With that being said, while the accountability of memory is diluted in the setting of a courtroom, this is apparent in other aspects of recollection as well. It should be determined that we must take all human recollection with a grain of salt because, well, we are all human too. It is impossible to ensure that every writer, (and especially every good writer), has the ability to embody 100% truthfulness to the Nth value in order to secure our own personal trust in the content of their writing that we value so near and dear to our hearts.
In the article “Nothing But The Truth? On Lying And Memoir-Writing”, Maddie Crum makes a similar argument. Crum argues that the memoir author owes the reader the desirable effects of understanding the author’s emotions in full at the time of the experience. In describing how exactly a memoir should resonate with the audience, Crum states that, “if a memoirist can achieve that — and if she must take a few liberties in truthfulness to get there — then she’s done something right” (2015).
As I share a similar point of view as Crum on the purpose of a memoir, I must insert an excerpt from one of my favorite memoirs, if not my absolute favorite.
Chelsea Handler will forever be one of my favorite comedians. From stand-up to her late night talk show, Chelsea Handler offers laugh out loud content through the most comedic personal stories of her childhood and young adulthood, highly emphasizing how ridiculous her family was. She writes with irreverent humor and sophisticated wit in every book she has published, attending to self-deprecating humor in her explanation of events.
Black Listed-- Chelsea Handler
I was nine years old and walking myself to school one morning when I heard the unfamiliar sound of a prepubescent boy calling my name. I had heard my name spoken out loud by males before, but it was most often by one of my brothers, my father, or a teacher, and it was usually followed up with a shot to the side of the head.
I turned around and spotted Jason Safirstein. Jason was an adorable fifth-grader with an amazing lower body who lived down the street from me.
I had never walked to school, had a conversation with, or even so much as made eye contact with Jason before. After lifting up one of my earmuffs to make sure I had heard him correctly, I nervously attempted to release my wedgie while waiting for him to catch up. (A futile effort, as it turned out, when wearing two mittens the size of car batteries.)
“I heard you were going to be in a movie with Goldie Hawn,” he said to me, out of breath.
Shit. I had worried something like this was going to happen. The day before, I had forgotten my language arts homework, and when the teacher singled me out in front of the entire class to find out where it was, I told her that I had been in three straight nights of meetings with Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell, negotiating my contract to play Goldie Hawn’s daughter in the sequel to Private Benjamin.
The fact that no sequel to Private Benjamin was in the works, or that a third-grader wouldn’t be negotiating her own contract with the star of the movie and her live-in lover, hadn’t dawned on me.
“Yeah, well, that was kind of a lie,” I mumbled, recovering my left mitten from in between my butt cheeks.
“What?” he asked, astounded. “You lied? Everyone has been talking about it. Everyone thinks it’s so cool.”
“Really?” I asked, quickly changing my tune, realizing the magnitude of what had happened. It occurred to me that this was the perfect opportunity to get some of the respect I believed had been denied me, due to my father dropping me off in front of the school in a 1967 banana yellow Yugo. It was 1984, and my father had no idea of or interest in how damaging his 1967 Yugo had been to my social status. He had driven me to school on a couple of really cold days, and even after I had pleaded with him to drop me off down the street, he was adamant about me not catching a cold.
“Dad,” I would tell him over and over again, “the weather has nothing to do with catching a cold. It has to do with your immune system. Please let me walk. Please!”
“Don’t be stupid,” he would tell me. “That’s child abuse.”
I wanted my father to know that child abuse was embarrassing your daughter on a regular basis with no clue at all as to the repercussions. Word had spread like wildfire throughout the school about what kind of car my father drove, and before I knew it, the older girls in fifth grade would follow me through the hallways calling me “poor” and “ugly.” After a couple of months they upped it from “ugly” to “a dog,” and would bark at me anytime they saw me in the hallway.
Our family certainly wasn’t poor, but we lived in a town where trust funds, sleepaway camps, and European vacations were abundant, along with Mercedes, Jaguars, and BMWs — a far cry from my world filled with flat tires, missing windshield wipers, and cars with perpetually lit CHECK ENGINE lights.
The idea that showing up at school in a piece of shit jalopy led to me looking like a dog didn’t make much sense in my mind. It really irked me that I had to be punished because my father thought he was a used car dealer and insisted on driving us around in the cars that he couldn’t sell. I wanted to tell my classmates that I didn’t like his cars either, and I certainly didn’t like being called a dog. I hadn’t had a low opinion of myself before then, but after being called the same nickname for six months straight, you start to look in the mirror and see resemblances between yourself and a German shepherd.
I would argue that this book has the potential to be transferred to a blog post, although I would not be in favor of the content serving only as blog entries, because I believe that may strip the reader of a more intense connection to the author.
I admire Handler’s work because her writing creates a strong sense of connection with the reader. “Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang”, and the rest of her memoirs, place the reader in her shoes and allow them to really feel like they know exactly what went on in her head in that instance. I read this book of Chelsea’s specifically during a hard time in my life. This book has taught me that when we find ourselves in very unpleasant and undesirable circumstances, it does not mean the time spent in these circumstances is time wasted. I learned as the reader that it is incredibly important to find the humor in every life experience, and if you can, you will keep your sanity. Making jokes about a negative experience you have had in your life, one that you lacked control over entirely, can ultimately be comforting and inspire those who share similar experiences to make light of their situation as well.
Considering the fact that Handler has another book titled, “Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me”, I can’t say that it would really shock me if some of these memories were extremely embellished. She has even stated in a book that, “my tendency to make up stories and lie compulsively for the sake of my own amusement takes up a good portion of my day and provides me with a peace of mind not easily attainable in this economic climate” (Handler, 2010). But, how could we blame the author? I don’t think only legitimate memories of, “I had coffee, egg whites, 1 piece of whole wheat toast, and 3 grapes for breakfast on the 5th of February” will sell a book. I believe there's a fine line between embellishment and flat out lies, and if I really enjoy a memoir and I support the author, I don’t feel deceived if I happen to be reading a few white lies in between the pages.
With that being said, if I had found out this memoir was not all fully true, I could care less. I think the message Handler has to offer is even more powerful than the individual stories themselves. I don’t think an author should be bound to writing strictly veracious content when
they have something to share. The distinction between perception and reality plays an important role in the process of writing a memoir in the first place, and who are we to determine someone else’s perceptions to be false?
https://nobaproject.com/modules/eyewitness-testimony-and-memory-biases#content
Nice review of Handler's memoir. I read the "Lies..." book but not the one you review. Will add to my list.
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