Perhaps they did tell their stories, and they have been forgotten. Perhaps they were so busy trying to make a living and keep their families fed that nothing mattered but survival. Perhaps my great-great-grandparents did not have the emotional capacity to recount their lives to their children, or perhaps they didn’t see the value in it. They found belonging and comfort, humor and lessons in the twisting tales of sorrow and joy that made up the lives of his ancestors. His family told these to one another, over and over again. He never met his great-great-grandparents, but he knew their stories, their loves and choices, their actions and consequences. I found myself longing to know about their lives, as I read Nayeri’s poetic family fables.
I need to hear their stories, their versions and experiences, to shape my memory into something more whole.īut, reader, I cannot tell you the names of my great-great-grandparents, or anything about them. My version of my grandfather is one tiny facet of who he was, and without the other stories, told by those who knew him better, my understanding of him is incomplete and skewed. My memory is also patchwork, in a different way. My eight and twelve and fifteen year-old self saw him as such, and that’s the story I told to myself. Someone else may tell of his missionary work, his excellent preaching, but most of my memories of him feature a fierce, grumpy old man fighting the demon of Alzheimer’s. My grandfather may or may not have kept a rainbow boa in his Brazilian attic to eat the rats, but everyone in my family believes he did, because he told that story over and over. The characters, the settings, the big and small plots and conflicts and adventures: these shape us, and are shaped by us. We may not realize it, but we understand ourselves and our families through the stories we tell of ourselves and each other.
It is apparent he takes pride and joy in knowing and telling his family history, in imagining and describing the many colorful characters of his heritage. That’s what he calls it, lamenting: “A patchwork memory is the shame of the refugee.” But Nayeri’s family tales are rich and complex, compelling and beautiful. In the style of a true Persian story teller, he cycles back and repeats himself often, giving refrains and themes to the patchwork of stories he weaves together. I recently finished Everything Sad is Untrue by Daniel Nayeri, and it is already one of my favorite books of the year.
0 kommentar(er)
