Tag: #amwriting

My history begins with today’s vantage: looking backward in time from an unfinished writing space in our Big Grove Township home. Such perspective helps our story makes more sense than it did while living it.

I understand all of my writing — countless emails, letters, social media posts, and blog posts — is derived from experience residing in memory. Sometimes it is unique, sometimes not.

I look, as if in a deer stand along a familiar pathway, hoping to encounter a subject, without its being aware. Armed with my senses, and hope I will find uniqueness in quotidian moments, I endeavor to capture such fleeting essence.

In that light I write this autobiography.

It is unthinkable that we are here only to consume, grow and die. There is a greater purpose, and in writing, I hope to reveal it to those close to me, to any reader who finds these words, and importantly, to myself. I find purpose in every piece I write, just as in more practical work like planting a seed, driving a lift truck, making the bed, or speaking in public.

There is a necessary organizational component to writing a longer piece. We shouldn’t be consumed with organization. Like an underground coal miner we need a framework of timbers, buckets, picks and shovels, water pumps, labor, and air circulation to do the work. We also need freedom to follow the seam where it leads.

Sometimes a remembrance stands alone as a solitary and specific instance of creation. Yet most memories are part of a social context. Understanding social context can make the narrative ours with broader applicability.

My autobiography is not as much about me, as it is about the people places and processes of which I have been a part. My task is not to chronicle events and ideas that were my experience. It is to tell a story of a life beginning in the present. It will include characters, locations, processes and events. Writing is a way to learn how to do that. Autobiography seeks ways we are unique grounded in shared experiences. If it is that, a finished work is more likely to have relevancy.

Writing autobiography is an American thing. I studied at university under Albert E. Stone who edited J. Hector St. John de Crèvecoeur’s Letters from an American Farmer. We Americans, especially in this century, often seem completely self-absorbed. There is a native impulse to write or tell a single, brief narrative of our life when more accurately it is a combination of essential, defining moments and multiple, broader narratives. At the root of autobiography, we must answer the question Crèvecoeur did, “What then, is the American, this new man?”

I will follow an outline. It is important to note the perspective of the present necessitates blending memory and experience into a life story. Likewise, the process of writing is an interrogatory, the answers to which must come through structured thought and research. I seek to gain understanding of which I am not now possessed.

I have a pile of subject cards on my writing table. I envision a story board, with segments centered around organizing principles, such as the locale, ideas, processes, and characters that have helped define me. Just as artists create self-portraits, this autobiography would also be one in a series of them.

There is something about the idea of artistic creation. While process is important, imagination is too. As I endeavor to capture fleeting moments of insight about our lives in society I eschew automatic writing and everything that means. From my perch near the lake I hope to take flight from time to time and bring back essential materials to make an engaging story. Whatever I write will be my story, crafted by two working hands and centered on a vision of understanding I discovered early on.

Fingers crossed the narratives have broader appeal.

When researching our lives, official publications like my parents’ wedding announcement in the May 23, 1951 Daily Times are never completely accurate.

William used the Polish spelling of his last name, Dziabas, rather than the anglicized version, Jabus, Grandmother did. Why was he in Chicago and Mae in Davenport? Despite Mother writing about it in a partial memoir, we’ll never fully know.

The article omits Father’s step mother, who lived in Rock Island well into my lifetime. I corresponded with her by mail but we never met. She said her marriage to Grandfather was a “business arrangement” in a letter. The business was named the Deaton Diner and she kept his name until she died, burying Grandfather and two subsequent husbands in a row near her eventual grave. She was known by the sexton at the cemetery but not a significant part of my life.

Despite the partial picture official announcements present, they detail biographical information that might otherwise be lost.  Mother talked about graduating from Davenport High School and working for the phone company until her 90th birthday this year. The clipping is evidence. Our family visited Leon High School during a trip to Florida before Father died. I visited his alma mater while working in South Georgia for a logistics company. Father was a welder at George Evans Company according to the story. He seldom talked about his military service although an omitted fact — he was born in Virginia — was a primary influence when I was growing up.

As members of society we publish official notices to mark rites of passage. When I found this clipping by chance on the internet, it made my day. Official notices provide an opportunity to sand off the rough spots in our lives as we pass through milestones. As a biographer one has to ask whether to present the narrative as-is, or to embellish it with additional facts derived from experience outside its context. My answer is to present the artifact with sparing interpretation.

While presenting artifacts, I’m also weaving a narrative, something derived from both artifacts and experiences. The artifact never really stands alone. It becomes part of a narrative reduced to writing or told orally time and again until it becomes part of our world. Where such narratives will go remains uncertain. They have a basis in clippings like this wedding announcement.

(Editor’s Note: I’m working on a longer, autobiographical piece this winter. From time to time I’ll post findings from our family archives. The following was dated Dec. 11, 2010).

If I get this one chance to remember my maternal grandmother, what would I say?

That she was part of our family since my earliest remembrances.

That she encouraged me as her aunt had not encouraged her, that horrible instance when playing the piano would never be possible.

That she worked as a seamstress into her 80s and worked hard in what we would call menial positions.

That she reaped the benefits of the social programs of FDR and because of them, was able to live on her own until finally she had to go to the Kahl home, a place she had worked earlier in her life, to be tended by the Catholic charities for whom she had also worked.

That she had suggestions for how to life my life, but they were neither mandates, nor things I would not do willingly.

That she had become a part of my life, incorporated into my being like mixing pancake batter.

That she would come to adore her great granddaughter and be the first to offer her a piece of meat at a family meal.

That she would be sorely missed when she died while we lived in the Calumet.