eng 319

beginnings of a memoir

Dear Teacher:

I am writing this memoir partly because I have to. Throughout my entire life I have been pushed and pulled and stretched in any way people around me wanted to. I have followed the rules of authority and my social groups, and done as I’ve been told, and that means that even though I’ve not enjoyed writing or school or homework, I do it anyway because that’s what has been asked of me.

I’ve always been a pushover in this way. It started with my parents. They were dysfunctional and broken people unable to communicate with each other. They fought day and night, all the time, and used me, the middle child and only girl, as their mediator. My mother would vomit chunks of the injustice in her life onto my lap, spew some quick and hurtful curse word about my father who was in the garage, and send me on my way to relay to him what she was unable to. Of course I never did. Nor did I relay to her the fact that he thought her to be a psycho. I did go, though. I did listen to them both, attempt to capture how they felt, why they felt, and what they wanted, and it was this that I told the other. At 10 or so I was obviously the best person for the job, my older brother had his own life, he was a piano prodigy with big dreams and lots to do, and my little brother was the angel who was to be unharmed and let to watch tv in peace. But me, I was no one, I was there...I would listen...I cared and showed each understanding and compassion...and I did as I was told. And so I was, for years and years, the mediator. Didn’t ask why, didn’t wonder whether I should be hearing such things, or whether I had anything to say for myself; rather I accepted my role, and embraced that identity—if I can even call it that.

When I hit middle school my role at home continued, but a new identity was shoved on me as well. I went to a school that had three very distinct social groups, and therefore 2 choices that I could make for myself. If you were not lucky enough to be Hispanic or a Mormon, then you could be either a punk or a loner. Afraid to be alone, I looked at the punks, took a gulp, and jumped in. I dyed my hair blue and took hits and got into fights like they expected.

I still jumped through the hoops teachers required such as going to class and doing my homework.

But even more impacting, I learned to keep mostly quiet about how I felt or who I wanted to be because it seemed that every time I spoke, it was too much emotion, too much of me, and my father would say, “ok, Paula.” I didn’t want to be like my mother. I didn’t want to be like her. I wanted to be sane, I wanted to make people happy, to be accepted and loved, and so I kept quiet. I pretended to be as cool as the other punks, stronger than the other girls I fought, I pretended to care about my classes and what the teachers were saying so that I could receive their praise, and I pretended that I had no thoughts, and no dreams. I was merely a shadow, a quiet reflection of what people around me required of me.

But teacher, I am also writing this memoir because I want to. Because I’ve wanted to. Throughout my entire life I have been pushed and pulled and stretched in any way people around me wanted to...and now is my time, my chance to speak for myself. This is my chance to use my words and my written thoughts to claim independence, a unique identity.

Where to go, what to do?  From reading the memoirs assigned in Persuasion, reading "the Madwoman in the Attic" by Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar, having conversations with people I know about writing and life in general, and in attempting to finally write my own memoir I have discovered a lot about myself, and the way I am and the reasons for that.  I am in the process of seeing myself as a gendered person with a story to tell, just because I am a woman.  I look at the struggles within my family and the dynamics of our relationships and see my outcry for independence and have been transforming my view of writing from a constraint given by teachers, a mundane task, to a freeing, defining act.  If there ever was a defining moment in my writing career it would be now.  If there ever was a moment where I've questioned my faith, or my role in my family, or my desires for a man and to be loved and accepted it would be now.  I want to write about it all.  I want to speak of my newly forming independence and voice...I want to share my exploration of what life is, especially one without religion...but I know that others will see, I know that others will hear...I know that if I was to submit my paper into the writing contest and it was to get published in the crucible someone from my church might read it.  Someone that i've mentored might hear my wavering voice, and certainly my mother would like to read it.  Either I make her look insane because that is what my father, what this patriarchical society tells me she is because she speaks, or I speak out against my father and claim feminism, that my mother has the right to speak, and no she isn't crazy.  who do I offend? And if I do so, will it connect with my transformative writing experience?