Remembering the Memoir

The passing of Frank McCourt, the 78-year-old author of the wildly successful Angela's Ashes, made me think about the memoir — specifically, what good memoirs I have read.

I will give McCourt his props. His memoir was grand, sweeping and one of the most heart-wrenching books I had read to date. It broke my heart to read about children experiencing such abject poverty, hunger, cold and disillusionment. I watched the movie with Carole the first weekend of its release, and neither of us was a terribly happy camper when we left the theater that night.

Carole and I have reviewed a number of memoirs in our blog, and some of them are worth mentioning (and recommending).

• If I am Missing or Dead by Janine Latus. A thoughtful and harrowing story of the author's younger sister — but even more so, the story of the author herself. The book jacket starts the story with the disappearance of the younger sister, but the author wisely begins the story at the right place: at her own beginning.

• The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls. For those of us who did not experience it, parental neglect seems unfathomable. Try cranking it up a notch or 12 with Walls' book. I borrowed Carole's copy, tabs and all, and I was floored at the conditions under which these parents kept the children. The author begins her tale with an anecdote: seeing her mother living as a streetperson in Manhattan. Most authors wouldn't know where to go from there. Walls takes us to the right memories, weaving a story of sadness and disappointment that lingers.
  

• I Dreamed of Africa by Kuki Gallmann. Africa takes center stage in this memoir of a European woman who escapes to Africa after tragedies in her life. For her, Africa is home and we experience her life in a very visceral way. I cried more than once as I read her tales of hardship and sadness, loss and despair. It was one of the most beautifully written books I had ever read.

• How I Lost Five Pounds in Six Years by Tom Arnold. I laughed, I cried. It was a sweet, honest and rare story. The persona Arnold presents to his audience as an actor or a TV writer is much different than the love story he writes to his future children. I laughed at his self-deprecating humor. I appreciated the difference between a joke at his expense and being a joke — and never was he the latter. I loved this book so much I purchased a copy to use as a reference guide when I wrote my own memoir. (I will, however, leave out the meat processing plant job in mine.)

• Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortensen. It's the story of a hiker who gets lost on his way down from trying to climb Mt. Everest and winds up in a tiny village whose inhabitants tend him back to health. In return, he promises to build them a school. Only he doesn't stop at one school for one village. I mentioned this book to my friend Wayne before his deployment to Afghanistan; he lamented the dove-ish approach of education, reminding me the true responsibility of the military. On his first R&R six months later, he commented that his humanitarian efforts made more difference by far than his military might. I think Greg would have agreed.

What are some memoirs you have enjoyed — or not?

Virginia Festival of the Book--Three Cups of Tea and Greg Mortenson

The lights were bright and the theater was full, but Greg Mortenson was exactly how readers would expect him to be as he addressed 600 people in UVA’s Culbreth Hall: humble, knowledgeable, and passionate.

Standing on the Charlottesville stage was the man who lived in his car and wrote to Tom Brokaw and Oprah Winfrey on a rented typewriter. His message was consistent and steady: education is the answer to fear and ignorance.

The subtitle of his book, however, was not consistent, he noted. Publishers had to teach him “a little about book publishing” by insisting the word “terrorism” be in the subtitle of his book, not the word “peace,” as he wanted. Instead of arguing, he said he bargained like a Pakastani: if the book did not sell as well as the publisher hoped, use “peace” in the subtitle of the paperback.

The hardback sold 20,000 copies, so the publishers agreed to the new subtitle. The paperback spent 58 weeks (and counting) on the New York Times bestseller list.

“Terrorism is based in fear,” he said. “Peace is based in hope…. Three Cups of Tea gives a message of hope.”

In his presentation, he stressed the importance of educating all children — but he was sure to indicate why girls had to be in the classrooms. He cited an African proverb: "Educate a boy and you educate an individual. Educate a girl and you educate a community."

Studies show that in communities where girls are educated to the fifth grade level, infant mortality drops, “population explosions”, drop and the communities have improved basic qualities of life and health. One girl in particular made a huge difference in her community: after a health care course costing $800 (the cost of Starbucks for less than a year), she returned to her community and literally ended maternal mortality.

The benefit is as subtle as it is direct. The number of jihadists dropped in areas where women had received educations. In Muslim countries, man can go on jihad only if their mothers gave their permission — and “educated women were not allowing their sons to go on jihad,” Mortensen said.

While his good work continues, it is by no means near completion. Thousands of schools were destroyed in Pakistan in 2005 from devastating earthquakes, and more than 400 schools educating girls have been destroyed in Pakistan in the past 16 months alone. Only a fraction of them have been rebuilt. U.S.-identified terrorist organizations have built camps with “schools” that teach boys religious extremism, intolerance, and hatred. Neither Rome nor schools can be built in a day, but Mortensen’s organization, Central Asia Institute, cannot even alleviate the educational situation within the camps until the schools are built — because to do so would be aiding a U.S.-identified terrorist organization, and they would be closed down (at best). So he works as quickly as he can.

“To overcome ignorance, you have to have courage,” he told the audience. He shows courage everyday — courage evident on the stage Thursday afternoon.

