You're a Heartbreaker...Dream Maker...and Proud of It? WWJD?

My girlfriends and I sat together at our lunch table and watched him smash his milk carton, splattering it everywhere. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, but my fifth-grade understanding was murky at best. What had I done that caused him to be so upset he didn’t care that others saw him crying so intensely? While I hadn’t yet experienced my own broken heart, I was only ten, after all, I knew I had broken his. But what could I do? I had to tell him I didn’t want to be his girlfriend. I mean, who “goes steady” in the fifth grade?

I still remember his name and have looked for him on Facebook. It is an original name, and I am curious. His dad worked for Disney. Sepp (told you it was original) invited me over to watch “Dumbo” and have dinner. Well, this was before VCRs, and NO ONE ever watched a full-length movie at home. But since his dad worked at Disney, he was able to get access to a Disney film. He set up the reel-to-reel projector in the living room. His mom was Asian, and his dad Caucasian in a world where I had heard mixed-race couples were not “good for the children.” Their family was mysterious to me, and I felt like and probably was the honored guest. I knew it was a huge deal that I was one the one Sepp had invited. Why they didn’t include others from the class, I don’t know. It’s a little weird they helped him, an only child, have a date in the fifth grade.

Even now, I can feel the desire to write about this experience with the pride I felt being chosen. When I look back over my childhood and young adult themes, I tilt my head a little at all the ways I was a serious student and felt different from my peers. But the one place I did feel free and authentic was with the boys. The boys always liked me, and oh, how I liked the boys. Sepp was only the first heart I broke.

I’m not sure it’s healthy that I can still list all my crushes starting in first grade by their first names.

Somewhere in the eighth grade, I started writing the names and dates of whoever I kissed on the inside of my closet door. It’s a long list. Many in the record got a star for the verra special interactions. When my kids were young, my mom once showed them that list. I was horrified. It is not an innocent list, but thankfully, my children - I think - were too young to have much context. Side note: I wonder if it’s still there?

When I think about writing down my childhood stories, I always think about two areas I could write about with relative ease because there are so many memories. I could write about the role of religion in my growing up, or the part boys played in my life. I have so many stories about my experiences with boys, and of some of them, I’m somewhat proud!

One of the hardest parts of writing memoir is being able to tell stories that don’t just reveal the part of our lives we want to puff up and display — writing about what has indeed happened to us without depth and self-awareness leaves the reader feeling like a voyeur. It’s like they’ve been able to peek behind our curtains, and we’ve teased them by leaving those curtains see-through. Does that make sense?

The memoir I’m studying this week, having read it before, is “Small Fry” by Lisa Brennan-Jobs. Lisa was the illegitimate (is that a word we still use?) and a long time unacknowledged daughter of Steve Jobs. Readers criticized her memoir for being self-indulgent. But in one of her interviews, I heard her share that when she shared a first draft with an agent, the feedback she got was, “I can’t quite locate you in this story.” In other words, Lisa had to write her story, both in life and on the page, under the shadow of one of the most famous people in the world. I can’t help but wonder if what others have thought smacked of self-indulgence was just her attempt and fight to be able to try and tell her story despite that shadow.

I have compassion for the wrestling those of us who write our stories go through. To learn to write our stories without trumpeting them is not easy. To write our stories and not hide them isn’t at all easy either. But something still calls many of us to try.

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Once upon a time, a very young Jenny learned that flirting felt very natural to her.

And every day, she practiced doing what the boys liked.

Then one day, she told Jesus she wouldn’t do any of those things anymore.

(These are the parts of the Story Spine that give your stories a beginning).

Because of that, Jenny wanted to get married as soon as possible because that was where Jesus said she could have sex.

Because of that, Jenny was very strict with herself and afraid she would sin against God.

Because of that, she…see, being honest in black-n-white is not at all easy. Because of that, she ignored the questions that came up for her about her choice of marriage partner.

(These are the parts of The Story Spine that give your stories a middle.)

Until finally, she couldn’t ignore the questions, especially after she found ex-boyfriends on Facebook.

And ever since then, Jenny worries about and wants to speak out against purity culture and its teachings in the American evangelical church.

(These are the parts of the Story Spine that give your stories an ending.)

Writing and telling our stories is not at all easy. It’s hard to tell a story that isn’t self-indulgent but healing. It takes so much work to be honest with ourselves about our motivation and reasons. AND, for some of us, we continue to feel compelled to tell them.

Last but not least, if any of you know a Sepp Diefenbach out there, I’d love to buy him a half-pint of milk.