But the trip has given me pause.
Here are the facts of the matter:
1. Bono wore a shiny yellow tie with a black shirt and suit to address the World Affairs Council in Dallas May 5. I pulled the press card, got myself a press packet and a VIP invite to a reception following the event. I giddily thought about what I'd say to himself, something I've pondered for a good 20 years. I couldn't figure it out. Luckily, he didn't show to the party. The anticipation was worth it, though. Whew!
He didn't say anything I hadn't heard or read before (one of the hazards of being a shameless stalker-fan). But being in his presence, observing his charm, his charisma was a great education.
2. I visited my hairdresser--the one who took care of me and my fuzz post-chemo. He's sick with all kinds of problems, but still the most loving, caretaking man. Love him! And any radical old queen who has survived growing up Southern Baptist in Plano, Texas and made a life for 28 years with the same partner in the small, oft-foresaken gay community of Dallas deserves props.
3. Ate lots of Tex-Mex. Drank margaritas and Shiner Bock and then made the mistake of sucking down more bourbon than is probably legal. Even in Texas. Drank so much Jim Beam that I fell out of bed, bruised my knee and got rugburn. That shit'll wake you up. Just in time to puke. It's been a long time since I've fallen out of bed.
4. Laughed, cried and fought with BFF. Love her, really do. I must. Cuz she's the only person I know of that I won't fight to a bloody pulp. I just roll over belly up like the dog I am. It's cuz I love her and she's the meanest, dirtiest fighter I know. I can't win with that shit. 'Course, check with her about her version. We have always lived and remembered two separate realities, even though we've always been girls together. That realization will certainly throw a non-fiction writer for a loop. I'm starting to believe there's no such thing as non-fiction. God damn.
And we still manage to have so much fun and laugh so hard we almost pee ourselves.
5. Went back to the hospitals where I was diagnosed, misdiagnosed and treated for cancer in 1994. Started the process of requesting medical records. Saw all those sick and dying kids. Again. Nothing'll light a hotter fire than survivor's guilt.
6. Revisted the old haunts: home, schools, the bar my dad managed when I was a kid, the apartments and houses I stayed in during my weekend visits with him. A lot of strangeness and sorrow there. Still. That bar still smells the same.
7. I ran into the kid who I knew would be my only connection to a long-lost friend the day after I said out loud, "Man if I could find Eric, I know I could find Erin." And then there he was, working in a bookstore I popped into. Crazy. I've got to start aiming higher.
8. Just to make things difficult, I decided to return to the jewelry store where HB bought my diamond ring to see if I could transform it or sell it back to them. Reclaiming that ring is one of my New Year's resolutions. But when I walked in and explained the situation to the skinny armed, tanned, fake-titted, fake fingernailed, big haired, overly made-up, typical North Dallas bitch wearing a diamond the size of her nose, she took pity on me. "Aaaaw. I'm so sorry, honey." See lady, pity is what I don't need from you. Then she explained that the ring doesn't look like an engagement ring as it is and any new design shouldn't look like an engagement ring, either. But that'll be hard with a solitaire diamond. And they can't reuse the platinum. And diamonds are like used cars in that they lose value as soon as you take them off the lot. Whatevers. Why can't the ring look how I want it to look, engagement ring or not? Why does it matter what other people think?
Which led me to the huge realization that Dallas is a place that values what things look like above all else. Has something to do with why the people are so pretty and tarted up and why they drive around in big, shiny cars and wear beautiful clothes and big hair and lots of make up. I like lots of that stuff, don't get me wrong. In fact, in the context of where I live, the folks around me consider me a girly-girl fashionista who obviously cares very much about appearances. But growing up I was a freak. I didn't fit any of the molds. I didn't buy into the importance of making everything seem fine when it wasn't. And most importantly, I've always been more concerned about how things feel and what they mean above all else. I've sought the connection between beauty and truth instead of valuing one or the other on its own. Okay, that might be stretching things a bit, but I think reconciling the two has, in many ways, been my life's work.
Just to take things entirely into the theoretical.
I have, no doubt, been shaped by that culture, the place, the heat, the concrete, the green, manicured lawns, the lack of water, the politics, the dust bowl of the city's soul, my friends and family--those who have never left, and those who have died. But I very deliberately chose to leave. And that may say more than anything else.
I have gone back, and I likely will continue to go back. The place and I get along better now. Demons can become lovers. And I can remain the same no matter where I go.
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6 comments:
I have some thoughts on this, especially the BFFery. Remember, some things aren't your fight and aren't about you, missy, and I mean that in the most supportive, loving way, I really do. You can't call letting someone have and keep what's theirs rolling over and offering up your belly. It's kinda like taking somebody's lunch out of the office fridge and then saying you were being a pushover when forced to give it back. Or something similar....We will talk Monday, yesno?
