Secrets

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It’s a mystery.  All parents do it and even when you’re a parent yourself you’re surprised to find your parents doing it to you.  Keeping secrets, that is.  Parents have their secret lives that they don’t tell their children, and when we’re given a glimpse into that life sometimes we’re shocked.  My mother kept a diary.  Not religiously, and not for much of her life.  I inherited one volume, and I’m afraid to read it.  I tend to be an honest guy.  I try to answer my daughter’s questions with complete openness.  There are, however, some things I won’t talk about.  My secrets.  And despite the fact that I reveal something of myself daily on this blog, I do have many parts of my life that remain unrevealed.  Those of us who write sometimes don’t want everything we put down to be read.  Or maybe we do.

I used to keep a diary.  It was partially to remind me but also, in part, to explain myself.  It’s quite personal and I lost maybe two or three volumes of it years ago.  I stopped keeping it after I got married.  I guess I figured a Ph.D. and publication record would do the job for me.  Probably those missing volumes were with stuff left at home that Mom unwittingly threw away, like our old baseball cards from the early seventies.  Some of my stuff got damaged by water, foreshadowing what’d happen when we moved.  Perhaps they were thrown away then.  They had secrets, I’m sure.  Our private lives are a mystery to others.  That’s one reason that I try to be kind whenever possible.  We don’t know the burdens that others carry.  Why add to them by a sharp reply?  Even typing this, I’m not sure it will end up on the blog or not.  Other pieces haven’t.  Secrets.

Photo by Yogesh Pedamkar on Unsplash

Some intelligent animals try to hide things.  Corvids, for example, look around to see who else is there before hiding food.  I once saw a doe giving birth.  She was in a secluded glen in the early morning and I just happened to be jogging quietly by.  I’ve started multiple autobiographies.  I’m not sure anyone has an interest in reading them, but I have hope.  Despite my secrets, most of which I keep out of the autobiographical musings, I know I have a story to tell.  That’s why I keep at this blog, day after day, year after year.  It brings no money and has only a few followers, but it’s a chance to tell my story.  Even if I keep the secrets closely guarded.

Then Again…

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C. S. Lewis wrote somewhere (I can’t recall, but it was probably in Surprised by Joy) that when reading autobiographies, he found the youngest years the most informative.  I found that true for So, Anyway… , John Cleese’s memoir of his life up until the founding of Monty Python.  My wife and I read this book together—I tend not to gravitate towards autobiographies of living persons unless it’s someone I’m utterly fascinated by, but since we both enjoy Monty Python, why not?  It gave me quite a bit to think about.  Some parts are very funny, others more mundane, but mainly it was the path to a writer’s life that interested me.  I typecast Cleese in my mind as an actor, specifically a comedic one.  Of course, comics often write their own material.  Or at least some of it.  What became clear is that Cleese thinks of himself primarily as a writer.  That helps me understand.

It struck me that becoming a writer might’ve been easier had I started trying to get published when I was younger.  Of course, I didn’t have the advantage of attending Cambridge, or any other university where connections might’ve paid off.  Or having my writing encouraged after high school.  Already by college I’d been writing both fiction and non for many years.  In any case, Cleese found a teaching job because he’d attended the school himself, and then studied for a career in law.  Performing, however, and the attendant writing, soon came to be his self-identified career.  Anyone interested in Monty Python would find this an interesting account.  It only goes up to that point in the author’s life, which was, of course, only until he was still a fairly young man.  These days it’s difficult to be taken seriously as a writer without a degree in English or journalism.  The rest of us founder.

Monty Python was a group effort.  My wife and I read Eric Idle’s memoirs a couple years back (for some reason I didn’t post about it).  So, Anyway… was, however, a find at a used book sale, and we’re not actively looking for Michael Palin, Terry Jones, or Terry Gilliam’s reflections.  (Graham Chapman died young, of course.)  Mental typecasting is probably a crime against a fellow creative but the space someone moves into in our consciousness tends to be the same room they will always rent there.  It’s difficult to make a living as a writer and many who declare that as their identity work other jobs to make it possible.  Sometimes, such as the case of the famous, that other job may be the one where all the recognition lies.  Such is the creative life.

