Is it Real Son? Is it Really Real Son?

I wonder if, in time, we will come to view memoirs with the same disdain we hold reality television? The concepts are basically the same: to tell compelling, “real” stories in a way that certainly sensationalizes the situations and lives they are meant to describe. Granted, reality television has fallen off the deep end, going from a fairly innovative day-in-the-life-of-seven-strangers (“The Real World”) to the schlock-and-gristle of such ubiquities like “Fear Factor” or “Flava of Love.” The patina of authenticity which we were able to delude ourselves into believing about the people in these shows (“but that’s how people really talk!”) very rapidly melted away, leaving exposed the greedy eyes of network execs.

And yet we still watch. Consider that during the recent writers’ strike, most networks didn’t even bat an eyelash, knowing that they could, if necessary, throw up (both literally and figuratively) any piece of crap that could be made with a couple of cameras and a group of people convinced that not only does everyone get 15 minutes of fame, but they should get it. When Time magazine declared “You” person of the year, there was little criticism in the necessary narcissism that allows such a state to occur. We are, more than ever, willing to open ourselves up in ways unheard of just ten years ago (consider the pseudo-meta going on with the fact that you are reading this in a blog). The Internet (note: why does MS Word still insist on capitalizing “internet”?) has created access to people who never had forums before, and we have embraced them whole-heartedly. Why wouldn’t we? What is more gratifying than knowing that others can share in the joy and wonder that is “you?”

Are books that fundamentally different? I am a big believer in the idea that “the medium is the message,” and I try to always acknowledge that what works on television may not work on the internet may not work in books may not work in the movies, etc. What this doesn’t mean, though, is that they can not work. While I don’t think that the lines are blurring to such a degree that mediums are melding into an indistinguishable entity, I do think there is certainly cross-over. It can be no coincidence that the recent push in publishing for memoir is happening at the very boom of the internet social networking and reality television. While our approach to different media may be subconsciously varied, most people (including myself), rarely take time out to acknowledge that what I do here is different from what I see there.

Probably the greatest proof of this is the fact that so many “blockbuster” memoirs, including James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces and Ishmael Beah’s A Long Way Gone have been “proven” to be a lot less “real” than originally portrayed. Frey’s is the obvious example, becoming a huge best-seller with Oprah’s endorsement, only to have her slam the door in his face (on national television) when it was discovered that he had embellished the truth a bit. And yet it’s still selling, as both people who got caught up in the scandal and those that found inspiration in the story continue to read the book. Beah’s story – that of a boy-soldier in Sierra Leone – is now under attack by The Australian, which has pointed out numerous inconsistencies between his account and that of documents and others.

What these “fictionalized narratives” show is that the “reality” is just another feature of the story, such as tone and language. In other words, we are ready and willing to accept lies if they are presented to us as being true or at least with an aura of, to borrow Mr. Colbert’s phraseology, truthiness. Whether it’s a drug addict struggles or LC’s problems with Heidi, we embrace the melodrama (or, at least I do). I’m sure there are psychological reasons for this, probably something along the lines that we identify and/or compare with the train-wrecks of their lives as a way to feel better about our own, but that’s really not my field. In the end, no matter what connections we make, it is still the story we have to consciously interact with, and that is what keeps us coming back.

With that in mind, I just read Edwidge Danticat’s memoir, Brother, I’m Dying. Winner of the National Book Award, and generally praised by every publication that reviews books, it is very good. Less an autobiography and more the story of her family in Haiti and America, Danticat never holds back her love for her father Mira or her Uncle Joseph (the man who raised her and her brother while her father looked for work in the U.S.). It is this sense of the genuine that draws the reader in and makes them want to care about a family that isn’t their own. And, while taking on political issues both in Haiti and the U.S., her criticisms come off as natural: I dislike these policies because they affected me and my loved-ones in a real and personal way.

One reason I think so many people have loved this book is because it somehow glosses over the pain of her father’s death and her uncle’s flight from Haiti while never actually holding back the details of these events. It is an amazing balancing act, but she clearly is trying to ensure that her two fathers (for her Uncle Joseph is a second father for her) are not remembered for being men who suffered, but men who loved and had suffering also.

Perhaps another reason people loved it so much is because it seems so unreal. I think we, as readers (or viewers or listeners, etc.), have both the desire for the reality, but just as much desire for that reality to seem impossible. We still want our stories to have heroes and villains, and we want to both identify and disconnect with the people we read about. In Brother, I’m Dying, Danticat provides us with a family that, through all its tribulations, has an unwavering love for each other. There are few fights or harsh words between family members, and even when there are, such as between Edwidge’s aunt Denise and Marie Micheline, Denise and Joseph’s “adopted” daughter, the resolution is not only beautiful, but almost ethereal. This is a world that doesn’t discount magic, and it’s also a world that doesn’t discount the disbelief in some everyday occurrences. In the end, we want to believe that the Danticat family is this strong, cohesive unit, because it helps make the sadness deeper and the happiness grander. Whether it’s Mira reassuring his children even though he’s dying or Uncle Joseph believing he can talk the “dread” (head of the neighborhood gang in Haiti) into being reasonable, we are able to look past what these interactions should really be like.

Is that “real?” In a sense, yes. We are constantly reinterpreting events to make them suit our needs. Danticat is trying to tell us her story, keep her fathers’ memories alive, and make a political commentary about the two worlds she lives in. The truth, and how it applies to each of those things, is clearly subjective then. In turn, we provide our own subjectivity to the texts, in order to make them relevant to ourselves. We do this with fiction, too. Which brings me back to my original question: will we eventually view memoirs with the same disdain as reality television? Perhaps that’s a disingenuous question, though, because let’s face it: we tend to only disdain reality television in public. And even that is not universal. In essence, we want all of our stories to be “real,” whether they are fiction or nonfiction. It helps ground and transport us.