How Writing a Memoir Is an Experience in Shape Shifting
By: Aimée Gramblin
Tags: Writing, Self, Memoir, Family, This Is Us

THIS IS US

How Writing a Memoir Is an Experience in Shape Shifting

Lyric essay

“Dad, do you remember the Picasso painting 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.

There was a crab in the sand in Boston.

Mom took me to the beach while Dad

worked on his dissertation.

We stayed in a distant relative’s mansion.

I was two. Two years old.

I let my eyes follow the crab crawling

through the sand on the beach.

My earliest memory? Maybe.

Sunshine, ocean mist. Joy. Pure joy.

Red crab crawling through grains of light brown sand, slow, calm crab, happy.

I remember being on my parents’ bed. Being informed they were splitting up. My brain, at four, processed this information in a way to protect me, I think. I quickly sped to two of everything! I was smiling, happy. My parents were taken aback. This is not the reaction they were expecting.

In some ways, I feel like I’ve spent the rest of my life catching up on emotions that were initially processed to save myself the pain of feeling hurt — or feeling deeply.

Jot down a note. Ask mom about Jason. Writing a memoir is having tough conversations. It’s an excavation. I feel like a ball of clay. Words are my medium and I shape them. I’m a shapeshifter. A magician.

My dreams have been weird lately — with my mom, driving through an ocean. Walking through a mall and witnessing a blood stained floor from a crime scene. Running back and forth. Towards and away from the hard things.

Jason. He was a few years younger than me.

Mexican. Pale skin. Bike rider. Porch visits.

Not afraid to tease me. When I was in high school

he was in middle school. You’re too old for him.

I’d chastise myself. And, never, never let him

know how much I adored him.

Police swarming, sirens flashing red and blue.

I saw the scene from my bedroom window.

A scene I could never unsee. The police were there

because Jason, thirteen, had been shot and killed.

What happened exactly? Cold case. Case closed.

Heartbroken. Guns and violence infiltrating my

history in the 1990s. Not so long ago, my classmate

had been murdered by her father who then turned the

gun on himself. A family dead. Dead and gone.

I didn’t understand why anyone would want a goddamned gun.

My heart ached. I was traumatized, terrified.

Depression, anxiety, OCD and rage infiltrating

the cells of my body, my being, my energy —

and no words came to me. I was a frozen child.

Flight, fight, freeze — frozen. Biding my time to adulthood.

Always, always, I return to my history. Writing a memoir is not easy.

Was it Fantasia’s 50th anniversary? Maybe. I sat in the darkened movie theater in 1990, my throat tight with fear. A dull ache. A cry wanting to escape. Mickey Mouse, a wizard, working his magic, sweeping the flood away. The lights were fantastic.

Dad, don’t leave me.

There was nothing to say though. I gulped back tears and watched the movie unfold. The psychedelic effects, beautiful, and crashing hard against my mood. Happy Birthday, Dad. Goodbye.

Dad, don’t leave me.

So many words unspoken. I’m a lucky one. My parents are alive and willing to work through the hard stuff — all three of them.

I thought my memoir was written. I submitted it to publishers and everything. 48,000 confessional words. Nature heals. The main message.

No. That’s not long enough. You want a shot at the bigs, like Penguin? You need to fill in your story. 70,000 words. Minimum.

The screen stared at me. My chapters laughed at me. Child, child, they said. You didn’t write about ages 0–14, ages 17–25.

Right. Writing a memoir is hard work. I avoided this history. The one where I might hurt my parents even more with the words I weave on the page. Shapeshifter. Magician. Words wield power I don’t want to misfire.

Ages 0–14. Terrified. Panic. Rage. OCD. Depression.

Ages 17–25. Lost. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Anxiety. Depression. OCD. Married. Terrified.

Don’t want to misfire words at my husband.

Writing a memoir is complicated.

And, worth it.

An afterthought. My double digit birthday. Mimi and Poppy bought me tickets to Disney World. Dad and I met them in Orlando. The fireworks were spectacular. I wouldn’t try a big rollercoaster. A Small World was my type of ride. I hugged Goofy. The photo is across from me as I type these words. Side trip to Kennedy Space Center. I saw a rocket blasting off. I was lonely. An only child. Only kid at Disney World. Lost in the waves of amusement.

Memories, I drift into memories, my personal history, hoping my book is cohesive and interesting. Hoping my shape shifting holds a magician’s power and captivates you from beginning to end. From end to opening. Because storytelling is life. We’re all clay, shaping our memoirs through this life we’re living, telling our own stories.