On Fathers

As I read my friends’ page today on live journal, I was struck by how many people were blogging on fathers. I’ve often thought about my own subliminal treatment of fathers in my writing. In ESCAPING INTO THE NIGHT, Halina’s father left when she was a baby and all she has is a picture and her musings. In PLAYING DAD’S SONG, Gus’s father died on September 11. And in my unpublished novels, both children’s and adult, the fathers don’t fare much better. I have a father who murdered his wife whom his children have totally disowned, a flaky musician father who leaves his teenage daughter to deal alone with her mother’s mental illness, and a father who committed suicide. I also have a couple of books where the fathers are absent or unimportant, but only one of my yet-to-be published books, LEFTIES, has a visionary father who inspires his son through his work in the civil rights movement.

So why is this? I have nothing but positive things to say about my own father, who was an active dad before it was fashionable. As a matter of fact, while I tend to write about heavy issues, I’ve had a relatively happy life. But I agree with MP Barker (see her tag on live journal), that it’s not useful to restrict yourself to writing about your own life experience, and that we often don’t choose our characters and subjects: they choose us.

So, while I’m sure that Freud might have a field day with what my subconscious says about fathers, I’ll argue that writing is more than psychological processing. As a matter of fact, the greatest challenges come when I have to step outside of my life experience and push to get to the real emotional truth behind my fiction, whether I’ve ever experienced anything remotely like what I’m writing about, or whether I haven’t.

Holocaust Stories: The Compunction to Tell

Last Saturday I drove to the Bronx to meet Esia Shor, a survivor of the Bielski partisan group I wrote about in Escaping Into the Night, and her daughter, Lora. They greeted my husband, son, and me warmly, offering us a large and tasty spread of bagels, muffins, fruit, cheese and avocados. (When Jews get together, there is always food!) Essie showed me some old pictures and told me some stories about her experience as one of the original 25 members of the Bielski partisans.

Essie is a vibrant woman who looks years younger than her age, and I can see in her still the determination to survive and succeed in whatever she sets her mind to. Currently, she is hoping to publish her own account of her experience as a short memoir geared for schoolchildren. She told me, somewhat in jest, that my book made her angry. “Why?” I asked. “Did I get something blatantly wrong?” (every historical fiction writer’s nightmare). “No,” she said. “Because you wrote about Norwogrodek,” she exclaimed. “That’s my town, my story.”

Though she was joking, the remark gives a writer question to pause. How much responsibility do we have in portraying others’ stories? In writing Escaping Into the Night, I had no intention of portraying the life of any specific person, and merely created composite characters whose experiences were based on things I read. I’m sure the upcoming movie about the Bielski Partisans, Defiance, will have similar fictional elements. Yet having the generic story of the Bielski Partisans recounted in fiction, or even in non-fiction as was done by Peter Duffy and Nechama Tec, doesn’t take away from the compunction to tell your own story–to be in charge of conveying your own experience the way you perceived it, and to have that experience validated by readers.

Essie’s story is a moving and compelling recounting of a remarkable 16-year-old’s struggle for survival. As there will be fewer and fewer living Holocaust survivors in the years to come, it is important for us as a society need to take toward validating, preserving and disseminating the writing of people who actually lived the experience, in order that we take steps toward understanding both hatred and resilience, in the hope that future generations can learn some valuable lessons.

Here’s a picture of Essie and me.

Writing About Loss

Since the movie takes place in my home town, I was lucky enough to see a screening of the documentary, Young @ Heart, several months ago, before it was released for national distribution. I *loved* it–and not only because I enjoyed seeing familiar street shots and knew several of the people. What struck me was the resiliency and love of life possessed by this extraordinary senior citizen chorus, and how they continually went against their grain, singing songs from the likes of The Talking Heads and James Brown. It was a movie that really played to emotions, and at many different points, I found myself quickly transitioning from laughing to crying to laughing again.

So I was shocked when my 20-year-old daughter went to see it this week and didn’t like it. “It was too sad,” she said, referring to the untimely deaths of two of the members during the six-week period when the movie was filmed.

Yes, it was sad. Death is sad and scary. Loss, whether it’s close to us or from a distance, will often make us cry. But the point as I see it is that death happens–in life, in film and in fiction. You can be scared, philosophical, or in denial. We all deal with death in different ways. I’m not sure what my own way is, other than it keeps worming its way into my writing. I remember when I was writing mostly short stories back in my twenties, my mother remarked that I had a thing with death and it was true–so much of my fiction involved, and continues to involve loss, even though I haven’t had an excessive amount of loss in my personal life.

I believe it was Flaubert who said that writers don’t choose their subjects; the subjects choose us. I don’t consciously know why my work often involves loss. But in my fiction, as well as in Young@Heart, the point isn’t the grieving; it’s the connections formed to self and others through the grieving process. In a key scene in the movie, the chorus is on a bus on the way to give a performance at a correctional institution when they are told that one of their members has died. Minutes later, they are standing out in the sun announcing his death and dedicating their next song, Forever Young to his memory. You see shots of tears coming out of the eyes of prisoners who did not even know this man, and I doubt there are too many dry eyes among the movie viewers. Later you see the elders and prisoners hugging; a prisoner says this was the best concert he’s ever seen in his life, and you know, it’s not about the music, but about the emotion–the connection.

So perhaps that’s why I’m drawn to writing about loss. It’s a way of allowing people to process and connect with themselves and each other. And it’s a way of giving permission to grieve in a grief-phobic world.