Dear Memory

Every family has secrets, stories that—for whatever reason—resist being told. Sometimes the silence is willful and determined. But often, something more nuanced and imperceptible is going on. To borrow a line from the Céline Sciamma film Petite Maman, “Secrets aren't always things we try to hide; there's just no one to tell them to.”

Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief (Milkweed) by Victoria Chang is comprised of letters addressed to “Mother,” “Grandmother,” “Grandfather,” “Daughters,” “Sisters,” and “Father,” but also to “Teacher” and “Ford Motor Company” and a number of people referred to only by single letters: C, T, G, B, and Y. And a few letters addressed to “Silence” itself.

Interspersed with the letters are scraps of photos, hand-written notes, government documents. A scrapbook to cut through the silence. Chang’s poetic pursuit of memory is painful—but also, in important ways, instructive.

“Willing and summoning [memory] is like dragging a small unwilling dog toward a larger dog. When I drag, the dog looks italicized, muscles tight, tail down. Dragging a not-yet-ready memory, thought, or feeling toward language too early feels something like the dog. I can move it, but it will be difficult. More and more, I think writing is not a choice but an act of patience. An act of listening to silence, into silence.”