Voice Lessons

I come from a long line of big talkers. Loudmouthed soapboxers, amateur advice givers, obnoxious critics, part-time preachers, stand-up comedians, and enthusiastic fabulists. My limited understanding of genetics and the limited resources available to me have not, as of yet, been able to account for the exact moment when the clearly dominant bigmouth gene defeated its demure, discretionary recessive sibling, but judging from how much everyone seems to know about my family (on all sides of my family) in spite of lacking physical evidence, I’'m inclined to think it predated the wheel.

Whatever the case, I like to imagine some apocryphal incident when some thickly bearded fellow in animal skins, or perhaps his cackling wimpled wench, effectively steamrolled over the tribal chieftain'’s opening remarks in favor of a hyperbolic, detail-rich anecdote about his father'’s sordid sexual secrets or the misadventures accompanying the five minute walk from mud hut to village green. For reasons unknown to me said talker was neither offered up as a ritual sacrifice to the God of Polite Conversation nor stoned to death and allowed to advance the logorrhea gene into the next generation.

As such, events in my family tend to feel like the International Competitive Filibuster Tournament, where words flow like Niagara and breathing can be a real disadvantage. There'’s no way to politely break up a trademark monologue (in fact, raising your hand will merely spurn the talker into either a reflection on his or her education or summon a sharp-edged screed on the merits of not being an asshole). You have to jump in with both feet, speak loudly, and make a compelling narrative. For if you are not able to win the listeners over to your story, you’ll only be met with shame and ignominy. If you have to ask a question, make sure you have cleared your schedule, relieved your bowels, and have received adequate rest. If you’'re lucky, the answer will be explained, analyzed, illustrated by personal and or historical example, disseminated, and ultimately deconstructed in the space of about an hour. Sometimes one question can go on for days. Beware the “"I was thinking a little more about what you said last night, and I realized I hadn’'t given you a full enough response."” If it comes to that, you are categorically fucked.

The upshot to all this is that lots of talking prohibits any hard filter. Given enough time, you can pretty much find out everything there is to know about my family. Traversing the murky path through poetic license, rumor, self-delusion, and plain old exaggeration can be perilous, but if you’re armed with a halfway decent bullshit detector, the road to capital T truth is reachable. I find it helpful to invite as many members of my family as possible to weigh in on an issue before contemplating relative veracity. When that fails, there are always friends, neighbors, co-workers, ex-lovers, sworn enemies, and Google.

Then there are the high risk stories—--those introduced with the “"Never tell a soul I'’ve said this to you”" or “"This is truly horrible, shocking, meaty stuff and it would kill your ___________ (father, mother, grandmother, aunt, best friend, dog, mayor, congressman, etc) if s/he ever knew that you knew" These stories ”will be held over your head like a brass ring. Any tale requiring such a grave disclaimer must truly be something special. The teller knows it, and therefore can string you along for days with a “"One day I will tell you this story. It will explain everything, but it will also appall your fragile sensibilities. You can’t handle it yet, but maybe one day the flower of your innocence will wither and you'’ll be armed with the kind of steely constitution necessary to hear what I need to tell you about your__________ (father, mother, grandparent, cousin, goldfish, fifth grade teacher, great uncle)”[1] " Usually, said storyteller will hold out on you for about three days, at which point their compulsion to narrate will sate your ravenous curiosity. There have only been a few times in my life when I’'ve been made to wait for the payoff, which usually comes quite out of nowhere and is preceded by “"You’re now old enough for me to tell you this.” " My heart flutters, the room silences but for my breathless anticipation and the clinking of ice in a tumbler of Scotch.

And the payoff? Not really the promised panacea, but usually a good, solid yarn, full of sex, violence, and occasionally death, populated by a roving cast of grotesques[2] (more Faulknerian than Dickensian, due to my geography), and (nine times out of tine) featuring a strong (if not completely heroic) female protagonist[3] Sometimes I am haunted by what I hear (one story in particular gives me the willies just thinking about it[4]), but I’'m not sorry to have heard it.

In my family, there is no such thing as too much information

Of course, the downside to all this is the lack of simple language. Storytelling is fundamentally self-indulgent. Instead of real advice, I get an illustrative anecdote or some psychoanalytic criticism. Oftentimes, the stories don'’t coalesce. How my mother got dumped by her college boyfriend and unofficial fiancé, though told eloquently, doesn'’t really relate to me feeling sorry for myself because I couldn't make any friends when I was fifteen. All the extra-linear grappling and philosophical reaching won'’t allow for a story about my father failing out of college because of his membership in a debauched fraternity to shed any light on why I suffered a bout of depression at age twenty-two. At best, the stories are a distraction; at worst, they’'re a needling reminder of how much less interesting and, by extension, less important, your reality is by comparison. My tales draw sighs and accusations of spotlight hogging and scenery chewing. My side of a conversation is treated to workshop style critiques and editorial scrutiny. My father accuses me of lacking sensitivity, vulnerability, and emotional candor, while my mother pans my heartfelt confession as the work of a drama queen.

I talk too fast, as a rule, sometimes with a shade of a stutter, trying to cram in all the details necessary before the inevitable sigh and bored stare. The are you still talking face. As a writer, I am a compulsive revisionist. As a talker, I am frantic, illogical first draft. Too loud. Too bold. Too much information. I just want to be heard over the clamor of other voices telling other stories. I want mine to be the one worth hearing.

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[1] This is, of course, hyperbole, but it adequately conveys the way I was prepped for tales of familial transgression when I was a child.

[2] Bootleggers, whores, madams, lovers off the carnival circuit, tramps, drunkards, bible beating murderers, slave drivers, cowboys, pirates, adventurers, gamblers, adulterers, traitors, lunatics, thieves, dirty politicians, addicts, witches, bitches, rogues, rakes, coal miners, and decadent aristocrats.

[3] Irregardless of the teller’s gender.

[4] You'’ll pardon my reticence at telling. It’s damn good material and it got dropped on my lap like proverbial Manna from heaven when I was about sixteen, and I'’m inclined to wait until I can do it justice.