Dear Maura

St. Patrick's Day: Alas, or is it A Lass?

It is 1978. I am visiting my Gramma Molly in New York City. In a week, I will be in Ireland, visiting her homeland, for the first time. I will meet my relatives in County Clare. They will say, "Welcome Home!" I, the Southern California lass will, at first, be bemused--and then it will hit me. Yes, Ireland is my homeland, the place where my people came from, come from. They sailed a dizzying Atlantic years ago, the same ocean I fly over, zoom zoom, suspended, in suspense, never to be the same once I arrive, and hear their voices, see their eyes, in them see my own reflected. Here's to the undertow of time, circular and persistent, the ancient currents binding heart and home. Happy St. Patrick's Day.

Memoir as Code...Really? (iii)

Memoir, as genre, is still evolving—perhaps that’s why it is surrounded by controversy—for the essence of its truth isn’t pre-baked. So being, memoir holds the potential for an intimacy that has nearly disappeared from our tell-all, fast-paced, media-saturated culture. Wading into murky waters, the memoirist swims with remembered images--as the writing ebbs and flows, the meaning of those images rises from the depths. Memoir is redemption happening in real time as we re-discover the practical essence at the heart of the human condition, called love.

As life unfolds as an array of subtly distinguished moments, so does memoir. We encounter its truth not only in the loud roar of objective reality, but also in the quiet spaces between the lines. Even in quantum physics, reality is paradoxical and discontinuous, for our very observation changes the nature of the observed. This is different from the act of manipulative fabrication. With memoir, objectivity and subjectivity are thus part of the story. This makes memoir not only paradoxical, but also sacred, to be honored, treasured, trusted—never to be abused

Because of the Frey incident, “memoir” may be raked over the coals, and perhaps it is high time for cogent discussion. Meanwhile, people crave true stories where spirit triumphs, and the human heart prevails. Memoir should point the way to open roads of understanding and not lead us back on alleys of fabricated confessionals. We may not be free from sin—but how we tell our stories should be.

"Memoir" as Code. . . Really? (i)

On the day of my First Holy Confession, I waited outside the confessional box with a serious problem: I couldn’t think of any sins. So I made them up, trembling as I knelt in cramped darkness before the gauzy shadow of Fr. Becera. He blessed me with the sign of the cross and assigned me ten Hail Marys, but still I felt terrible lying about my innocence.

Fast forward to today’s debacle about James Frey’s book, "A Million Little Pieces." Frey confessed that much of his “memoir” was intentionally fabricated. We may never know the truth of the controversy as the players involved hold varying opinions. But the story goes that Frey first tried to sell his fall and redemption tale as a novel, then passed it off as memoir with the blessing of a lucrative, publishing deal. This was followed by the coveted and finally retracted endorsement from Oprah.

I remember speaking with my editor after my book, "She’s All Eyes," sold to a major New York house. She asked me why I’d written a memoir rather than a novel. “I never imagined this being a work of fiction,” I answered. “It’s my life story.” In today’s context, her question evokes the temptations some writers feel to fudge major events to make their story, well, more salable. We shouldn’t inject memoir with hormones to garner a fatter price. Just the same, we should not relegate memoir to mere reportage. Memoir’s truth unfolds within a subjective rendering of objective reality. And there’s the rub: it is paradoxical.

(Part II continues below)

"Memoir" as Code. . . Really? (ii)

Regarding the paradoxical nature of memoir: For example, in writing my coming-of-age story, I assume the voice of a 7-year-old girl watching the world unfold in real time —although in “real” time, I am the writer looking back from the age of 37. My memoir, about my relationship with a stoic, FBI agent father, is quiet—no drugs, incest, alcoholism, sadomasochism, or car chases. My special agent father isn’t running guns in Central America. He is mopping floors in our kitchen, listening to the California Angels on the radio, and tending to his own obsession, a son born with Down syndrome. Therein lies a tale of redemption—and it’s the job of the 7-year-old and the 37-year-old to excavate it.

This approach may not sound like standard nonfiction—but it is memoir. Disclaimers in a memoir’s first pages often note its nuanced nature. Mine reads: "This story is based on historical events and is told through the memory and imagination of the child, who sees always by way of the heart. Certain names, locations, and descriptive details are changed to protect the identities of individuals, their families, and environments." Such words are carefully chosen to reflect how memoir warps space-time. Life, like alchemy, has solar and lunar aspects. Straddling these objective and subjective components, the memoirist ‘re-members’ disparate pieces so that a wholeness—her truth—is revealed.  

(For part III, cycle on up to the 2/11 post!)

