Memoirs 1 and 2
"You're being a jerk," I said sharply. I remember how sharp I had said it, stronger than any curse word, more acidic than any insult I could have flicked at his rawhide. He didn't notice the tone. "I'm not being a jerk, I'm just being a parent," he rumbled. "Fill out your housing forms." He was past exasperation, or annoyance. He had dropped to a low and final tone. Arguments like this always have the same things said; it's only tone that changes.
The baby book was out of place in the sterile filing cabinet, shoved in a manila folder near the envelopes for the housing forms. It belonged in an attic, or in a chest, or tucked underneath a floorboard, or in my mother's jewelry box, or in my father's drawer with his stash of Egyptian money and my grandfather's pocket watch, or maybe his sock drawer, where I discovered my birth certificate once.
The baby book didn't fit, and maybe that's why I pulled it out and rifled it. Other people's letters tucked in the pages. Old, too. Not quite letters. Some looked like laundry lists, and I soon realized that all had to do with someone's birth. My brothers, I thought, but I realized they were about mine, and I started tearing. Stealthily, I crept upstairs and pulled out each of the letters.
They weren't letters. They were logs of my first days. They were written in my mother's cramped script, peppered with notes as to who gave me which overalls and which children's books. They were also covered with words scratched out, whole sentences written and then replaced, evidence of my mother's belief that she couldn't really write well, seeing the scratch marks made me bitterly remember her talk of never enjoying college because she was terrified that she couldn't write. They were attempts at bridging the mundane and the poetic. "You first smiled at four weeks and, lovely child, you smiled at me." This was not the voice of my mother.
I read them all, folded them back into the book, and wondered what was I feeling with in me. Some sort of aching and throbbing void, something that felt like sadness always feels, or something that touched me, like they say about bad movies, I'm not sure, but it was making me cry. It wasn't the descriptions of my knot of black hair "I had a feeling that you were a blondie; you surprised us all," or talk of my namesake, or even of the descriptions of my eyes watching her as she moved about a room, ("you knew me"). It was the hint of a family I had never known. Not consciously, but had glimpsed at, briefly and tantalizingly.
"You laughed out loud at eight weeks. From then on, life was a riot. If there was anyone who could make you laugh it was Dad. He would bounce you upstairs every night, and have you in hysterics before he popped you in bed. It probably wasn't the most restful way to go to sleep, but I loved listening to the two of you laughing."
He brought me popcorn after I filled out the housing form. We sat on the porch and watched the thunder. My mom said that I became a living hell when I turned ten, but even if this is hell, I'm a hell, my father's a hell, with all the roaring of the thunder and the memory of the fights and the pain, I'll take it all anyway.
-+=====+-
In our old house, after my brother was born, I moved into the guestroom with the dust pink carpet. Instead of sleeping, I watched the headlights from the street below move across the ceiling. Every night, I would strain myself to be conscious of the moment I fell asleep. I would adamantly stare at the ceiling, and try desperately not to slip into the fog of dozing, where I knew that I would not be able to remember the moment that I droped into sleep. It seemed very important to me, though I can't remember why, but I wanted to be there, to feel what it felt like, to know exactly what happened when I fell asleep.
In the same room with the same salmon carpet, but with dusty afternoon haze instead of headlights coming through my window, I learned that a car had hit my dog. My father woke me up from my nap, and lifted me from my bed, and explained that she had died. "It's like sleep," he said, "only a long sleep." And I wondered, still somnolent in his arms, I wondered what it felt like at the very instant when she died. Or if it had been like falling asleep, and there was no memory of the moment.
Later, I wondered if I could find the moment when I emerged from childhood. It's sort of like falling asleep in reverse. There's no precise moment, hard as I search, but I went from drowsy and unconscious to aware and very, painfully, wide awake.
-+=====+-
Please let me know if you like these or not, if you think they could be improved or not, or what. Let me know if they sound silly, or over the top. I feel sort of dirty using English assignments in my journal, but this will definitely keep me from stealing from past entries here. I'll probably have another one or two of these up tomorrow. It's just a way for me to fill some entry slots, but hopefully none of you will mind.
Anything you have to say about these will be absolutely wonderful.
2000-06-08, Memoirs 1 and 2
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