Documenting a Life - A Guide

Me and my grandmother circa 2008

I recently unearthed two hours of interviews I conducted with my grandmother. At the time I was in the last year of my MFA program, and struck anew by how important our stories are, especially ones we may not tell often. I stopped by her retirement home for two days in a row when I was home for holiday break and we recorded a conversation. At the time she was in good health, but, to our surprise, she passed away a year later. 

A few things stood out when I listened to these tapes. I had forgotten what her voice sounded like, and when I pressed play it was like she was sitting right beside me. I was a less skilled interviewer then. There were so many times I wish I’d waited and been comfortable with silence before bulldozing to the next question, because sometimes it felt like she was going to tell me something even more special if I hadn’t interrupted. 

The two hours of conversation seemed like a lot at the time, but there were so many questions I never got to ask. 

When she passed away we found, among her belongings, a manilla envelope with the message please burn scrawled across it in black sharpie. Reader, we opened it. Inside were letters that she and my grandfather had written as newlyweds when he was stationed half a world away during WW2. There was nothing salacious, no big family secret, nothing but young love and yearning across distance.  I think often of what would have been lost if we'd followed her instructions. 
 
Her generation was known as The Silent Generation. They had experienced hard times and scarcity – it was safer for them to put their head down, work hard, and not ruffle any feathers. Their parents had told them it was better to be seen and not heard. The silence robbed us of so many stories. And it robbed those silent people of the opportunity to know themselves. 
 
We are still unlearning the unspoken rules of this silent generation. In our last Writing the Body session, a student who had just workshopped a lovely essay mentioned that she had started writing as a way to launch a larger book project meant for her children and grandchildren. She wondered aloud if she was wasting her time. "I guess I've taken a long time to write these words, because I am not sure if anyone will care to read them." I've heard some variation of these words from a lot of women in my classes. Every single woman in the class protested, and they all had a similar story to mine, of a time they wish they’d been able to learn more from a member of their family who was no longer able to tell their story. 
 
It reminded me of a tweet I stumbled upon a few years ago, by the writer Rajiv Mohabir. He said "It's terrifying to publish nonfiction and memoir especially -- but the more we talk about what we've gone through, the more light we are able to offer one another. Imagine a well-lit path instead of all of us fumbling along in the darkness. Which world would you rather live in?" 
 
This holiday season I know we will hear the usual tales that are often told around the dinner table. But when is the last time you sat down with a family member or a member of your chosen family and asked them about their life? What motivated them, what made them sad, what made them feel awe or reverence, and what they’d like others to know about them? When did you last ask these questions of yourself, knowing others could learn from and cherish the answers? 

I have a little bit of experience getting to the heart of what makes up a life, so I created a list of questions to help guide you. 

Find a window of time. Use these questions as a guide. Make space for the silence. Don’t rush toward the next question. Ask specific follow-up questions. See where the conversation wanders – you might even go off script. 

Or, turn those questions toward yourself, take out a pen and paper and record your own answers. Be your own patient interviewer - set a 15 minute timer for each question, don't rush through to the next one, and if you find you're enjoying the process, keep going.