The books pile around me, on the floor, propped open in organized structures to the pages I cannot highlight because I borrowed them from the library. The post-it notes correspond to the library I borrowed the books from, and the number on the ends indicate which interview their marked information corresponds to. My desk is covered in papers, notes, transcriptions.
"Are you going to clean this up?" my mother asks from the doorway. I look up at her with the most exasperated look in my repertoire, though not particularly exasperated about anything in particular. She glanced away from my expression. "Is this for your book?"
"Yeah," I admit. "I don't think Salieu has any idea how much work is actually going into this. And I wonder sometimes why I agreed to write a book about the Sierra Leone Civil War. You know, Festus is from Sierra Leone as well, and when I asked him to tell me what the Civil War was about, he waved it off and said he wasn't there, that it was over so there is nothing to tell."
"I don't know who Festus is" my mother replies in her pleasant voice, which means that she has lost interest in the subject. She wanders from my doorway, leaving me to the endless pile of research surrounding me.
When I gave Salieu the initial interview questions for him to prepare for the interview, he had been surprised at my preparation. "These are good questions" he observed with a smile.
"Well, it's an initial interview. They're vague. When we actually sit down to do the interview, I'll proabably deviate a little, or maybe ask more questions to clarify or make a comment to note for more research." I wasn't in a hurry to do the interview, so much as I didn't want to make Salieu uncomfortable if he wasn't fully aware of what I thought I had agreed to do. The look on his face when he pondered the questions again on the other side of the room told me that was exactly the case. Even though he had asked me to write his story, even though I had told him I was intending on doing a good job, the actual craft of writing had never presented itself to his thoughts. He thought he would dictate the story and I would simply write it down, make it a little coherent. Now he knew it was clearly something different.
I copy the reference to the quote I had found onto a makeshift bibliography I keep on pink paper, not to be confused with my notes and thoughts on the composition and theme of the story I keep on the yellow legal paper, or the notes on Sierra Leone culture I keep on white paper (in an ongoing outline format).
I'm afraid that though I have given all the rights to Turay to veto as he sees fit, he still will think that I have stolen his story. Every bit of it is his story. It is his name, his birthday, his family, his life that I'm telling. It is his culture, his heart, his soul. And yet it is my time and my education that is at stake. My name will be in the author slot and his will be in the title. Not willing to rescind the request, I see him hesitate as he realizes that even though it is his story, he has no idea how to tell it, or who he is talking to. He does not know why his story is being told.
"It's not about the money" I admit to DJ as he later peers over my shoulder at the pages and pages of notes. "It's about what Turay is trying to say."
"What is Turay trying to say?" DJ asks, his curiosity and confusion caught on his face.
"I don't think he knows quite yet" I answer with a sigh.
"So how will you know what to write?" DJ continues picking up one of the books that I had pushed aside into the ambiguous ready-to-return pile growing by the door.
"I'm going to write what I think he is trying to say, and he's going to say yes or no."
"So you're guessing what Turay is thinking?"
"No" I say with a dark expression of embarrassment. "I'm telling him what to think."
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Someone Else's Story
The thing about Salieu Turay is that he is a complete mystery, just waiting to be cracked open. Some people are open books, who have their entire life story written on the front of their t-shirt, white on black with some odd graphic in the middle. Some are a little more conservative than others. But the good stories, the ones that you really want to hear, are sometimes the ones that cost and arm and a leg to acquire and after that it becomes an very high-level security-invitation-only affair.
On the one hand, Turay claimed his story with a bullet to the head, which happens to be a price that most people aren't asked to pay. In all senses of reality, he has every right to keep his story as personal as he chooses. Yet I've discovered at the cost of my pen, he will gladly sell you pieces of his story for about $15 a piece--$25 if you want it in hard cover.
When Turay suggested teaming up to write his story over a game of checkers, which he won, I was taken back. It had taken me weeks for him to tell me what he had so far, and it was clearly something he wasn't going to express lightly. Why in the world would he let himself become subject to that?
