Monday, July 23, 2012

Welcome to the Club

The words and tears tumbled out at the same time.  Her thoughts clearly jumbled and her sentences inarticulate and meandering.  Exactly how anyone would be, sitting in a room full of strangers forty-two days after their sibling died.  Patience, I told myself, remembering back almost twelve years.  She’s new to the club.  I looked around the room at the people I was spending an hour or so leading through a workshop on sibling loss.  Some I knew from eight years of workshops in hotel conference rooms around the country.  Some were new, either because it had taken them till now to find us, or because at about this time last summer, they were blissfully ignorant that there was such a thing as The Compassionate Friends.  They had yet to be initiated into the club nobody wants to join.  Their brothers and sisters were still alive.

It was a chilling thing this year, to wake up on a sunny morning in Costa Mesa to the news of the late night movie massacre.  As I heard the news while getting ready for the first full day of a conference to support bereaved parents and siblings, my first thought was some of them will be here next year.  It happened post-Columbine, just before I became a member, and post 9/11, after my sister died, but before I knew there was such a thing as TCF.  And so, a brother or sister of one of the slain would very likely be sitting in one of my workshops in Boston next July.  A parent who lost a child to a late night movie could be in the workshop where I sit on a panel along with other veteran siblings, helping to explain to them why their surviving child, that remaining brother or sister won’t talk, won’t share, turned to drugs, left school or just can’t stop being so angry at the world.  So much of the world is fascinated with the villain.  Many more are moved to make sure we remember that he is not important, that we should be focused on remembering the ones that he killed.  All I could think about, on that day of all days, as I walked through too-crowded halls of the hotel, was of the families left full of empty holes.  Families who would need this place.

I was a few years out from Wendy’s death when I found TCF.  Now I’m a veteran.  An expert at grief, qualified run workshops, sit on panels.  Experienced enough to share my story, to help someone else through the process.  Credentials claimed out of necessity to make some sense of my own loss, make a difference to someone else and hopefully make both of us feel just a tiny bit better in the process.  It’s not all tears and run-on sentences and harsh reality.  In many ways, the weekend is an escape, like summer camp for the bereaved.  Where you don’t have to explain a thing to your friends.  No one wonders why your eyes are red, you are never the only one doing the ugly cry, and someone’s always there to hand you a drink and know exactly why you need it. 

Don’t think we don’t have any fun.  My regular crew is a rebellious bunch.  We take over the nearest bar at night.  You can usually find a handful by the pool on a break, or maybe during a workshop session when it’s all just too much.  We sit in the back row at opening and closing ceremonies and act like we’re twelve, making fun of the guest choir who always performs awkward dance/sign language numbers to cheesy pre-recorded music that they don’t sing along to, while wearing strange, cult-like white outfits draped in long, colorful robes.  This year we joked that we should form a counter choir.  We would call ourselves Hand Jive International, only perform to gangsta rap, and sign all the wrong words.  Maybe we would wear lots of sequins and sparkly gloves.  We’re all adults and we could skip the performances, but where would be the fun in that?  So we’re also kind of joiners, because at the end of the day, if we have to be a part of the club, we might as well reap the benefits.  We’ve formed friendships that have lasted long past three days in a Hilton, connections that run deeper than others we have in our daily lives.  These strangers, from all over the country and all walks of life have become my brothers and sisters.  We have each other’s backs, have to come to each other’s rescue and are an integral part of each others lives. 

As hard as they are, I’m grateful for these three days.  I’m humbled by the gratitude of others and the strength of everyone in that hotel.  I am in awe of my fellow siblings.  You’re a family I did not want, but one that I’m glad I now have.  I’m a better person for the days that I spend in your company.

And to the brothers and sisters of Jessica Ghawi, Veronica Moser-Sullivan, John Larimer, Alexander Boik, Jesse Childress, Jonathan Blunk, Rebecca Ann Wingo, Alex Sullivan, Gordon Cowden, Micayla Medek and Alexander C. Teves, I think I can speak for all of my TCF crew when I say we wish we didn’t have to offer out our hands in solidarity and support, but there all extended.  We’ll be here if you need us. 

Monday, July 9, 2012

August in Vermont

In honor of the fact that I made it off the wait list and in to Bread Loaf this week, and in deference to the fact that I need to finish editing my workshop submission, I've got nothing exciting and/or revelatory for you this week.  In case you are dying for something to read, here's my Bread Loaf application essay.  If you don't know why I keep talking about a loaf of bread, add the words writer's conference after it and punch that into Google.  It's a little bit awesome.

Ten days of intense education.  New tools to put in my belt for when I need to figure out an ending to the next chapter.  New ideas to help coax the creative juices to flow on a dry day.  New eyes with which to observe and to read.  These are just a few of the things I hope to gain from attending the Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference this coming summer.  Just over a year ago, I walked into my first writer’s conference, armed with a love of written words and the first pages of a memoir.  Something that began as a collection of jumbled accounts of the loss of my sister in a violent tragedy.  Just words, tumbled loosely onto the pages.  Over the past year, and three writer’s conferences, I’ve learned to craft story.  And I’ve begun to turn my own story into what I hope will ultimately be a compelling and honest account of sibling loss and discovery.  This past January, my conference submission, the opening of my memoir-in-progress, Me Without You, was awarded “Best Of” honors for the non-fiction division of Writer’s in Paradise, 2012. 

It is my understanding from conversations with other writers and faculty advisors, that a chance to attend Bread Loaf is the ultimate opportunity to learn about both the craft of writing and about myself as a writer in a conference setting.  In my previous conference experiences I’ve discovered the unquestionable value of spending time in the company of aspiring and accomplished writers.  I found that what I discovered through my undergraduate and graduate degrees still holds true – that I am a scholar at heart.  That learning is quite possibly one of my favorite things to do.  And I have much to learn.  Though writing is often a solitary activity, the lessons and critiques that come from workshops are the building blocks I’ve been able to take back into my quiet spaces to create something better than what came before.    

My goal is to have a draft of my memoir manuscript by the time Bread Loaf rolls around in late summer.  I expect it will need serious work.  And I will need some new tools.  I would love the opportunity to continue to work with Ann Hood, who has shepherded me through prior workshops with both brutal honesty and encouragement.  I welcome the chance to work with other faculty members and authors.  Every teacher brings a fresh perspective and sometimes that’s just what you need.  I would expect that during ten days in the Green Mountain National Forest, among the memories of noted authors past, the words of esteemed faculty and the ideas of a future generation of great writers, I would learn to be a better master of my pen.  I would forge friendships that will last a lifetime.  I would make mistakes.  I would experience triumph.  I would work hard and I would walk away changed.  Intense education, indeed.

Monday, July 2, 2012

Summer Hiatus

Sorry friends and readers for the lack of entries these last two weeks.  It's been a bit nuts around these parts so I'm taking a mini summer hiatus so I can catch up with the world around me.  Plus it's hot out and my brain is fried.  I'll be back next week, or at the very worst, the week after, with more essays and observations.  In the meantime, have a happy 4th of July!  Have a cocktail.  Wear some red, white and blue.  Say thank you to a soldier.  Try not to burn anyone with a sparkler.