May 24, 2021 § 7 Comments
By Lilly Dancyger
Most of the people I interviewed while doing research for my memoir, I spent a few hours with. Usually one long conversation, sometimes a few follow-up questions over the phone or email. But with my mother I just kept digging, and kept finding new depths. We spent dozens of hours, stretched over years, talking about her relationship with my father, their shared heroin addiction and the shadow it cast over my childhood, their breakup, and his death. Each conversation felt like she’d finally borne her soul to me, but I always found more bubbling up later: more details, more truth, more pain, more ugliness.
If I had asked my mother for all of these details—what she and my father fought about, when they were using and when they were clean, all the reasons they split up—in a purely mother-daughter context, there’s no way it would have been a calm, productive conversation. It would have been too raw for both of us, my wronged daughter-self lashing out at her flawed mother-self. She would have gotten defensive, which would have made me push harder, until we weren’t digging toward a truth together but just screaming our own grievances.
We’d never agreed on what our life together had looked like; what she was like as a mother, what I was like as a daughter, who was more at fault for so much friction. We’d never even really acknowledge that there was friction, that there was any blame to place. We’d just moved on from the explosive teenage years—when we only spoke to each other in angry screams and passive aggressive jabs—without ever exploring the damage.
But now this wasn’t about me and her directly. Now it was about the story, and I could ask her in my detached reporter voice, “What was that like?” even if underneath, what I meant was “How could you let this happen?” The structure of interviewing in service of storytelling kept us focused, pushing calmly ahead. I was collecting these moments of our lives, even the ugly ones, to build something out of them. Not demanding apologies, just stories; just material.
We were taking the story down in chunks—years of this excavation, years of phone calls that opened with bracing questions, like “When did you start using again in San Francisco?” and “What was the last straw that ended your marriage?” But she never received these calls with hostility, or resistance, or even annoyance. She’d say, “Well!” and I could hear her settling into her chair and trying to put the words together carefully but truthfully.
I had been wary about interviewing my mother at first, had wanted to guard my project against the flood of her emotion, worried the story I was trying to tell—about my father, and his art, and all that I inherited from him—would be overtaken. And she did overtake it in a way, but not the way I’d expected. As I started to understand her more and more through these stories, I realized I was shifting the landscape of my relationships with both of my parents where I’d only set out to explore and shift one.
I realized somewhere along the way that whatever I wanted to call it—interviews, research—this was also me asking my mother all the questions that it otherwise wouldn’t have occurred to me to ask her at all until she was dead too, and I went again searching desperately for something that was gone. I thought during some of these interviews, and between them, that I should appreciate them for what they were: not just traces of my father, but honest, intimate, past-plumbing conversations with my mother.
In the midst of all of these conversations, I published an op-ed in a national paper about a viral photo of a little boy strapped into a car seat, staring into the camera, while his guardians sit nearly dead from opioid overdoses in the front seats. In the piece, I compared myself to that little boy and wrote about what it’s like to be the child of addicts—all the feelings that had been churning around about how it’s not their fault but it’s still their responsibility, and how it creates a shame that’s impossible not to inherit no matter how much you defend them, or how much you believe those defenses.
My mother called to tell me that when she first read the piece she was hurt, she wanted to argue, to point out that they never put me in that position. That most of the time they were just doing enough heroin to “maintain,” to avoid withdrawal, that they weren’t even really getting high, let alone doing enough to overdose. We were on the phone, so thankfully I didn’t have to mask the mounting rage on my face as I held my tongue while she rationalized, holding back an outburst about how ridiculous she sounded explaining that they were “good” heroin addict parents. But then, she said, she’d thought about it. She’d been rethinking a lot lately with all of these conversations we’d been having, and she’d realized that she’d convinced herself that because she did some things right, she had been a good mother. I had two parents who loved me, who cared whether I was fed and safe, who played games and read me stories. She’d focused on that part, and pretended that growing up knowing my parents were addicts, watching it tear their marriage apart and kill my father, somehow hadn’t affected me.
I pressed the phone to my ear, overwhelmed, realizing how badly I’d needed to hear her say these things. I didn’t interject; I just let her keep talking, repeating herself, explaining how her own perspective was shifting as we had all of these conversations and she was finally seeing that of course I had been harmed. Saying she was sorry.
Hearing her finally admit that she wasn’t a perfect mother, that she let me be exposed to things no kid should know about, that she’d let me fend for my own emotional wellbeing when I most needed her help—hearing her apologize—cracked something open in me. I’d wanted for years to throw all of this in her face, to accuse her, to expose her. But as soon as she admitted it, all I felt was forgiveness—flooding in through the cracks in the wall between us, cracks that had been formed by all the interviews, just enough to let some light in.
** This blog entry is excerpted from Lilly Dancyger’s memoir Negative Space (Santa Fe Writers Project, 2021)
Lilly Dancyger is the author of Negative Space, a reported and illustrated memoir selected by Carmen Maria Machado as a winner of the Santa Fe Writers Project Literary Award; and the editor of Burn It Down, an anthology of essays on women’s anger. Find her on Twitter at @lillydancyger.
