Oral History: Creative Non-Fiction
Prologue
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 confinements of her brother’s assisted living facility.
…
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 confinements of her brother’s assisted living facility.
…
Not Knowing I was Growing Up with a Schizophrenic
My life revolved around Wally. I always remember Wally when he was fifteen, tall with dark hair, and played guitar. All of my girlfriends thought he was a Yukon. My brother learned how to play the guitar at eight years old. He took lessons at The Sader School of Music in Runnemede, NJ. Wally was left-handed, but his instructor was right-handed so he insisted he learn how to play with his right hand. By the time Wally was about to turn nine, he stopped going to The Sader School of Music because his instructor said, “I can’t teach him anymore. He knows all there is to know.” He played all string instruments and 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. To me, my brother was brilliant. He could play music and write it and when he heard a song he liked, he could mimic it to the tee. His favorite bands to mimic were The Beatles and Creedence Clearwater Revival. And because he liked it, I did too. I’ll never forget that his favorite song from The Beatles was “The Long and Winding Road.” To this day, it still makes me cry when I hear it on the radio.
To add to his talents, he was an artist. Wally was artistic and abstract. He loved drawing and reading comic books. He would always draw these pictures of bugs that looked like huge flies. Sometimes he drew monster lookin’ creatures with oversized teeth and goo coming out of their mouths. I think he got most of his drawing ideas from his favorite comic book called Mad Magazine. But the pictures were stunning. They were always in black and white and he would draw them in his room by himself. I would always knock on his door and beg, “Wal, can you pa-leaseeee draw me. Just draw me. I wanna see what I look like.” He never did though. It was like he was ashamed of his talent or something. I never understood it. He was so intelligent.
Despite how highly I thought of my brother, we still fought and I still called him names like, “queer and big ox” and he would call me pig and snot-nose brat. We were just normal kids with a normal brother and sister relationship. We got close when my mother left us. I was in second grade (7 years old) and Wally was a freshman in high school (15 years old). I often wonder if Wally’s favorite song, “The Long and Winding Road” has some sorta connection with my mother leaving us, or more importantly, leaving him.
.
As I grew closer to him and grew to understand his talents of drawing and playing music, I learned to look up to him. He was passive, sensitive, brilliant, and funny. He had the greatest sense of humor you could ever ask for in a guy. I wanted to be like him. I wanted to draw great, gooey things, and sing famous Beatles songs, and play the guitar like a pro, but I just wasn’t smart enough. I didn’t know how to do those things. Me and Wally were so different in that way. Even though we got along great, we were different than each other. I can remember the biggest difference between us was that I was always loud, making a scene, and had tons of friends and Wally was always seriously introverted and awkward. Sometimes, as a little girl looking up, I would make fun of him because I thought he was strange. He didn’t have any friends, except this one friend named Kenny and he was weird too, with red hair. Wally never played sports, he was always just an average student, and he hated doing things that were typically considered “social.” This didn’t affect me much because he could be social with me, but it really upset me when the other guys would beat him up. After all, he was my brother. Still, I never felt sorry for him. I guess it was because I saw him, and still do see him, in this great light, like some awesome, talented big brother who was just a little different. I spent most of my “growing-up” years thinking this way.
Things started changing though. I began seeing things in different ways. My opinion about him being “just a little different” was fading. I guess I started noticing this when he was nineteen. He finally got a job at a place called Deluxe Bakery in Runnemede. I can remember him spending hours in the bathroom getting ready. Every morning, he would set his alarm for 4’o clock and he wouldn’t even have to be at work til’ like 8:00am. I would have to wait at the bathroom door for such a long time. I remember asking him what the heck he was doin’ taking that long. I didn’t know what to think. After a few months, he started leaving the door open while he was getting ready for the four hours or so. I remember one time, peeking in to see what he was doing. Brush his teeth. Wash his face. Comb his hair. Wash his hands. It looked normal, so I walked away. Two hours went by and I still needed to get ready. Wally was still in there. So I peeked again to see what was taking him so long. He was brushing his teeth, washing his face, combing his hair, and washing his hands. Again. What was going on? He just did these things two hours ago? Was he really doing these things over and over again for four hours every morning?
I just assumed his job at the Deluxe Bakery was going good because, well, he was still working there. One afternoon, me and my girlfriends cut gym and decided to walk to the bakery to get some goodies from Wal, but he wasn’t inside the bakery. He was sitting on the curb out front of the bakery doors when I walked up to him and asked, “Wal, why are you out here.” He answered me in a calm voice. He told me he was having a heart attack and was waiting for the ambulance to pick him up. I didn’t believe him though. He looked fine. Nothing I knew about heart attacks looked like he was actually having one. He did this 7 more times and eventually, they had to let him go.
