A Life in Black and White

 

A Life in Black and White

 

Susan Miller.

Nothing special.

Or so it would seem.

 

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

 

The line comes from Juliet in Act 2, Scene 2 of Romeo and Juliet, during the famous balcony scene. She argues that a name—whether “Montague” or “Capulet”—does not change what something or someone truly is. In modern terms, she is saying that labels do not define the person.

 

Susan Miller appears like any other entry in a diary of ordinary lives. Familiar. Effortless. A name that rolls off the tongue without hesitation, correction, or explanation. The kind of name that barely raises an eyebrow, much less curiosity.

 

And there are many who envy such names.

 

While Susan Miller glides through conversation like a canoe on calm water, others must navigate rapids—currents of hesitation, eddies of mispronunciation, and hidden rocks of assumption. By the time they reach the far shore, the journey has already shaped how they are perceived.

 

But all names carry baggage. They cast shadows and often speak before we do.

 

Consider Samuel Wurzelbacher.

Who?

Exactly.

 

You know him better as “Joe the Plumber,” the nickname that emerged during the 2008 presidential campaign and quickly became shorthand for the concerns of ordinary working Americans. His identity was compressed into a role that fit a political narrative. Never mind that Samuel Wurzelbacher was not, in fact, a licensed plumber. “Joe” was never intended to identify a specific person. It was intended to create a symbol.

 

Why not “Sam the Plumber”?

 

Because “Joe” was already taken. It occupied a special place in the American imagination. For generations, “Average Joe” has served as a placeholder for the ordinary citizen. The name carried its own mythology.

 

And Sam had already claimed a place in American folklore two centuries earlier. Samuel Wilson, a meatpacker from Troy, New York, supplied barrels of beef to the U.S. Army during the War of 1812. The barrels were stamped “U.S.” for “United States,” but soldiers jokingly said the initials stood for “Uncle Sam.” The nickname stuck, and a national symbol was born.

 

Names matter because people attach meaning to them—sometimes more meaning than the person ever intended.

 

In our digital age, black-and-white photography remains compelling because it strips away distraction. Without color, we stop reacting to surface details and begin noticing structure: light and shadow, expression and form, mood and emotion. The image feels cleaner, more distilled—sometimes even more honest. Like reducing a long paragraph to its essential nouns and verbs.

 

Susan Miller—a name that bears no linguistic complexity. No visual clutter. No immediate assumptions about how it should be pronounced. It passes through conversation without resistance. It is right there in black and white.

 

But that simplicity can be deceptive.

 

Like a black-and-white photograph, it removes distraction. It invites us to look beyond a label and focus on what lies beneath—the person, history, experiences, and life itself. There is no phonetic minefield where a misplaced accent, dropped consonant, or mangled vowel can turn a simple introduction into an awkward apology.

 

More unusual names often carry their own color. They attract attention, provoke hesitation, and sometimes trigger unconscious judgments before a single word is spoken. The name becomes the story.

 

“Susan Miller.”

A name you have heard before.

A life you haven’t.

 

Note: To protect the individual's privacy, the name Susan Miller has been substituted for her real name. It was chosen to resemble the original name without revealing her identity. Although the name is fictional, the story is entirely factual.

Susan Miller, an only child, was born during the middle of World War II, when the global conflict was reaching its turning point, with major battles like Stalingrad and Midway shifting momentum against the Axis powers. At home, her family, like so many others, coped with rationing, shortages, and constant wartime messaging while trying to preserve a sense of normal life through school, church, and the steady support of friends and extended family.

 

Susan would later describe this network as a ciorcal—the circle of family and friends who stood by one another through hardship. That circle became especially important when, at age eleven, she faced a life-threatening condition requiring surgery. Family, friends, and community gathered around her, offering practical help, emotional strength, and the quiet determination that she would not face the challenge alone.

 

Her life was spared.

The bill would come later.

 

Susan was left partially paralyzed and unable to speak. Though she eventually regained her voice, walking remained a lifelong challenge.

 

“I didn’t feel sorry for myself,” she would later say. “Many people have problems.”

 

Six weeks after leaving the hospital, Susan was back in school walking a half mile in a leg brace, then climbing three flights of stairs to her classroom.

 

Accommodations we now take for granted—wheelchair ramps, accessible public buildings, workplace protections, elevators, and stronger anti-discrimination laws—were far less common before the Americans with Disabilities Act, which would come years later.

 

Susan took public transportation through high school and later to work, eventually learning to drive using adaptive controls. Taking night classes, she earned a college degree and built a career in civil service that spanned three decades.

 

She refused to allow physical limitations to narrow her world. She traveled to forty-nine states, throughout much of Canada, and to Ireland and the U.K.

 

What began as a life-threatening medical crisis at an early age became a lifetime lesson in perseverance. In an era before modern disability accommodations, Susan met challenge after challenge with quiet determination—earning a degree, supporting herself, providing for her retirement, and serving the public for more than thirty years.

 

She never viewed herself as a victim. Instead, she saw herself as blessed.

 

“With God’s help, I made it.”

 

Juliet was right. A name does not define a person. Names are only labels on the outside of the package. You must look inside to see what is really there.

 

Susan Miller —

A life in black and white, and yet every bit as remarkable as Kodachrome.