November 13, 2020 § 15 Comments
By Maddie Lock
The email from my father began: It is with a heavy heart that I write this… I quickly scanned the German words. My knees buckled as my world plummeted to a depth that had me gasping for air. I understood immediately I had overstepped my writing boundaries.
I had written an essay about finding my biological father when he was about to turn ninety and I had celebrated my sixtieth birthday the day before. An unwanted player in my German mother’s life, she mulishly refused to talk about him. My childhood badgering finally caused her to spit out words to shut me down. They did. Not because I believed her spiteful words but because I felt I had hit a dead-end. Perhaps it didn’t matter after all; I had been adopted by my American step-father and my life was far removed from my native country.
Through unexpected circumstances, I ran across old court papers that provided his name and an old family address. One of my German cousins was able to track down a current address. I flew to Germany and rang his doorbell, not knowing if he was still alive or even in good health. I took a risk not only for me but also for a nonagenarian ex-WWII prisoner who, as a young man, was banished out of his daughter’s life by an angry twenty-three-year-old woman who found herself pregnant when all she wanted was to have fun. The risk paid off. He welcomed me with tears in his eyes and an open heart.
I couldn’t wait to write about this day, to share my joy. I wrote and rewrote and rewrote again. I also wrote what my mother had spit out to me in anger. Words and an accusation that, as it turns out, my father had never heard. The essay found a home in an online literary journal. I mentioned to my father that I was writing a book about our family and the story now included him; he smiled and seemed at ease. I didn’t think twice about it. My literary world in the United States felt far removed from a small town in Germany, the English language a world away from German. My shortsightedness came to a reckoning when the email came and made the world very small.
Curiosity had prompted him to put my name in a search engine and up popped a listing of my published work. He tapped “translate” and read the words that broke his heart. Not only did he read the words, there they were for anyone to read, including friends and neighbors, followed by his smiling photo. When I contacted the editor and explained my situation, she was sympathetic but balked at pulling it. Instead, she agreed to take out the offending words, change names and remove the photo. My father accepted this. But the damage was done.
Emails flew back and forth. My father sent photos of us together, no words attached. With each one I felt his pain. And my confusion. Was he expressing his sorrow at the relationship that was now breached? Or was he saying the bond was still there? I responded with heartfelt apologies and acceptance of culpability. I repeatedly insisted that the story was never meant to blame and shame—after all, I had never believed those words—but to convey the joy and love I felt after finally knowing him. I had planned a trip to visit him that May and now wondered if I should cancel it. Finally he wrote and underlined these words: DO NOT cancel your trip; please come.
We talked and cried and hugged. We mended. But for months I felt I was recovering from unprecedented trauma, a sense of PTSD. I questioned the memoir I was writing about my family, which also dealt with trauma. I wanted to build a fire with the manuscript and call it a day. An ending to years of work. How could I possibly risk creating more damage to those I loved? The joy of writing turned to gut-twisting doubt. I found myself unable to put a single word on paper. Recurring nightmares of my father receding, and dissipating into darkness added to my sorry state. But I had written the truest truth, hadn’t I? Isn’t that what good memoir writing is all about? How do we balance the truth with responsibility for the feelings or memories of those we are exposing? I stared at the stack of memoirs piled next to my bed. Researched the writers I admired to find out how they fared. Turns out, many paid a price for their “truths.” Not a one wrote their story glibly, as I felt I had. But it seemed we all had one thing in common: the story demanded to be written.
So it was for me.
I reached a deal with myself so that my fingers could function again on the keyboard: the offending words will not be included, or alluded to, in the book. As won’t other prurient revelations that may be relevant to the story but that will cause more harm than any possible enlightenment. Since this is my story, I get to choose what and how I tell it. And I choose to respect those who have entrusted me. With conditions: if the revelation is essential to the insight or depth of the binding theme, if it must be included to make the story whole, then it shall be. The words my mother hurled in anger do not; they are not relevant to the outcome.
I’m also changing names, although it won’t be difficult to make the connections. Yesterday I Googled my father’s name and, directly underneath a social article and photo of him in his local newspaper, the offending essay came up (although it was the revised version that did not mention his full name, the name of the town or any other obvious identifying clues). Another of my essays came up beneath that one. The internet does its job well in finding what we are looking for. It looms as infinite and omniscient. This adds a heavy layer to the responsibility memoir writers already carry, and one we must place at the forefront of the truths we share.
German-born and American bred, Maddie Lock fell in love with words as she learned the English language. Maddie has published an award-winning children’s book, lamented about her writing obsession on the Brevity Blog, and has work published or forthcoming in Gravel, Wanderlust-Journal, The RavensPerch, Under the Sun, Ruminate, and others. She is currently finishing up a memoir about her German roots.
August 14, 2020 § 8 Comments
By Jennie Burke
I assigned a persona to my writer’s block. He keeps guard over my laptop like a reliable, funny friend. My stuckness is mop-headed Muppet Mr. Don Music: the one who groans “I’ll never finish this song!” when he can’t get past the first stanza of Mary Had a Little Lamb. He bangs his fuzzy rectangle head against the keys in agony. He wails and whines and rubs his gigantic eyebrow with the back of a tethered arm.
