that's when i knew. page thirty-two. sure, the book is on one of the subjects that, since almost 14 months ago, hold my attention immediately, but the pages preceding were about *what happened* (and isn't that always the same story over and over). when i read those words, i knew this book would be different.
actually, i'm lying. the title. "an exact replica of a figment of my imagination." brilliant. isn't that exactly what we're all writing about? i've lived in this strange space of be-ing; i've questioned my own reality; i've questioned who and what p@ige was...beyond a figment of my imagination. real? ghost? IS someone real if no one's ever seen them except you? IS someone real if they never lived? the exact replica of the figment of my imagination- what i still, and will probably always, struggle to express in words. the reason why i still post on this blog is, undoubtedly, that deadbaby moms don't need exact replicas, they have their own to reference.
everyone else, on the other hand...it's what brings us all to our knees. what do we say? do we tell the small-talking stranger? how? what? when? what the fuck? Elizabeth McCracken talks about her book as a calling card, like the "I AM DEAF" cards we get handed on the train or busy sidewalk. jesus, do i wish that was acceptable. can you imagine just handing out a card that said "my baby girl was stillborn on her due date, 9.9.07"? ah, we are freaks...because that sounds really good to me. REALLY good. i think i was feeling something like this when i got both my arms tattooed; i am now a freak on the outside. marginalized. i am not like you. in fact, FUCK YOU AND YOUR SUCCESSFUL REPRODUCTIVE LIFE. on second thought, that's what i'd like my card to say.
to be honest, when she got to the parts about her alive baby after, i didn't like it. for obvious reasons, no? but she somehow made me keep reading (when i otherwise would have closed the book forever) by intertwining the deadbaby story in and out the whole time. there were times i had to stop and figure out which baby she was referring to, and then read the last few sentences over with new perspective. that was interesting, and revealing; all my children are intertwined, my feelings, guilt, love, frustration...it's all relative. my experience as a mother of the alive and dead is not mutually exclusive.
"An Exact Replica of a Figment of my Imagination" by Elizabeth McCracken. it's a memoir by a woman whose first son was stillborn. what can i say? she had me at "fucking angel."
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4 comments:
One of the many great lines in that book. F.u.cking angel, indeed.
I see myself giving this book to all the @ssholes in my life. I just think it was that good, because, like you say, it is us. It's what we've been doing here. And I just want so desperately to have that understanding from everybody, anybody IRL.
XO.
me too.
I also tiptoed through the parts about her subsequent child, like you -- for obvious reasons -- but understood perfectly that the future did not mitigate or erase the past. Which is a lesson I guess I could stand to be beaten over the head with.
Only a db mom could ever 'get' using a phrase like fucking angel in reference to a dead baby or the experience of it.
I've gotta get that book.
I agree with you. It's a good book. I think I agree with C., it would make an awesome Christmas gift for all of those in my life who just don't get it!
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