I didn’t start worrying until he told me he was hearing voices telling him to hurt himself. He shared with me that someone in his head told him to cut his fingers off, the ones that strummed his guitar. They also told him to strangle our dad. Shortly after, I was visiting him in the crisis center. He was twenty-two and I was fourteen.
We walked into the crisis center and I remember my mom saying, “Here to see Walt Weber.” My memories from here out are so jumbled. I just lose track and everything is a blur. I’ll share what I do remember, but it’s minimal. We walked into his room. He was just sitting there on his bed, wearing this blue gown. His eyes looked heavy and he just looked so embarrassed. Embarrassed is the only emotion I can match to his face.
I got closer, hugged him, then kissed him and asked, “Wal, what’s goin’ on. C’mon snap out of it.”
He answered me. It was devastating to hear him answer me. He said, “Bren, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Whatever happened the rest of my time in the room with him, I totally forget. But I remember his doctor. I’ll never forget his name. It was Dr. Mobilio. He pulled us out of the room. He was foreign and had black hair that looked like he was balding. Me and my mom walked into this other room and sat at a round table with the doctor. He sat us down and said, very matter-of-factly, “I believe, that based on Walter’s symptoms and behavior, he has Schizophrenia with Bipolar tendencies.” I can’t completely remember what I thought. I looked over at my mom. She just looked a little sad and said, “I can’t believe he’s gonna have to be on medication his whole life.” I was confused. How could my brother, my Wally, have a mental disorder? He drew so well, and played instruments so good, and was so smart. What happened? Maybe he can get better. The psychiatrist continued, stating so nonchalantly, that he also suffered from Hypochondria, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, severe social anxiety, and was suicidal.
I guess everything made sense, but I was still confused. The medical diagnosis made my brother sound like a homicidal freak-of-a-man, but he wasn’t. He was none of those things to me. He was passive, sensitive, brilliant, artistic, and funny. The doctor didn’t know him like I did. All of the things that made my brother so special, so artistic, so brilliant, so amazing, were part of his sickness and I grew up never knowing. No one really knew. I don’t even think he knew. I didn’t know any different, though. I knew he was socially backward, but to me he was just my brother.
I just assumed his job at the Deluxe Bakery was going good because, well, he was still working there. One afternoon, me and my girlfriends cut gym and decided to walk to the bakery to get some goodies from Wal, but he wasn’t inside the bakery. He was sitting on the curb out front of the bakery doors when I walked up to him and asked, “Wal, why are you out here.” He answered me in a calm voice. He told me he was having a heart attack and was waiting for the ambulance to pick him up. I didn’t believe him though. He looked fine. Nothing I knew about heart attacks looked like he was actually having one. He did this 7 more times and eventually, they had to let him go.
I didn’t start worrying until he told me he was hearing voices telling him to hurt himself. He shared with me that someone in his head told him to cut his fingers off, the ones that strummed his guitar. They also told him to strangle our dad. Shortly after, I was visiting him in the crisis center. He was twenty-two and I was fourteen.
We walked into the crisis center and I remember my mom saying, “Here to see Walt Weber.” My memories from here out are so jumbled. I just lose track and everything is a blur. I’ll share what I do remember, but it’s minimal. We walked into his room. He was just sitting there on his bed, wearing this blue gown. His eyes looked heavy and he just looked so embarrassed. Embarrassed is the only emotion I can match to his face.
I got closer, hugged him, then kissed him and asked, “Wal, what’s goin’ on. C’mon snap out of it.”
He answered me. It was devastating to hear him answer me. He said, “Bren, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Whatever happened the rest of my time in the room with him, I totally forget. But I remember his doctor. I’ll never forget his name. It was Dr. Mobilio. He pulled us out of the room. He was foreign and had black hair that looked like he was balding. Me and my mom walked into this other room and sat at a round table with the doctor. He sat us down and said, very matter-of-factly, “I believe, that based on Walter’s symptoms and behavior, he has Schizophrenia with Bipolar tendencies.” I can’t completely remember what I thought. I looked over at my mom. She just looked a little sad and said, “I can’t believe he’s gonna have to be on medication his whole life.” I was confused. How could my brother, my Wally, have a mental disorder? He drew so well, and played instruments so good, and was so smart. What happened? Maybe he can get better. The psychiatrist continued, stating so nonchalantly, that he also suffered from Hypochondria, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, severe social anxiety, and was suicidal.
I guess everything made sense, but I was still confused. The medical diagnosis made my brother sound like a homicidal freak-of-a-man, but he wasn’t. He was none of those things to me. He was passive, sensitive, brilliant, artistic, and funny. The doctor didn’t know him like I did. All of the things that made my brother so special, so artistic, so brilliant, so amazing, were part of his sickness and I grew up never knowing. No one really knew. I don’t even think he knew. I didn’t know any different, though. I knew he was socially backward, but to me he was just my brother.
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