Post #7: We're All Stories in the End... 📖
Life stories as legacy, and how memoirs can grow our compassion and expand our concept of what's possible. Also: paid subscribers are invited to a Zoom Book Club on April 14th — with the author!
Hello, Friends!
Happy Easter to those who celebrate! (Paul and I are going to my parents’ on Sunday for ham & fam.) It’s been awhile! I hope you are all doing well and enjoying Spring so far… Duluth's version of "Spring" was a giant blizzard. So much snow this late in the year felt a little shocking, but if I'm honest, Duluth has ridiculous weather until early May pretty much every year… I guess I just always opt for selective memory loss!
Anyway, I’ve been thinking about writing this post for a long time. It's been knocking around inside my head and I think it’s finally ready. It’s about stories. About opening ourselves up to each other’s stories and about telling our own, with compassion.
Our Stories are What We'll Leave Behind
This essay came to be as I was processing a loss in our community. Last month, to the dismay of so many Duluthians, we lost a person who was much beloved in the music scene, Ben Larson. He passed away unexpectedly in his sleep, leaving behind his wonderful wife Sarah and their beautiful baby girl, Luella. It was truly heartbreaking. (If you feel led to do so, you can contribute to a GoFundMe set up to support them.)
I didn't know Ben very well. But I knew his music and we had many mutual friends. He was in a band called Southwire with my friend Jerree Small, who is very dear to me. And even though Southwire only released one album, their music really stuck with me. Their sound and their words stirred something in me that I still don't really understand, but impacted me greatly. I can't listen to their song Bell without crying.
Death is so hard. And it feels especially jarring, sad, and unfair when it’s unexpected. Even though we know we're all gonna die, it still almost always feels too soon when someone leaves us, doesn't it? Only twice, with my Great-Grandma Hjelm and my Grandpa Doty, did I witness death as something like a beautiful completion of a long, well-lived life. Everyone else who’s gone seems to have been wrested away too soon.
Anyway, even though I didn't know Ben very well, the news of his death still hit hard, and I decided to go to the funeral. For myself and for his wife Sarah and for my friend Jerree and for the Duluth music community. Funerals seem to be one of the last few sacred community rituals left in this day and age (I think we should build more rituals).
I am so glad I went, because it taught me so much. Ben's brother spoke first, and he gave us a glimpse of growing up with Ben, a young boy trying to find himself through baseball cards, Vanilla Ice, and through connection. The Ben I’d known from around town always had an intellectual, even set-apart persona, but apparently with family he was goofy, fun and said "I love you" often and he meant it. I was so happy to learn this about him, even though he'd already left us. He became a richer person in my mind.
Then Jerree got up and played "Bell", or her half of it. Her rich, beautiful voice and the chords on the grand piano soared through the air. The spaces where his spoken words should have gone were instead a heavy silence, but somehow still full of his presence.
After that, his best friend Sean Elmquist got up and gave what will likely be the most beautiful eulogy I will ever hear. Ben and Sean made music together on and off for two decades, including in Southwire. But their relationship went far deeper than music. Ben and Sean were, in the way you can be as lifelong best friends, truly soul mates. They became close in junior high, and Sean had this to share (with his permission):
Our friendship began at the end of 8th grade after play rehearsal. We were both cast in The Wizard of Oz. Ben was the cowardly lion- I was the tin man. I will never forget his debut performance. By the time Ben had finished his opening monologue- he had sweat completely through the fur suit my mom sewed for him and he was crappie flopping on the stage sobbing real tears. I stood there frozen. Which, luckily, the tin man does a lot. So began our long and fruitful career in show business. This would remain our dynamic on stage throughout.
