What I have provided are four themes that emerged from my raw and uncut interviews with my mother. The first of which, I opted to forego, but the last three themes will remain dominant throughout my creative non-fiction piece.
Theme: Nature Vs. Nurture
“My dad was verbally abusive to Wally. I remember one time he called him a pansy for wearing his hair long.”
“Ironically, Wally didn’t like all the things I liked. I liked dirt-biking, swimming in the lake, and jet skiing, so my dad would spend a lot of time with me taking me to places like Batsto Lake and Garrison Lake, but Wally never went with us. He didn’t enjoy fishing and boating like we did.”
“My dad always thought Wally was lazy. He never turned out to be what my father wanted him to be, but really it was just his sickness.”
“I always said if he got the help he needed he would have been ok.”
Theme: Romanticizing Older Siblings Fogs Reality
“My brother was so smart that he learned how to play the guitar with his right hand, but he was left-handed. By the time Wally was about to turn nine, his instructor said, ‘I can’t teach him anymore. He knows all there is to know.’”
“He was the youngest member in a band called the Iron Horse. He was the lead guitarist when they won Battle of the Bands in Hammonton. Me and my girlfriends would watch them play in our basement. We wanted to be just like them.”
“To me, my brother was brilliant. He could play music, write it, hear a song and mimic it to the tee.”
“I always said he was the smarter one out of the two of us.”
Theme: Different Isn’t Always Bad
“I absolutely knew he was different. It was quite apparent.”
“He didn’t have a lot of friends. He would do his drawings in his room by himself.”
“I knew he was socially backward, but to me he was just my brother.”
“I never felt sorry for him.”
“He didn’t like the things I liked, but we still got along for the most part. We would always play “First One Out of the Living Room” and our wrestling game where he would teach me real wrestling moves.”
“I felt like my father picked on him. Isn’t that terrible?”
Theme: Mental Illness
“He first heard voices in his head when he was 19. That’s when he first cracked.”
“He would get up extra early and spend four hours in the bathroom getting ready.”
“Dr. Mobilio, his psychiatrist, believed that based on his symptoms and behavior that Wally was a Schizophrenic with Bipolar tendencies.”
“He was admitted into the crisis center at 22.”
I was greatly intrigued by my mother’s closed-mouth past. Throughout the process of interviewing her, she was able to purge much of the painful, unspoken realities she witnessed. She has willingly disclosed a part of herself that was once a stranger to me. What has evolved is a stronger relationship between the transcriber and the interviewee.
What follows is a first-person account of my mother’s oral history. I have recorded a variety of unique, factual events that my mother, Brenda, endured throughout her childhood relationship with her brother, Wally. What has emerged from the rubble is a creative non-fiction piece that exposes my mother’s relationship with her brother, who she later discovers, is a schizophrenic. It is set in the year 1974 in Runnemede, NJ. Her compelling story is told through the naïve eyes of a young girl who cherishes her older brother. Her only wish for the future was to live a peaceful, healthy life, spending holidays and sharing memorable milestones with her brother. Today, they are forced to celebrate those memories in the confinement of her brother’s halfway home.
Quote # 1
“I always said he was the smarter one out of the two of us.”
I am interested in focusing my creative non-fiction piece on how much my mother wished to emulate her brother. I want to highlight the many positive ways that she perceived him, despite his disease (or not knowing it at all). I intend on stressing just how high of a pedestal my mother held her brother on, while being blind to his disorder. In addition, I wish to explore the ways in which my mother thought her brother was “brilliant.”
Quote #2
“I didn’t know any different. I knew he was socially backward, but to me he was just my brother.”
I also want to delve into the relationship my mother and uncle shared while growing up. I want to emphasize my mother’s fascination with his talents and abilities, while accentuating her recognition that he was somewhat “different,” but not different enough for her to speculate that something was wrong. I want my audience to understand her position as a young girl looking up to her big brother and the ways that may have obstructed her view/opinion of him.
Quote #3
“Me and Wally were very close. It was so devastating to see him that way.”
