Tall Tales From My REMoir

Memoir is in trouble again. After having been humiliated a few years ago by Opra's couch-mate and Book Club coronate, James Frey -- the Self Embossed Bad Boy of A Million Little Pieces --, the genre has apparently been depantsed again by a 60 Minutes report on another bestselling memoirist, Greg Mortenson, questioning the quacks of his facts in Three Cups of Tea. 


In unfairness to Mr. Mortenson, CBS, and The New York Times, I did not see the TV report and only scanned the newspaper article, but from that I've gleaned the controversy has to do with K2, the mountain. Not that Mortenson's bumper sticker should read This car climbed K2! and not I Climbed K2!, but the issue is whether, as he claims in the book, that on his descent he recovered from the grueling climb while being cared for in the village Korphe, Pakistan, the village which inspired him to raise money and build schools throughout Pakistan and Afghanistan (apparently, some of these schools are in question, too, but that allegation is outside the context of the book) or whether he actually visited Korphe a year later. Given that the guy appears to do quite a bit of good in the world, and his book has inspired many others to do good in the world, the "controversy" over when he went to Korphe seems to me a trifle. 


But readers feel betrayed, ripped off. Which raises the question of what readers are really after in memoirs, especially when they are memoirs of hardship: "You mean you weren't sexually abused as a child? How dare you! I paid for sexual abuse. I want my money back!" "What?! You weren't beaten within an inch of your life by that street gang but only roughed up some? Damn you, I paid for extreme violence and near death! Gimme back my money!"


In any event, incidents such as Mortenson's or Frey's or any number of other defrocked memoirists always initiates a new round of hand-wringing and soul-searching among writers (and publishers): where, in memoir, does the writer draw the line between fact and fiction?


I actually solved that dilemma several years ago when I conceived and coined a new genre, REMoir, pronounced the same as memoir but with an r instead of an m. It seemed to me then that memoir kept getting called to the carpet because the assumed unwritten subtitle for every memoir is, "It's All True."


REMoir makes no such claim. Instead, REMoir's subtitle would be something like, "It's All Truish."  


Truish?: what does that mean? I don't know; I'm still working on it. But so far, what I know is that REMoir is bound by these rules: 

• that it contains elements and episodes that are true; 

• that it may contain elements or episodes that might have become true, if things had worked out differently, as long as the reader is properly cued; 

• that it may contain things wholly untrue, so long as there is no possibility that a reader could construe them as true

So, real lives are REMoir's anchors, but once so anchored, the REMoirist can set his or her tiller and drift toward truishness, wherever it may take them. In other words, whereas in memoir imagination is verboten, imagination is the very stuff of REMoir, as long as both reader and writer are on board that REMoir, unlike memoir, makes no claims about digitizing reality (or capital T Truth). This opens up great writing possibilities for people like me, whose real or capital T Truth lives aren't really all that interesting. If Mortenson or Frey had written REMoirs instead of memoirs, no one would have raised an eyebrow or pointed a finger. Readers would have assumed creative embellishments as characteristic of the genre.

Why REMoir? Because REMoir combines the unconstrained imagination of sleep's REM cycle, the dream cycle, with the constraints of an actually lived life. As long as I stay anchored to my life, I can sail away on dreams as far as my imagination can carry me. 

For example, in my unpublished and untitled REMoir completed a year ago (I like to refer to it as Volume I), I recount this episode: 


 
When I was eleven or so it was decided that I would get braces for my teeth. My teeth were fine, and didn't need braces, but like all kids from middle-class, Long Island Jewish families of the late '50s/early '60s, you got braces not because you needed them but rather so that others should know you could afford them. Braces were like Jewish bling. It would be a shanda if parents didn't put their kids in braces: God forbid, everyone would think you were from poverty.


So, when I was eleven or so my mother schlepped me off to Dr. Mittleman, the family orthodontist, for a consultation. As both my older sisters had braces by Dr. Mittlemen, my mother should have been quite pleased that our family had contributed so generously to Dr. Middlemen's sparkling waiting room and state of the art equipment. He did well by us. And he was about to do weller.


A nurse walked me into his office and laid me back in the plush dental chair. She told me that he was going to take some pictures, some x-rays, so that the doctor could get a better look at the work not needing to be done.


She wore white but had blood on her hands as proceeded to stick a series of sharp-edged, painful x-ray films in my mouth and zap me. Then she went off to develop the field of play.

Now, at eleven or twelve or whatever age I was, I was still growing. I don't know if I had yet surpassed my mother's 5'2", but I am certain that I was no where near my father's 6'2".