Sean then took the time, care, and courage to walk us through his life with Ben. Through stories and reflections (some hilarious, others poignant) he showed us all the ways Ben mattered to him and shaped his life. Sean spoke with love, humor, honesty and compassion. His grief was raw and painful to witness, but the love behind his words (and in that room) was incredibly beautiful. He peeled back the curtain on a life that sometimes seemed mysterious or untouchable, but was really built around music, reflection, community, and a deep sense of integrity. Sean's words immortalized Ben for me, fleshed him out and connected me with his humanity. It was a generous gift.
Sharing Stories for a More Compassionate World
Even though I will never see Ben again on this earthly plane, thanks to the people that shared at his funeral, his stories are now seared onto my heart forever. That afternoon, we all experienced the holy, communal mystery of deeply listening to another's story.
Life stories shared transmute and take up residence in the DNA of the listener. Ben’s stories now have a place in my internal library… They rest alongside those of my relatives both living and gone, my friends, the people I’ve met on the road and through advocacy, and all the books that have ever touched me. Together, these stories quietly inform my own life. I reach for them when I am looking for guidance; I ponder them in the quiet moments. They remind me of just how complex and layered each person really is. They are testaments to just how many ways there are to be human. They are holy relics to me, a part of history and also a reminder to have compassion for all.
Whenever we put aside our own views for a moment and take in another person's life story, it helps us to see that each and every person has a depth and humanity and innate value that cannot be measured or seen on the surface. Every single life matters.
Ben’s funeral reminded me that — besides the love we share — the stories told by us and about us are all we'll leave behind. They are our legacy. One of my favorite quotes from Doctor Who is this: “We’re all stories in the end. Just make it a good one, eh?”
As you (probably?) know, I am writing a memoir right now. And until Ben’s funeral, I never thought of it as a time capsule to bring me to life again on the page, after I am gone. What would I want people to know so they can connect with my full humanity as a disabled artist, how can I show what matters to me, how can this help others?
Ever since the funeral, I’ve become even more interested in other people's stories. I started reading memoirs, like Being Heumann by Judy Heumann (a key Disability Rights activist who was a leader in the 504 Sit-In and ultimately helped to get The Americans with Disabilities Act passed). I also started Alice Wong's memoir, Year of the Tiger (Alice Wong is a contemporary activist in the Disability Justice movement and the founder of the Disability Visibility Project). I read Sure, I'll Join Your Cult by the comedian Maria Bamford, and I even dove into Ben Franklin's autobiography!
With every memoir and autobiography I read, I am being exposed to new ways of looking at the world. I am drawn into the author’s struggles and joys in a way that makes them so very flesh-and-blood human to me. Unlike academic books, a memoir doesn't allow you to reduce someone's humanity to rationalizations, philosophy, or abstractions. The author is putting you in their place, telling you what matters to them and why, in their own words. When Alice and Judy wrote their unique stories of how discrimination or inaccessibility has affected their lives, the moments live on the page; they are visceral. You feel their anger or embarrassment. You can't unlearn what you've absorbed through personal storytelling; it sticks with you. Memoirs are like music: they are powerful because the message sneaks in through the door of emotion.
Seeking Out All Kinds of Different Stories
Another thing I'm realizing about memoirs is they can help us to stay compassionate and curious about people whose lives are very different from our own. But in order for this to happen, we have to reach for these stories on purpose. In the age of social media and algorithmic recommendations, we have an endless supply of "content" to consume, but the nature of the algorithm keeps us very much "in our lane". The algorithms will choose things that entertain us, but maybe not challenge our thinking.
I can only speak for myself, but I believe I would benefit from reading more memoirs from people whose backgrounds are different from my own. For example, I know I need to learn more about climate change and racial justice, so reading a few good memoirs of climate change and racial justice activists would be a good place for me to start before jumping straight into academic or nonfiction books. Memoirs will tie me to the humanity of the issues so I can take in information that might be challenging.
What Stories Haven't Been Told Yet?
