Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > And Without A Sound....And I Wish You Away
Foreword
Like every other American family with a young child, Frank and Jamia Iero had purchased a video camera. Some of the footage was of My Chemical Romance shows, some was of the band offstage, hanging out. One fragment captured Frank, Jamia, Olivia, Gerard, Ray and Lucy sitting in the bed of Ray's Silverado, listening to Our Lady of Sorrows, collectively appearing battle-weary after the show. But most of the tape documented the development of their son and his interactions with their friends. Ray in particular seemed to get along very well with the little girl. There was one three-minute-long clip in which Gerard sang her an a capella version of Demolition Lovers. Carmen was a beautiful child, as photogenic as her parents, with Jamia's lithe build and Frank's finely-boned facial features.
Frank adored her, and the camera exposed a sentimental side of him that the public rarely saw-the look he gave Jamia and Carmen during the moments when it was just Jamia or Ray taping.
There was one particular moment on the tape that shows just how extraordinarily different this family was above all others. Frank is giving the three-year-old a bath and holding her aloft like an airplane, and Carmen snorts involuntarily because she's having so much fun. Frank smiles at his daughter, a wide ear-to-ear smile that no camera had ever caught. In that moment, he looks just like what he is-a caring, doting father, wanting nothing more than to give his extraordinary little girl a bath and pretending she's an airplane, dive-bombing the yellow rubber duck and little plastic boats.
Then, for a fraction of a second, the scene shifts. There, mounted eight inches up the wall, is a porcelain toothbrush holder that ninety percent of American homes had in their bathrooms. What makes this toothbrush holder so remarkable, though, is that it isn't holding a toothbrush-it's holding a syringe. It's such an unexpected object to see in such a normal-looking home that most viewers wouldn't notice it. But it's there, hanging solemnly point-down, a sad and tragic reminder that no matter how normal a family seems on the outside, there will always be those ghosts that follow even the tender moments.
Like every other American family with a young child, Frank and Jamia Iero had purchased a video camera. Some of the footage was of My Chemical Romance shows, some was of the band offstage, hanging out. One fragment captured Frank, Jamia, Olivia, Gerard, Ray and Lucy sitting in the bed of Ray's Silverado, listening to Our Lady of Sorrows, collectively appearing battle-weary after the show. But most of the tape documented the development of their son and his interactions with their friends. Ray in particular seemed to get along very well with the little girl. There was one three-minute-long clip in which Gerard sang her an a capella version of Demolition Lovers. Carmen was a beautiful child, as photogenic as her parents, with Jamia's lithe build and Frank's finely-boned facial features.
Frank adored her, and the camera exposed a sentimental side of him that the public rarely saw-the look he gave Jamia and Carmen during the moments when it was just Jamia or Ray taping.
There was one particular moment on the tape that shows just how extraordinarily different this family was above all others. Frank is giving the three-year-old a bath and holding her aloft like an airplane, and Carmen snorts involuntarily because she's having so much fun. Frank smiles at his daughter, a wide ear-to-ear smile that no camera had ever caught. In that moment, he looks just like what he is-a caring, doting father, wanting nothing more than to give his extraordinary little girl a bath and pretending she's an airplane, dive-bombing the yellow rubber duck and little plastic boats.
Then, for a fraction of a second, the scene shifts. There, mounted eight inches up the wall, is a porcelain toothbrush holder that ninety percent of American homes had in their bathrooms. What makes this toothbrush holder so remarkable, though, is that it isn't holding a toothbrush-it's holding a syringe. It's such an unexpected object to see in such a normal-looking home that most viewers wouldn't notice it. But it's there, hanging solemnly point-down, a sad and tragic reminder that no matter how normal a family seems on the outside, there will always be those ghosts that follow even the tender moments.
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