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In this chapter about creative nonfiction and its attendant ethics, the issue of what to do with stories about the family becomes a strong focus. Since I wrote about my friends and family in my graphic novel, I have had to deal with the issue. As I was divulging secrets that had tormented my mother during her lifetime, I waited until she was dead before publishing the story. However, I also tried to bring a degree of compassion to the narrative which was based on her telling of events, but whose repeated telling came from the petition of trauma. To this day, I carry her vocalizations of distrust and anxiety about with me. As time has gone on, I have become aware that the voice which says—“buy a smart suit, it will take you anywhere”—even when I’m trying to buy a party dress or swimsuit, is hers. I’m now able to see her with a kinder eye since I see her as a woman who was changed by circumstances, most of which arose from her being born female.
Earlier on in my thirties, I made a book, “Stigma” that was to be included in an exhibition of handmade books. In it, I talked about my own issues having been born “illegitimate” with illustrations on each page. I showed it to my mother at the insistence of one on my friends who was having dinner with us and thought it was perfectly lovely and who offered “didn’t Marguerite do something beautiful?” My mother glanced at a few pages and announced archly, “Well that’s fine, except for your father raped and beat me.” I don’t believe her claim was true, but it did rock me and my guests. It disturbed me for quite a few years to come, mainly because her reaction had been so cruel, but in fact, this was part of a pattern of meanness that came with her problem of acknowledging me. My point here is not to say “poor me”, but rather to alert anyone who is preparing to show intimate material to their relatives that the response can be unpredictable and far more painful than anticipated. At the time, I didn’t really understand what I was writing and the output was more an attempt to articulate my difficulty and pain. However, it was part of my process and I don’t think that I’m sorry that I showed her my book. Mum needed to know that I was affected too. It was the first time she heard me. Ironically, when the book was shown publically it sat in a glass case with no real possibility of being opened and read. It is in the MOMA collection and has been locked away, which to be honest is a relief.
In the final analysis, what I wrote later in “The Late Child and Other Animals” honored my mother as a woman, despite our difficult relationship.
So what was the truth? In the end, I tried to tell “her” story as she told it to me. I had her words committed to memory. As the years went on, she rarely deviated in her narrative. Yet,I believe that I selected and made sense of what she never could. Not that my telling produces answers, because human cruelty is hard to come to terms with, but I was able to come to grips with her responses and to see her as a human being.
My process often takes me back to the moment when what I’m writing about was happening and I try to look around and see everything as well as I can. Often, I have sufficient details to bring the narrative to life without embellishment. I think that writers (undiagnosed, or fully aware of that identity) tend to store moments away for future retelling. I think this desire to share what we see and think is very human.
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