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Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief
A collection of literary letters and mementos on the art of remembering across generations.
For poet Victoria Chang, memory “isn’t something that blooms, but something that bleeds internally.” It is willed, summoned, and dragged to the surface. The remembrances in this collection of letters are founded in the fragments of stories her mother shared reluctantly, and the silences of her father, who first would not and then could not share more. They are whittled and sculpted from an archive of family relics: a marriage license, a letter, a visa petition, a photograph. And, just as often, they are built on the questions that can no longer be answered.
Dear Memory is not a transcription but a process of simultaneously shaping and being shaped, knowing that when a writer dips their pen into history, what emerges is poetry. In carefully crafted missives on trauma and loss, on being American and Chinese, Victoria Chang shows how grief can ignite a longing to know yourself.
For poet Victoria Chang, memory “isn’t something that blooms, but something that bleeds internally.” It is willed, summoned, and dragged to the surface. The remembrances in this collection of letters are founded in the fragments of stories her mother shared reluctantly, and the silences of her father, who first would not and then could not share more. They are whittled and sculpted from an archive of family relics: a marriage license, a letter, a visa petition, a photograph. And, just as often, they are built on the questions that can no longer be answered.
Dear Memory is not a transcription but a process of simultaneously shaping and being shaped, knowing that when a writer dips their pen into history, what emerges is poetry. In carefully crafted missives on trauma and loss, on being American and Chinese, Victoria Chang shows how grief can ignite a longing to know yourself.
162 pages, Kindle Edition
First published October 12, 2021
102 people are currently reading
3467 people want to read
About the author
Victoria Chang
30 books448 followersVictoria Chang's latest book of poems is With My Back to the World (Farrar, Straus & Giroux and Corsair in the UK), which received the Forward Prize in Poetry for the Best Collection. Her most recent book is The Trees Witness Everything (Copper Canyon Press, 2022). Her prose book, Dear Memory, was published by Milkweed Editions in 2021. Her recent book of poems, OBIT, was published in 2020 by Copper Canyon Press. It was named a New York Times Notable Book, as well as a TIME, NPR, Publisher's Weekly, Book of the Year. It received the LA Times Book Prize, the PEN Voelcker Award, and the Anisfield-Wolf Award. It was also a finalist for the Griffin Poetry Prize and the NBCC, and long listed for the NBA. She is the Bourne Chair of Poetry and the Director of Poetry@Tech at Georgia Tech.
Her website is www.victoriachangpoet.com. Twitter: @VChangPoet.
Her website is www.victoriachangpoet.com. Twitter: @VChangPoet.
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April 10, 2022
Though classified by the publisher as a book of essays, Dear Memory might better be called epistolary lit. with a poetic bent, which would only be natural, as Victoria Chang is a poet first and foremost.
The letters tackle memory and grief, together addressing people no longer alive or compromised or swallowed by the past. Many letters are to her dead mother, others are to her father, victim of a stroke who is unable to communicate with her and is in a home.
In addition, there are letters to past literature and writing teachers (focus: poetry), fellow poets, past schoolyard tormenters, her daughters, the Ford Motor Company (Dad’s one-time employer), and even her body (and go ahead, sit down and write a letter to your body… you’ll probably have more to say than you think).
Growing up Chinese-American in Michigan was not easy for a girl whose mother was from Northern China and father was from Taiwan. Chang exorcises the pain of those years via these letters. The parent letters address cultural issues as well as matters of gender and race and silence, and while I enjoyed these, I especially liked her letters to past teachers who made deep impressions on her ambitions to become a poet.
Here are some excerpts from one letter to a teacher:
“I still remember how excited you seemed the day you told us that your book would be published. At that very moment, I decided that I, too, wanted to publish a book, just one book of poems in my life. If someone who looked like me could publish a book of poems, then maybe I could do the same. How little I knew at the time, that both writing and publishing could be relentlessly unforgiving…
“I still remember the joys of my first book. It’s true, except in the rarest of circumstances, a first book most likely won’t change one’s life in immediate, external ways. But I know my first book changed me. I never stopped wanting after that. Not only books, but to be surprised again and again by the possible collusions of language. And the more I read, the more I realized how hard writing really was. The more I read, the better I wanted to write.
“Each book isn’t just a book, but a period of a life, a period of learning how to write. Each book has its own hair color, its own glasses, its own favorite mug, its own computer, its own shirt and pants, its own tears.
