Writing and Bridges

Last year I took part in a small symposium in Wollongong, south of Sydney. The title of the gathering was In All Languages: Translingual Cultural Production. I had been invited by Michael J., an academic who has a strong interest in transnational writings, and who was the first person to show an academic interest in my book, Lalomanu. I still remember the moment his email appeared out of nowhere (as only certain emails do and actually change your life, don’t they?) inquiring about how he could purchase a copy of this very intimate book of poetry I wrote and published myself. Lalomanu was not for sale, I explained in my reply. I sent Michael a copy, naturally.

Michael presented his paper a couple of years ago; it has recently been submitted to a journal and might see the light of day soon. Michael has also very gently and convincingly suggested that I write a paper about my own writing, particularly on the topic of translingual literary production. Michael is of course aware of the emotional toll it does involve for me, yet on the other hand his appreciation is that I have a lot to say. And I obviously thank him for that.

Talking of writing: a couple of weeks ago I found a totally unexpected comment in my literary blog. It was left anonymously, but the person who wrote it has obviously known me for many decades (at least since high school, which he mentioned in the message) and more than likely used to be a friend of mine. He is not any more. Contact was interrupted for good (pun intended) more than a decade ago. It was not my decision. Anyway, the comment addressed me personally and pointed out how I had changed my mind with respect to tobacco being a drug since the days of high school, in the late 70s and early 80s.

It was a mildly abusive comment, one whose tone was mean and embittered. I deleted it, of course. What I find the most puzzling about this is the fact that whoever this person is (of course I do have a very good idea of who he is), he was incapable of acknowledging my daughter’s death by means of a message of condolence or some sort of attempt to get in touch. The question is: what is the point of re-barging into someone’s life (albeit in cyberspace) after almost twenty years, if all you’re going to do is taking such a bitter pot-shot? How low can people get? And why do they? There may be no answer.

A friend of ours recently remarked that we (my wife and I) had stopped writing in our blogs. She wondered whether we felt we have nothing left to say. That’s certainly not the case. I feel I still have lots to share, to write both about Clea and about myself. A small yet significant aspect in the rationale for having a blog is to receive responses to what you write (especially if you allow responses – not everybody does). I guess one of the reasons I write less frequently here is because I do not get as much of a response as I might have expected.

“Giving shape to a painful experience is powerful because it helps us to see first, how we got through it; second, how we can share it. The experience doesn’t stay trapped within us, unspoken, curdling — instead, the art of arranging and transforming it reduces the burden. It no longer belongs to only you. […] Each sentence contains the chaos — our experience becomes what we perceive. And the honesty in these perceptions, whether true or invented, creates a bridge to another person.” Karen E Bender, ‘The accidental writer’, The NY Times, 25 January 2013.

He, the embittered one, has certainly burnt that bridge. But I think I will write something for Michael, though.

“I no longer know you that well”

I received an email from someone I have known for many years. The message was very brief:  apart from some supposedly funny jokes, this former friend seemed to imply I no longer cared about our friendship.

I decided I would reply.  “Nothing further from the truth”, I said. “It seems a difficult task for lots of people to accept that the Jorge they once knew died on Lalomanu Beach on 29 September 2009. He’s not coming back. […] The dead never come back to give us peace, to reassure us that everything is alright  Because in fact, it is not.” I attached a copy of a sonnet I recently wrote, one that has not been published yet. It’s not every day that you send poetry to people you know, is it? It might be seen as something special...

A longer reply came back a few days later, the first truly meaningful message in three and a half years. Well-meaning, of course. It reminded me (as if I did not have all of this before losing my daughter) that I “still have a wonderful wife and two sons”, that I am “in good health” (how do they know? Have they spoken to my GP?) “a job” (Wrong! Not true! I quit my job more than a year ago, and I work from home now…) “a healthy household economy” (again, how have people gained access to my finances? I must speak to the bank manager about this soon…) and also that I have “intelligence”. The icing on the cake is that “that is a lot in a world where, you know only too well, there are plenty of people who lose their loved ones, and on top of that, they have nothing at all”.

Perhaps the person they once knew they no longer know. Or perhaps, they can't be bothered to make the effort (yes, I acknowledge it takes some effort) to reconnect with the new me I am. Perhaps this me I am in 2013 is altogether too painful, too raw. It takes guts to reach out. It takes guts to pick up the phone and hear my voice, the voice of a broken father, the voice of a sad man nearing his 50^th birthday and who still cries every morning because his only daughter was killed by a tsunami during a family holiday, and although he saved one of his sons, he was unable to save her and could not find her body despite searching for her for hours.

I guess I should seek forgiveness from them. For my shortcomings, for my inadequacies, for being unable to realise “how lucky” I should feel. Perhaps I should seek forgiveness for having bared my soul to them by means of a book, a book that I wrote, published and mailed to so many at my own expense.

I mean, how or why did I dare reveal my trauma and my grief? Stepping across the comfort zone? Heavens forbid! Surely I should have kept all of that to myself, so as not to disturb sensitivities…

“People think they know you. They think they know how you're handling a situation. But the truth is no one knows. No one knows what happens after you leave them, when you're lying in bed or sitting over your breakfast alone and all you want to do is cry or scream. They don't know what's going on inside your head – the mind-numbing cocktail of anger and sadness and guilt. This isn't their fault. They just don't know. And so they pretend and they say you're doing great when you're really not. And this makes everyone feel better. Everybody but you.” 
― William H. Woodwell Jr.

My Own Family Sticker

You see them every-bloody-where, but they’re most prominent on the rear windscreens of people-movers and 4WDs. They depict happy families: dad, mum, eldest child, second child, sometimes third and even fourth child, dog, cat, goldfish: the works. All smiling faces.

I did a bit of a search on the web, but was unable (not totally unexpected) to find the sticker that describes my family. They don’t seem to have drawings for a very sad father or a grieving mum, not to mention the drawing of a plaque in the cemetery where the eldest daughter is buried. That does not sell too well, I suppose. So I guess we’re not within their targeted market segment, and somehow that feels kind of a relief. Honestly, it is such a banal concept, but of course everybody seems to fall for it.

If I were to make an accurate drawing of our family, I’d go for something this: try and picture a taciturn, sad dad who is regularly woken up too early and sits down to write in an effort to stop himself from crying his heart out; a desolate mum who chooses to punish herself at the gym so she does not have to think too hard; two boys who love each other but fight each other all the time because the gentle judge who would sort out things between them two is no longer there; these twin boys look indeed quite happy and healthy. Anyone who has seen them in action will say so, but I bet inside their minds they would rather be forgetting what happened to them and their sister; I bet they both see the future (the rest of their lives) in a totally different way to that their two parents see the rest of their lifetimes. One can foresee some serious conflicts down the path of years to come.

I’m quite certain such a figurative drawing is almost impossible for anyone to imagine. Too dreadful. Not nice. But what is probably worse, for some the reality such an imaginary drawing would represent appears to be almost unbearable to look at or to come anywhere near to.