The light-hearted comparison was born from a need to survive. I was writing about my brother, a living, breathing, opiate addicted human being. It wasn’t a lack of creativity or motivation that stopped me from doing the work; I was afraid he would sue me, or worse.
In the fall of 2019 I shared the first chapter of my manuscript with a publisher. When she asked to see more, I told her (while wiping a renegade tear… “dang allergies!”) that I couldn’t give it over. I was afraid my brother would burn my house down if he knew I was writing the story. And besides, the saga was ongoing. Matt was still using.
Addiction fulfilled its promise and continued to besiege my brother. He died of an overdose on May 15th. He was a 43-year-old attorney, and a beloved father of five children.
A few hours after I learned of his death, in the middle of the night, I turned to the solace of my familiar. The computer. I pitched a favorite addiction editor who once rejected me. The pitch was more of a letter, since I had developed a one-sided relationship with her. I read her column. I followed her on Twitter. I researched her essays. She had unknowingly been with me on the journey, and I felt an urgency: she needed to know.
She responded immediately, and together we embarked on a two month odyssey to write this essay. Free from the fear of my brother’s aggression, the writing flowed essentially. I persisted for the sake of my own sanity, and the legions of addiction sisters following in my footsteps. My faithful buddy, Don Music, was nowhere to be found. I no longer needed his silly dramatics. I changed old habits to support this new wealth of creativity.
I set routines. Caring for a family of six, and the anxiety of 2020, stole my life’s loose structure. To support the grief writing I committed to a regular bedtime and set an early morning alarm. I vowed to treat my brain to the rest it needed to fire full throttle.
Next, I set boundaries. Not the kind I used to set with my extended family (like: we can’t come to Christmas; he’s using) …the boundaries that would produce work. I told my family when and where I would be writing, then asked them to give me space and peace. They were more than supportive. They were happy to see me writing.
I found mentors and opened myself to criticism. By June I joined two interactive writing classes, and one zoom-style salon. I contacted addiction authors. I applied for workshops. I overcame my fear of Twitter and reached out to editors. Some wrote back, some expressed interest (then ghosted me), some accepted my work.
In a complete reversal from depressive episodes, I adopted health habits. I hike every morning. It clears my mind and shakes off excess energy – I like writing after a brisk walk. I have also stopped drinking. I used to enjoy a glass of wine in the evenings, even though I knew I was in for a night of poor sleep and morning regret. Now, with so much so say, I can’t afford the grogginess. I don’t miss drinking. I feel solidarity with my brother when I consider breaking my fast.
As a writer, and a sister of an addict, I keep an inventory of fear: fear of writing a true story, of my family knowing about it, of being abandoned for sharing The Truth, and most of all, of losing my brother. These things all happened, but they no longer separate me from my words. And that’s something to fear too. What if I say everything there is about losing a brother to opiates? Will I grow bored of my words, my ego, my sorrow? Will everyone else?
It creeps in…Don Music is in another room, pressing one cloying key. He’s not funny anymore. What happens when this burst busts? When I’ll long to play free, know the next line by heart, have it fly from my fingertips. Writing will become hard again. I’ll be patient. I’ll ride it out. If there’s one thing that loving an addict and writing have in common, it’s that both are acts of hope.
Jennie Burke has been featured in The Huffington Post, The Rumpus, Scary Mommy, Motherwell and various publications. She has an MFA from Goucher College and is a certified English teacher. Her work in progress is an addiction memoir. She is a married mother of four teenagers, and calls Baltimore and New Orleans home. Follow her on Twitter @jennieburke
June 30, 2020 § 2 Comments
By Jennifer Ochstein
I’ve begun seeing my dead mother’s face in the mirror. Mothers have been dying all along, so this is no new phenomenon. But it surprised me. While I’ve seen her in some of my gestures and actions (honking weirdly like a duck in an attempt to be funny or not answering the phone when I don’t recognize the number), it wasn’t until she died that I saw her ghost in the mirror.
My fixation forms on a common feature, our mouths, the way we smile when caught off guard. Stretched dry and crooked, it replaced her full lips as multiple sclerosis took over. It’s the same smile that causes me now to sometimes stand in front of the mirror like a teenager trying on different smiles or to delete photos in which I detect that same shape on my mouth. I practice and search for the smiles that allow me to see my own face again rather than the shadow of hers. Maybe it’s a matter of vanity, the recognition that I’m a few years older than the age she was when diagnosed with MS.
But more than that, I think it’s the need I have to distance myself from the fact of her death. Her physical absence is most difficult. I don’t want to only see her as a shadow in me. Without her physical presence in the world, I’ve felt more alone than ever. I had certainly imagined her death beforehand. But on the other side of it, it’s the fact that startles me. Sometimes I mutter a liturgy to myself, “My mother is dead. My mother died.” How could she go? How could she be dead? Oddly, I don’t know how to answer those questions. She was here. Now she’s not. I miss her.
