{"id":137143,"date":"2019-06-11T09:00:23","date_gmt":"2019-06-11T13:00:23","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=137143"},"modified":"2019-06-11T10:15:42","modified_gmt":"2019-06-11T14:15:42","slug":"find-a-grave","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/06\/11\/find-a-grave\/","title":{"rendered":"The Anonymous Diary"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

I had her diary in the top left drawer of my desk, held together by the cutout bottom of a paper grocery sack. She\u2019d been eighty-six years old in 1968\u2014the first of the five full years she recorded. I didn\u2019t know her. I had her diary because the person who\u2019d previously possessed it passed away, and when their effects were sold at public auction, the diary\u2014discarded, unwanted\u2014ended up in my hands.<\/p>\n

I searched for her online in 2004 or 2005 or 2006. I may have searched again in 2007 or 2008 or 2009. I couldn\u2019t find her\u2014not even an obituary. I wanted to know more, but when I was not able to find it, I stopped wondering. This was a life not retrievable by search engine, I thought. There was something pleasing in that.<\/p>\n

The diary became something I took out often to look through, to read, to think about. It had none of the posturing I\u2019ve seen in other diaristic endeavors, none of the tortured self-evaluation. Instead, the diarist wrote about bodily dailiness: weather, meals, sleep, hobbies, housework. Fire whistle in night. Steady rain at 8. He brought us some mush to fry. <\/em>She wrote about the people she knew: their comings and goings, their physical and emotional states, their deaths. Maude ate good breakfast, oatmeal, poached eggs, little sausage. Maude ate her dinner pretty good. Had letter from Bertha she better and contented out there.<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

She wrote often of visiting the town\u2019s cemetery with her daughter. They tended the graves of family members or checked on their own headstones\u2014already bought, etched, and set in their plots. D. out to cemetery, her head stone is being put up. We went back out toward eve, stone looks very nice. <\/em>It seemed to me she accepted the inevitability of her death, the deaths of others, with an enviable stoicism. Many people die in the pages of her diary\u2014she made a separate list of the deaths that occurred between 1969 and 1972 and tucked it in the back\u2014yet she continued to engage with her life in a daily, present way. Sure pretty out. Sure grand out. D. making a new piecrust. All better.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>\"\"<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

I read about the people in her diary without knowing their histories, their relationships. Who was Janie? Mildred? Ruth? Of course the diarist does not explain\u2014why would she? This lack of narrative exposition excited me. The omissions created space, mystery. They felt profound, moving. I wanted to experiment with how an absence of information could create meaning. I began to view the diary as a formal challenge, a linguistic workbook. Over a period of ten years, I crafted my own text from it, published last week as Aug 9\u2014Fog<\/em>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The unknowing was central to my book: for fifteen years, the diary\u2014cryptic, riddle-like\u2014held my interest with its silences. But then, last year, before my book went into production, I tried one last search for the diarist. I needed to know whether she had any surviving relatives. If she did, I wanted to contact them. This time, one result came up in my browser: the diarist\u2019s full name linked to a page on a website called Find a Grave.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Members of the site\u2014called Gravers\u2014visit cemeteries and upload the photos they\u2019ve taken of individual tombstones. A page is created for each tombstone, where the name and the birth and death dates of the deceased are provided, as well as the name of the cemetery in which they are buried. The page functions as a digital grave site, where other Gravers may leave virtual flowers, ribbons, candles, stuffed animals, and messages.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It\u2019s not technically a genealogy site, but because families are often buried in close proximity, and because Find a Grave\u2019s format allows for adding links to the grave sites of spouses, siblings, children, and parents, partial family trees sometimes emerge.<\/p>\n

In my introduction to Aug 9\u2014Fog<\/em>, I write, \u201cThe diary has ceased to be an entirely unique, autonomous other to me. I don\u2019t picture her. I am her.\u201d This line portrayed the mindset in which my book was composed. My creation was possible because the essential mystery of the diary opened a space in which I could imagine an \u201cI\u201d who was other, but also myself\u2014otherwise known as the realm of fiction. My book would not exist without that space, without that leap of voice.<\/p>\n

