My maternal grandmother kept journals. It’s not unreasonable to expect these to be good sources for information, especially given what an outstanding writer she was. And I have so many questions I’m seeking answers to, especially about her childhood and young adulthood. I know she lost her parents within months of one another when she was 16. I know she did not move in with her older sister, who was married and living on a farm nearby. I know she was responsible for her younger brother, who was 10 at the time. And I know that at some point she was living at Coldwater State Home (aka Coldwater State School) which was a place for unwanted/orphaned/abandoned children. I have no idea if my great-uncle was with her. I don’t know if she was there as a ward of the state or as a young worker/nurse–her age puts her in a grey area when it comes to her role. Later she teaches at different schools, goes to college off and on, gets through the Great Depression, and more. It’s a lot. And she never, ever spoke of that. Of course, there are few historical records to corroborate anything she might have done, though I’ll head to Coldwater later this month to poke around the archives of their public library.
Back to the journals. They are intermittent and mostly cover years after 1950. Even though they were written long after the events I’m curious about, I’d hoped she would reflect on her memories. With the exception of a few precious insights that I’ll be examining elsewhere, what I’ve found is a meticulous record of daily tasks, weather, how my grandfather was feeling (she was obsessed with the idea that everyone she loved might die at any moment).
Cut away the boring filler and what struck me was the number of omissions and even lies. My grandmother was an unreliable narrator. Example: my mother suffered a serious trauma her freshman year in college that resulted in her hitch-hiking home and begging fruitlessly for help/comfort. That does not appear in the journals at all, just a mention that my mom might request a different dorm room. Although I absolutely believe my mom, as a researcher I have to admit that I have no witnesses or information to verify what really did happen that weekend when she said she was brutally turned away and silenced after something terrible had taken place. Next example: my grandmother records how my sister and I had a wonderful time with her, happily playing and visiting for a few days, when we stayed with her while my dad had surgery. But the thing is, I was there. I remember it. My sister remembers it. My mom remembers it. We were miserable. I cried non-stop, scared of being away from my mom and dad, terrified that my dad might die, unhappy around these people who seemed to do nothing but judge me on my manners, appearance, weight, the audacity of being barefoot in the front room. We were so unhappy that my mom drove four hours to pick us up early, brought us home, asked one of their friends to stay with us, and went right back to the hospital to be with my dad.
Methodology dilemma: What do I do with research when I know it’s not true? I find myself feeling more and more like I did when I was researching for my dissertation decades ago, not like someone learning about their own family. The skills I have to deploy are those of a literary scholar. Given the unreliable narrator, what can be learned? Bracket for a moment the possibility of an “answer.” Think instead of what the misinformation/obfuscation/omission means. What can I learn about my grandmother now that I know her own words are not accurate? Well, one thing I can look at is what she wanted to be true and what that represents. In her case, I have a hunch that her time as an “unwanted” child whose own sister wouldn’t take her in left her feeling like she had to constantly prove herself good enough to be part of a typical family. Problems with her daughter or granddaughter? Not at all!
The other thing one has to consider (as I run out of time for today) is the very core of journals as a genre. Some are indeed written only to be private–my own notebooks are a mix of poem drafts and thoughts never meant for an audience, and in fact I get rid of old ones. Others, like my grandmother’s, I expect, are written with the fear or hope of an audience peeking over the writer’s shoulder. She wasn’t being honest to begin with, not fully. She was writing herself into the life she thought she should have.
No answers, then, just moments of emotion and more confusion. Such is the unreliable narrator. I could really use a reliable one here and there.