I took a class on memoir writing in 2020. It’s what prompted me to start writing regularly here. One conversation I remember clearly from class was discussing memoirs we liked and didn’t like; our teacher, Molly, said something that resonated with me. The protagonist of a memoir shouldn’t always be likable; in fact, sometimes, they should be hard to like. Of the memoirs I’ve read (and listened to*) in the last ten years, the ones that stuck with me are the ones that weren’t easy reads. Gabrielle Hamilton’s Blood, Bones and Butter was incredibly difficult to listen to sometimes. She described moments where she was unkind and unfair to her husband, and it felt to me that she was being brutally honest. No one makes you write bad things about yourself. It takes a deep kind of strength and self-awareness not only to admit your flaws to yourself on the page, but also give them to the world to read. Molly Wizenberg’s The Fixed Stars was no different; I often found myself empathizing most with her now ex-husband, and thinking on the unfairness of being the person being left behind for someone else through no fault of your own. Hard as it was to read, it drove my respect for Molly and her intense desire to write the truth, not just her truth.
Marcus Samuelsson’s Yes Chef! was one of the first memoirs I read as an adult, and now I wonder if men aren’t expected to be as honest as women. Would it be so surprising if men are held to a different standard on the page? His book chronicles his journey from birth to opening Red Rooster in Harlem. What I remember most clearly about that memoir is what he left out. He glosses over a girlfriend who gets pregnant while he is doing a stage, and the daughter he leaves behind as he starts his career in New York. It’s a casual mention, barely a page or two. I wonder why he mentioned her at all. How did he feel about that child? Was he ever involved in her life? Did he regret leaving her behind, not choosing a different life? And how does she feel knowing she’s a footnote in his story?
Memoirs often shape our ideas (or at least, mine) of what the truth is. I have to admit, I’ve never read conflicting memoirs, so I’ve never been put in the position of questioning someone’s truth. But in this age of TV and movies that seem to be retelling stories both past and present, there comes a real question about the reliable narrator. How do we discern truth from liberties taken at the discretion of a producer or writer?
I started watching HBO Max’s Julia in May. The movie Julie & Julia (a comfort food favorite of mine) depicts Julia and Paul Child’s relationship as an incredibly loving and supportive one, a kind of marriage that may not have been so common back then. My first jarring thought after watching the first episode of Julia was “Is that what Paul Child was really like?” I talked to a friend about it, who told me that she didn’t want to even continue watching the show after that first episode because his character was so off-putting. I had no idea which medium to believe (and I have yet to read Mrs. Child’s memoir). I investigated further by listening to the companion podcast to Julia. I was disappointed and even a bit angry to hear the writers say that they wanted to display a marriage of the time and how it evolved; it seemed that the fact that they were taking such liberties with a marriage that was history and not fiction was not an issue to their team.
I watched Hidden Figures during the pandemic with a friend; it was a cross-country movie date. It was an uplifting movie, and clearly, these women were incredible. But one thing kept bothering me: the scene where the director of NASA tears down the colored ladies room sign so the ladies can use the restroom closest to where they are working. I Googled it, out of curiosity; somebody else must have wondered if it happened that way, too. Turns out, many people wondered. That scene was entirely fictional. The director, when asked about the problematic nature of adding a scene like that, is quoted as saying:
“There needs to be white people who do the right thing, there needs to be black people who do the right thing,” Melfi said. “And someone does the right thing. And so who cares who does the right thing, as long as the right thing is achieved?”
Melfi seems to forget all the people who will watch this movie and never once question the historical accuracy of it. He has created a white savior in the place there was none. I would daresay it even detracts from the work of these Black women; this scene is certainly a memorable one for all that it never happened. And it’s important for all of us to remember that situations like these existed precisely because no one ever did the right thing; in fact, much of what’s happening in this country today is a direct result of that. Whitewashing history makes a certain group of people feel better, but more than that, history is starting to be re-written.
History is written by the victors. It’s a commonly used phrase, but I don’t think people realize how true it can be. The U.S. history I learned growing up in Massachusetts is very different than the U.S. history a child in the South might learn. There are laws being passed now about what can and can’t be taught to children. Yes, the North won the Civil War in 1865; but all that means is that I was taught that slavery ended and racism ended after the Voting RIghts Act was passed. The knowledge I have gained as an adult on what all was left out in my education is staggering and oftentimes horrifying. No matter where you live in this country, history is still taught by the victors - and that means an incredibly white-washed version of history. What does it mean, that we allow children in this country to be educated in such a biased way? Aren’t we asking for more of the same when that happens? More ignorance, less acceptance?
*A recommendation from my friend Sarah that has rung true for me; listen to a memoir when it’s read by the author. It can change the whole story.
