For the past few years I’ve struggled with what I –and others–have perceived to be a gaping hole in my memoir. Today I realized that the gaping hole is actually the end of that part of my story; I think I need to focus on excavating what I already have and delete what comes after.
I have wanted to fill the hole with my years as a mom, since I learned to understand my mother as I learned to understand myself.
But I have resisted this, and now I get why: those years are not about Mama and me. They are part of another story.
Such a freeing revelation.
I realized this as I was reading Emma Brockes‘ She Left me the Gun at 2am this morning. She writes,
It is a virtue, we are told, to face things, although given the chance I would go for denial every time–if denying a thing meant not knowing it. But the choice, it turns out, is not between knowing a thing and not knowing it, but between knowing and half-knowing it, which is no choice at all. (I don’t know the page number, only that it is location 99 on my Kindle.)
I half-knew my mother was dying, but it felt like not knowing because every time I re-read a letter from her, I re-discovered that she had cancer. I, too, choose denial.
So as I’m reading Brockes’ story, I’m inserting myself into the text and peripherally excavating and then I read this:
If the landscape that eventually emerged can be visualized as the bleakest thing I know–a British beach in winter–she stood around me like a windbreak so that all I saw was colors. A therapist once described my mother’s background…as the elephant in the room….” (location 122/Kindle)
Did Mama windbreak for me? I see that I have been resting in that choiceless place of half-knowing.
Because I’m afraid of what I’ll find in the excavation. Not about Mama, but about me.
I relate to both the author and her mother–I see myself in both roles because my childhood experience is similar to her mother’s.
So I am excavating my own childhood, too, and evaluating my role as mother, since I severed ties in an attempt to protect my children from the poison of my past.
About the book:
My favorite thing right now, a third through, is the way Brockes keeps the reader at her side on the journey. I have an idea of what she will discover about her mother, but I am hoping for more details (which, by the way, reminds me that memoir IS story, and suspense is delightful). The story–and the way she tells it–will make you reflect on your own relationship with your mother, which to me is the mark of a terrific storyteller.