The following story, Pick It Up, is just the beginning of a collection of creative non-fiction pieces I'm writing about my childhood. I read it today as part of Saint Martin's Friday Faculty lunch presentation of Women's History Month where faculty and staff members read their writings- some read stories, poems, articles.
My knees were shaking when I got up there and stood in front of my (supposed) colleagues, all older than I and each critical in the way that professors should be critical- for the sake of their students. It surprised me how terrified I was to read this story to them- to do what I encourage my students to do: share a piece of themselves, their perspective through writing.
I got through the short story, somehow, and actually kind of enjoyed reading it toward the end- enjoyed the rhythm of the words and the way I could accent certain words to convey my meaning. Feedback was good, but I'm new at this and being my own worst critic I'm still a little tender from the experience. Wondering if they know what the story is really about. Wondering what they read into it.
The process of writing these stories has been amazing for me. It's like reclaiming my childhood- I wasn't the happiest, most understood kid. It's like a little investigation of what really happened, according to my adult understanding anyways. And it has me thinking about the malleability of memory. How, I'm not even sure sometimes what really happened or what I imagined. All I remember are bits and pieces, snapshots of my experiences. I am really constructing my memories through this process of recalling them. That said, I am not intentionally making up lies, but I'm using images like popcorn bag, the Sweet Stop, and voices in my head to talk about conscience, poverty, fear.
I was reminded today of the possibilities...... that if we take a chance and try to do something we think we might fail at, we've already won.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
i'm really glad you chose to share that piece of yourself with the saint, and us. i was taken aback by the contrast of hypersensitivity to detal "its red and white stripes nearly hidden by sandy gravel, the exposed paper fluttering" and the flow of seemingly unconsciouse thought, "Same woodchips I dragged my stuffed panda Ming Ming through for show and tell, same field I beat up a boy two years younger on for not picking me to play on his soccer team, same playground where I smoked my mom’s menthol cigarettes after school". This contrast feels new and unique, your own personal style. Influenced by Toni Morrison?
Post a Comment