“Two things you need to know about writing memoir: First, memoir zooms in on one specific moment. Second, memoir tries to figure out why that moment matters in the big picture of your life. How that moment’s helped shape who you are—or, in your case, who you’re becoming.”
I’m waiting for Ilca to interject, to put an end to wherever this terrible idea is going, but for once, the old hag bookcase is silent.
This is the new unit Mr. Ellis told us he’s so pumped to start. He paces while he talks, his hands gesturing wildly. I’m not sure why we can’t keep doing poetry.
Yes, that was a real thing my brain said to myself.
“Guys, this is one of my absolute favorite genres to write, because memories are so important, you know? I think it’s our memories that make us who we are—those moments that, for whatever reason, big or small, stick in our brains, that make up our stories.” He pauses, grins. “So our first job is to try to figure out what some of those moments might be.”
Nope. Not interested.
Mr. Ellis rushes around as he talks, first handing back big pieces of colored construction paper, then slamming down plastic bins of markers on random desks throughout the room. He thrives on the confused looks he gets, passing out the paraphernalia of an elementary art class.
I don’t really care. I’m trying to think of a new persona I could try in a poem. Maybe a garbage man? A sprinkled donut? A lobster in those tanks at the grocery store?
“Now remember our first key is zooming in on specific moments. Single moments,” he says, holding up one finger. “So not How me and my family go to the beach every year and it’s super fun, but That one time at Ocean City when I was six and my favorite sand shovel got pulled out by a wave and my mom swam up and down the beach for a half hour and still couldn’t find it, and it still haunts me to this day.” He gets it all out in one breath, then inhales deeply and continues. “Or, instead of My trip to Hersheypark, zoom in on That one time at Hersheypark when my brother dared me to eat four corn dogs before getting on the sooperdooperLooper, and I puked it up on his girlfriend in the seat behind me.”
People groan and laugh around me.
“See what I’m talking about? Moments. Your moments.”
Maybe I could try one from the point of view of a ride operator at an amusement park. That would work.
“All right, so here’s where we’re gonna start—just a little exercise to get some strong, sensory memories flowing.”
Or maybe a sketchy carnival ride operator. That might be even better.
“Strictly from memory, I want you to draw a map of your neighborhood as a kid, including all the important neighborhood landmarks you remember—home base for hide-and-seek, your buddy’s pool, that old dude’s porch that you ding-dong-ditched every other week—all of it.”
He shows us his own map, drawn on yellow construction paper, and talks us through some highlights, and my chest tightens, my brain flashing through images of my neighborhood—the circle, my driveway, the old sandbox in Tabby’s backyard—and Tabby’s in all of them.
“All right, you’ve got fifteen minutes to sketch out your neighborhood. Grab markers as you need them. Go.”
Fuck. I stare at my big orange sheet, and I can see where the outlines should go without drawing a thing—the circle, the houses, mailboxes and driveways, swing sets. Tabby’s part of all of them.
Next to me, Trip’s engrossed in his map, purple marker cap in his teeth as he draws. He’s loving this. Like everybody else.
I look back down at my paper and start doodling out my carny ride operator, covering my paper as best I can while I sketch in a stupid-looking gap-toothed grin. A wifebeater and a hairy belly that sticks out from the bottom, a trucker hat that reads “I ♥ Little Boys.” I give him a huge corn dog in one hand while the other grasps a lever on a box next to him—his on/off switch for his carnival ride, the Twirl-N-Ralph.
It’s maybe ten times more fucking stupid than it sounds, but who cares?
I grab a handful of markers from a nearby desk and set about coloring this bad boy in, hovering close over my desk again.
I’m finishing the lettering on the TWIRL-N-RALPH sign when Mr. Ellis tells us our drawing time is up. I turn my guy facedown on my desk.
“All right, gang, next step. Time to really start zooming in.”
I think I’m going to name my dude Maurice. Maurice Lester.
“I want you to look over your maps and mark five spots.”
Friends call him Mo.
“Five spots where you have especially strong, vivid sensory memories. Moments that—if you close your eyes—you can still see or hear or feel or smell or even taste clearly.”
Mo Lester. I probably won’t be able to read this one to Murray when it’s done.
“Once you have your five spots, I’d like you to write at least a paragraph for each one, zooming in on those sensory details you still remember. It’s to brainstorm ideas you might use for a more in-depth memoir, so keep it to a paragraph and focus on sensory details. The last few minutes are yours to write. Have these ready to go tomorrow, all right?”
Some people have started pouring memories onto their paper before Mr. Ellis has finished talking. Sensory details coming out their asses, apparently.
I jot the title at the top of the flip side of my orange paper: “The Ballad of Maurice J. Lester, Carnival Ride Operator.”
This may be my best poem yet.