Exploring writing in a Memoir Workshop
Last Saturday I took Stanford’s CNF 91:How to Start Your Story: A Memoir Workshop. The 6 hour workshop covered a brief history of memoir, review of how memory works, point of view, Plot, Characters, Setting, Style, Tension and several writing exercises. The teacher was Monica Wesolowska who is the author of the memoir Holding Silvan: A Brief Life which was named a "Best Book of 2013” by The Boston Globe and Library Journal.
The workshop was great and insightful. I found Monica’s teaching style to be more on the practical end which was nice since I needed actual “starters” since I haven’t done anything like this before. I’m not sure if I want to write an actual memoir yet. I need to figure out which themes I want to explore, which I find difficult. I want to over explain everything. I think my next steps is to write something shorter like a personal essay or micro-memoirs.
Below are my writings based on the 3 exercises given in the workshop.
Content and Trigger Warning: death and abuseExercise #1
It took a bit to start but I wrote:
I remember… walking down the stairs early in the morning, I must have snuck in FiFi and Bobby to sleep with me so I was letting them out to pee in the morning. I saw two white sneakers by the front door on top of the garnet and green rug. This was strange because we normally left shoes in the laundry room which was attached to the garage, we never left our shoes in the front door because we never come into the house that way. They were men’s shoes. We were a house of just girls, my mom, my older sister Denise, myself and my younger sister Christy. I stood there looking at the shoes for what felt like forever. How could she?
Then I got stuck on what to write next. So I started the “I remember..” again:
I remember sitting at a booth table at Denny’s, not the normal one in Calexico, but the fancy one in El Centro. It was mom, Christy and me. I had just gotten back from college my freshman year and was talking to mom and Christy all about how different people are and how open people were to different people. The topic of tattoos came up and I was telling my mom, as though I had discovered it, that people with tattoos are not automatically bad people, that people get tattoos as a way to remember people or events or simply for the art of it. I felt it before I realized it. My mom had slapped me across the face. No one said anything. We were all quiet. When the food came, we simply ate and…..
Beep Beep Beep, ten minutes were up. I had to take a breath, but I continued onto the next step of “So a recent memory…”
So the other day, I told James about how I was in a funk, that I was in a season of depression that would eventually go away, but that now, I needed to feel the feelings and be sad. I told him how in therapy I was exploring how I don’t feel like I have intrinsic worth, that I had to produce or serve others to be of value. And how this idea was so deeply ingrained in me to the point that I can’t even point to the thing(s) that caused this, but that it felt like a fundamental truth. James looked at me with his big brown eyes filled with tears. He hugged me and said that he was sorry. I told him that it wasn't his fault, it's just childhood trauma. He shared how he hoped that after so many years together that his love would be enough to make me know that I had worth and that I was loved. We hugged each other tightly as we buried our faces into each other, crying….
Exercise #2
8 mins with the “I didn’t want to write...” format. I misunderstood the assignment and I thought that we were supposed to be the reader or who ultimately the person you think of when you're writing. So I wrote:
I don’t actually believe, I want to convince you and by that I convince myself. I don’t believe it and I don’t see the value. Maybe you can. Maybe I can see it through your eyes. Maybe you can appreciate it, maybe you can find strength in it, maybe you can be inspired by it. That’s what I think, how it can be helpful for you. You are more important, your opinion is more important. Maybe if I can convince you, I’ll convince myself. Maybe if someone reads this and say “huh, interesting” that would be enough. I also expect the “that was horrible,” “not worth the time to read” or “a waste.” that would reinforce my belief, my core belief. How can I convince you? How can I connect with someone so distant from myself? How can I get you to see me? You can but also can’t. You can love me or hate me, or never think about me again, but I’ll never truly know. You can’t reach out and touch me. You can only witness and experience me. Did I entertain you? Did I make you happy? Did I serve your purpose? It’s like living in a box with one opening so you can view me at your pleasure, when you want and how you want. You can show me off, you can tell others how great you are because you have your little doll in her box.
Exercise #3
5 mins to start a memoir after choosing an “unstable” moment. Including details, specific words, choosing a point of view, including key characters, the setting.
The 2nd most heartbreaking news I received happened in the hall bathroom. That was the only place that one can get privacy, even though it was our house. I sat on the bathroom edge, next to my younger sister Christy. Denise, my older sister, was standing. We barely fit in that tiny bathroom. Mom sat on the lid of the toilet, fighting back tears in her red eyes. It had been a day since I last saw her, even though it wasn’t usual to not see her for a few days in the last few months. It wasn’t the first time seeing my mother cry, nor the last, but this was different. Mom pulled toilet paper from the roll and clenched it in her hands.
“Tu papa está en el cielo. Dios ahora será tu padre celestial”
“Your father is in heaven. God will now be your heavenly father”
I was five. I didn’t understand death. It didn’t feel permanente, like how daffy duck would get hurt but then bounce back. Christy, who was four, also didn’t understand. But Denise did, she was nine. She knew. She cried. I knew that it meant something because of Denise’s reaction.
Anna, my aunt, had pretty much moved in. She picked out the tiny black dresses we would wear for his funeral. It was only a year before that Anna dressed us up in our special satin peach dress for our parent’s 10 year anniversary. Dad’s funeral service happened at our church. When I saw his urn, I didn’t understand. How can my tall and huge dad be in such a small box that maybe my barbie could barely fit in?
