Patrick James Response: Ethics

[Sondra Perl]

#882

I suppose, for me, there is a bit of confession in all memoir. And when I think of confession, I think of the confessional—the small closet that holds the supplicant and priest. The space is enclosed, to ensure privacy, to ensure that the priest and God are the only ones to hear the confessor. I think too of the prayer of confession (a more protestant gesture), in which the supplicant speaks truth to the void, to a disembodied, but listening, god. In both instances, there is the dominating concern for privacy, a need to keep the truth enclosed, so that it will not damage anyone in or out of the act of confessing.

*

It’s funny that I think of the prayer closet when I think of memoir, because the closet has shaped much of my writing—its urgency, its stakes. I come from a very conservative, Christian family; and when I first began to write, it was never with the intention of publishing, with reaching a larger audience. It was a supremely private act, hemmed in by fear, by obligation—a low-grade sense of oppression. I didn’t write so much about other people. I usually wrote about myself, and the reason was because what I wanted to write about had a lot to do with desire and sexuality, particularly my queer perspective within the context of theological longing. However, to write about this would mean to confess outside of the “prayer closet,” to bring my thoughts and feelings into some kind of public discourse. It would also mean to reconfigure my feelings regarding sexuality—to detach it from shame, to transform it from something to be confessed, to something to be shared.

*

In chapter ten of Writing True, the author advises, “write honestly, but with respect” (158), which is something I had to learn for myself. Which, I believe, can be rephrased another way: when I came out of the (prayer?) closet in college, my therapist at the time advised me to love my family enough to tell them the truth. I love you enough to tell you the truth—a phrase I carried with me when I told my parents that I’m gay.

I had to learn that while my family might be embarrassed of my sexuality, I had to tell them because I loved them, because I respected them. And this leads me to conclude that true honesty and respect are symbiotic. Can you really have one without the other? This is an ethos I bring to my writing. It is disrespectful to lie, especially about oneself. And so I believe that if one writes honestly—and I mean with true, ego-detached honesty—then one writes with respect.

*

I have written a lot about my family, simply because they shaped much of my identity—intellectually and theologically. I think my sense of humor comes from them as well, and my investment in honesty and truth telling. And so, it’s been hard to keep them from my writing, especially when they’ve asked to see it. It took a long time for me to share my work with my parents. I think I needed time to get behind my own choices as a thinker. But, my experience sharing my writing with my parents has been a lot like Kim Barnes’ experiences with her family in Writing True. They felt that they were “presented with understanding” (158), which is something I took as a compliment. But beyond that, I feel that when my parents read my writing they finally started to understand me. And it was only then that I realized that writing out of the confessional, and into a space where I could be heard, had really transforming affects on my relationships. It allowed my family to see me clearly, my interiority and all—not just what I thought they wanted to see, but what I really was. This work has given my familial relationships space. A space for shifting attitudes, for a reassessment of values.

I think my parents are different because of it. They definitely speak about sexuality in much more sensitive and tolerant ways. And they regard me now as a whole person, not a square peg. Revealing my writing to them turned out to be a positive experience, but I don’t think that’s true for everyone. In that regard, I am very lucky. And grateful.

[Website Services Admin]

#886

Patrick,
I feel the urgency and stakes in everything you write – your pieces in class and your responses – and I also think that’s true for the way you respond to other’s works in the class. Being honest with others is extremely difficult, and I think the way you framed it as a necessity for being honest because you love and respect someone allows for a reconfiguration of ethics not just about telling the truth, but about respect itself. We talked a lot about stakes early on in the class, and I think this response is a perfect example of how writing – writing of any kind – can have large stakes.

[Sondra Perl]

#888

Patrick:

Your writing as well as your reflections offer perceptions that are layered with grace, certainties and sensitivity. I cannot imagine anyone not wanting to hear your story(ies), or not being able to see your perspectives. What your therapist told you regarding “love my family enough to tell them the truth” is an amazing method to keep your emotions and external uncertainties away from your pursuit of telling your truth. I believe we can all use that advice within our creative nonfiction writing; love enough to respect ourselves and those who may read our words that bear our truths. Sometimes I think we need to circumvent certain areas because we do not want to offend others, but then in the end we sacrifice ourselves by doing so. Either way it’s a slippery slope.

I suppose by telling our truths, we all share each other’s afflictions (or what we think are afflictions) by listening (or reading), we all carry pieces of truths, dispersing it evenly so no one person bears the weight (of the truth) alone.

Lindsey

[Sondra Perl]

#910

Beautiful, Patrick, and beautiful responses. Deeply moving. And make me think of the corollary which is that lying to people, esp. loved ones (in the guise of protecting them) is also a way of disrespecting them.

I agree: you are lucky and have much to be grateful for.

[Author]

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