Naming Names
Or, telling hard truths about people we love.
I just published an essay that I’m proud of, in a journal that I love: Under the Gum Tree. I’ve long published pieces about grief, and this essay, called “Deadbolt,” is a departure, a tender, grim look at the vulnerability of young girls and the, let’s say it: fear around adolescence.
The essay is not online, so I’m I including the screenshot of the opening paragraphs that UTGT features on their website.
Initially, I’d submitted the essay referencing my brother by his first initial, but upon acceptance, they asked me to name him. I have a lot of issues with my brother, for sure, but I don’t want to punch down, either. I’m not here, as a writer, to point at him and tell everyone how horrible he was. First of all, the pointing and the declaiming don’t make for good writing, but also: it wouldn’t be true. Yes, my brother didn’t protect me; yes, in some ways, he even preyed upon me.
This is not OK, and I’ve erected my boundaries, finally. But there’s a lot more to my brother, and I found it difficult to name names.
Ultimately, though, I did. I published my version of the story—certainly, his would be different—because it’s the truth as I recall it.
I just said my brother’s version would be different. To be more specific: Likely, my brother, if I were to bring up this memory, would say, “I don’t remember.” That’s his answer to every memory I bring up: “I don’t remember.”
Writing, therefore, has become my way of re-membering, putting the pieces back together. Writing is my rejoinder to “I don’t remember.”
