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There are stories that my family tells about me at every birthday party, Christmas dinner, and family reunion. These are stories I’ve heard dozens (if not hundreds) of times. I know how these stories begin. I know the punchlines. I know the exact moment at which the person telling the story will burst into laughter mid-sentence. The same point at which point I will force a very thin-lipped smile.
In one of these stories my uncle is babysitting me for the first time. In addition to insisting that we watch the same Barney cassette tape twenty times in a row, I also demand that my uncle give me his big bowl of oatmeal, instead of the small one that he set down in front of me.
There’s another story in which my mom and I are in the grocery store, and I drag her down the pet food aisle. I tell her that we need dog food, and she says, “But Celeste, we don’t have a dog.” To which I reply, “But we will have a dog one day.”
There are also stories that are less like stories and more like anecdotes. Like the time I grabbed my mom’s karaoke mic from her mid-song. Or how as a child I was known to start my sentences by saying, “It was funny…” as opposed to my sister who would often start her sentences with, “It was bad…”
As good-natured as these stories are, I get frustrated whenever they are told. There’s something unsettling about knowing a narrative was being crafted about me before I even had the ability to self-actualize. (Is that dramatic?)
As a writer, I cling to my recollection for dear life. I am overprotective of my memory because it is one of the few things in my world that feels untouchable. No one can argue with me about what I remember.
And yet all of the stories that my family members tell, of which I have no recollection, still happened. Which (maybe?) means they are a part of who I am. So, what am I to do with that?
A writer who I have mentioned many times, Alexander Chee, actually suggests consulting friends and family and friends who were present in your life when writing about a specific event or time period. This aids in filling in the gaps of our memory, especially those from childhood. Though I usually roll my eyes at the stories that my family members tell over and over again, from a writer’s perspective, they may actually be a bit useful.
If I were to draw my own meaning from these stories, I might point out certain aspects of my personality that were already emerging at a young age: I was funny and a little selfish. Optimistic and decisive. I loved to be the center of attention – All of which are arguably still true about myself today.
I’m not going to write an essay about the time I snatched the karaoke mic from my mom’s hand or the time I made my uncle binge watch Barney. But I might write a sentence about it. Or even a parenthetical (because you know I love a good parenthetical.) At the very least, further examining these stories got me thinking about my own narrative in a new way. And you know what that is? Growth.
Here’s this week’s prompt: What is a childhood story that your family* always tells about you? You can attach your own meaning to it if you want, or don’t! Be as short or long-winded as you’d like. Comment down below.
*Family= parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, chosen family, etc.
ICYMI ↩️
Last month’s newsletter was about the abandonment of ideas as a normal part of the writing process. You can find the writing prompt here.
Required Reading 📚
This interview on The Creative Independent with writer, Durga Chew-Bose, in which she talks about the power of uncertainty. Here’s a bit of advice from the interview that stuck out to me:
Take your time. Don’t rush through your projects, and don’t believe anyone who’s telling you to rush through them either. Just really take your time with your work. Follow what is weird and strange that you do privately and consider that there’s probably writing in there. The stuff that you don’t ever talk about that you do when you come home after spending a day out with a lot of people. Whatever interests you have that you aren’t sharing with anyone. I don’t mean share that necessarily, but there’s a story there. Listen better.
Quick Tip 📝
I recently learned from this pin I came across on Pinterest, that writing drafts in Comic Sans, may actually improve writing speed and creativity. Maybe give it a try this week.
You can find me online in most places at @celestuhl.
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weird, transformative, things happen in the back seats of cars- at least for me they do.
there was me sticking the McDonald's fry up my nose- age 3
there was me drowning my lips in pink lip smackers squeeze tube lip gloss, that would ultimately leave me stuck with the label "cotton candy" for years- age 6
there was me throwing a tantrum in the middle of a costco in washington state while on christmas vacation because my mom was at my grandpa's house and my uncle bought me the wrong ice cream from the food court (a berry sundae instead of a swirl soft serve cone) and then proceeding to cry myself to sleep on the way back to my grandpa's house- age 7
or me learning the word "dick" when my mom got road rage that one time near the mall, and then me proceeding to pass a note during class (which my teacher saw me do- i was very much lacking in skill) calling a boy a dick, all because he dared to have a crush on me- age 9
or my dad driving us home from that one family vacation (the one we don't speak about anymore) and saying he felt sorry for the man who would "end up with me," and me still being so frozen in that seat until I wrote it out on paper tonight- age 12 and up until age 21, really
or the long rides that first year of college (no car) that forced me into the backseats of cars driven by unfamiliar men with unclear expressions and even foggier intentions- age 17, 18
but it is also now, graduating into a global pandemic, walking across a virtual stage into a very literal and absolute shit show, a shit show in which my future and dreams seem to have taken a backseat to most other things in my life
so, i guess all of those weird backseat moments - curiosity, vanity, separation anxiety i suffered as a child from my mom, curiosity coupled with rebellion, the trauma and sting of a narcissistic parent's words, fear, and uncertainty, are really all just the recollections of my youth- a very messy, unorganized time in my life where I felt no control, but I finally think I am in the driver's seat for now.