The stories are a memoir. They are not fiction, they really happened. But they are not an historical record either. They come fresh out of my memory, not research. And I might change a detail here or there for a number of reasons. I might change some things to protect someone’s privacy, or to make the stories more pleasant to read. I might fill in gaps in my memory with what I think is probably true.
I mean, you don’t want to keep reading stuff like, “I think it was right before Christmas but I’m not sure,” right? Or, “then we had a conversation, and I don’t remember the exact words,” right? Or, “I think we always hung icicles on the Christmas tree but I’m not 100% positive that they were on the tree that year,” right? No. You want to hear that it was Tuesday, two days before Christmas, that we said what we said, and that the icicles sparkled, and that is how I think it was. I take what I remember and make a readable story out of it- that is a memoir. But you can be sure that I will never intentionally change the essence of the events. These stories happened, but maybe not EXACTLY like this in every detail.
Be forewarned: In order to preserve the essence of the racial history, I have spoken bluntly and honestly, and I have used the language of the time. I find the language and the attitudes in these stories disturbing, and you might too. But I want to be very honest about the essence of the stories, which is my memories about black people- my horror and confusion at my own racism, and how natural it seems. I want to bring that racism out of the shadows, tell the truth about it, shine a light on it, and call it by name.
Click on “Stories” above to read.
Confessions of a Southern White Woman 