Lastly, I hope to recount my mother’s oral history in a way that exhibits just how much she cared for her brother and just how hard it hit when she discovered his diagnoses. Likewise, I plan to juxtapose her perception of him as her “amazing big brother” with her perception of him after his diagnoses. I also wish to emphasize her struggle to accept his sickness, by recounting memories of their childhood when things were “normal.”
Valerie Kinloch, in Harlem on Our Minds: Place, Race, and the Literacies of Urban Youth, delves into the deep roots of literacy and the close ties it has with the youth in Harlem. She takes us through her journey of literacy acknowledgement by juxtaposing her first, premature experience in Harlem and how she defined literacy then, with her, now, understanding of literacy, having worked with students in Harlem high schools. Her experience is unique in that she struggles with the gentrification process as she “feels caught between the local community’s fight against [it] and Columbia University’s efforts to expand into Harlem.” What is so revealing about this very statement by Kinloch is that is unveils a truth behind her conflict; it is not a matter of gentrification, but a conflict of which literacy to attach herself to. Having been closely connected to both literacies, she finds herself at odds. Kinloch’s ultimate definition of literacy, “as acts of practices in and activities around reading, writing, and speaking,” speaks volumes to the distinction of literacies in differing locations.
Reading Kinloch’s exploration of and fixation with literacy, I could not help but question how I defined literacy for myself. The more I probed the idea of literacy the more confused I became. Every time I tried to attach the word literacy to something I was familiar with, I was flooded with images of people I knew, cultures I didn’t know, stores I’ve been to, schools I’ve attended, my family’s level of education, stories from friends, and college courses I’ve taken. As my thoughts were churning and beginning to get muddled, Kinloch’s theory of place resonated with me. Somehow, someway my definition of literacy was beginning to be clarified with this idea of “place.” The deeper my thought process on literacy, the more focused my lens was on place. No matter how abstract the concept of literacy is, the location it is situated in deeply defines the term. The literacies of a specific location are represented by the people that occupy the land, the institutions that stand firm, and the foundation of its history.
I realized that literacy is all around me. It is in the books I choose to read, the magazines I flip through, the debates and classroom discussions I participate in, the conversations I have with those that I am close with, the holidays I celebrate, the religious affiliation I am tied to, the town I live in, the social networks I indulge in, the future profession I am pursuing, and the media I am faced with. As I sit here and reflect back on my own literacy, I am enlightened by my own theory about literacy: It is everywhere and we cannot escape it and it cannot escape us. Our own illiteracies are established, built upon, and extended by the choices we make. It is evident that all of the situations in which literacy is alive in my life are a direct result of what I chose to expose myself to. The decision was mine to read that book, to put my two cents into that discussion about pollution, to practice Catholicism, to continue to live in New Jersey, to tweet, to learn about being a teacher, and to watch T.V. All of these, and more, I have complete control over. It is in all of these things and all of these places where my passive, miniscule definition of literacy (to simply read and write) takes on a whole new, aggressive meaning.
Eva Hoffman uses rich language and succulent description in Lost in Translation: A Life in a New Language. Throughout her piece, Hoffman generously invites us into her magical world of creation, imagination, and transformation that is fabricated with the simple turn of a “yellow” page. Her lavish, fairytale-like descriptions make her literary narrative a tangible reality to the reader when she describes the library as, “…yellowy lit, smoky with dust and respectful whispers, and behind the counters reveals deep, ceiling-tall rows of shelves.”
She is a master in her technique of bringing to life such a dead hobby of modern day adolescents. Hoffman paints a picture of her nights at the library and reading books as if the experience is an extravagant and enchanting trip to the unknown, because to her, it is. She explains the library as if she is taking part in some mythical adventure when she states, “The guardian then quietly vanishes into the cavernous interior, to emerge with a stack of musty, yellow-paged volumes. I open them and sniff their aged smell.” Descriptions such as these are what set Hoffman apart from other writers. An average literary narrative would have read something like, “The librarian walks away into the dark closet to get me an old book.” The difference in description is crucial because the average literary narrative will take the reader to the library in a recognizable fashion; whereas, Hoffman’s literary narrative offers the reader an experience at the library that is stimulating and new. She effortlessly leverages her mundane experience of picking books out at the library in such a way that that the reader can witness an ordinary activity in an exciting way.
