Whose Story is it Okay To Tell?

I stumbled on Keenan's Very Good Blog via a Mastodon repost about their podcast, and then I read their post titled "I've missed Sam for a long time (or: Pick Your Battles)" while I sipped my coffee on the couch this morning.

In the post they tells stories of their cousin Sam and the ways their lives intersected as they grew up, moved apart, played video games, navigating complex family relationships, and loss.

I found myself identifying with parts of Keenan's story, particularly how the story opens with Keenan moving away from Sam:

As a small child, I didn't know how to conceptualize the distance between Elburn, Illinois and Tempe, Arizona. I knew that it was far enough that they may as well have moved to a completely different planet. I knew that my cousin—my favorite cousin—would no longer be a part of my life in the same way he had until then. It was my first experience with loss, and it was devastating

My own parents moved our family from Winnipeg, Manitoba, where I was born, to come to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, for a job coaching the men's volleyball team my dad was starting at the University of Saskatchewan. It was the summer before I started grade 1, and I remember thinking I'd just lost my entire world. My entire extended family lived in and around Winnipeg. My cousin Russ, who was the same age as me, lived in Winnipeg. We couldn't know each other anymore if I didn't also live in Winnipeg anymore? It's interesting to me how the life I had for the first 7 years of my life still feels as meaningful as the 40+ years since, and speaks to the power of childhood experiences and memories to imprint on us for the rest of our life.

Later in their post, Keenan writes about their aunt and uncle, Sam's parents:

Both of his parents were, honestly, deeply unpleasant people to be around. They specialized in mean-spirited ribbing, going out of their way to question, criticize, and mock people. For their opinions, their looks, or their beliefs, it didn't matter. If it could be picked apart, it was fair game. And they were, of course, quick to take offense if anyone pushed back against their mockery in any way, lamenting the fragility of those they picked on. Even if the people they bullied were literal children, like I was in the vast majority of my interactions with them. "You're so sensitive, learn to take a joke" distilled into human form. You know the type—the people who compensate for their overwhelming mediocrity by doubling-down on condescension. Who dig their heels so deeply into the ground at even the slightest whiff of dissent. People so thoroughly convinced of their own infallibility, that anyone poking holes into the veil should be met with vicious contempt. If it was possible to chisel and polish arrogance, my aunt and uncle could produce the statue of David out of it.

I felt conflicting emotions as I read paragraphs like this in Keenan's post: I was shocked how adults could treat a kid that way, particularly their own family. I also felt uncomfortable at catching a glimpse of my own extended family and myself in being quick to take offense if anyone pushed back on questioning or criticizing others—to be clear: not the bullying of children.

They're Allowed to Say That? Out Loud? On the Internet!?

Now some 600 words into this post, I finally get to the purpose of writing it. The other emotion I felt was: How can Keenan share so openly about the bad stuff that went on with family and friends? Not that I'm judging them for writing about it, but I've often wondered how bloggers and podcasters navigate telling stories of their own past that include not only the amazing, cool things that have happened, but also the dark things that exist in every family's closest. It's not that I don't know how to put the words on the internet, but how do you write it and not then deal with months or years of backlash or anger from the family or friends involved in the story you shared? Even just slipping in a vague reference to my own family in the previous paragraph has me hovering over the sentence, tempted to delete it.

One starting point I suppose is for me to think about how would I feel if one of my siblings, parents, or my children started writing or talking more publicly—blog, Instagram Stories, podcast episodes, etc.—about their experiences and included things I had done or said? Obviously if it was flattering or positive, it's a pretty easy thing to be ok with. But if they talked about how I'd hurt someone with my words or actions? Highlighted me at a low or my worst moments?

I try to value authenticity as well as vulnerability. And if I'm going to encourage that in those around me, it's going to be messy sometimes. I'd like to think that if someone did write something I'd take the time to listen, process, and understand where they're coming from and what I did or said that caused them to feel that way. I'd like to think that I'd respond graciously, even if there were inaccuracies in their experiences.

"I'd like to think that..." is doing a lot of heavy lifting there.

But I know based on how I treat my own family, that my first response would be a defensive one. My "...but if you just understood my intentions, you'd see why..." nerve gets hit so easily that I don't even see it happening until it's way too late and we're 20 minutes in to an argument about my intentions even if my words or actions were so very different than what I'm declaring my intentions were. All while completely trampling on how the other person actually felt because of my words or actions, regardless of my intentions.

Reflecting on the Past Instead of Writing the Present

Going back to Keenan's post, I appreciate how much of themself is in the story they tells of their cousin Sam. They write about how their thoughts, emotions, and physical body respond to the things happening with their family. And they're able to do that well because time has passed:

And then he finished his voicemail with a simple: “I just want to make sure you know that I love you, man.”

I love you, man. Those words echo in my skull, relentless reverberations of a disembodied voice whose exact frequency I can conjure up at a moment's notice.

No matter how much time has passed, I can hear him say it. It means so much because I know he meant it.

The seething ceases. I'm back in my body. I call my aunt on the phone. She apologizes. I apologize for losing my cool. We make amends.

And that's perhaps the biggest lesson I need to learn about sharing stories from my life that involve others: It can be dangerous to share about something happening right now. An ongoing conflict or hurtful interaction. That's probably best left for personal journals, therapy sessions, and direct conversations with the people involved.

But when time has passed to the point that I can look back on experiences with the humility and awareness to the point that I don't get dragged down into the full depth of emotions the experience gave me at the time, maybe it's ok to write about? With the knowledge that it's still important to share from my perspective.

I'm left reminiscing about all of the ways this ghost helped shape me into who I am today, and how much I wish I could tell him, one last time, how much he meant to me.

I miss Sam.