I’m also reminded that I’m trying to do what many of us do when it comes to our parents: discover inheritances while carving out space for how those inheritances evolve. I was reminded of this when, about a month after my mother’s death, I read Apple, Tree: Writers On Their Parents, edited by Lise Funderburg. In the introduction to the collection of essays, Funderburg writes, “What other inheritances could be explored through those flickers of likeness we stumble upon … I decided to ask people … to consider that space between the apple and the tree, to make meaning of it.” As I see it, humans are a meaning-making species, and to consider the people we’ve become based on how we’re shaped not only by our inheritances but also those spaces is necessary work. I knew my mother would die and yet I didn’t. How could that be? What does that say about me?
Not all of the writers featured in Funderburg’s collection have seen their parents die, but they, like most of us, try to make sense of the likenesses, inheritances, and the spaces that make us who we are while examining with a keen “I” and eye toward the influence of parents on their children. It’s hard business.
One keen examination of the “I” in light of the eye comes from Kyoko Mori’s essay “One Man’s Poison.” Mori describes her abusive father as a “complete narcissist” (with good reason, which she details throughout), but concludes that the same narcissism has a home in her as well. “The pragmatic selfish streak he passed on to me is undoubtedly a poison,” she writes. As she recognizes the poison in herself, she also realizes that it can be medicinal rather than deadly. Inoculated with small, recognizable doses, the poison acts “like a weakened virus that immunizes us against life-threatening illness.” And in these small doses, she’s able to overcome the legacy her mother left: depression and suicide. Maybe even more importantly, she writes, “ … I inherited the right amount to immunize myself from the greatest danger of all: my father himself.”
Contributor Mat Johnson’s examination of his mother’s multiple sclerosis in “My Story about My Mother,” resonated in particular with me, probably because his mother has MS and my mother died from complications associated with MS. As he details his caregiving and her decline, I see my own mother’s experience as well as my own. This is part of what makes this collection so sharp. The examinations are broad. Rather than sentiment, these essays make use of clarity, the most powerful eye, the kind we all need when considering our inheritances.
Jennifer Ochstein is a Midwestern writer and professor. She’s published essays with America Magazine, Sojourners, Hippocampus Magazine, Connotation Press, Lindenwood Review and more.
June 3, 2019 § 28 Comments
By Linda C. Wisniewski
When my memoir was published, I didn’t expect everyone in my family to like it. I had written about growing up with unhappy parents, in a depressed industrial town, in a punitive church school, and as part of a Polish working-class community looked down upon by many of our neighbors. That was a lot for me to push back against as I struggled to find my best life, and I knew some people might not share my perspective. I steeled myself for criticism.
But my cousin Angela’s letter came as a complete surprise.
“Where did you get this information about my mother? And what does this have to with your childhood?” she wrote.
I didn’t know I had exposed a family secret until I read those words. Angela’s Aunt Lucille was my mother, a woman who believed the Church’s promise that suffering would lead to everlasting life. I learned to suffer from her, and my memoir is about my lifelong struggle to create my own happiness. To show her self-centered pain, I used a story she told me when I was small:
“My mother said that soon after they returned [from their honeymoon], Dad walked in the door with a strange look on his face. ‘My sister tried to kill herself,’ he blurted. ‘They don’t know if she’ll make it.’ She had planned to run away with her married lover, but the man backed out at the last minute. In despair, Dad’s sister took an overdose of pills. For weeks, her hold on life was tenuous. When she finally pulled through, the whole extended family was still reeling. It didn’t seem right to be going off to Hawaii.” (excerpt from Off Kilter, Pearlsong Press)
I didn’t use the name of my dad’s sister, who was Angela’s mother. But to my surprise and horror, her letter seemed to say she never knew her mother had been unfaithful to her dad. She was now in her seventies and I in my sixties. We weren’t close but I still felt terrible.
The letter was otherwise kind and supportive. “I wish I had known what you were going through as a child,” she wrote. “I would have helped you cope.”
I felt bad for hurting her, but I also remembered Angela criticizing her own daughter-in-law for a suicide attempt. I hoped she’d now be more supportive, knowing what she knew.
I wrote back, apologizing for hurting her. I explained my purpose in including the story in my memoir was to illustrate my mother’s bitterness. I wrote her twice but never got a response. At the next family gathering, she didn’t come near me, and didn’t make eye contact. It could have been worse. To my great relief, her husband gave me a big hug.
Another cousin was pretty harsh when I told her what happened. “It wasn’t your secret to tell,” she wrote in an email.
I didn’t know it was a secret, and never suspected it could still hurt anyone. It happened in the 1930s and all the people had passed on long ago. Angela is in her eighties now, and I don’t know if or when I’ll ever see her again. We were never close. My mother told me she was a spoiled child. But I wonder now if that’s true, along with the other stories she told me.
If I had it to do over, I’d leave that story out. Though I didn’t use my aunt’s name, the family who read my book knew who it was. My dad had only one sister. My hope is that they’ll think twice about judging others after reading it.
No matter how careful we are to avoid hurting people with our writing, sometimes we make mistakes. Just like we do when we interact with people off the page. When we do, we can ask forgiveness. And we can also forgive ourselves. For writers, just like everyone else, are human. And that has to be okay.