So when Dr. Mittlemen, white smock fluttering behind him,  came in beaming with x-rays in hand, and said to me, "You know, these x-rays show me that you have a large head, and I am guessing from the size of it that you are going to grow to be very tall, six-two, six-three," me and my perfect teeth and big head beamed along with him.


Six-two or six-three! I'll be able to play pro-football, just like my idol, Dick Butkus! It was the happiest day of my young life.

But Mittlemen lied. Or was a quack. Or maybe that was his schtick for building rapport with a kid whose mouth he'd be spending much of the next couple of years torturing. When my much awaited growing spurt failed to materialize, I ended up splitting the difference between my parents and stalling at 5'8". That's the reality of it.


As the story continues in my REMoir, however, Mittlemen is right! I do grow to be 6'3", and quickly, so that by the time I get into junior high school I am fully grown. And not only that, I am so gifted as an athlete that I am sent straight to the varsity football team, where, as middle-linebacker, I am truly outstanding and become recognized throughout the state and across the country. Though I still have years of high school ahead of me, college recruiters from the biggest named universities flock to me and court me left and right, offering me all kinds of scholarship goodies -- and even a guarantee to waive that pesky requirement, the high school diploma!


Of course, I am flattered, and though bewildered by the blitz of attention I'm receiving my parents are very proud. When it seems as though the recruiters are about to overrun our lives, my father finally takes control and announces to them, all of them (they've been camped out on our front lawn for weeks, each hoping to be picked by me) that we need time to think, that they should go back to their respective schools, and that we'll be in touch. There is a collective hang-dog groan as the recruiters pack up and shuffle off to their cars, and, even though I am a monster, physically (you wouldn't recognize me), I am glad to have had my daddy shield me. Yes, we are all feeling pretty good at dinner that night, except for my sisters who are jealous.


The next morning during breakfast there is a knock at the door. "Not them again!" my mother says as she heads toward the door ready to pounce. My father has already left for work.

From the kitchen table I hear her open the door and start in: "Can't you recruiters leave us alone? My husband told you that we need time to think, and twenty-four hours is not time."

"Ma'am, I'm not a recruiter," the man says apologetically. "But I would like to see your son."


"He's having breakfast, and then he has to go off to school. I'm sorry."


The door creaks as she started to close it. 


"But wait!" the man says desperately,"If you'll only tell your son that I'm here, and then let him decide!"


I get up from the kitchen table, curious. But I can't see through my mom.


"Who should I say is calling?" my mother asks.


"Dick Butkus, ma'am."


Dick Butkus! I run to the front door nearly knocking my mother over once I get there.


"It is you! And you're in his uniform!"


"Hi, Jerry."


Dick Butkus! The greatest linebacker, ever, just said "Hi, Jerry"!


"Mom, this is Dick Butkus!"


"I heard," she says. "So; who is Dick Bupkus?" 


"Only the greatest linebacker ever! We have to let him in. He's Dick Butkus, mom!"
 
"Okay, okay. Come in Mr. Bupkus, before my son has a heart attack."


She leads him in with a sweep. Out of respect to her, he doffs his helmet before entering and says, "Thank you, ma'am." 


What with his shoulder pads and all, he barely fits through the doorway. And yet, when he does, strangely, he and I are eye to eye. We shake hands. Two strong hands. I can't believe it: he seems to be no taller than I am. In fact, I get the sense that of the two of us, I may be the taller. Taller than Dick Butkus!

 ***

Well, I hope you get that gives you an idea of how REMoir can work. Just so you know, Butkus is there to ask me -- beg me -- to come to Chicago and not only play for his Chicago Bears, but replace him at middle-linebacker for the Bears -- actually assume his number 51. He tells me he has suffered a knee-injury which has greatly hampered his game, and he believes I am the only one in the country who could fill the position he will soon have to vacate. As a teaser, he hands me his helmet and tells me to try it on. Fits perfectly. 


I discuss it all with my parents, who agree, and, at 17, I begin a professional football career with the Chicago Bears, a career that sees me voted to the Pro-Bowl every year, that sees me break every defensive record known to the NFL, that sees me retire after 20 years as the most feared and revered linebacker ever to have put on the pads -- more feared and revered than even Butkus himself. What a life. And I owe it all to Dr. Mittleman.

So, you see, REMoir is much better than memoir. In memoir, the horizon is determined by how close to the truish edge you dare go; in REMoir, the horizon is determined by how far beyond the truish edge you want to go.


You should give it a try.