The Writing Lesson; or, My Exquisite First Lie: A Short Narrative by Max Reddick for My Mother on Mother’s Day

You know, I owe my mother so much.  In a number of ways, she is most responsible for the man I have become.  At least, all the positive stuff.  My mother gave me so many things and taught me so many more.  However, there is one lesson that stands out in particular.

You see, in the very beginning it was just me and my mother.  She and my natural father separated soon after I was born.  And between then and the time she met and married the right Reverend L.G. Reddick, I was being raised by committee in a very rural area of West Tennessee with my mother and maternal grandmother being the co-chairpersons of that committee.

I Saw You Yesterday (A miscellaneous scribbling from my writer's notebook)

Hey, you! It’s me. Surprised?

I saw you yesterday. I mean I am not so delusional to believe that it was actually you. But it was someone, some absolutely beautiful lady, who looked just as I guess you would look right now after all these years. At first my heart leapt and its pace quickened; I am not sure if what I felt was fear or surprise.

But the pretend you, the stand-in, just stood there seemingly oblivious to my presence, chatting with two small children, two beautiful and lively little girls, who so very much resembled the lady who looked so much like you.

And don’t laugh. Don’t believe that I have finally gone completely crazy. Perhaps it was just a flight of fancy. Or maybe I turned and you seemed to be standing there because for some reason you have been on my mind so frequently lately.

I guess your prediction finally came true. Or was it not a prediction but a curse? You said the day would come when I would find out what a horrible, egotistical little man I really was. That someone would come along and treat me exactly as I treated you. That someone would take me for granted just as I took you for granted. That someone would return my good with bad, my love with antipathy, my virtue with contempt.

And it happened just as you said, and it happened sooner not later. Does that make you happy? How does that make you feel?

I went through a long period when everything I touched seemed to turn to pure shit in my hands. Every relationship went bad even before it got started good. I was used. I was lied to. I was taken for granted. And in every instance when the truth finally came out—the truth always does—it was your face that came to mind. It was your voice that I heard in my ear.

And several times when I was at my lowest, I imagined that it was your arms thrown around my shoulders comforting me, quieting me, telling me that it would all work out in the end, that soon my lesson would be over.

And it finally did. The lesson finally ended. I met someone. And she is beautiful. Just like you. And she is gracious. Just like you. And she is wise. Just like you. And she is strong. Just like you.

And I am trying to do the right thing this time. I am trying to be the man you thought I was when you met me; I am trying to be the man you spent so much time and energy extolling me to be. Isn’t it almost ironic that you should invest so much time and energy in someone like me, and then I end up with someone else? Or should I even mention that?

But I’ll end now. I don’t want you to think that I have lost my mind or make you feel uncomfortable in any way. I just wanted you to know that I get it now. I really do. And, also, every now and then you cross my mind and I smile. And I saw you yesterday, and I wonder if when you are out and about around town, do you ever see me too?

The Stories that Are Told about Us: Seizing Control of Our Narratives

Human beings are essentially beings made of words, created through language. From the cradle to the grave, from our birth certificate to our death certificate, a narrative account testifying to our very existence is constructed; without these documents, without some narrative account of our being, then we do not and cannot exist and never did.

And who possesses the knowledge and ability to tell my own narrative other than me? Who is better able to describe my experience, my thoughts, my emotions, my being in relation to the world than I?

And we can extend this to groups of people as well. Who is better able to describe the experience of being black than blacks? Who is better able to describe the experience of being a woman than women? Who is better able to describe the experience of being gay and lesbian than gays and lesbians? Who is better able to describe that experience of being persecuted, of being mistreated, of being maligned, than those who have been persecuted, mistreated, and maligned?

Those who are able to seize control of their narrative, those who are able to communicate their narrative unfettered and uncompromised are empowered; all others are, well, simply pitiable.

I bring this up now because lately I have engaged with a number of narratives representing various mediums—literature, movies, television, music—that purport to be black, that purport to be authentic representations of the black experience; however, once you dig below the surface, once you look further than the text, or the screen, or the CD, once you look past the black faces and the black dialect, you find a narrative that is black in conception only. Those varied cultural artifacts should come with the disclaimer, “Names have been changed to protect the innocent, and any depiction of actual persons or events is purely coincidental.”

Take for instance the recent release of the movie Precious based on Sapphire’s novel Push. It received perhaps just as much praise as it did criticism. However, a movie of this type, confronting the subject matter that it does, is bound to engender such passionate and heartfelt reactions from either side.

And I did see the movie, and thought it to be a very well-told narrative. In fact, as a person who works with young inner city children, I found most of the movie to be unsettling. In the case files and cumulative folders of many of the young women within my purview, I have found similar narratives; watching these narratives come alive on screen tugged at my heartstrings a bit. The faces of many of the young women I know and have known periodically replaced that of the main character, Clareece “Precious” Jones.

Precious is an important and timely narrative despite its gross dependence on stereotypes. So, the actual film itself does not incite my ire; however, the process through which the film came to the big screen does. Novelist and essayist Ishmael Reed penned a very informative critique of the film for counterpunch magazine entitled “The Selling of ‘Precious’” which details that process. I do not subscribe to everything Reed writes in this article, but the article is a worthwhile read nonetheless.

But before most movies deemed “black films” or “black-themed films” come to the screen, they must pass the crucial test of how will mainstream audiences receive them. Will mainstream audiences see the film as an authentic depiction of black life and the black experience? Will mainstream audiences be able to relate to the film?

In other words, the mainstream audience becomes the final arbiter as to the authenticity of the work, and you can probably guess who makes up the mainstream audience. And of course, the bottom line is the deciding line. To receive the green light and backing from the major studios, the film must evince the ability to make money.

This means that someone other than the subject defines that experience. Thus the narrative you see on the screen cannot be thought of as the actual narrative, but someone's interpretation of that narrative. But it sometimes seems as if we are so anxious to see a black face on the screen, we are so excited about the "progress" we are making in the various arts that we except that interpretation without protest.

This extends to other mediums as well. I recently spoke with a friend of mine who is in the process of publishing another book. However, on the day I spoke with her, she was distraught because her editor wanted her make changes to the book to make it more marketable, more “believable.” The editor wanted to change one of the lead characters, a love interest, from a black doctor to a corn-rowed night janitor at the hospital replete with a record and a string of illegitimate children.

Certainly, there is nothing wrong with being a night janitor. However, there is something wrong with the notion that a wider mainstream audience would not find a black chief of surgery believable. Though I sometimes believe that mainstream America has not gotten the message, but we can be found in all career fields and at all points within the socio-economic spectrum.

But there is a need and a place for narratives like Precious. We cannot confront rid ourselves of the problems and pathologies within our community unless we are willing to acknowledge these problems and pathologies and confront them head on.

However, pathology is not inherent in the black experience; we have not cornered the market on pathology. Our narrative is much broader and deeper. It is much more varied and multi-faceted. And this should be reflected in the range of our narratives; the profane should be able to exist alongside the secular, and the powerful alongside the pitiful, and the beautiful alongside the grotesque.

But until we seize control of our narratives, until we are able to speak honestly to ourselves and the world about ourselves, about our experience, our thoughts, our emotions, our being in relation to the world without that experience and those thoughts, emotions, and our being in relation to the world, without our utterances and artifacts being filtered through and judged by a third party with only the bottom line in mind, our narrative will continue to be told from the point of view of slaves.