Stories of Self (Vol. 1)

Photograph taken in Edina, Minnesota by Bucky Miller.

Stories of Self is a(n approximately) monthly essay series by Scott F. Parker that explores the nature of the composed self through conversations with memoirists, theorists, artists, and possibly musicians.

Human Contact with Patricia Weaver Francisco

I was a sweaty mess when I arrived at Patricia Weaver Francisco’s house last summer to talk memoir. It was one of those drippy Midwest afternoons and I’d come about five miles by bike to the southwest corner of Minneapolis where she lives. Incidentally, my route began in Lowry Hill, right around the corner from where Patricia was raped three-plus decades before, the precipitating event of her book Telling: A Memoir of Rape and Recovery.

Standing on the sidewalk, trying to convince myself of a cool breeze, I had jotted down some notes about the basketball hoop on the garage, the tire swing under the front yard tree, and the Tibetan prayer flags hanging in an upstairs window when Patricia emerged from the front door. She invited me into the house and brought me a towel to dry off with while she poured two glasses of mint water from a chilled pitcher, the mint freshly picked from her backyard garden.

The year before I had been a student in a class Patricia taught on the Literary Memoir. It had made a big impact on me and many of the other students. When my friends and I reminisce about grad school, Patricia’s class is the one we recall with greatest fondness—in particular, the nurturing environment of her classroom.

The charge that might be leveled against Patricia’s particular kind of care is it indulges the student writer. But to make this charge is to mistake her positive regard toward the student for her assessment of the student’s writing. This is one of those places where memoir gets stickier than other genres. The gap between author and work is usually smaller than in fiction or poetry, so a compliment or criticism of the writing can more easily become a compliment or criticism of the person (not that it isn’t pretty damn easy in other genres, too). Memoir is personal, so of course it’s taken personally.

But keeping a distinction in mind does not deny the fact that author and work are closely related. Intimacy is one of the great strengths of memoir. It places the self (or aspects of the self) on the page for the reader to meet and, yes, judge. Do we trust this narrator? Do we like seeing through her eyes? Do we learn from her? Does she let us in? Memoir is a vulnerable form and memoirs that neglect vulnerability are...