A reader wrote online, after reading some of my childhood stories in my book, “Craving Normal,” they don’t believe I can have memories going back to four to five years old and suggested I was fed stories from my mother. I’ve seen this comment made regarding other memoir writers’ memories.
I have a theory about early memories (or later memories): when every day is much the same, sure, nothing really stands out. It’s harder to recall those all the same days.
I don’t remember every day of our suburban life, either. It was routine. Breakfast. TV. Lunch. Dinner. Bedtime prayer. Repeat.
But I do have clear memories, even as young as three, of things that I did, experienced, or thought which became carved into my brain, things I often thought about: thinking Jack Lalanne was talking to me from my TV, because I thought that was really cool he thought I was so important. I remember screaming about the Giants returning to SF, as I heard on the radio, until my mom explained they weren’t the kid-eating kind, but the baseball-playing kind. I remember stand out moments, like the one Christmas I wrote about and how I had to deal with my father’s idea of decoration, in my tale “Suicidal Santa.” Many Christmases that followed are a blur in comparison.
When you have moments you will NEVER forget, when the world goes from pastel to psychedelic, when you have exciting, sometimes life-threatening experiences—every day is different and stands out. One day we left the suburbs. Another day, I had awaken on a cove in Greece. Another, we arrived in Morocco on a Halloween night. I remember. Those experiences are carved into the grooves of my brain.
As for detail, I did use info about our Belgian car accident and gun hold up from my parents’ European journal, i.e., the car flying toward us, how the car went up in flames. It was scary and I remember my sister being tossed to the floor, her going into shock, and yet I still ate the ice cream I was offered, while she couldn’t. From my parents’ European journals I received the exact details of the out-of-control car’s maneuvers, as well as the exact amount of francs involved in the gun hold-up.
THAT was another experience I told from my perspective. One I will never forget. It’s hard to forget fearing for my life, facing an angry man with a gun, as my father taunted the gun-holder. So it was like gold to find the journal AFTER I wrote my story and that it matched my memory and revealed details of the money in dispute. I had no idea how many francs, until then, caused my father to risk our lives. But that story IS mine, seen through my eyes, and deeply carved in my brain.
My mother saw everything from her view, as an adult and parent. She often tells of a scary moment on the English ferry, when we first arrived in Europe. I have only fuzzy scenes in my head. I didn’t write about that. That’s my mother’s tale. That was why I wrote MY stories from my perspective. Those stories are mine.
I suspect this person who assumes I can’t really remember, and must have taken my mother’s memories, can’t relate due to their own unremarkable childhood. I suppose they could never imagine a childhood that could be remembered so well. She/he didn’t have my experiences—many of which were inspired by childhood photos, provoking memories, like a photo of French river picnic I share in the book. When I see my family eating on the bank of the river, I recall how much I enjoyed it at the time and, to this day, no picnic can live up to it. I remember that experience.
But each photo I included is just a visual matching my memories, not creating the stories.
Photo 1: Tommy Gelinas, the man who runs this fascinating and fun museum. His energy is as luminescent as his vast neon sign collection.
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