Perception Is Everything.
Years ago, I read Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt. It is one of my favorite books – a spectacularly written memoir of growing up in Irish poverty.
So when Frank’s little brother, Malachy, also wrote a memoir, I was intrigued. In Angela’s Ashes, little Malachy is portrayed as the “golden boy” of the family, so I was excited to hear his viewpoint. I found a copy of Malachy’s A Monk Swimming and started reading.
But the book Malachy wrote didn’t tell a sad story about a family growing up in poverty. Maybe by design since his book was written after Frank’s, Malachy told a different story entirely. He mentioned his unpleasant childhood, but he skipped right into the hilarity that he remembers from his young adulthood.
This disappointed me; I loved Frank’s book. But it also taught me a valuable lesson: perception is everything. Malachy didn’t grow up feeling destitute and sad like Frank did; he grew up happy and determined to get out of poverty. Malachy reflected – and probably lived – completely differently than Frank did.
It is interesting to me, because I relate better to Frank, that Malachy ended up becoming an alcoholic, while Frank did not.
I have two younger sisters and two parents, all of whom shared my life experience, none of whom are alcoholic. I was always substantially more sensitive to things that didn’t seem to devastate others: the deaths of the baby rabbits in the fields, the snowball that hit me in the breezeway between classes, the loneliness and despair and bullying in school.
My family didn’t do anything to “cause” this sensitivity in me; I was born with it. Like Frank, and nothing like Malachy, I attached myself to the sadness in life. I still do, although now I am more aware of good things and I try not to whine incessantly.
I am writing a blog about my life, and I am trying to tell the story the way I remember it. I’m a huge proponent of truth-telling; I abhor liars. It’s important to me to get everything right, but the way I remember it – from 40+ years ago – may not always be 100% accurate.
I do not have a photographic memory and obviously my perception plays into everything I write. I can, and will, only tell my story from my viewpoint. But this may cause some challenges.
For example, here’s a memory from my childhood, when I lived in New Orleans: my parents wouldn’t allow me to attend an Osmonds concert. The concert was the day after Thanksgiving, and we spent the holiday with family in Pittsburgh instead. I remember this as clearly as if it happened yesterday.
I developed a searing resentment about it, and 50 years later I finally discussed this injustice with my mom. Mom carefully but honestly explained that this never happened; she had facts to back up her words. There was no concert. In fact, we hadn’t even gone to Pittsburgh that year! Everything she said made perfect logical sense. Still, I remembered it so vividly!
So I did a thorough internet search, scouring online Osmond concert databases. And – no way! – my mom was right! I’d been angry for five decades over something that never even happened.
So as I delve deeper into the story of my alcoholism, I hope those of you who remember my story from a different viewpoint will forgive any discrepancies. I want to forge forward freely without worrying about historical inaccuracies, although I will never purposefully embellish.
This is my way of saying: I can only do the best I can do.