Linda C. Wisniewski lives in Bucks County, PA, where she teaches memoir writing and volunteers as a docent at the historic home of author Pearl S. Buck. Her memoir, Off Kilter: A Woman’s Journey to Peace With Scoliosis, Her Mother and Her Polish Heritage has been published by Pearlsong Press.
April 5, 2019 § 40 Comments
By Sandra A. Miller
Your wish of four long years is granted in a blink. You just got a “Yes!” A book deal for your memoir. “Congratulations!” your friends at work enthuse, trying to shake you from the stupor of the news, that, just one-hour old, still doesn’t feel real.
Later that night in your warm, messy kitchen, the pop of the champagne cork punctures the not-quite numbness, more like disbelief, and a tiny bit of uh-oh.
You aren’t a narcissist. You know the world is bigger than your book, your life of searching for treasure with the hope of filling that ache inside, the hollow place in your heart that you’ve been pressing on since that day you were five and had to send a piece of yourself away for protection. The memory of that girl, all pigtails and longing, is as clear as the crystal champagne glasses that your husband is setting on the counter, cluttered with bills and pens and a coffee mug that your daughter painted for you—the quiet, lovely ordinariness of life.
But this moment doesn’t feel ordinary. Something has changed. Until today the full story of searching for your heart has been private, except for essays, small ones, easy to hide, to dismiss. A book, rather less so.
Your colleague Maureen, also a memoirist, says it’s the pride taboo, and I’m not good enough. And what will people think of me? Earlier that day, you huddled in her office, two Catholic girls in their 50s, talking through their shame about sharing intimate secrets. It’s okay you assured each other over salad and chocolate bars. “We asked for this. We wanted this.”
As a girl you huddled in the back of your dark closet writing stories in a pink diary with a flimsy silver lock. Still you kept those stories safe. Soon you’ll be sharing them with anyone who wants to hit the buy button. And all of those anyones will be able to access that diary full of longing, a yearning so alive it flows off the page, like the geyser of champagne that your husband, scrambling for a dishtowel, tries to catch in one of the crystal glasses.
Your husband. Have you been fair to him in this narrativized version of your marriage? And is he up for the exposure? You wanted to tell the story of a middle age woman looking for hidden treasure, both real and metaphorical. It’s a conversation about marriage that you’ve been trying to conduct for years, and now you have been handed a baton of sorts. This privilege of yes means the chance to be visible, to step in into the light. The funny thing is, you rather like the shadows.
Only yesterday you were asking who will ever publish this? Today you are asking, when this is published who will see me? And will it even matter? Will your first boyfriend read it and learn of your indifference? Will the married man? Your children who are both nearly adults but very much okay with a limited knowledge of their parents’ private life. You hope so. You hope not. You want to sell a billion copies as much as you want to crawl back into the safety of your closet, that smelled of cedar and mothballs, and find that pink diary and burn it.
You think of your parents, both deceased. Your mother’s closest friends have either passed or are in their final years, so you’re almost safe there. Except for Peg, nearing 90 and still sharp; you call each other now and then. “I miss your mother every day,” Peg always says, her voice a raspy cackle, reminding you that there are people who never knew the back side of your mother’s hilarity, the detailed affronts that drive your story.
Your husband hands you a cool flute of champagne, and you both pause. How many times have you envisioned this moment? No less than 100, you guess. And here it is, almost ironic. The two of you toasting to a book, one that opens your marriage to scrutiny. But you make yourself hold still and try to savor the complexity of this writing wish coming true.
Then you look at your husband, beaming pride, and think of all the moments your readers will never see, like this one, when he lifts your chin to meet his eyes, and puts his mouth close to your ear and whispers, “You did it.”
You smile at him and nod. You hear the thin clink of crystal. When you sip, the bubbles rise inside you, a counterpoint to the heaviness of this uninvited worry. And for the first time, you realize something: that this pale gold dream coming true is complicated, like your story. But it’s also just another part of that story, a good part, one in which you are vulnerable, grateful, joyful, terrified, and maybe even a little bit brave.
November 7, 2018 § 20 Comments
by Eréndira Ramírez-Ortega
In sixth grade, I wrote stories on wide-ruled notebook paper and read excerpts to my friend Coral on our morning walks to my bus stop. Back then, gaps in my memory were filled with settings I conjured up by opening the Thomas Guide, picking a city, and making up events that would take place there. These stories bore no resemblance to what I knew and lived. True stories—treasure troves already imbued to me by blood—didn’t seem appropriate material for anything I’d write. Writing, I thought, would set free my imaginations.
Years later though, on a trip to Mexico when I was 20-years-old, I was offered stories by my aunties and cousins, family memories they entrusted only to me. I knew that I needed to handle them like papel picado, perforated paper cut into beautiful and elaborate designs. My memories now contained the songs of my aunties, the aromas of grease in the air of their Guadalajara kitchens, the tiled floors of places that welcomed me. The impulse to write became electrifying. Their words were prescribed to me like a medicine—an antidote to the tyranny of displacement.