Self Reflection

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The desire, for some people, is very strong.  The need to record one’s life in words can be undertaken for any number of very human reasons.  Perhaps we want our descendants to know who we were.  Maybe we have a message that we’re trying to give to a world reluctant to listen.  Some may just want to brag.  Now I have to confess that, like most kids of my vintage, Hanna-Barbera cartoons were standard fare in my childhood.  I personally preferred those of Warner Bros., but like a typical addict, any fix will do.  I watched The Flintstones, The Jetsons, but preferred Scooby-Doo and Johnny Quest.  They all had Hanna-Barbera in common.  Bill Hanna published his autobiography, A Cast of Friends, in 1996 and I was curious.  I located a used copy and realized something right off—here was a guy who had a knack for leaving out the best parts of the story. Perhaps it was a cartoonist’s desire to look for the fun?

We generally read autobiographies to learn about the struggles faced, the odds stacked against someone that they somehow overcame.  Often with lingering trauma.  To hear Bill Hanna tell it, his was a bland life with a stable upbringing, good career breaks, and commercial success that led to wealthy old age.  Throughout the narrative there are hints that more was going on behind the scenes, but the carefully controlled image of the Boy Scout who ended up accomplishing much with few obstacles to face prevails.  Image control is also, I suppose, a major reason for indulging in autobiography.  Getting the job you want with minimal drama, however, makes me think there’s something more to why this autobiography was written.  That said, I learned quite a bit about the early animation business—my reason for reading it in the first place. 

Before my mother’s death, I had urged her to write her life story.  There was plenty of drama there, and a strong desire to keep going, for her kids.  Her father, her personal hero and therefore one of mine also, led an interesting life that he summarized in about four pages for his children.  Apart from one or two words I can’t make out in his handwriting, I devoured it with fascination.  He pointed out the oddities, the unexpected things.  Elements that make for an interesting life.  I got the sense from this brief book that more was left unsaid than was being revealed.  Of course, some personality types tend to remember only the positive.  And I suppose that’s cause for rejoicing.  Some of the rest of us, however, wonder about what’s beneath the surface.  Unless someone records it, however, we’ll never know.

Blood Brothers

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Every once in a while I take a chance and write about music. I don’t do this too often since it’s a very personal thing, and as open as I may be on this blog, I’m not as accessible as I seem. We all need a place to retreat in this world, and Bruce Springsteen’s music is one of those places for me. Late last year, just after it was published, Springsteen’s Born to Run—his philosophical and revealing memoir—sold briskly for several weeks. Since it made its way into my stocking I’d been intending to read it since then. And putting it off. There’s something disillusioning about finding out your heroes are only human. The best among mine are heroes precisely for that reason. Gods need not apply. Overcoming my fear, I dove in.

Two things stood out in this autobiographical account: religious imagery looms large, and depression mingles liberally with it. I recall reading an early review where the writer expressed surprise that the Boss suffers from depression. I responded (perhaps out loud), “have you ever listened to his songs?” I became a Bruce fan because he sang about working class people. Bruce and I share that background. He knows that your roots never let you go. Indeed, roots are what keep you grounded. Many of my academic colleagues, I learned, were simply carrying on the family business—and a privileged business it is. Those of us who had to overcome poverty to get in the door were never really welcome in the ivory tower. You can’t help where you’re born, but you can sure be punished for it. Bruce understands that.

I’ve never been to one of his concerts. I don’t even like to listen to his music when someone else is in the room. There’s something deeply personal about communing with someone you feel understands you. Of course I’ve never met Bruce Springsteen. I probably never will. He won’t know the kind of influence he’s had on my life and I feel that I’m risking an awful saying so here on this blog. There aren’t too many heroes in my life. I’m not inclined to idolize people. In this memoir, however, Bruce won’t let himself become an idol. He’s not perfect and he takes pains to make sure that you know that. We were, nevertheless, raised in situations not dissimilar from each other. Unlike Bruce, I have no musical gifts. No, I’ll never likely meet him—and if I did I wouldn’t want it to be with other people around. Some things are just too personal that way.