Leaving Stuff Out

I recently finished a book called “Funny in Farsi,” a collection of essays documenting, in sometimes poignant and often hysterical fashion, the author’s experience growing up “Iray-nian” in America. As usual, I read Firoozeh Dumas’ book with myself in mind. My book. My writing. My life. At first, I was thrilled with the book. I thought, “Short chapters! I can write short chapters! My book will be done in a week!” I learned a lot. I learned that “Eh ran” is preferable to “I ran,” or even, “I ran and ran and ran...” (yes, hunh Sarah Palin! You did too say it wrong during the debate last night!) But then I got to the end, where Firoozeh Dumas talks about what she wrote. And what she didn’t.

Her words are, to this wishful memoirist, a lesson in omissions. Of course, there are authors who thrive on omissions, who have written whole story collections riddled with complicated eccentric characters who stand in a pale space, or a cottage in a vacuum, whose lives are full and blank at the same time. You know who you are Amy Hempel, and I worship every blessed word you leave out. I even worship Lorrie Moore, who leaves a little bit less out, because she makes me laugh harder. Moore and Hempel’s omissions conspire to form air holes - tiny spots in their stories into which we fall, or peer so hard it hurts. These are literary tricks of the highest, most enviable order, if you ask me. But Dumas wasn’t playing tricks in her memoir.

Dumas’ omissions are different. There are just some things that she decided not to tell us, because she thought saying “she had a pimple on her left cheek that reminded me of Vesuvius” out loud might hurt somebody’s feelings. She said during her interview that she aimed to be funny without causing pain. I read that sentence twice. First, for meaning, and second ... for meaning. I mean. Even Dumas admits that her in-laws don’t talk to her any more. Not since that bit about how mean they were to her hit the press and sold 5 million copies. (I think, actually, it’s because she told on her sister-in-law, who crawled along the floor at their wedding collecting fake Iranian coins because she didn’t know they were fake, but maybe it was something else).

Following Firoozeh’s lead, I would have to chop out several chapters of my mostly unwritten memoir. And as for the piece I was writing yesterday, about how my sister and I thought it would be kind of handy if our husbands had batteries that we could remove at will, I bet that would have to go, too. Which is a shame, because it’s really a thoughtful piece, when it comes down to it. . . After all, mine is a particularly scientific and nuanced kind of sister, so she considered alternatives to out-right removal. She reflected on the specific benefits of allowing her husband’s batteries to simply run down. This could be achieved in a passive, vaguely negligent way. A more systematic approach might be the removal of one battery, and its replacement with a dud she’d found lying around the house. She might say, as this latter approach began to have an effect, “No, I don’t think you seem particularly dim today, dear. I’m sure you’re fine..” as his speech slurred and he shifted toward the sofa earlier in the evening, leaving us more time for our ‘phone calls. His reluctance to engage in their weekly enchantment might be chalked up to a virus, and she would be utterly sympathetic, giving him a pass until the next week, when, if she so desired, she might pull a switch and get put those spanking new EverReady batteries to work. Go rabbit go.

Right. So. None of that. Even if my husband finds it a little tiny bit funny. (Which he does. A little). He likes the other stuff better, and I like him better than I like anybody, so there’s that to contend with. But a whole book without any knives? Well. I don’t know. But then again, remember how I said those chapters in Funny in Farsi are short? Maybe she’s on to something. Maybe if I keep it short, I’ll never get to that part where my mother . . .