MY FATHER DIED forty-one years ago this week and, as it does each year, it got me thinking about what I miss. But what to write? How to characterize someone in a personal essay? How to show who he was without showing what you do not need to know? Maybe I can help you with that. Here are my thoughts.
Upstate
We dipped into the single digits on the thermometer recently upstate, and every time this happens I am reminded about the degrees by which we learn to love.
I think it’s fair to say that few New York City residents are aware that above them lies seven more hours of the state, or of what exists in that span. I did not know either, until at seventeen I chose to leave my home in Queens to attend St. Lawrence University, a small liberal arts college perfectly located in the upper crest of New York. There, I began to learn the myriad ways that distance can educate a young woman. Perhaps the expanse between the two spots is best illustrated in clothes or perhaps, since this story is about how we love, those clothes also shelter another tale.
The first accommodation to the North Country and its weather was the swapping of stilettos for hiking boots, snow shoes and cross country skis, the last three of these providing common methods of undergraduate mass transit in my new neighborhood. I could not have been happier with the cultural abyss this created for me, suddenly looking so very unlike those from my former territory. Right on the heels of this evolution came the giddy discovery that the best use of silk was for long underwear.
Even at the time I felt that this way of dressing was sufficient rebellion from my urban heritage and that none else was needed. Lucky girl, I now know. Lucky parents, too. There are so many other options for declarations of independence, of course. The very clothes on my back and strapped to my feet were constant reminders of my sophomoric belief that no one at home knew me anymore.
And then the call came from my dad.
“It’s minus five degrees here,” he said. He would say that he was a lifelong New Yorker, by this meaning the city. I also define myself as a lifelong New Yorker, though by this, I mean the state. To date, I have lived in five of its varying counties. At that point, I had only just left home. At that moment, seeing us as joined by the weather, he was gleeful. His weather was news, and he’d been a newspaperman all his life. “Cold as hell,” he chuckled.
That he was in his study was an image that had traveled through the land line, and the sound of his voice, quilted by a thousand books and the overstuffed furniture needed to read them, instantly annexed my separate republics, shortening the distance he’d never acknowledged, the one I was wearing like a badge.
It was 39 below in my part of the state that day, the record day of that year, and just when I went to play that card, I hesitated.
“I am all bundled up. You are wearing a sweater, aren’t you?” my father asked.
I was.
“Yes,” I said, “But thanks for the reminder.”
Want more instruction on how to write memoir? Come see me in one of my online classes. Start with Memoirama. Hope to see you there.
Norah Wakula says
I love this!!! Thanks, Marion. That hesitation. That not saying. Perfect.
Jan Hogle says
Love this piece! I also have roots in upstate NY; I have thought about Upstate as a title for something. But my family left in 1963 for South Florida. 9 states later (and 2 foreign countries), I’m living in Virginia.
Recently, I read your 1983 piece in the NYT about your mother’s struggle, and also read your book. Very powerful writing and astonishingly mature for someone in their 20s. Hard to imagine how you and your sister got through all that.
I’m thinking about a next course with you…
Paula says
Beautiful imagery. Thank you
Paula Jenson says
So what year did you graduate SLU? I was class of ’71 and I relate.
marion says
Hello, fellow Laurentian.
I am a proud member of the class of 1977 and serve on the Board of Trustees.
How great to meet you here.
Thanks for saying hello.
Best,
Marion
Carolyne says
I loved her rebellion and the shedding of her safe life from home to where she was living as a college student, covered in extreme, ferocious weather and wearing it with bravery.
Trish Richert says
Marion, I still have some confusion, despite your best efforts, about the distinction between personal essays and memoir. According to one piece I read (somewhere), the personal essay is about a contemporary situation. A memoir is based on memory, written from the perspective of today. So, Upstate is a personal essay. Could it also be a chapter of a memoir? Is memoir a collection of personal essays?
marion says
Hi, Trish:
Memoir is a genre within which exist various lengths in which one can write.
These range from a blog post, personal essay, long-form personal essay or Op-ed to a book-length memoir.
Yes, Upstate could be a chapter in a memoir, or a scene in a chapter and yes, one can write a memoir as a collection of personal essays.
