 7 with Jodie Keith and Jacque Bergevin, Essential Workers

In this episode, we hear from Jodie Keith and Jacque Bergevin, who have been working with custodial services to keep our Vermont campus safe and clean. Jodie and Jacque share what campus has been like since the students left: what it's like to schedule hourly sanitation of buildings, how every day feels like an empty Saturday morning, and that the infamous Middlebury squirrels have lost a bit of weight.

By Middlebury Magazine Staff
Photography by Bob Handelman
June 1, 2020

Review

Editors’ Picks for March and April

By Middlebury Magazine Staff
March 23, 2021

How Did You Get Here?

Megan Job

By Alexandra Burns '21
February 15, 2021

Leif Taranta

By Alexandra Burns '21
February 15, 2021

Mikayla Haefele

By Alexandra Burns '21
February 15, 2021

Videos

In the Blink of an Eye

Gone in less than a minute—the middle of June 2019 to the middle of June 2020, as viewed from the rooftop of the Mittelman Observatory.

By Middlebury Magazine Staff
Video by Jonathan Kemp/Mittelman Observatory
June 10, 2020

All the Feels

Current students, alumni of all ages, parents, faculty, and staff come together to sing Middlebury's alma mater "Walls of Ivy."

By Chris Spencer
May 26, 2020

A (Virtual) Visit with Kenshin Cho ’20

Laurie Patton chats with the political science major and SGA treasurer, who has been unable to return to his native Tokyo.

By Middlebury Magazine Staff
April 18, 2020
Middlebury College
  • Alumni
  • Newsroom
  • Contact Us
  • icon-instagram

The views presented are not necessarily those of the editors or the official policies of the College.

© 2021 Middlebury College Publications.