Her connection to the audience is undeniable as she revels in the mountain of genres that whisk her away to places of passionate openness that allow her to feel emotions in a vulnerable and unstoppable way. She shares with us her desire to read boarding school novels and her, “… wish to be like them-though I feel regret for giving up, even in my imagination, the titillating possibilities of badness.” Furthermore, she explains an Italian book called Heart, and states, “…and children so filled with pity and kindness that I weep uncontrollable tears over the stories.” She also shares that she feels as if she is “hanging in suspense” after reading Anne of Green Gables. Here, the power of reading has left Hoffman feeling emotions that she seems to be suppressing in her own reality.
As I am taken away into her dream-like state of mind, I cannot help but remain grounded in reality asking myself what her life must be like that she has to use the power of reading to feel these types of feelings and what she must be running from to wish to, “draw [herself] into a trance.”
Nature has never been a place I could call “home.” I’ve never been an “outdoorsy” girl. I never liked hiking. I never took an interest in planting. I hated swimming in lakes and I hated camping even more. I never understood why people referred to it as “the great outdoors” and I never went through a “playing in the dirt” stage as a child. I even chose to pursue a sport that was indoors because of my dislike for the outdoors. Regardless of how much I hate being surrounded by swarming bugs, itchy grass, and stale air, I find pleasure in reading about nature. Reading about nature allows me to feel the air without being outside. It allows me to smell the crackling fire without being near the smoke. It allows me to feel the brush of an oak tree against the back of my arms and it allows me to hear the crunch of leaves without stepping in them. For me, nature is brought to life through the words of my favorite writers such as Thoreau’s, Walden and “Once by the Ocean” by Frost. Wanting to discover something new about myself as a writer, I made the conscious decision to embody my Twitterive assignment with my natural surroundings. Even though I was apprehensive about recording observations in my backyard, I knew this was a sure way to challenge myself as a writer. After all, isn’t that what writing is all about? Challenging. DiscoveringSelf-awareness. My first experience of walking into “the great outdoors” was significant, not only for my personal growth, but also for the expansion of my Twitterive. It acted as the catalyst to my newfound appreciation for nature. I have provided a strand of tweets that disclose my transformation in the way I viewed nature from the first observation to the most recent. They are quite telling:Venturing into nature : / http://twitpic.com/2mfqroOfficially skeeved, but enlightened?Table for two please... who knew how pretty my backyard was?!The entrance into my growth seeing the world as a writer #twitterivehttp://twitpic.com/2o3bs5But I'm slowly learning to appreciate the cleanliness of an acorn despite the nastiness around it #twitteriveAn early morning breeze swimming between the leaves and through to my skin #twitteriveI truly enjoy taking time from my hectic life to bask in the outdoors (believe it or not ) #twitterive It is clear that my transformation was not possible without the Twitterive assignment. Had I not been asked to tweet my observations “in a place,” I would have never grown to accept the purity and nostalgia that it has to offer. So when I am asked, “Did tweeting and the Twitterive assignment make you more mindful and connected to “your place,” my answer is yes. I say yes for a very particular reason. I was greatly moved by Wendell Berry’s fixation on the idea of adapting oneself to land. In a previous blog post I referenced my motivation to do the same stating, “My hope is that I will create my own path with the everyday passing in my yard as I tweet observations and “…allow [my] eyes to become dependent on [my] feet.” The result of my Twitterive has allowed my hope to become a reality. In my everyday travels around the perimeter of my yard and in the instantaneous tweeting of nature, I have created my own path, which is a path that only I walked and only I created. It is a path of transformation, growth, and recognition of myself and of nature. Now, when I am outside I feel a closeness with nature in a way that allows me to see the intricacies of the outdoors as a writer. In essence, I am seeing the world with new eyes.