"We'd make so much money--I'll make sure to show you what's going to sell it" he says, glancing around to see who was paying attention. Other than the people watching the checkers game itself, no one had heard, and those observers were less interested in our conversation and more interested in Turay's nonchalant style of draughts. ("That's what you call brutality" said Festus as Turay cleared five pieces from the board, a move that had also given him a king early in the game.)
Ah, I sensed, that was it. I was going to write what he had to say, which may be something, and it may be nothing at all. As I thought about the project I had agreed to I realized that while his goal was to make some money, he certainly wasn't about to let just anyone learn what he had learned without them also taking a bullet to the head. I shook my head, knowing that while they story may be a prime opportunity to make some money, the real reason for telling the story would remain a mystery. If Turay ever let me tell his story, I could win a Pulitzer Prize. But that's thing about telling other people's stories--it's not yours to tell.
On the one hand, Turay claimed his story with a bullet to the head, which happens to be a price that most people aren't asked to pay. In all senses of reality, he has every right to keep his story as personal as he chooses. Yet I've discovered at the cost of my pen, he will gladly sell you pieces of his story for about $15 a piece--$25 if you want it in hard cover.
When Turay suggested teaming up to write his story over a game of checkers, which he won, I was taken back. It had taken me weeks for him to tell me what he had so far, and it was clearly something he wasn't going to express lightly. Why in the world would he let himself become subject to that?
"We'd make so much money--I'll make sure to show you what's going to sell it" he says, glancing around to see who was paying attention. Other than the people watching the checkers game itself, no one had heard, and those observers were less interested in our conversation and more interested in Turay's nonchalant style of draughts. ("That's what you call brutality" said Festus as Turay cleared five pieces from the board, a move that had also given him a king early in the game.)
Ah, I sensed, that was it. I was going to write what he had to say, which may be something, and it may be nothing at all. As I thought about the project I had agreed to I realized that while his goal was to make some money, he certainly wasn't about to let just anyone learn what he had learned without them also taking a bullet to the head. I shook my head, knowing that while they story may be a prime opportunity to make some money, the real reason for telling the story would remain a mystery. If Turay ever let me tell his story, I could win a Pulitzer Prize. But that's thing about telling other people's stories--it's not yours to tell.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
DJ, Play That Girl a Love Song
One night, I said to him, "John, we need a song." We were getting married then.
"Ok, choose a song," he says. So I did. I chose a song but then it wasn't the song that we danced to the first time he asked me to dance. I wondered, why did he tell me to pick a song if he was going to choose one all on his own?
"Baby, we need a new song" I told him.
"Ok, pick a song" he tells me. So I did, but that wasn't the song he sang to me the first time he tried to serenade me. I wondered, why did he tell me to pick a song if he was going to chose one all on his own?
Sometimes he agrees with me, even though he knows I'm wrong. I wonder why he does that. Then he kisses me and laughs when I figure out, and I wonder if he thinks it's cute.
"Did you choose a song yet?" he asks me, and I frown.
"I can't" I said.
"Why?"
"Because you already chose our song" I said.
"I did?" He asks, confused.
I opened my phone to the first text he ever sent me, before we danced, before he sang, where in it's glorious black and white it said, "Have I told you lately that I love you?"
"Ok, choose a song," he says. So I did. I chose a song but then it wasn't the song that we danced to the first time he asked me to dance. I wondered, why did he tell me to pick a song if he was going to choose one all on his own?
"Baby, we need a new song" I told him.
"Ok, pick a song" he tells me. So I did, but that wasn't the song he sang to me the first time he tried to serenade me. I wondered, why did he tell me to pick a song if he was going to chose one all on his own?
Sometimes he agrees with me, even though he knows I'm wrong. I wonder why he does that. Then he kisses me and laughs when I figure out, and I wonder if he thinks it's cute.
"Did you choose a song yet?" he asks me, and I frown.
"I can't" I said.
"Why?"
"Because you already chose our song" I said.
"I did?" He asks, confused.
I opened my phone to the first text he ever sent me, before we danced, before he sang, where in it's glorious black and white it said, "Have I told you lately that I love you?"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
