Another Tale of Granite City Woe

Friends,



This past Tuesday, I had a chance to sit in a storytelling workshop with Dorothy Allison. Allison, for those who don't know, wrote a book called Bastard Out of Carolina, and a few others, but Bastard is her most famous work, as it was made into a movie (which I learned that Allison doesn't care for...but she did get to kiss the director of the movie, Anjelica Houston, on the mouth, and, according to Allison, Houston had "really soft lips"). Anyways, it's a good book, so give it a read if you got the time. As for the workshop, it was interesting for a couple reasons.


First, as a white, heterosexual male, it's rare that I am in the minority anywhere. At this workshop, there were, by my count, three heterosexual males there...and we were married, so it's not like we are terribly active heterosexuals. I didn't mind being in the minority, but still, since I am part of what's generally considered to be "The Man," it's weird to see "The Man" underrepresented anywhere. Second, it wouldn't necessarily call what we did a workshop. Allison spent most of the time persuading us to tell her our family stories and the importance of snapshots.


During the course of the workshop, she told a brief story about how one of her uncles murdered his wife. She asked if anyone else in the room had someone in their family who had killed someone. I raised my hand and told the story of Aunt Yvonda, which has been on here before. For those who don't remember, Aunt Yvonda is actually Cousin Yvonda, but I didn't know that until about 5 years ago. Turns out she's the oldest daughter of my Aunt Connie, who gave birth to Yvonda when she was 16 or so. Anyways, Yvonda married a guy who was bipolar, and he quit taking his medication. So he attacked her with a baseball bat, and according to what my dad told me about the incident, the husband thought he had killed Yvonda, so he went into the alley and shot himself in the head.


Pretty dramatic, no? And that got me thinking about my family story, as Allison so commanded we consider telling, and I realized that I could, if I wanted to, paint the bleakest picture of my family and where I'm from. Just go hog wild, especially with my dad's side, and not leave one dirty stone unturned. My hometown could be the star attraction. A Sundown town for years, still has a reputation as a racist hotbed. The people there are generally considered mindless dirty hillbilly thugs. Hell, just recently, my hometown produced this story: Homeless man beaten to death for beer.


But, you know, so what? I have absolutely nothing against my hometown or my family, especially my hillbilly side. I can't change it, and at the same time, I wasn't touched by it one bit. My parents to some extent shielded me from that whole parade of broken down Camaros and sad wrecked lives. And, as much as I can see the stories that are ripe for the picking in my hometown, and right in my backyard, they aren't mine. If I pick them up, and try to tell them, I'm afraid that I won't do them justice, making the situation seem more backwards and bleak, like the raging hill country folk of Kentucky Straight or the buttfucking-manrapist banjoliers of Deliverance. Or that it will just seem disingenuous since I am so separated from it. If I had lived that life more closely, felt and had to go through what they did, then it would be my story too, and I have no problem talking about myself. On the other hand, this scooping up fistfuls of available story from my lineage seems exploitative. Just because I'm related to them doesn't make them a part of me.

But, dammit, I know it's there, and it's like the ultimate literary temptress. First, because considering it a possibility suggests I have the skill necessary to pull off such a feat, and do it well, which is a bit of an exercise in ego. And second, goddamn it, I know something like that has potential, especially if I can adopt a Sedarisian voice to the situation because that style of glib wit hasn't really been applied to the poor white trash family, as far as I can tell. I have a sense that most poor white trash narratives deal with bucketloads of sadness and raising yourself up by bootstraps and alcoholism and blah-blah-blah. Or, it could be some strange lamentful essays about wanting to feel a connection to this strange underbelly of the Johnson family tree, the parts involving exactly why Uncle Johnny was arrested in Texas (yes, I have an uncle Johnny Johnson), and what exactly led to the end of my dad's first marriage, and all these other things that I don't know, yet want to know at the same time. Goddammit, something like that could be interesting...but I don't know if having a chance to write about it is enough of a reason to go digging because it wouldn't be for me, but just to write a book about it. And that just feels kind of dirty to me right now. Maybe when I'm older I can get some perspective on this, but right now, sorry Ms. Allison, I just can't seem to write my family story.

VIVA EL MUSTACHE