When it Rains, it Pours: The Bad Girls Book Club

It's been 28 straight days of rain in the Pacific Northwest, but who's counting? Winter's for turning in,
lighting candles, eating squash, certainly cozying up to a roaring fire. But what to do as the site of one's umbrella transmogrifies into public enemy number one? Bye, bye ye olde Norman Rockwell. Hello revisionist coping. Of my fellow rain-drenched citizens, I asked, "How are you doing?" This is code for "How are you surviving this most wet, post realist gray?" A few winter coping strategies: "I work out endlessly," reports Sara. "I meditate under full-spectrum light," says Lucy. "Hawaii in February," quips another puddle jumper. And finally, the woman in shades: "My book group saves me...even if we never get around to discussing the book!" What's this? Moss-inspired amnesia? The January Blues? Witness the at-large greeting card, "Bad Girls Book Club," created by artist Mina Lee (MinaLeeStudio.com). Who are these women? Why the dark glasses? Dear Maura wants to know: did they read the book?! More to come, my friends.

When Oceans Speak Love

The Orange County surf has been acting up lately--as in way up. A weather system from Hawaii ushers in huge waves along my native southern California coast. Hopes for an inspiring and joyful new year also rush in...In California, I spend time with my younger brother, Joe, to whom I've dedicated my memoir and who continues to be a constant inspiration in my life. Joe's love roars like the sea although his gems of affection are often shrouded by silence. My lovely brother was born in 1966 with Down Syndrome -- another code word which signifies a chromosonal abnormality. But talk to the surfers; one person's "storm" is another person's opportunity to catch the ride of a lifetime. Talk to the surfers some more -- and there aren't words to describe the power of Mother Nature. Sometimes the waves that appear most foreboding are those that deliver us to inexplicable shores of compassion. As Joe's taught me, all we have to do is stay open...and love the ride. There is so much to love. Thank you, Joe, for the lessons. And thanks to all you surfers, for the metaphor.

Seeing the World: The Eyes of a Child

I recently returned from the Seattle area where I had the honor of speaking to the Women’s Club of Federal Way about my life as a childhood spy. We all agreed—children these days seem to grow up faster and faster. But one aspect remains unchanged: the graceful state of seeing the world through a child’s eyes, feeling the delight of tasting life’s many layers for the first time. The French philosopher, Bachelard, calls childhood ‘the first time,’ code meaning it's a time we never outgrow. Why not indulge it?

The slightest nudge takes us back to the smell of grandma’s kitchen and her perfect apple pie, a song transports us to our sweaty junior high school dance (try ‘Stairway to Heaven’) or the whiff of Old Spice cologne...and I am seven again, kissing the cheek of my FBI agent dad as he comes home from work. It’s as if no time has passed.

Here are some ‘first time’ moments as shared by my new friends up in Federal Way: "Vanilla cake with sticky chocolate frosting, grandma’s haunted playhouse; sitting on the curb at age three and throwing stones at cars; the thrill of trying on a new Halloween costume;grandma’s canned peaches, her bread freshly toasted; picking huckleberries in summer; writing in a notebook atop a 50-foot oak tree or next to the candle-lit corners of the attic; the day my brother returned home from WWII and carried me home from school on his shoulders..." Lovely, all. Thank you!

Here’s to living in the ‘first time’ this time of year.

Cracking the Daily Code:The Family Dinner

Dear Friends,

We're quickly approaching the Holidays of Cornucopian Delight, and so “Dear Maura” takes on The Family Dinner. (Remember those?) In our suburban Los Angeles house, these were quiet affairs, the proverbial feast tainted by the vow of silence. My job was to pry from my FBI agent father information about who he really was. Mission Impossible? Yes. But I was a decent sleuth and never gave up. And when something went wrong in our household, my mother dashed to the kitchen, pulled out the roasting or baking pans, whipped up some concoction, and hoped for the best.

Here’s an excerpt from my memoir, SHE'S ALL EYES, published this month by Warner Books.

"Dad is very sad. Dad is very quiet.

Roast beef, pork chops, ham patties, lamb, potatoes, macaroni, fish sticks, beets, creamed corn, carrots, spinach, sweet potatoes, apple pie, cherry pie, homemade chocolate cake. Everything Mom cooks Dad stares at as if the food is the moon. He says nothing to Mom, not even saying anything to make her cry. She asks no questions, but is sure to look us kids in the eyes to tell us everything is going to be okay.

Out of respect, we learn to listen to the sound of our mouths chewing food, slow."

(P. 234 in SHE'S ALL EYES, copyright, 2005)

Questions:

1. Does your family have a code at the dinner table?
2. How about when you were growing up?
3. Why is the family dinner table so rich with memory?

Please send your remarks on The Family Dinner (800 words or less) and you are automatically entered into the SHE'S ALL EYES custom-made candle weekly drawing. A little gift to help shed light on the code in your life.

Thank you for writing.

Warm Best,