When I clicked on the diarist\u2019s name, I was confronted with a photo of her gravestone, her birth date, her death date. Below that were links to the grave sites for the rest of her family. I recognized many of the names\u2014these were people I\u2019d read about for years without knowing their relationship to the woman who\u2019d written about them, but now they were arranged in a way I understood. Here was Lee, her brother. Here was Bayard, her sister\u2019s husband. Here was Bucky, her niece\u2019s son.<\/p>\n

I learned the diarist died four years after her diary ends\u2014three weeks before her ninety-sixth birthday.<\/p>\n

I learned her husband\u2014father of D., the daughter with whom she lived while writing the diary\u2014died two years into their marriage, a year after D. was born.<\/p>\n

I learned she married again, ten years later, and that her second husband died nine years after that from a condition now easily treatable with B12 shots.<\/p>\n

She was sixteen when her brother died, nineteen when her sister died, twenty-three when her first husband died, twenty-six when her father died, twenty-seven when another sister died, forty-three when her second husband died, fifty when her mother died, sixty-five when her last sister died, and ninety-five when her last brother died.<\/p>\n

I messaged one of the users who\u2019d helped create the diarist\u2019s page. She wrote back, and I\u2019ve been corresponding with her since. Her husband is a distant cousin to the diarist. She and some other relatives are genealogy hobbyists. I sent them the scan I\u2019d made of the diary\u2014almost four hundred pages long\u2014and, recently, copies of my book. They confirmed what I\u2019d been inclined to believe\u2014the diarist had only one child, a daughter, and because that daughter had no children of her own, the diarist\u2019s immediate family line ended when her daughter died in the late 1990s.<\/p>\n

As these revelations accumulated, and as the prospect of my book\u2019s publication became more concrete, a strange shift began to take place in my mind. I expect it\u2019s the case for most authors\u2014having labored in private so long\u2014to feel a sudden, disorienting distance from their creation as it becomes a tangible object in the world. But in my case this distance was doubled\u2014I felt more and more removed from the book I\u2019d made, but I also felt that its source\u2014the diary, its author\u2014was shape-shifting, becoming something other than what it had been in my mind.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve been struggling to write this essay for months. Recently I realized my resistance was coming in part from this: central to the story is a disappointment in its fulfillment. At any point in the fifteen years I\u2019ve owned the diary, I could\u2019ve visited the diarist\u2019s town\u2014she\u2019d written her address on the front page beneath her name, and it was less than an hour from where my parents lived\u2014but I hadn\u2019t. I didn\u2019t want to know where she\u2019d lived. I didn\u2019t want to look for her grave in the cemetery. Now, though, I\u2019ve seen it on my computer and\u2014on a cold, sunny day this past March\u2014in person. The project of Aug 9\u2014Fog <\/em>has always been about death, yet that didn\u2019t prepare me for the somber, sobering encounter with the diarist\u2019s mortality.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Photo: Mei-Ling Williams<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

The more that\u2019s revealed to me about her life, the less I feel this ownership, this kinship\u2014or maybe it\u2019s that I feel there are two diarists now: the private one I created and the real one with whom I am now confronted. As the real woman expands in detail, the private one shrinks. Presented with the stark, unequivocal details of the real woman\u2019s life and death, the private woman undergoes a death of her own.<\/p>\n

I am glad to have found the diarist\u2019s relatives, glad to be able to share the diary and Fog<\/em> with them. But the price of this is a puncture, a deflation of the reality\u2014or unreality\u2014I\u2019d made. It feels like an origin story in reverse: in finding the woman, I\u2019ve lost the woman. Face to face with a photo of the diarist\u2019s grave, I was forced to realize I was not, in fact, her<\/em>\u2014was not now, had never been. It had been me all along.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Kathryn<\/span>\u00a0Scanlan\u2019<\/span>s work has appeared in\u00a0<\/em>NOON,\u00a0<\/em>Fence,\u00a0<\/em>Granta, and\u00a0<\/em>Egress. Her book<\/em> Aug 9\u2014Fog was published by MCD x FSG.\u00a0Her debut collection of stories,\u00a0<\/em>The Dominant Animal, is forthcoming from FSG Originals in 2020. She lives in Los Angeles.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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