Meg Remy - Begin By Telling

first edition

Copyright 2021 by Meg Remy

all rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

library and archives canada cataloguing in publication

Title: Begin by telling / Meg Remy ; illustrated by Logan T. Sibrel.
Names: Remy, Meg, 1985- author. | Sibrel, Logan T., illustrator.
Series: Essais (Toronto, Ont.) ; no. 11.
Description: First edition. | Series statement: Essais series ; no. 11 | Includes bibliographical references.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 2021010418X | Canadiana (ebook) 20210104384 ISBN 9781771666633 (softcover) | ISBN 9781771666640 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781771666657 (PDF) | ISBN 9781771666664 (Kindle)
Subjects: LCSH: Remy, Meg, 1985- | LCSH: MusiciansUnited StatesBiography. | LCSH: Women musiciansUnited StatesBiography. | LCGFT: Autobiographies.
Classification: LCC ML420.R346 A3 2021 | DDC 782.42164092dc23

The production of this book was made possible through the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. Book*hug Press also acknowledges the support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Book Fund.

Book*hug Press acknowledges that the land on which we operate is the traditional territory of many nations, including the Mississaugas of the Credit, the Anishnabeg, the Chippewa, the Haudenosaunee, and the Wendat peoples. We recognize the enduring presence of many diverse First Nations, Inuit, and Mtis peoples and are grateful for the opportunity to meet and work on this territory.

I tell what I have seen and what I believe;
and whoever shall say that I have not seen what I have seen,
I now tear off his head.
Antonin Artaud

An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation
is normal behavior.
Viktor Frankl

Sesame Street is on top of me. Its resting against my face. What I thought was squishable proves to be flat and staticky when touched. Im an age that feels too fresh for a memorysomeone still changes my diapersbut the TV has fallen on me. The impact is profound. Though I suffer no physical injury, I can never forget what I saw. The TV screen is made up of tiny shapes and lines working in tandem to create The Big Picture, like staring at the dog in the yard through the screen door.

I dont know if Babysitter Mom told Birth Mom the TV fell on me (its not really important, seeing as I barely bother to differentiate; together they form a resounding singular MOM). It helps me to believe I got myself out from under the TV.

The funny figures I see on the screen I see on the floor because Im falling asleep on top of a Sesame Street sheet at Grandma and Grandpas. Music that sounds wobbly (crooners, I now know) is playing low on the bedside radio. Grandmas solution when you miss Mom is to put her framed high school portrait and a flashlight down next to you (the sweetness of this gesture still nourishing). I can understand Grandma is Moms mom.

I watch people party in a strange way on top of a graffiti-slathered wall. The Wall looks larger than life-size on our big screen. Men whove been drinking lots of beer are hitting, kind of dancing, on The Wall with hammers and fists and feet. Dad on this side of the screen is acting proud and responsible: Imagine if you went to the store and there was only one type of bread you could buy or one type of shoe. Choices!

Wind of Change by Scorpions is the audio that gets fused to this memory. Maybe Wind of Choice would have been a better title? Both titles make me think Farts. What is Berlin?

On the same big screen, we watch Pink Floyds The Wall. Is this the same The Wall?

When a brick of The Wall, not sure which The Wall, shows up at our house, out of place as a moon rock, Im stuck somewhere just beyond my grasp of history and memorabilia.

Our chunk of The Wall gets used as a paperweight.

Brother is in the hospital, gone totally pale grey but red around the eyes. There is a small TV floating heavy in the corner of the windowless (was it windowless?) room. It is showing the grand finale of what is clearly the most important fireworks display of all time, Dessert Storm! I see piles of candy and sundaes laced with razor blades, thunderheads of whipped cream, and a general with so many toys that his name is General FAO Schwarz.

No, no, no. Its Desert Storm, one s.
OR
Choices! Operation Desert Shield, the Gulf War, Persian Gulf War, the First Gulf War, Gulf War I, First Iraq War, Kuwait War.
OR
A triple series of Topps playing cards, exactly like the sports cards boys have binders full of.

Series 1 Coalition for Peace
Series 2 Victory Series
Series 3 Homecoming Edition

The newspaper issued a large map complete with flagsand the instruction to Flag the Movement of the Allied Forces from Day to Day, as if the affair were a game.
Janet Frame

Finally, memorabilia I can understand. I shuffle through them like theyre part of some memory matching game. Daddys Home, Carpet Bombing, Stopping the Oils Flow

Vacation in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, with the same family we always take these kinds of trips with, because the children line up in age and we get along. The daughter-in-my-age-slot and me play mini-golf, feet away from our family suites. My turn to putt again. I decide to wind up like a pro and really whack the ball. It flies over or through a row of hedges into what we know on the other side is The Main Drag. No big thing. We have retrieved balls, kicked balls, racked balls, caught balls, dodged balls, served balls, teed up balls, inflated balls our whole life. We are old enough to do this.

We cross to the other side of the hedge and I spot the one that got away. (I believe I look both ways.) I start out across the multilane blacktop but dont get far. Something flashes out of the corner of left eye. Body puts hands up just in time for the loudest sound Ive ever felt. Im fly---ing through the air, suddenly silent and magical. Now Im skid-d-d-ing, exposed flesh kissing and rubbing asphalt as sound returns.

People I dont know gather above me. Im-a-nurse takes off her shirt to reveal a sports bra. Dont move an inchhit by a van. Someone is screaming. Its just my friend, shes fine, always trying to make it about her. The sun is beating down on the scene. Cold sweat mixing with my blood, now peppered with little street rocks. I can feel when Mom is notified. I can hear her fear-footsteps landing one after the other, getting closer to what her new reality could be. When the paramedics arrive, I accept this fate. I am put on a stiff board with a neck brace and I am taken to a hospital in my bathing suit.

Mom and I take a cab back from the hospital to the hotel. I get out sore, shoeless, and road-rashed, but really actually fine, physically. People on a balcony somewhere are applauding the miracle. I know that if people are applauding me, Dad will be calling. I dont feel like explaining. I want to disappear into something larger than anything having to do with me. I will never hear the end of this. Theyll all say I got hit chasing a ball like a dog. Your story in the wrong hands can be such a cruel poker.