Virginia Festival of the Book—Greg Mortenson and Three Cups of Tea

Chris and I promised ourselves last year that we would take time off from work and attend the Virginia Festival of the Book, and here we are. After a pleasant car ride filled with great girl chat that bounced from topic to topic as effortlessly as changing the radio station, we arrived at the cabin in time to drop off our stuff and head to the Festival. And not just because we wanted to—I actually was on a mission.

Perusing the schedule a few weeks ago, Chris said that she wanted to see the author of Three Cups of Tea. A few days later at work, the director of communications said she was going to try and get Greg Mortenson as one of our main speakers at our annual convention. A light bulb went off in my head. I told her to put me together a packet of information, and I would try to put it in Mortenson’s hands while I was at the Festival.

Here’s the thing. I had no idea whether this was going to be a book signing or not. If it was, all I had to do was get in line, and I knew I would have at least a minute or two of his time. If it wasn’t, I had no idea what I was going to do. I had visions of getting arrested as a stalker because I approached him in the parking lot after his appearance.

Luckily, it didn’t come to that, but things didn’t start off too well. He was on the schedule to appear at UVA’s Culbreth Theater at 6:00 p.m. Tickets would not be given out until 5:00. We tried to time it to get there right at 5:00. The traffic was ghastly getting onto and through campus, so when we got close, Chris hopped out to get in line, and I went to park the car. By the time I found a space in the garage, Chris called to say that the tickets were all gone.

I said something unladylike, and then I heard Chris say something like “Yes, I would—thank you!” “Did you just get tickets?” “No, I got one ticket from some guy who had an extra. I’m going to stand around and look pitiful and see if I can get another.” I locked up the car and scooted down three flights of stairs, crossed the street, all the while keeping an eye out for someone trying to unload a ticket.
I get to the theater and find Chris. No luck on the other ticket, and we realize that there are lots of people standing around looking mighty unhappy because they don’t have tickets. Chris and I decide to split up—she’ll go hear his talk, assess the effect of his message on the audience, and report back on how inspirational a speaker he is. I was relieved to see that it was, in fact, also going to be a book signing. Having been to many a book signing, I knew the drill. While everyone else was standing around grumbling that they didn’t have tickets. I headed straight for the signing table and got in line.

Let me just say, I was FIRST in line. This is important. I’ve never been first in line for a book signing—I’m usually number 68 or thereabouts. First is a big deal, particularly in this case. I’ll be able to explain why my association is interested in him and why he should be interested in us before he’s talked to many other people. He’ll be as receptive as he is going to be.

So far, so good. I’m in line—I have my books. I’m ready. Unfortunately, I have to wait in this line for two hours. At this point, the talk doesn’t start for a half hour. I figure he’ll talk for an hour (he actually talked for ninety minutes—a real bonus for those inside the theater, not so much for us dogged few in the queue.
Slowly, I’ve been joined by others in the line. At least 100 people have been turned away because there are no more tickets. Despite this fact, they are hanging around, hoping that circumstances may change and they’ll be allowed in. People have come from quite a distance just for this event, and they have to turn around and head home that same night. They don’t want to have made the trip for nothing.

The Festival volunteers have it tough—they have to break the bad news to folks who really don’t want to hear it. I, on the other hand, am okay. I’ll get to do what I set out to do, but I can really sense the disappointment of the folks around me.
After forty-five minutes in line, one of the volunteers comes up and says that we have to move the line outdoors (mercifully, it’s a lovely evening) because two other events at the theater will make the lobby too crowded. She implies that we can mosey outside and line up there if we like. As first in line, I say louder than I normally speak, “You mean we’ll move the line but maintain the same order, right?” She looked at me as if to say, “What’s the big deal?” Obviously, she’s never been first in line! I wasn’t about to give that up. When she moved the sign outside, I followed her and everyone else followed me. It could have gotten pretty ugly if things were handled differently.

We lined up outdoors and began to chat to one another. The woman behind me had driven from Richmond, she has been to the Festival before. She wasn’t thrilled about missing his talk, but she knew that these things happen. The two women behind her were from Burke—they both worked at the same elementary school. One of them works to raise money to build schools on tribal lands in India. From India herself originally, she was very disappointed not to see Mortenson speak and more importantly to speak to him. I assured her that the best place to speak to him would be at the book signing.

While the frat house next to the theater blared “The Night They Drove Ol’ Dixie Down” (The Band’s version, not Joan Baez), we waited…and we waited…and we waited. The extra 30 minutes he spoke seemed particularly long for those of us standing outside. I had fallen rollerblading with my daughter the weekend before, so my right leg really wasn’t too happy with my waiting around.

Finally, we hear applause from inside the theater, the volunteers let us in, and we head down the hall to get our books signed. Now, I’ve been standing there all of this time—you would think that I would have my little spiel ready to go. I really don’t want to babble when I get up there. As I walk down the hall, my mind goes blank. “What am I supposed to say?” I ask myself a little desperately.

Now all I can think is “Geez, I’m first! Who wants to be first?” But then I take a deep breath, gather my thoughts, and walk across the room where I’m greeted very graciously by Mortenson. I actually say what I came to say without babbling, he takes the folder of information, and expresses interest. Whew!

I leave with signed books for Chris and me, step outside, and meet Chris coming up the stairs. She says the presentation was amazing. The Festival is off to a great start!