I learned how to tell stories from the ladies in my family—their histories all dotted on a line like birds on a wire, infinitely poised to take flight and ascend over the rooftops of time, and then glide, descending onto my sensibilities. I internalized their memories, their markers of memory, and emboldened them onto the grid of my own story, my space. I didn’t quite know how to shape their memories into the written form, but I knew that I needed to try.
Their stories share a common rhythm, a rich optic for the uncanny which bellows out of the holes of traumas like poverty, neglect, rejection, abuse, prostitution, addiction. These ladies are a relentless force of matriarchs, where men occupy the shadows.
Sensitive to the world that was opening before me, I knew I had to do something with all I was offered. What good was it to be called to write and not write anything about the lives of those that impacted my soul the most? It was too unnerving and utterly selfish to keep the stories buried in the ground. I would need to dive into the great blue sea and search for the diamonds that slipped out of my hands. Too much was at stake.
If you only knew all the things I know, all the stories people I know have shared with me, my aunties would say, you would have a saga no one would ever forget. As I hear this, my heart races faster. I need my equipment. I need my gear. I need to listen deeply to save these diamonds in the sea from oblivion.
I remember a sense of dread—not about the content of the stories—but about my inability to remember them, to record them accurately. I fretted about misplacing my notebooks, my sensibility, my empathy. I would lose sleep and feel the urgent tug of responsibility burden my shoulders. I had the relentlessness of a journalist, but the isolation of a creative writer.
I’m certain now that the tales that echo through my bloodline are stories that were meant for me to hear. Otherwise, why would my aunties ever unearth a past so traumatic that time would be the salve to keep it from resurfacing? I learned not to fear their pasts, as dreadful as those pasts may have seemed, because I realized that their legacies were not exclusive to our family.
Many others of their generation tell their own stories, and they are just as haunting as ours. There are stories trapped in the confines of family secrecy, or shame, that I wrestle with and don’t need to tell, despite my disbelief in coincidences, in chance, in mistakes. I’ve recorded stories told to me by aunties and my mother; I don’t have the appropriate rhythm or recall that these storytellers do, but what I do have are vignettes—snapshots captured by the speed of a camera’s shutter. I can place them, then, into stories of my imagination where my pen meets the paper. I complete them with my own stroke of color to make something new.
“She took a small step over the curlicues and geometric patterns of the olive and blue encaustic tiles that have seen years of foot traffic, rain, and sun. I’m sure they had once been lovely under all those layers of dirt,” I write. These curiosities color the descriptions in my short stories, fictional tales that complete the picture of recorded lists, places, recipes, and names.
Now, my manuscripts will be comprised of these vignettes, some shaped out of the gems bestowed to me orally, reinvented through memory. I continue to hold safe these stories that haven’t been imparted to the world yet, these fragments of perforated paper so delicate in their beauty, colorful tissues of paper that wrap like bunting to declare celebration.
Eréndira Ramírez-Ortega’s essays have appeared in The Washington Post, The Millions, Fathom Magazine, Image Journal, and elsewhere. She writes fiction, poetry, interviews, and reviews. She is an alumna of the Mills College MFA program. She hosts the Afictionada podcast and is co-founder of Burning Bush Press. She is writing a novel. Find her here.
October 1, 2018 § 7 Comments
By Cat Pleska
The time had finally arrived: my first book launch. I’d worked on my memoir for fifteen years before a university press published it. I justified the long time it took to finish by saying sometimes you have to live a little longer and grow to understand what your life story is and what it means.
A few months in advance of my book’s release, I’d scheduled its launch at an independent bookstore nearby. Then a month before, I had a dream. In the dream I walked into the bookstore’s reading space. The reading table for authors was at the back of the room and there to one side of it stood my parents and my dad’s parents, shoulder to shoulder. Beaming smiles. I felt their approval for the book, their pride in me. I woke, haunted by the fact that these four people, who appeared prominently in my memoir, were all gone. They would never see me in this life-affirming moment.
The image stayed with me and an idea began to form in the back of my mind. Because I had previously portrayed historical characters, one for my state’s humanity council’s History Alive! program and another for the national Mother’s Day Foundation, I was accustomed to costumes and performances to become someone else. Two weeks before the launch, I hatched a plan.
In my local Goodwill, I found an old work shirt and in Cabela’s an orange hunting hat. From Ebay, I ordered a cigarette rolling machine identical to the one my grandfather allowed me to roll his cigarettes for him when I was a child. I borrowed my husband’s steel toe work boots. I found my old reading glasses that looked like the ones my grandmother wore and dug out one of her ashtrays. For my mother, I could find no costume items, so I decided to express her with stance and attitude.
The day came and I rounded the door to the reading space, half expecting my family to be standing as I saw them in my dream. Approaching the table, I sat a chair on either side then placed my props. It was show time!
I drew in a shaky breath and prepared to let the audience know I had not come alone. In front of them, I donned the tan work shirt over my clothes and pulled on the boots. I rolled a cigarette in the rolling machine with tobacco torn from a borrowed cigarette (since I don’t smoke) and launched into a story my grandfather always told, copying his vernacular and physical stance. I drew laughs when I changed in front of them and switched chairs to portray my grandmother tapping her “ashes” into her hand— she usually ignored her ashtrays—as she told a story about me when I was a baby. Then I switched to a flannel shirt and hunting hat, cigarette dangling from my lip as Dad told his famous “Night on Cheat Mountain” wild tale. Again I switched chairs and took off any props to sit proper, legs crossed, and told a rollicking tale of my mother’s, her cigarette flashing in the air as she gestured.
