sharyntalbert.com
About The Memoirist
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 could do it, so I shouldered the task.
You might ask, Grief? Isn't the world depressing enough? Good point. But literature is full of grief. Grief and loss are universal. Writing about grief, wringing order from the chaos, is cathartic. If you're able to straddle the monster called grief, if you can cut it up and scrutinize its ugly parts, you gain power over it.
Reading about a grief journey might help those on a similar path. A well-constructed grief memoir isn't only about grief, either. Far from it. 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.
And illusions. I can't skip the illusions. Back in the rosy 1950s, in my child bubble, 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.
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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!"
In my senior photo, you'll notice the fake eyelashes and serene expression. Yet the serenity of the 1950s had vanished by the time Vietnam shrieked its way into our living room--a few guys from high school never came back. The stark reality smothered the last traces of religiosity. I still believed in martyrs and miracles, but not the supernatural kind. Then again, even when you let go of certain things, they don't always release their grip on you.
Struggles of the '60s that pierced my innocence are still boiling away today, clashes between freedom and equality, legal and civil rights. I can't forget the assassinations--JFK when I was 13, then Medgar and Malcolm and MLK, then Bobby, dying on the day of high school graduation. Embedded in my psyche, too, is the soul-plowing beat of Woodstock. The first Earth Day. The second wave of feminism.
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Into that mix, swirl in my parents' quirks: 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. As a grief memoirist, resurrecting the lost has shown me my identity, my destiny. And through it all, I'm still dancing, with both feet and a grateful heart.
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