As I have already mentioned (and will continue to mention frequently), I am a big fan of the long-running sci-fi TV show, Doctor Who. The showrunner at the moment is Russell T. Davies, who considers himself a gay writer. He says he identifies this way, as a gay writer (rather than just a writer) because it is still such “unexplored territory creatively”. Writing gay characters is central to much of his work. In his own words:
“We’ve always been there, behind the scenes, making the sensible decisions, for thousands of years,” Russell T. Davies said of the LGBT community. “But as an ‘out’ society, we’re less than 50 years old really, and that’s nothing. There are things that we said, things that we felt, emotions in our hearts that have not been put on screen yet, or on the page, or into fiction.” (from a 2019 Interview in The Guardian )
I find this quote remarkable because it so closely mirrors the truth around disability and storytelling. Disabled people have not had the "cultural mic" for very long (do we even have it now, in the mainstream?) so surely there are stories that you haven't read yet about the disability experience… And these stories are so important for us to read! Society needs both disabled people and nondisabled people to learn about our history.
I’m sad to say, but it wasn’t until 2008 that I read my first book by a disabled author: Too Late to Die Young by Harriet McBryde Johnson. It totally opened my mind - I honestly hadn’t thought of my disability experience through the lens of Civil Rights or activism before then. In fact, I was so enamored with her book that I chose to write a paper about it during my senior year of college. I used my amateur sleuthing skills to find her phone number online and brazenly called her to ask her to do an interview.
While I can’t vouch for this cold-calling method, I was lucky in that she did indeed accept my invitation. I interviewed her for an hour for my paper, but looking back, she was really mentoring me, a brand new baby-activist. I looked up to her; I was in awe of her perseverance, her logic, her accomplishments, her kindness, and her views on life. She made me feel seen as a part of society. Sadly, she passed away just two months after our conversation. I’m forever grateful she took the time to write her memoir. Harriet reached a whole generation of disabled kids without disability role models.
When disabled authors’ books become part of our educational curriculum, when they're best-sellers, when everyone has read at least a few books by disabled authors, then my guess is we'll start seeing a shift in our culture. Accessibility will no longer be an afterthought, accommodations will be normalized, and the creativity, innovation and full humanity of the disability community will be celebrated and uplifted. Having a disability will no longer be seen as unnatural; it will be viewed as a form of diversity.
Join Me for The Creative Living Book Club on April 14th!
This brings me to my fun announcement part of this newsletter. Another book I read recently was Against Technoableism by Ashley Shew - it explores the pervasive logic in our society that disability is a "problem to be cured through tech" rather than a seeing it as a diverse way of existing. While many disabled people can benefit from certain tech advancements, we also benefit from prioritizing access, improving education and shifting cultural attitudes. Creating a more welcoming and accessible society is key.
It was an AMAZING, easy-to-understand book and the whole time all I could think was "I want everyone I know to read this book!" Sooo… I got in touch with the author, Ashley, and she said she would be willing to come chat about the book with YOU, my Substack paid subscribers, over Zoom on Sunday, April 14th… How amazing is that?!?
I so, so, so, SO encourage you to read her book (it's a quick read - short, educational, but also a bit of a memoir!) and then join us in the Zoom discussion. I’ll chat with her for about 20 minutes using prepared questions, then we'll open it up to a live Q&A / group chat. This will NOT be recorded or streamed for privacy purposes, so please know you can feel safe to ask honest questions and engage in an authentic dialogue. You can purchase Against Technoableism here, or download it on Kindle or Nook.
Get the Zoom link below and join us on April 14th!
Anyway, that’s it for now, my Friends… Thank you for reading, and thanks so much for your support! I hope to see you on April 14th on Zoom. In the meantime, I’d love to know some of your favorite memoirs! How have memoirs or family stories helped guide you? Have memoirs helped you to better embrace the diversity and complexity that is the human race? And have you ever written your own memoir? If so, do tell!
Sending love, light, and warm sunshine,
Gaelynn Lea
PLEASE NOTE: The Zoom event is for Paid Subscribers only... Subscribe here today: