Back in my college days I took a Folklore class. I’m sorry if that isn’t the exact name of the course. It’s been a long time since I took it and I didn’t save a class schedule so that I might verify my memory. One of the things that I learned in what would ultimately be one of my all time favorite lectures is that oral history and memoirs are often thought to be part of the folklore genre. The reason for this is obvious. Such sources of information are based solely on the often inaccurate memories of individuals. The writers generally do no research to compile what they believe happened to them. Instead they simply outline their histories with their world views continuously affecting what they pick and choose to tell and what stood out most. Such historical artifacts should never be viewed in the same way as a scholarly study of an era or an individual. Instead they give insight into the thinking and personality of the person telling the story. They are valuable in that they reveal a highly personal point of view of a particular event, time, or era.  

I chose to interview my grandfather for an oral history project for the Folklore class. I spent hours asking him questions and listening to hm outline his very long life. He was already one hundred years old when I embarked on gathering information from him. My professor was not content with just a transcript of Grandpa’s words. Instead he wanted me to interpret what his utterances said about him. What I learned was that my grandfather’s entire lifetime had been about survival and hard work with a wink toward humor. He believed in the need for strength and integrity and a good belly laugh. One remembrance after another spoke of his admiration for people he had known who exhibited such characteristics. Mostly, he strove to be the kind of man who would overcome hardships and manage to keep a sense of humor. 

Were all of his tales one hundred percent accurate? I will never know. I took him at his word and believed that he at least thought that things had happened exactly the way he described them. Mostly I began to understand more and more about his essence through the lens of the things that seemed most important to him. Our memories tell much about us. 

I have written a memoir. I often worry about the reception that my book will receive. I suspect that I am lagging a bit in reaching the finish line because I fear the commentaries that will ensue once my world is opened for all to see. I know for a fact that some of the things that I recall differ from the way that other family members saw them. I was surprised to only lately learn that most of my cousins had no idea that my mother suffered from mental illness. They may be offended when I so openly tell of our family’s struggles. There are even clear differences in the manner in which my brothers and I perceived my mother’s illness. I wonder if those who think they have known me will read my words and begin to parse my ideas. I have a grave concern that there will be some who insist that I have fabricated parts of the story because much of it is somewhat difficult to believe. To them I say ahead of time that the events that I describe are what I personally remember. This is my memoir and it reflects my experiences and the way that they affected me.

I bring this up because I have seen people being attacked for what they have written about their personal journeys. President Obama wrote a beautiful story of his life as he lived it. If there were inconsistencies or inaccuracies it is because that is how we are as human beings. We see and hear and think as individuals. What we keep in our storehouse of memories speaks volumes about who we are. Our president spoke of his wounds and dreams and the difficulties of growing up as a biracial child without a father. His life led him to the place where he is today just as each of us take bits and pieces of the people, places, and events that we experience to become who we are. We don’t need an exact replication of his childhood or teenage years to know about who he is. We learn more by focusing on the theme of his writing than on whether or not each word represents the literal truth. Again and again throughout his book is a voice yearning to live up to the image of a father that he barely knew but had treasured in his heart.

More recently there are those who would tear Dr. Ben Carson’s autobiography apart. Once again they miss the point. His was a tale of yet another a young man growing up without a father in a city torn by strive and crime and poor educational opportunities. He learned the power of hard work and found the strength that he needed to survive with a profound faith in God. Why would anyone wish to question that? His memories like President Obama’s and mine represent his own particular worldview. They are richer because they tell us what he values most and what he believes, not because they are verifiable. 

There were friends of President Obama who played on the high school basketball team with him. They denied that their coach ever showed any form of prejudice toward the young Barack but our president felt the sting of racism nonetheless. Who are we or they to cry foul or to insinuate that he lied? Those familiar with Dr. Carson say that he never seemed violent to them but Dr, Carson insists that he was. Has nobody ever known someone with a secret? I’m willing to guess that few who know me would think that I sometimes have explosive temper tantrums that include rather crude epithets. The point is that we humans tend to hide our flaws and work to overcome them. It is likely that only those who live with us ever truly sees us with our warts and all.

I don’t know why we humans seem to take such delight in calling people out for what they believe about themselves. Elizabeth Warren grew up thinking that she had descended from Native Americans. She had heard stories alluding to that during her youth. It was only natural that she claimed to be from a particular tribe when she applied for colleges. She only recently found out that her family may have exaggerated that heritage just a bit. I have heard some rather fantastical tales inside my family as well. We still argue over whether my paternal grandfather was born in Cleveland, Ohio or what is now present day Slovakia. He didn’t make it easy for us to determine because there are legal documents signed by him that alternate between listing his birthplace as one or the other. Regardless of which side we each choose, none of us are lying. The truth is often far more complex than it may seem.  

One of the things that I have often mentioned to my students are the number of scholarship offers that I received. I did not even apply to many of the universities that did their best to recruit me. The stories are true but I have no documentation to back them up. Things were far less formal back in the day. I remember our school counselor calling me into his office during the summer after my high school graduation to give me the news that Texas Tech wanted me so badly that they were willing to give me a free ride. I had never even thought of Texas Tech much less applied there and yet they honestly made me an offer that they hoped that I would not refuse. Based on recent news reports I would hate to think that people will now think of me as a dishonest person when I relate that story because only me and my now deceased counselor were privy to that moment in time. Sadly our society seems so ready to assume the worst about people. It’s something that we really need to stop. 

I will soon finish editing my memoir and plan to publish it. I don’t even know if anyone will even bother to read it much less contradict it but I do suspect that some of the people who know me will be quite surprised if they do decide to take a look at my life. I’d hate to think that somehow my words will be misconstrued and turned into controversy when my purpose is to inspire just as President Obama and Dr. Carson hoped to do with their life stories. Interestingly, when my editor sent a critique to me she insisted that the book is less about my mother and more about me. She saw a very strong theme that told of a young girl who overcame her fears and weaknesses to ultimately triumph over the challenges of life. That longing to somehow rise above our circumstances seems to be a universal desire for all of us. This is how we should examine the memories of those brave enough to share, not with a microscope. To do so is to miss the point.