I look across the table at the steely blue eyes of the 80-year-old man
(from NASA) with a gorgeous, full shock of white hair and I see the little
boy who grew up under the boughs of hemlocks and redwoods in the San
Francisco Presidio, where he salvaged kapok vests and dynamite from Baker Beach and China Beach -- “playthings” that fell off the Navy ships bound to sea. That little boy who lost his father to lung disease at a tender age and would one day deliver papers on wet and windy Sunset district streets to help his mother pay the bills. He would go on to be a steward on the merchant marine ships and eventually find his way to aerospace projects in the dreamy Camelot of an America that can’t imagine its comeuppance is nigh.
And I know that I love him and respect him…but no more or less than the woman beside him who worked 40 years of hard labor as a waitress in a diner. And it hurts me, how she now has trouble breathing if anyone wears perfume to class because she was serving meals most her life to people who smoked hard cigarettes while they ate and drank the endless cups of coffee she poured for them before she rode the bus home to do it all over again for her unkindly husband and two boys . . . I know there should have been a girl, but she never got that babe that she wished for all her life.
I look at the row of these people whose lives I’ve been privileged to witness building a kind of scaffold on the other side of the table from me, and my mind starts waxing picturesque -- my own personal magic begins to conjure a vision. And I see the scaffold of people become a spine and I realize these tremendous, amazing, average, everyday people make up the backbone of my country. They ARE my country, and it needs no borders. The spine bends on itself, it whirls and spins and becomes the mythic melting pot of a New World, and I see the stories of their lives condense and blend into this golden elixir that fills the pot and glows with the reverence that I feel for the body of their collective experience.
And then my stories are one with their stories and we are bound to each other in a way that can never be broken, belittled or denied. And I am made more than I am . . . their stories, and mine together . . .the stories make me WHOLE. The stories make me BETTER than I once was.
Guided Autobiography (The Birren Center for Autobiography and Life Review)
Guided autobiography groups (James Birrens' brainchild) are structured memoir writing groups, in which participants write and read aloud two pages at a time. Lisa and I got instructor training online together (through Cheryl Svensson and Anita Reyes), and we learned that friendships may indeed be forged over the Internet. Watch this space. One day I'll announce she has written a book.
A Guided Tour of the Past (Paula Span, New Old Age, The New York Times, 7-18-11)
Telling the Stories of Life Through Guided Autobiography Groups by James E. Birren and Kathryn N. Cochran
The Birren Guided Autobiography Method
Telling Your Story , hundreds of useful links to information about resources for capturing your life story or someone else's.
Books to help you get started writing your own or someone else's life story
Books to help lead life writing or reminiscence groups