“Sometimes I think that writers are too self-absorbed. I often think about what Sylvia Plath wrote: ‘I think writers are the most narcissistic people. Well, I mustn’t say this, I like many of them, a great many of my friends are writers.’ I think writing requires one’s full attention, but for me, that attention and obsession is toward language. As I write, more and more of my cells are replaced by language. When they burn a writer’s body, the smoke will be shaped like letters.”
Although cremation is not a pretty image to ponder, alphabetical smoke is. I wonder what each of ours will say?
The letters tackle memory and grief, together addressing people no longer alive or compromised or swallowed by the past. Many letters are to her dead mother, others are to her father, victim of a stroke who is unable to communicate with her and is in a home.
In addition, there are letters to past literature and writing teachers (focus: poetry), fellow poets, past schoolyard tormenters, her daughters, the Ford Motor Company (Dad’s one-time employer), and even her body (and go ahead, sit down and write a letter to your body… you’ll probably have more to say than you think).
Growing up Chinese-American in Michigan was not easy for a girl whose mother was from Northern China and father was from Taiwan. Chang exorcises the pain of those years via these letters. The parent letters address cultural issues as well as matters of gender and race and silence, and while I enjoyed these, I especially liked her letters to past teachers who made deep impressions on her ambitions to become a poet.
Here are some excerpts from one letter to a teacher:
“I still remember how excited you seemed the day you told us that your book would be published. At that very moment, I decided that I, too, wanted to publish a book, just one book of poems in my life. If someone who looked like me could publish a book of poems, then maybe I could do the same. How little I knew at the time, that both writing and publishing could be relentlessly unforgiving…
“I still remember the joys of my first book. It’s true, except in the rarest of circumstances, a first book most likely won’t change one’s life in immediate, external ways. But I know my first book changed me. I never stopped wanting after that. Not only books, but to be surprised again and again by the possible collusions of language. And the more I read, the more I realized how hard writing really was. The more I read, the better I wanted to write.
“Each book isn’t just a book, but a period of a life, a period of learning how to write. Each book has its own hair color, its own glasses, its own favorite mug, its own computer, its own shirt and pants, its own tears.
“Sometimes I think that writers are too self-absorbed. I often think about what Sylvia Plath wrote: ‘I think writers are the most narcissistic people. Well, I mustn’t say this, I like many of them, a great many of my friends are writers.’ I think writing requires one’s full attention, but for me, that attention and obsession is toward language. As I write, more and more of my cells are replaced by language. When they burn a writer’s body, the smoke will be shaped like letters.”
Although cremation is not a pretty image to ponder, alphabetical smoke is. I wonder what each of ours will say?
January 22, 2023
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Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief is a deeply affecting work that struck me for its beauty and empathy. Victoria Chang’s lyrical writing is not only aesthetically pleasing but it demonstrates admirable emotional intelligence, sensitivity, and insight. Not only I found myself highlighting every-other sentence, but I was completely spellbound by Chang’s voice and her ability to articulate with precise yet poetic language thoughts, feelings, and things that are, to me at least, so difficult to express/address. Enriching her reflections are her and her family’s experiences as well as the words of numerous writers, poets, and activists. The many quotes that make their way into Chang’s letters added further depth and nuance to her own remembrances and observations. Family mementoes, such as photos, letters, postcards, and certificates are interspersed throughout Dear Memory, and often appear in a fragmented way or combined with Chang’s own poetry, resulting in a collage of sorts.
Within these letters—addressed to Chang’s grandparents, parents, and children, as well as a teacher, her body, and memory itself—Chang interrogates grief, language and silence, generational trauma, cultural dissonance, displacement, invisibility, the notion of belonging, poetry & creativity, her Chinese American identity and her relationship to her family. Many of the episodes and histories that inform her reflections appear to us in fragments, so that we often ‘only’ gain brief and incomplete glimpses into her family’s and her own experiences. This works really well stylistically as the letters never feel bogged down by too many dates & facts. Within these letters, Chang’s voice possesses a beautiful lightness that in many ways belies her subject matter, as Chang discusses death, ageing, and trauma. She also talks about her experiences with racism, how many of the offensive words and gestures were very much normalized in American media and classic literature, as well as her eating disorder.
