Jamie Brickhouse's Blog: Lagniappe - Posts Tagged "alcohol"

Mary Karr was kind enough to do a Q&A with me for the Dangerous When Wet: A Memoir Amazon page. Here tis, y'all!

A note from Mary Karr on Jamie Brickhouse:

Jamie Brickhouse is a black-belt Texas charmer whose wit, psychological acuity, and self-awareness sizzle on the page. Dangerous When Wet is stunningly Southern, which is a priori gothic, and like any good memoir, it’s never cartoonish. He grew up in the same stretch of Ringworm Belt where I was born. I didn’t know him then, but I’m glad I know him now. Readers of Brickhouse are lucky to relish his wise and wise-assed conversation about booze, fallen priests, memory, and truth. Required reading.

Mary Karr: Can you talk about the glamour of drinking in your household?

Jamie Brickhouse: I glamourized my parents. They always seemed to be coming from a party or throwing a party. They even had household matches and cocktail napkins printed with their names, “Jean and Earl.” I wanted what they had so I was more interested in hanging around them and their adult friends than my own kind – children, yuck! I regarded parties and alcohol as the fast ticket to the grownup-hood. But I also saw Mama Jean’s displeasure with Daddy Earl’s drinking. She was a social drinker – could take or leave it. He was a fun-loving drinker – the more the merrier. When the merry turned to anger and she ranted and screamed about his drinking, I saw her as a spoilsport. I couldn’t connect the dots between the booze and the fights, the dark side of that glamorous wall.

MK: I know your father recently passed away; can you describe his response to the manuscript?

JB: “Hurry up and finish. I want it to come out before I die!” was his constant refrain as I was writing it. I was drenched in fear and dread about how he’d react to the darkest parts of the book and my sexual shenanigans. I seriously considered not letting him read it until right before publication. But I put on my big girl panties and delivered the manuscript to him in person last Easter. My breath held in the other room, I listened as the manuscript pages fell on the floor around his chair. He guffawed, gasped, cried. He told me he loved the book, that I write beautifully, that he was proud of me. Then he said, “Are you happy with it?” After a beat I answered yes. It wasn’t until that moment that I was happy with it. He died eight months later on New Year’s Eve. I’m eternally grateful that I didn’t take the coward’s road and wait to let him read it.

MK: Is there any part that blamed Mama Jean or your father for getting you drunk in the first place?

JB: No. I used to blame her for getting me drunker because I’d drink at her when she made me angry, but I was an alcoholic before I took that first sip of my daddy’s whiskey. If a parent hooks up two kids to a feeding tube of booze, the alcoholic kid is going to make sure that the supply is well stocked; the nonalcoholic kid is going to rip out the tube first chance he gets.

MK: What’s your relationship with the Catholic Church given your run-in with the derelict priest?

JB: I grew up Catholic but rejected the Church when I left home, using my homosexuality as the excuse. I was already far from the flock (or frock) when I had the fling with the priest. After he dropped me when I told him that I’d become HIV-positive (he didn’t give it to me), I felt like he dumped his vow of charity into the same trashcan as his chastity. But three of the people who helped save my ass – my mother, my father, and my rehab counselor (gay) were devout Catholics. The grace of being alive and sober has brought me closer to God. Mama Jean “brings” me to church every year when I attend a memorial Mass on the anniversary of her death. I don’t know if I’ll ever be a full-blown Catholic again, but the Catholic Church is a part of my – admittedly half-assed – spiritual program today.

MK: How did you think about truth and embellishment as you worked?

JB:With a mother like Mama Jean and a drinker like I was, I didn’t need to embellish the truth. I didn’t spend hours at the library with the microfiche scanner, but I did comb through my journals and letters, which were helpful for facts and how I was feeling at the time. My teacher, Phyllis Raphael, introduced me to the “I remember…” writing prompt (you write stream of conscious memories about any subject). I still use it as the front door into any subject because it brings to the surface my most salient memories, the ones that cannot be ignored. I conducted informal interviews with friends and family (sounds like a phone plan), and I circulated the manuscript afterward to them. None of them balked at my version of events, except for my dad who raised the flag on one section. I describe coming out to my parents on a phone call, a pivotal memory for all of us. I remember my mother being on the phone solo and asking if I had homosexual tendencies. My father claimed he was also on the line and was the one who asked the question. I include both versions in the book. Mine shows her as always being ever confrontational. His points to the denial she was in. Whatever the facts, both are true.