Bio
I'm a grief memoirist. Fate is to blame. Fate said, "It's up to you to make meaning of the unthinkable. It's up to you to reconstruct the precious ones who have vanished." I couldn't argue with Fate.
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You might ask, Grief? Isn't the world depressing enough already? For sure. But literature is full of grief. Grief and loss are universal. And wringing order from the chaos is cathartic. If you're able to straddle the monster called grief, if you cut it up and scrutinize its ugly parts, you gain power over it.
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A well-constructed grief memoir isn't only about grief, either. Yes, I've slogged through the Mariana Trench of Sorrow. But I've also traveled to snowy peaks. My life has been one of learning, discovery, and love.
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And illusions. Lots of those. In the 1950s, I thought everybody lived in calm neighborhoods like my own. Everyone in my orbit was clean, polite, and well-fed. Nobody seemed to worry. In winter, we skated on thin ice. In summer, we dunked and dove, teenaged lifeguard oblivious. The ice cream truck jingled as we roamed in packs. Parents didn't hover.
Play was unstructured, but religion's grand mythology left indelible fingerprints. As my second-grade scrawl on the basement wall asserted, I was proud of my tribe: "We are Catholics!" Catholic, and thus imperfect. The nuns said we were not to waste one moment in idle chatter but should murmur ejaculations (yes) as we waited in line: "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, help me with long division!"
The serenity of the '50s was long gone by the time Vietnam shrieked into our living room. A few guys from high school didn't come back. And who of my generation can forget the assassinations? JFK when I was 13, Medgar and Malcolm and MLK, then Bobby, dying on the morning of high school graduation. I still believed in martyrs and miracles, but not the supernatural kind.
You might say, But all of that is long past. Get over it. No, I'd retort. The actors and costumes of the '60s have changed, but the same struggles grip me now. Joyful etchings linger, too. The soul-plowing beat of Woodstock. The first Earth Day. The second wave of feminism.
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Into that mix, swirl in Mom's reclusiveness, cultivated tastes, and creative drive; my Danish father's impatient, acquisitive nature, his endless quest for prestige. They lived inside their own presumptions, static people in a dynamic time. I had to get out. I had to make my own mistakes. No safety net. No prospects. At the mercy of my own biology.
It's been a crazy, punishing, thrilling journey. Which brings me to the present moment. Nobody in her right mind would choose to be a grief memoirist. But in the places where grief rules, you can find its opposite. Look for it and discover its awesome beauty. Through it all, I'm still dancing, with both feet and a grateful heart.