Hope that helps.
Best,
Marion
Jenny Bioche says
“There, I began to learn the myriad ways that distance can educate a young woman.” Yes indeed!
I came to a similar conclusion with my own “migration” from a small Northern California hometown to the big city of Los Angeles to attend college. And like New York, you can live in five different counties in the Golden State and have a different life in each one.
Can’t wait for Memoirama II in late April, still working on the prep assignment. Big hugs from finally de-thawing Iowa….
Heidi says
Two phrases nailed me to the wall, M:
“my sophomoric belief that no one at home knew me anymore” and “quilted by a thousand books and the overstuffed furniture needed to read them, instantly annexed my separate republics, shortening the distance he’d never acknowledged”
I felt as though you were holding my pen.
Simply Brilliant.
I read a piece by David Halberstam who wrote, “When you find a reporter [writer] whose work you admire, break his/her code.”
You know the rest.
Thanks for this beautiful insight.
Deborah Norrie-Jones says
Your father, gleeful and chuckling, and so glad to be connected with you, his daughter who has just left home, is captured beautifully. His spirit and energy. You have bought him to us, alive and present, with this story. I am warmed by him. Thank you.
I spent time in Middleburg, near Albany NY state, as a teenager, for six months in 1965 while my father commuted to Columbia Uni and Union Seminary. (after a year in NYC living on the corner of 121st st and Broadway, attending Ps 43 in Harlem).
I remember the taps dripping ice in the house we were looking after for the elderly parishoners, warming themselves in Mexico. And of course the china commodes under the bed. Back in Australasia now, a New Zealander and Australian. I am enjoying your weekly emails. Thank you.
Kate Midland says
Marion-
Love your book The Memoir Project; best library-borrow of all time and subsequent purchased addition to my own reference materials. That being said, I’ve come to a “place” that I always knew I’d write about (I truly need the catharsis but, it still has shaped me none-the-less so, it needs to be included), and I know how important truth-telling is in memoir-writing; however, this is tricky at best. It is about an “inappropriate” relationship between a close family member and a friend of the family who was a minor at the time. The whole thing started with a nervous breakdown after the sudden death of his 52 year old wife, and the support that subsequently ensued, leading to this “relationship.” It was over a period of about 6 months and I was not aware of any of it until over a year after it all came out and had long since ended. Despite her parents admitting their part in it (not supervising, being oblivious, etc.) and vouching for him that they knew he had a break with reality, the judge was sympathetic to a degeee but still handed out several months of jail time. This event, the fact that I didn’t see it coming, that I was living 3 hours away at the time, and was forced to forever see him through a different lens, has changed me. So, how do I tell this truth without providing too many identifiable details, yet ensuring the gravity of it is conveyed? Everyone involved is still living. I’m not asking for your class in your response — that’s cheating! I’m just wondering if details are even necessary or perhaps coming at it from the emotional/grief/PTSD angle would be better. I certainly am NOT trying to justify ANY of it but, rather paint a picture of how someone who never did anything like it before (and never did again) can get there; no family is immune like I thought mine was…
marion says
Dear Kate,
Many thanks for being in touch.
You present a complex and compelling story.
Memoir is what you know after something you’ve bene through. With that definition, you do not need to tell us what happened as much as you need to show us what changed. That’s your challenge. So, no, it’s not the details we want. What we want is the story of what you did with all of it.
Hope this helps.
Best,
Marion
Kate Midland says
Thanks so much, Marion— I was hoping my gut-instinct was correct and you have confirmed that it was. Part of me dreads this pandora’s box; however, so much of what constitutes my life and invariably my memoir, has evolved out of this piece of my life. Not including it would cause me to dance around it and likely fill the gaps with fluff, rather than allowing the web to keep tangling and ultimately, hopefully, become something extraordinary. ~ Kate
Kelsey says
First off, I thought the email introduction to this piece was speaking directly to me with all my references in my current manuscript to hazel colored eyes, auburn hair etc. I’ll be working on taking making those details illustrate my argument. Your line -“There, I began to learn the myriad ways that distance can educate a young woman.” really resonated with me.