Historical Fiction: A Living Genre

I recently read Alan Brennert’s novel Moloka’i and enjoyed it thoroughly. It is set around the turn of the century in the leper colony of Kalaupapa on the Hawaiian island of Molokai. To control the leprosy epidemic, everyone found infected with the bacteria, was sent to live in isolation there. For many patients, that isolation lasted their whole lives.  Historical fiction like this is my favorite genre, because it appeals to me on two levels. The reader in me gets lost in the story, while the scholar in me absorbs all sorts of new historical facts and trivia to bore my friends and family with later. In my nerdy opinion, historical fiction is the perfect combination of fact and fiction, research and escapism, a fabulous two-for-one deal.

However, reading the novel reminded me of an experience I had a couple months back. It made me think about historical fiction in a more personal way, because it wasn’t in a book anymore. At a cocktail party in my neighborhood, I saw all too clearly how our own personal historical fictions influence the stories we tell ourselves each and every day. While the fiction is probably harmless most of the time, it may actually cost us something valuable in the long run: our ability to see ourselves as we are today.

As Tim and I walked up to our hosts’ front door, he reminded me that I was his wingman. I wasn’t allowed to go mingle, if he didn’t find a buddy to talk to. He doesn’t usually worry about that happening, but this wasn’t our normal social circle, so I acquiesced. For my part, I straightened my skirt and checked my make up one more time. I was as ready as I would ever be. I knew we were both responding to some personal insecurities, but figured our secrets were safe with each other.

So imagine my surprise when our hostess asked us to put on a nametag, complete with three adjectives that described us in high school. It was, after all, a fundraiser for a youth organization. Oh boy, I thought, but honesty was probably the best policy here as anywhere else. Tim jotted down Lone Wolf, figuring that pretty much said it all, while I scrawled geek, klutz and swimmer under my name. We looked at what the other had written and shrugged. We’ve been together for so long and shared so many stories from our childhoods that we knew exactly where the adjectives had come from and accepted them as some approximation of the truth. I knew that after several moves, Tim had only a few friends at any given time growing up. He frequently ate alone in the cafeteria, and spent many of his afternoons, kicking a soccer ball at the backyard fence, scoring goal after game-winning goal for an audience of one. He knew how awkward I had felt as a child, skinny and freckle-faced, more at home in water than on land. He’d counted the scars I still have on my body that testify to the face-first, flat out falls I took on the black top, off bikes and into thorn bushes. He has also tried to heal the scars on my psyche from years of feeling inferior to so many of my peers.

So we stuck on the wounded egos of our teenage selves and started to mingle. I couldn’t believe all the casual friends and acquaintances we met, who were apparently all popular, smart, beautiful and athletic. Honestly, the ratio of class presidents, cheerleaders and homecoming queens to the rest of us was a little ridiculous. But what was even funnier was how they responded to our nametags. They thought we were kidding, or at least really exaggerating who we used to be. I assured them we were not. They thought we were “one of them,” and until that night, I had thought so too.

Not a single person at that party would have pegged Tim for a lone wolf. At this point in his life, my husband is known as “Coach Tim” to a large swathe of the under-15 population in our community and their parents. He’s spent years coaching our kids’ sports teams, from softball to soccer. He is sarcastic and funny, hangs out with the guys, but prefers to chat with the ladies. And as for me, I haven’t tripped over my own feet (much) since my second child was born, and I have become a fairly self-confident and capable woman, athletic even, since discovering Pilates.

The night was fun, but I didn’t love reliving my past. I put those words down, thinking they were harmless, that I had moved beyond those labels and memories, that they were “history” and I know Tim did the same. But when we reflected on the last things we had done before we walked into that party, we saw the evidence that our past is hardly history at all. He was making sure that he wouldn’t be the lone wolf, and by adding another layer of lipstick, I was re-arming myself against the superficial judgments of other girls. Despite twenty years of love and success, our historical fiction is still a palpable presence in our lives.