Finally, it was just me, in front of friends and strangers reading from my memoir. Stories about growing up with these giants, these people who were wonderful and wonderfully flawed, who loved me, despite my own flaws. I remembered their stories and my own like the lines of a play.
In my imagination, with each reading, they would fill the back row of the audience. Over time, I imagined them less. Then they were gone. I became the lone character.
To my utter shock, I plunged into mourning their deaths again. No one had told me this might happen when you recreate and write about long-gone loved ones.
For the next few months, as I exulted in my first published book, I also felt the heavy burden of grief. This time, all four of them at once. The truth is that to write memoir, we must visit the good, the bad, the past, the present, and resurrect ghosts to convey to our readers the lived life.
In my memoir, I wrote their story, as they had asked me to over the years, and I boldly added my own. They showed up to let me know they were proud of me and to take a final bow.
Cat Pleska is the author of Riding on Comets: a Memoir, (West Virginia University Press, 2015). Even though she lives in and writes from the heart of Appalachia, she is currently working on a collection of travel/personal essays titled The I’s Have It: Traveling in Ireland and Iceland. She teaches full time in the online Master of Liberal Studies Program, for Arizona State University.
June 20, 2018 § 26 Comments
by Jan Priddy
I was afraid of my grandfather when I was little. He had suffered a series of debilitating strokes beginning the year I was born. By the time I knew him one hand was held up and curled inward and his speech was unclear.
My mother hated her father, so it was easy to believe the bad things she said about him when I was a child.
My grandmother was one reason I was supposed to distrust my grandfather. She had an abortion because they had agreed not to have children when they married. The second time she became pregnant, she ignored her promise and kept the baby. She kept the next pregnancy too. That was my mother. My mother told me this, but she would not have liked me telling the world.
Do I have a right to tell this story? Is it mine to tell? Just because I am a writer? Because I am family? I was once told about the affair of a friend’s husband. I repeated that story. It was true, after all, but it got back to the wife and was embarrassing and painful for everyone. These are not my stories. They happened long ago to other people, to people I love.
My mother is dead, my aunt, and my grandparents. All of the generations before and contemporary to them are now gone. No cousins are alive. I tell that story about my grandmother’s abortion now, but I never told it while my mother was alive. My mother never told me until her own mother was gone.
Mostly she kept silent, but there were snippets of memory my mother would tell over and over. My grandfather had an affair, she said, maybe with the piano teacher. He bored his daughters by insisting they listen to him sing opera. He made them visit his home during holidays after their parents divorced. He was selfish and mean.
Eventually, I knit together stories she told with new information and what I could find in history. Yes, my grandmother threw out her husband, likely for infidelity. He agreed to her terms for their divorce (she got the paid-for house and everything in it but refused alimony). Did he pay child support or was my grandmother able to support herself, her two children, and a large house with her office job? In the Great Depression? There is no one who can tell me.
What I do know is that my grandfather repeatedly attempted to reconcile with his former wife. He saw his daughters frequently and tried to interest them in his own enthusiasms, including opera. He lived alone for many years and never in his life said a word against my grandmother. He attended his daughters’ weddings hundreds of miles away. He made an effort to keep in touch. Eventually, my grandmother remarried—to a man who insisted she marry him or he would not see her anymore. It was only after that, my grandfather remarried another strong-willed and intelligent woman. He never knew of his younger daughter’s animus.
My mother’s stories made my grandfather a villain. Her stories were true to her. She never lied. Her stories were factual.
Were they accurate? Were they fair?
I have always respected Mary Karr for giving her first memoir to family members to read before it was published. Since hers is the story of a traumatic childhood, her sister and mother have prominent roles. She acknowledges in the first pages of Liars’ Club that their versions of events are different from hers. Mary McCarthy also acknowledged, in her memoir, that she might have things wrong.
Telling the story of another person opens doors to distortion. When we have only second-hand information, it is more challenging still. We speculate about motivation while missing key elements that bent behavior in what otherwise appears irrational or unkind or a little too good to be true. We miss small acts of kindness altogether. Small acts of cruelty.
We create of our experiences a story we understand, one that feels like truth to us, and one we are willing to hear. A story that justifies our resentment and anger or our love and remorse. We want to be the hero of our own tale. Thus we tilt our view of events and reveal just what places our version in its best light. We are not always aware of our errors. Even so, a reader may find more truth than was intended.
This is inevitable, and while a memoir must feel authoritative, I do not trust authors who seem too certain, too eager to blame. I have argued continuously with some memoirs, identifying what might be self-serving bias in the telling.
The stories we tell have enormous power to teach others about our mistakes and our manner of clawing our way back to life. It would be hubris to assume that we may easily tell stories about other, especially second-hand stories, accurately and fairly, just because we can.
Am I allowed to tell everything I know, merely because I want to? I inspect my motivations, the impact of my story on others, the potential for good or harm. Whom do I serve by telling, other than myself?