The process of building my Twitterive was certainly impacted by the technological means through which it was constructed. For the ordinary writing assignment, a pen and paper would suffice, but for the Twitterive assignment, my cell phone and laptop were essential. Throughout the creation process, I found new ways to incorporate my knowledge about technology into the academic work I was seeking to achieve. I jumped in with my eyes closed, and came out wringing wet with information about my iPhone and twitter, such as how to download and manage twitter and twitpict applications. I quickly found myself immersed in my newfound obsession with these applications and their ability to offer me practical uses of technology while heightening my senses for nature surrounding me. Before proceeding with the Twitterive assignment, I used tweeting as a way to share random quotes and thoughts on a daily basis; however, after being introduced to the new twitter application on my phone, my tweets were based on my observations and interpretations of my backyard. Twitter had somehow morphed into an archive for all of my outside observations that would later serve a crucial part in the final product of my assignment. Twitter also served as an art gallery for all of my figurative language to be on display. It also provided me with an open forum for which I could view other’s ideas and visions throughout their own, unique process.
When I finalized my Twitterive, I used my personal Weebly website as the canvas. I consolidated all of tweets, which acted as a recorded stream of consciousness, and I painted my canvas with illuminating detail, micro fiction, prose poetry, and photographs. Weebly facilitated my growth as a writer and a modern user of technology and for that I am grateful. I found the website to be extremely user-friendly for an amateur like myself, but sophisticated enough to exhibit my academic writing. I certainly didn’t find it to be restrictive or limiting in my final product; in fact, it provided me with a variety of display and format options (most of which I would have never been able to incorporate had it been a traditional, typed paper).
Overall, twitter and Weebly undeniably influenced the process and product of my Twitterive. Without tweeting my keen observations of nature using twitter, my product may have lacked the precision it needed it to expose the immediate, intense emotion I had intended. Likewise, without Weebly, I would have never been awarded the opportunity to publically display my writing in uncharted territory. I look forward to my next endeavor, producing my Oral History assignment on Weebly,
L’avvenire
“Gab, just look at the life we’ve made for ourselves. Only twenty-seven years old and here we are, together, standing in our brand new backyard,” said Jaimie.
“I know, Jaim, it’s nice and all but I’m sorta regretting not getting a house built. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love this home. It’s lived in, has a beautiful patio overlooking a spacious yard, and it has those little stepping stones made of brick I’ve always wanted. There’s just something missing,” said Gabriella flicking a bug off her wrist.
“I don’t understand you, Gabriella. I worked my ass off at the firm day in and day out to pay for this home for us to create a life in and all you’ve got to say about it is, ‘There’s just something missing.”
Jaimie stood up with his coffee, pushed the chair in, and walked up the steps, into the house.
Winter passed and Jaimie and Gabriella hadn’t spoken about their conversation. Jaimie continued his daily shuffle of waking up at 5:50 am every weekday morning, going to work, and coming home at 6:35 pm, while Gabriella kept herself busy by creating jobs around the house. She shampooed the carpets, worked on her and Jaimie’s wedding album, and painted the bathroom walls. Her favorite job, though, was to plant flowers in the backyard. It was fenced in and full of green. She often referred to it as, “Serenity in my own backyard.” It was a place where she could just “be.” It was a place where the early morning breeze could swim between the leaves and through her skin. She would often walk around the perimeter of the yard, stopping at each flower to bask in its beauty. She was proud to call it her own.
“I’ll see you when I get in tonight, sweetie,” said Jaimie kissing the top of Gabriella’s forehead.
“Okay, I’ll be waiting. I didn’t sleep much last night. My stomach was so queasy,” said Gabriella.
“It must have been those chives you ate in the pasta last night. You know they never settle well with your stomach. Just rest. I’ll be home normal time. Don’t go crazy planting anything either,” said Jaimie.
Spring passed and Jaimie and Gabriella settled in their home. They were happy and they were healthy. What more could they ask for?