I know, Sid. I meant the belly-up thing in terms of the actual fighting in which I didn't much fight back. And you've seen me in bar brawls, right?
But you're hitting the nail on the head with your (one of many) silly analogy. What's hers is hers and what's mine is mine in terms of the realities in which we live. One is no truer than the other. I just happen to be writing mine down. Where mine crosses hers on the page is where things get tricky. . . .
So yes, we'll chat.
No, I know what you meant in terms of the belly-up non-fighting, and I understand your points on truth and realities. (And there is where you and Mr. Steve overlap in approach.)I just think, and perhaps BFF does too, that "truth" and "reality" are in this case tangential, or incidental. If you were to do something similar to me, I would feel the immediate issues were (1) privacy and (2)respect. Unless I'm mistaken, the incident in question didn't involve you at all, correct? That's what concerns me. Yes, as you said, it was part of the "mythology of your childhood," but it is someone else's life, family, reality. It isn't fair to use that as an anecdote or to illustrate a tale about you, no matter how pretty the telling or noble you feel the intentions. Not yours to tell, not about you. Because when you tell it, as you note, on the page, it becomes world property, public. So there's the privacy issue.
Now, respect. Once you realized that it was something that someone you love held sacred, and didn't want shared (in what could be a 100,000 copy first print run), as far as I'm concerned, there should have been no fight, period. Just an apology, an I-didn't-realize-you-felt-that-way. (Proceeding with use of the tale in any form, I would think, would be at the least inconsiderate, at worst disrespectful.)Which is perhaps exactly what you did, I don't know. But I have seen you in bar brawls, and in other fighting situations in which I think a fight isn't really called for, and I think it would have been really, really hard for you to not fight at all, given your feelings on truth and openness.
Fuck. I gotta go to work.
Laters, dear.
I see drinkin' and brawlin' but where is the...? Of course, with bruised knees and rugburn, you could just make some stuff up.
Well, I'm officially losing sleep over this.
The fact is I haven't "done anything" at this point except bring up a painful moment from the past. I did write it down in a first draft that got eaten in my computer crash. The fight (which wasn't at all my idea, although if you ask BFF she'd likely suggest it was all because I made her angry, something for which I apparently have a great gift) was about way more than the book, a thing that doesn't even exist at this point. I agree that the fight shouldn't have happened, especially since I had already rescinded. But you can't put the proverbial genie back in the bottle, and to understand our fights, you'd have to have a much deeper understanding of our 25-year, hard-fought friendship. It's a history I will not rehash here in light of Sid's aforementioned "privacy" and "respect"
--Two things which must be looked toward in most any--particularly journalistic--ethical dilemma. I do think this situation raises some classic problems that come with the territory of memoir, problems that cannot necessarily be resolved by a litmus test.
This is why the world is lousy with fiction writers, methinks.
Shared experience is fair game, but it's my duty to handle other people's lives gracefully, and protect them from harm they did not bring on themselves. This may mean changing names, circumstances, etc. that don't necessarily compromise the truth at hand. If I were to eliminate every observation and tale that may cause others discomfort, it would mean not writing down a damn word.
All of this has certainly heightened my awareness and caused me to reconsider what I'm doing and the effect it will have.
The world is lousy with fiction writers because, in order to write non-fiction, especially memoir, you have to have a story to tell, the ability to tell it, and the confidence that anyone else will give a damn. In fiction, you get to play god in a whole different way, a way that doesn't involve the same breed of courage. I think since you've got all three elements in spades, you'll do just fine.
Besides, I'm pretty sure at some point Chris or Nancy or Carol gave us the "your loved ones will be suspicious and hate you, journalists are unpopular" lecture. Real journalists aren't in it to be popular. You know, except with other journalists. (And by "real" I mean to exclude anyone who has ever appeared as a talking head on VH1.)
2. It is entirely possible I've misunderstood the context, content and aftermath of your disagreement. (You say shared experience is fair game, and I actually agree. I was under the impression that the experience was not, in fact shared, but related as a tale. My bad.) And it has not escaped my notice that I have inadvertently started a...fracas? or something like one about a fight I'm not involved in, haha. Which is all to say, indeed, nobody owns your relationship with BFF but the two of you, so if you were comfortable with the outcome, honey, don't feel the need to justify with additional backstory or start losing sleep. Especially not that.
Hey, you could change the name of the post to "Dallas did not kill me. But goddamn, the comments here might. Bitches."
As an aside, as much as I hate to admit it, Jay Robb is working well enough for me to have done the full three days with minimal cheating. Hmph.
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