The memoirist does not remember just for the sake of remembering. They do not just go back in time. He or she dives to the bottom of the sea of the past and rises back to the present with the pearl of wisdom. In the words of Michael Fullan, Reflection transforms an event into an experience.
Many of the memoirs you read told the story of profound loss, tragic accidents, and extreme tales of survival, but memoirs do not have to come from dark and tragic experiences.
Carefully read the memoir below that was written by a student. It reflects upon two fishing trips from the writers youth. Not only should this memoir underscore the idea that memoirs can reflect upon the common, everyday experiences of life, but it also demonstrates many of the writing strategies addressed later in this unit.
An Example of a Memoir:
The Icebox
A MEMOIR
When I was a child, my family visited Prince Edward Island. It was the quintessential Canadian family road trip, complete with a stop in every town claiming to have the biggest something. We reached the East Coast and spent a few days exploring the admittedly limited range of sites offered by Canada’s smallest province. We visited the famous sand dunes which proved remarkably entertaining for an eight year old, and the Anne of Green Gables house which proved remarkably less entertaining. However, the experience that has stuck with me more than anything else over the subsequent years is a deep sea fishing trip.
As I stepped onto the rocking boat, the air filled with the salty smell of the ocean, it never occurred to me that this might be a life-changing experience. I guess you can never really anticipate when one is going to happen. But as people began to cast their lines and reel in fleshy fish, the truth of what this trip entailed began to dawn on me. In my excitement, it never occurred to me that we would be keeping the fish we caught. Somehow in my mind I had separated these fish from the fish you buy at the grocery store.
On the boat, they had a large, wooden box half filled with ice. To my horror, I watched as fish after fish – mackerel, dogfish, and even eel – were reeled in and tossed into the box, left to flop about, bewildered as to where all the water had gone. The thought that I could be directly responsible for the death of a living creature was horrifying. Without a thought, I set aside my fishing rod and began to cry in heavy, heaving sobs. My mother consoled me as everyone around us carried on, but for the next several hours, I watched in misery as dozens of helpless fish were pulled out of their watery existences and tossed with a thud into the ice box with the others. Their muscular bodies convulsed for a few violent moments before they lay still, slowly suffocating. I clung to my mother like an infant, at times hiding my face in her shoulder. I can still vividly recall the softness of her pink hoodie.
Why do people think this is fun, Mom?
Its natural, Luke. This is the way life is.
This is my earliest memory of being exposed to a harsh reality. To be clear, I have no moral opposition to the practice of killing animals for food. I see it as one of the laws of nature, and to this day, I will eat steak and savor it. However, in this moment of looking into the box of dying fish still gasping at our unbreathable air, I discovered a limitation in myself that is part of me to this day, no matter how deep I bury it beneath the persona I show to the world.
About five years after the incident with the fish in the icebox, I went on a trip to Georgian Bay with my father and some family friends. This lake has been nearly depleted of fish for several years, but we went out in pursuit of them anyways. I didn’t mind the notion at the time because the probability of catching something, let alone something large enough to actually eat, seemed very slim, and on some level I had convinced myself that I was beyond the stage of crying at the sight of dead fish. My self-knowledge was limited in those days.
This is going to be great, Luke! my dad exclaimed as he parked the truck. He had the kind of excitement I only heard when he was going fishing. You will love it, he assured me.
Sure, Dad.
Several hours went by with nothing but nibbles and the occasional tiny rock bass being pulled in and tossed back. By some cruel coincidence, the one large catch of the day was mine and as I reeled in a decent-sized pickerel, I had the sinking feeling that I wouldn’t like what was coming next.
The same sickness I had felt years ago on the boat returned, but I vowed not to show it. I was grown up now, in my mind at least, and that meant showing weakness in front of other people was no longer an option. With each jerk of the rod, I became more and more upset. When its body broke the surface, I felt as if I couldnt breathe. I shoved these feelings aside and posed for a picture, holding the dying pickerel dangling from my line.
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