Two poets I know will read but never publish particular poems out of respect for the feelings of family members who would be hurt by their words. There are stories about loved ones I choose not share. Some stories are wounding, and too many of us already bleed.
When I kissed my grandfather’s cheek, I remember his white whiskers were scratchy on my face.
My grandfather did not harm me when I was a little girl. I am sorry I never lingered near his chair and rarely had patience as he struggled to get words out clearly. I was his only granddaughter and know enough of his story to understand he was not a monster, but a complicated and difficult man.
My mother could never forgive her father, but I can forgive them both.
Jan Priddy’s work is forthcoming in Brevity magazine and Liminal Stories. She has BFAs in studio arts, and an MFA in fiction from Pacific University. She lives in her grandfather’s house and walks the beach each day.
February 24, 2017 § 6 Comments
By Jennifer Lang
From January through July, my fingers flew. Word after word, page after page, chapter after chapter. Thanks to my final MFA mentor at graduate school, I saw the road clear ahead of me and raced. Pumped and proud and a new graduate, I hired an editor to take my first draft and fine tune it. Tell me what worked and what didn’t. What was over- and underwritten. Where I needed more or less scene, or not at all. Mostly, I hired a complete stranger unfamiliar with the content—Israel and Judaism—to tell me if the story of my marriage to my French husband Philippe held her interest.
Six weeks later, between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, she responded with nine pages of evaluation and my manuscript all marked up in brilliant red. She answered my questions and then some, telling me I had succeeded in creating a narrator who is utterly human and flawed (as all believable narrators should be, her words) and that the conflict is clear, perhaps too clear, on almost every page, in the reader’s face. I read, nodding my head even though she couldn’t see me. I sighed every so often because she was spot on.
Then, everything changed on page six. Under the headline “Related: develop Philippe’s character more,” she wrote: You’ll need to find other ways to make his feelings, thoughts, and unspoken wishes known more; sometimes through physical gestures and facial expressions, actions, etc. Bring Philippe alive more on the page in other ways too. Make him a full person. I gulped. I continued reading. Next heading: “Other Characters.” She wrote: Let the children develop into characters as well, not just names on the pages with attached ages and order of birth.
By then I was holding my breath. My shoulders clenched. A visceral reaction to her words on my page.
After I reached the end of the evaluation, I heeded her advice: read the comments several times over the next few days, let them sink in, sleep, read them again, refrain from opening the document and diving in head first.
I agreed with everything she suggested: consider changing the structure, show other aspects of our life and not just the core issue of religious diversity and place, and add backstory and more scenes. But I tripped over the same few lines on page six every time I read them. Sure, I’m writing a memoir about my complicated marriage, but what more can I reveal about my husband? Super sure, my kids figure into the story because they’re ours, a result of our union, but how much do I have to reveal about them?
I have been writing about Philippe for years. Further, I’ve been writing about my children since they were born. I have used their names without second guessing myself. I have written and published stories about my youngest daughter’s hording tendencies during her elementary school years, about my oldest son’s reaction to visiting an elderly, homebound woman in middle school, and about all of their negative reactions to relocating to Israel for a semi-sabbatical year ten years ago.
Aside from using their names, I’ve recreated dialogue and described their appearances. I’ve brought their characters to life in 500-, 1000-, 2000-, even 3000-word essays.
But now, in a book, what I call my book, I’m being asked to make them come alive, to let the reader hear and see and understand and align or disagree with them—my husband of twenty-six years; my children who are now twenty-three, soon twenty, and almost eighteen.
How can I write about my husband as a full-fledged character, sharing his strengths and exposing his weaknesses while I bare my soul about our marriage, questioning in the memoir if I will even stay, in Israel, the land he’ll likely never leave? How can I write about my kids as full-fledged characters, sharing their strengths and exposing their weaknesses just as they leave home to carve out separate identities as adults in the world without mortifying them? Without them pointing an accusatory finger at me? Without them asking what have I done? What kind of permission do I have to ask of them, and of myself, if any?
And so, while I grapple with the core issue of memoir—writing about my life and my family—I keep the hardcopy of my marked-up manuscript, to my left, on my desk, as a quiet reminder of what I have accomplished so far.
And, a believer in signs, I wait to see if any of my applications to writing residencies with the stated goal of finishing this book are accepted. If yes, then I’ll go, manuscript in hand, questions to ask, computer in bag, and I’ll proceed and propel myself forward. Because, as my mother said repeatedly throughout my childhood when reaching difficult crossroads, perhaps taking finals, trying out for cheerleading, or applying to college, if it is meant to be, it is meant to be.
Jennifer Lang‘s essays have been published in Under the Sun, Ascent, Citron Review, Hippocampus Magazine, and Dumped: Stories of Women Unfriending Women, among others. Currently, she serve as Editorial Fellow for Proximity magazine and occasionally contributes to the Wall Street Journal‘s Expat column. Since receiving a MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts last summer, she’s been working on her first memoir. She resides in Raanana, Israel, where she writes, runs a writers salon and teaches yoga. Find her at http://israelwritersalon.com