THIS IS US
How Writing Memoir Is an Experience in Shape Shifting
Lyric essay
“Dad, do you remember the Picasso print in you and mom’s bedroom on Avondale?” I hear the catch in my voice, hoping I’m not hurting my stepmom, Lil’s, feelings.
Before the memoir, my stomach clenched in knots of fear and worry when we talked about our history. Now, we smile and talk, and understand there’s a unique side to every story. Sometimes we cry.
Memory is hazy.
“Dad, when did you move to California? I mean what year? What grade was I in?”
“Hmm…1990 or 1991. I took you to see Fantasia on my birthday, right before leaving.”
We sing into each other’s ears. Lil’s texting me a Brach print, wondering if this is the one I’m talking about. My brain is working out the numbers. Sixth grade. It was sixth grade.
I realize it doesn’t really matter if I say Picasso or Brach in my memoir. It’s the effect I want — the cubist effect of a whole picture splitting up — the opening scene — my parents’ divorce when I was four years old.
1982. Dad confirms I remember the year of the divorce correctly. Writing a memoir is hard work.
