Vying for Mom's Blessing

Nine years ago, I sat in a coffee shop and wrestled words into their final form in Through Eyes Like Mine. I believed in the work. It’s a non-traditional memoir. It exists even though I’m not famous and haven’t survived a cult or unspeakable tragedy. I’m not a recovering addict or childhood star. It is a quiet book, a child’s story, told by a not-so-old writer. I shared it with my mom and the rest of my family, and with a few corrections and clarifications, they all stood behind it.

Christmas: 1981

When Overdue Apologies came out two years later, I tried to hold my middle school memoir to the same standard, but it is a different book. It is about a time most people would rather forget. I teach middle school, so I know it’s cringy because adolescence is cringe-worthy. My family laughed awkwardly throughout Overdue Apologies, but along with my middle school friends, they helped shape the work. My mom wondered what she was up to during my middle school adventure, but she supported its release. It came out just as I was about to have a baby, so I didn’t give it the launch it deserved. I was expecting, but I also wasn’t sure the world wanted a middle school memoir.

Now, as I ready I Tried for publication, the process feels the same but different. I am still pouring over the words, attempting to make it as perfect as possible. I have to steal time, just like before, but now there are two kids vying for my attention. The world is a different place with widening gaps between the haves and have nots, rural and urban, white and other, but these differences make these books feel more important. I shared the manuscript with family and friends who again influenced it, but the biggest difference this time is my mom isn’t here.

Summer: 1991

My mom was my first reader. She was my first ask about memory accuracy. She helped clarify my recollections. She framed the events in my early books, but with I Tried, I couldn’t ask what she remembered about my sixteenth birthday or Dad’s fall off the roof. She would have hated reading about the limits of white feminism, but I still think she would support this book. She would correct a few facts, tell me which parts were hard for her to read; which ones made her laugh or cry. She would love the snapshots of our family from the porch in Bend, and question the choices she made along the way.

I hope Mom can help me find a few last typos. I hope she will fact check my memory like she always has. I hope in some dream tonight or in the nights to come, she will look up from the rushing white water of the Deschutes and forgive the white feminist she was and the flawed feminist I am. I hope she will somehow give this last book her blessing and know: I tried.