Does anyone ever get over who they once were, and thought they might always be? Is it worse for the class presidents, valedictorians, or homecoming queens, who perhaps never lived up to the promise of those early days? I don’t know the answer to that. My story runs the other way and they aren’t exactly the kind of questions you’d ask a casual acquaintance over a glass of wine at a cocktail party.

By the end of the novel Moloka’i, a cure for leprosy is found and the patients are free to move back into society, leaving their “shameful” past behind them. But virtually no matter where they go, they face prejudice, scorn and outright discrimination. There are no jobs for them, no places to live, and frequently no family willing to love them. They are technically “free,” but they are bound by their past and the evidence is written all over their bodies and souls. A few of them find the freedom they seek, but many of them return to the leper colony, Kalaupapa, where they are known and loved for who and what they are.

As I read this book, I was taken back to that cocktail party and the way our histories can continue to haunt us. Thankfully, for the most part, I am free. I laughed with everyone at what my nametag said. I am no longer that geeky girl, who lacks the self-confidence, courage and grace to be fully herself. However, when I went home that night, done socializing with the world at large, I was glad to be alone with Tim, my own personal Kalaupapa, where I am known and loved for who I was and who I try to be today.

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6 thoughts on “Historical Fiction: A Living Genre

  1. So glad you finally read this book. I remember sitting around your Mom and Dads’s kitchen table talking about this booka while back. It is one of my favorites,for the exact reasons you described. Historical/fiction.

    Your seamless correlation between past and present is just beautiful. Thank you.

  2. Alison:

    First of all my favorite genre is historical fiction as well. Secondly i was the kid that didn’t quite fit in in High School too. I so related to your words. The goods news for me is that although I still carry those insecurities they no longer consume as they did. One day at time………Thanks again for this blog. Just love reading it.
    Holly

  3. Alison, I am an old friend of Beth’s. I enjoy reading your blog when Beth posts it on Facebook. You express a wonderful integrity in your encounter with life.
    When I read you say, “Does anyone ever get over who they once were, and thought they might always be?,” I thought of a therapist I like, Don Watson. He says these original scripts we learned are like our native tongue. We can learn a new language, and even grow to use that language most, or all of the time. (I even began to dream in Norwegian after I lived there for a year as a teenager.) But, put us back in our native environment – or an environment that is similar enough – and those old scripts, that old language comes back very easily.
    I like his analogy because it acknowledges that, yes, we can learn new scripts/languages. And yet, that the old ones will always still be a part of us. That is my experience. So, for me the answer to, “Does anyone ever get over who they once were, and thought they might always be?,” is yes and no and maybe.
    A lot depends on the environment we’re in and how it supports (or doesn’t support) our new language. (I was fairly fluent in Norwegian, and now all I remember is a few swear words. Go figure!) And a lot depends on how much we want to prioritize practicing the new language if it’s foreign and unappreciated in our current environment. That kind of undertaking is a lot of work. The only scripts/languages that are worth it to me are the ones that let me express or feel love and connection better – enough better than my native tongue to make it worth the effort of constantly to use the new tongue when no one around me does.
    Look forward to reading future posts! They make me think and feel. I love them.
    Kent

  4. Dear Kent
    Thank you for your great response and for sharing such an insightful correlation. I have never heard it put so well, or found such a perfect metaphor for what happens when we start replaying our old scripts. I loved how you said, “put us back in our native environment – or an environment that is similar enough – and those old scripts, that old language comes back very easily.”
    I am grateful that my “native language” is mostly lost to me now, but there is still a tenderness for the fragile ego of my past.
    I really appreciate you reading the blog and taking the time to correspond with me about it.
    Take care and I hope to hear from you again!
    Ali

  5. Another fantastic historical fiction…Sarah’s Key. Mike and I just watched the
    movie and can’t get it out of our minds.

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