By Cheré Coen
Funny how teaching lifewriting can make you doubt your own life story. Don’t get me wrong, I will be the first person to insist that writing memoirs is one of the most valuable things you can do for yourself, as your family legacy and for the historical record of your community. Genealogists and historians will agree that diaries and records of a person’s life are invaluable to the study of history. I’ve worked for years on my own family genealogy and have longed so many times to be able to get inside the heads of my crazy ancestors.
Funny how teaching lifewriting can make you doubt your own life story. Don’t get me wrong, I will be the first person to insist that writing memoirs is one of the most valuable things you can do for yourself, as your family legacy and for the historical record of your community. Genealogists and historians will agree that diaries and records of a person’s life are invaluable to the study of history. I’ve worked for years on my own family genealogy and have longed so many times to be able to get inside the heads of my crazy ancestors.
So why do I find it hard to write my own story?
I offer advice, I share writing roadmaps and I listen as the
instructor of the ULL Lifewriting Class on Wednesdays. Mostly, I sit in awe at
the amount of talent around the table and the stories that spring up. There are
detailed memories of old Lafayette, past Cajun traditions and old French expressions.
Many grew up elsewhere, some fought in World War II. And some stories about the
most mundane aspects of life make us laugh the most.
My days are spent writing fiction and articles, teaching and
trying to master social media. I’m still raising two children, and I try to
maintain a household of one husband, one Boston terrier-boxer mix and three
cats. I sometimes wonder what would I write about!
At lunch recently one of the students remarked that we
remember so much of our childhood, but not as much when we are raising
children. Perhaps we are too busy trying to keep the ship afloat. I find this
to be true when my kids mention moments from their youth and I struggle to
recall them. But perhaps that’s even more reason to write about life as we live
it.
So I vow to be as good as my students and write about myself
every week. I’m starting with this blog.
Our prompt this week is “Going Back to School,” which brings
me to Jefferson Elementary in Jefferson Parish with its creaky wooden floors,
drafty windows and lack of air conditioning. The day my mother enrolled me in
first grade I was told repeatedly how my father had attended the same school,
something I had no trouble believing since the building look medieval to me. I
found the same to be true of my first grade teacher, an older woman who had taught
my dad. To a 5-year-old, anyone who had taught a parent was ancient. To this
day I wonder if she was old as I remember.
Still, I was excited about the prospects, loved the chalky
smell of the massive classrooms with windows everywhere and the inviting playground
with its painted hop scotch markers and swing sets. In the corner of the
property, parents loaded up used newspapers for a paper drive. Seemed like a
fun place to me.
My older sister was bored, having been through this process
before. She began exploring the property, heading for a high view of the world
up the fire escape. Being an inquisitive kid — or pest of a little sister is
more like it — I followed. Back then I followed her everywhere.
When she reached the top and could view the neighborhood,
she suddenly turned and screamed. At first I thought she was angry I had
followed and was telling me to go back to Mom. But she bolted past me, bounding
down the stairs with one word registering as she flew past. “BEES!”
I looked up to see wasps emerging from where she had stood,
but before I could understand their intention, one wasp flew right for me. All
I could do was shut my eyes.
He stung me on the eyelid, which felt like fire burning
through my skull. Of course, I cried and headed down the stairs, although a lot
slower than my sister. My mother met me at the bottom, whisked me in her arms
and we headed for the Oschner emergency room. I later learned that some kids
are allergic to bees and a sting so close to the brain could result in death. I
think my mom was just afraid I might lose my eyesight.
I suffered neither death nor blindness, but I got special
attention that night, my mom applying cool face clothes on my eye while I
enjoyed “The Wonderful World of Disney.” My favorite episode of “Winnie the
Poo” was on that night, and I delighted in every moment, if only through one
eye.
First grade started the next day with the ancient teacher
who taught my dad. And I had a great story to start off the school year.
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