Memoir, by nature, is self-indulgent. Unless someone is famous or comes with a platform of admirers who enjoy a sneak peek at a private side of their life, the memoirist can wonder if what he/she has to say is beneficial to anyone. What is it inside some people that makes them burn to tell their stories? Adversity? Narcissism? A uniqueness of background or perspective?
I suspect that more than a handful of memoirs began as self-therapy projects.
At some point, however, the writer must flip the narrative. The book becomes about the reader, not the writer—or, at least, it should. Many times, Augustine questioned—who would want to read about a boy who grew up in a hut in Africa, a boy who could accurately describe an absence of food that clawed from the inside, a boy who did not use eating utensils until he was fourteen? My answer to him was simple: who wouldn’t want to know a boy who grew up in polygamy, who had the courage to walk away from his abuse at twelve and raise himself, who, time and again, chose poverty over the easy route of becoming a child soldier because he was a pacifist before he even knew what that meant, and who rose above an oppressive adversity to become the man he knew he was inside? Most of all, who wouldn’t want reassurance that we’re all on this horrific and wonderful ride of life together and that kindness will always be the rising tide that lifts all boats?
I love this quote from Rachel Cusk, a Canadian-born novelist and writer:
“In memoir, you have to be perfectly careful not to alienate the reader by making the material too lived-in. It mustn’t have too much of the smell of yourself, otherwise the reader will be unable to make it her own.”
Augustine showed great care to inject universal touchpoints of the human experience: first love, the challenges of a father-son dynamic, that teacher who believed in you before you believed in yourself, the first time someone hustled you out of hard-earned cash, a days-long adventure with your friends that aged you tenfold. Disappointment, elation, grief, humiliation—everything a coming-of-age story should be—it’s all here. His Africa is immersive and lived-in (and there are smells, you can imagine), but there is plenty here for each reader to make his/her own.
Day 6: What of the Ones Who Still Draw Breath?
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