“Hey hun, I’m home. Shit, that was a long day. I thought it’d never end,” said Jaimie ripping at his sport coat.
He heard nothing.
“Gab? Are you outside?”
“I’m in here, Jaim,” called Gabriella.
Jaimie followed her voice and walked into their master bathroom only to see Gabriella sitting on the cold, linoleum floor.
“What the hell are you doing?” asked Jaimie.
Gabriella stood up slowly tightening the loops on her terrycloth robe.
“Remember that conversation we had a few months back when I said I felt like there was something missing?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“Well, it looks like there was something missing from our new house after all. I’m pregnant.”
Summer passed and Gabriella was carrying a watermelon around with her. Her due date was arriving.
“Hi hun, nice night out isn’t it?” Jaimie asked walking into the backyard.
“It’s perfect. I went for my check-up today, and I have a surprise for you. Remember how we said we didn’t want to know what the sex of the baby was?” asked Gabriella.
“Yeah, why?”
“Well, I got antsy and cheated. We’re having a little girl.”
Jaimie said nothing as he walked over to his wife and held her close. A tear fell down his face.
“I already know what we will name her, Avvenire. It means “future” in Italian,” said Gabriella.
Fall passed and Jaimie and Gabriella were living happily in their home with their new baby girl. Life was good.
Gabriella came home from the supermarket one Saturday and opened the kitchen door to find a tightly wrapped box with an oversized pink bow sitting on top of the table.
“What is this, Jaime?” asked Gabriella.
“Just open it. You’ll see,” said Jaimie.
“You know how much I hate surprises, Jaim,” said Gabriella.
“They’re not for you. Just open it already,” said Jaimie.
She hesitantly unraveled the pink bow and lifted the top off of the box.
“Oh, Jaim I love them. They’re so precious. Avvenire will love them too,” said Gabriella.
Avvenire did love them. She wore her Mary Janes everywhere. She even wore them outside when she swung on her swing. With each swing, the outsoles of her Mary Janes would brush against the tightly -packed dirt beneath her. For Gabriella, there was not a sound more soothing than this.
 A seed of wisdom planted within.  Serenity in my own backyard #twitterive  One's arrival is always the result of another's departure.  These three trees have been together for 15 years #twitterive
Stepping Stones
The cement never felt so artificial as it gripped the arches of my feet.
I heard her in the distance. She was laughing and she seemed happy.
I used the sound of her breath and the creak of clanging chains to steer my direction.
I began feeling ill following the repeated sound of her worn-in Mary Jane outsoles brushing against tightly-packed dirt.
Soon, I was buckled over in an agonizing pain I had never felt.
Beads began slipping from my temple, falling softly along the contour of my chiseled cheekbones.
Beads of sweat carried my apricot blush all the way down my face, until my reflection resembled that of striped curtains.
My chest felt heavy and my heart felt weightless. I continued to walk.
The inhalations of fire-grilled dinners and citronella candles quickly soothed my stomach.
The wind began hesitating with each step I took.
I suddenly couldn’t hear the creaking of chains anymore.
I relied on her heavy breathing. It grew louder as it whispered my name.
Quiet. That is all I heard.
There she was, sitting on a rubber, hammock-like swing seat peering out at me.
She said nothing as she extended her arm forward.
I could see the dirt impacted under her chewed, fragile fingernails like it had been resting there for decades.
The cowlick separating her bangs, sprawled outward like the legs of a spider, but her paintbrush haircut sweetly shaped her apple round face.
I reached out and touched her stiff hand. It felt as if it had been smothered by bricks of ice.
She smiled. It was cockeyed and endearing.
I wanted to be gentle with her, for she resembled a little girl I saw once before.
Five steps away, holding her hand, I asked her her name.
The slits of her eyes widened like almonds as she glared up at me.
“I do not have a name yet.”
Tweets:
My swingset used to be riiiggghhhttt here #twitterivehttp://twitpic.com/2oppxb
It is quite unnerving being present in such a place of past #twitterive The material objects change, remove, rot but the ground it was once steady upon, doesn't #twitterive
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