In Memory of Aunt G and Uncle H

I stole this from my friend Jay's website.

Jay and I have been having an email discussion lately about writing -- particularly, being honest in your work. For example, as I've mentioned before, I have a serious problem with items #2 and #8 on the list. A lot of this comes from the fact that one of my mom's favorite pastimes when I was a kid was reading my diary. And then punishing me for things she found written there.

I remember one occasion when Mom read the notebook my best friend Janna and I used to write messages back and forth. Basically it was a bunch of notes with hearts and flowers drawn on them talking about who we loved that day followed by more notes with tear drops and profane messages regarding that bastard who we loved and who consequently broke our hearts.

So. It was right after graduation and I was packing for my big senior trip to Panama City. Five of my friends and I were having a slumber party and then driving down to Florida for a two-week, fake ID sponsored Wine Cooler-A-Thon. After I put my bags in the car, I went back inside to tell Mom I was ready for her to take me to Sondra's house and I found her standing in my bedroom holding the notebook which she has just pulled from underneath the pile of shit under my bed where I had hidden it.

Mom: Is this how you talk outside of this house?
Me (knowing what she's talking about): What are you talking about?
Mom: I can not believe you write things down like this for just anyone to come across and read! What if something happened to you? Is this the kind of thing you want me to find after you've died? Do you know what that would do to me?
Me: Ummm.
Mom: You called someone a motherfuckingcocksuckingSONOFABITCH! AND YOU LEFT IT UNDER YOUR BED! WHAT IF WE WERE ALL KILLED IN A CAR WRECK AND AUNT G AND UNCLE H FOUND THIS? YOUR UNCLE H IS A PREACHER! IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT THEM TO THINK OF YOU?

Naturally, this stuck with me and because I did everything in my power to not be an embarrassment to my mother (unsuccessfully), I started editing all of my writing using thoughts of my Mom as my inner censor. Journals from that day forward no longer were filled with words. Instead I made up codes and symbols and cryptic messages so that, if one day my family were tragically killed en masse, the ghost of my mother would not have to suffer the shame of her sister, the preacher's wife, knowing that her daughter had a potty mouth.

Uncle H and Aunt G passed on a few years ago, but my inner censor has not. I worry about what people will think and about what reactions might come from people I choose to write about. So I asked Jay how to handle it.

I think you have to say, screw it, I'm just going to write what I'm going to write.