Regret & longing permeate most of these letters, as Chang is writing to people who are no longer alive or able to find meaning in her words. But Chang never spirals into hopelessness, and her lyrical language mitigates the sorrow of her and her family’s experiences. There is an open-endedness to her enquiries and recollections, one that invites the reader to contribute to the discussion, and I really appreciated that.
“Maybe our desire for the past grows after the decay of our present.”
Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief is a deeply affecting work that struck me for its beauty and empathy. Victoria Chang’s lyrical writing is not only aesthetically pleasing but it demonstrates admirable emotional intelligence, sensitivity, and insight. Not only I found myself highlighting every-other sentence, but I was completely spellbound by Chang’s voice and her ability to articulate with precise yet poetic language thoughts, feelings, and things that are, to me at least, so difficult to express/address. Enriching her reflections are her and her family’s experiences as well as the words of numerous writers, poets, and activists. The many quotes that make their way into Chang’s letters added further depth and nuance to her own remembrances and observations. Family mementoes, such as photos, letters, postcards, and certificates are interspersed throughout Dear Memory, and often appear in a fragmented way or combined with Chang’s own poetry, resulting in a collage of sorts.
“Maybe all of our memories are tied to the memories of others.”
Within these letters—addressed to Chang’s grandparents, parents, and children, as well as a teacher, her body, and memory itself—Chang interrogates grief, language and silence, generational trauma, cultural dissonance, displacement, invisibility, the notion of belonging, poetry & creativity, her Chinese American identity and her relationship to her family. Many of the episodes and histories that inform her reflections appear to us in fragments, so that we often ‘only’ gain brief and incomplete glimpses into her family’s and her own experiences. This works really well stylistically as the letters never feel bogged down by too many dates & facts. Within these letters, Chang’s voice possesses a beautiful lightness that in many ways belies her subject matter, as Chang discusses death, ageing, and trauma. She also talks about her experiences with racism, how many of the offensive words and gestures were very much normalized in American media and classic literature, as well as her eating disorder.
“In some ways, being born Chinese in America means not being born at all”
Regret & longing permeate most of these letters, as Chang is writing to people who are no longer alive or able to find meaning in her words. But Chang never spirals into hopelessness, and her lyrical language mitigates the sorrow of her and her family’s experiences. There is an open-endedness to her enquiries and recollections, one that invites the reader to contribute to the discussion, and I really appreciated that.
“A writer lives in an infinity of days, time without end, ploughed under.”
December 17, 2024
I read Chang's Obit collection last year and was eager to get back to her work, and Dear Memory raised the bar. I promptly added this to one of my "Best of 2024" selections.
There was a moment, where Chang describes a physical altercation that her father was in with another patient at his nursing home, that I audibly gasped. In another passage, my eyes filled with tears - it's these raw, emotional moments that we remember about poetry long after the words have faded.
Chang uses letters to explore her life and the people who have shaped her. Among my favorite letters were those to past teachers, who helped her become the poet she is today. Her letters to her parents are particularly poignant, grappling with grief and the complexities of familial relationships. She constructs a memoir in these letters, while also blending in her own literary criticism. She seamlessly weaves in insightful reflections on other writers relating to her letter - one teacher's love of Emily Dickinson, Salman Rushdie's writings on immigration. Through these letters, Chang explores her memories, the loss of her parents, and the mysteries of her family history.
"In our house, loud language was everywhere - bundles of Mandarin from Mother's mouth, Father nearly perfect English accented with Taiwan-accented Mandarin. Then our Chinglish. But in our house, silence arranged itself like furniture. I was always bumping into it."
"Eventually I stopped praying because I realized that God and I did not speak the same language."
"I wonder what kind of craggy twigs still exist in his brain. It's hard to watch someone who used to have a switchblade as a mind finally kneel down. Yesterday, I showed him a picture of your dead wife. His normally glazed eyes looked and he said 'MA MA', then his eyes began to water. Maybe our final memories will be of our mothers."
*5 stars
There was a moment, where Chang describes a physical altercation that her father was in with another patient at his nursing home, that I audibly gasped. In another passage, my eyes filled with tears - it's these raw, emotional moments that we remember about poetry long after the words have faded.
Chang uses letters to explore her life and the people who have shaped her. Among my favorite letters were those to past teachers, who helped her become the poet she is today. Her letters to her parents are particularly poignant, grappling with grief and the complexities of familial relationships. She constructs a memoir in these letters, while also blending in her own literary criticism. She seamlessly weaves in insightful reflections on other writers relating to her letter - one teacher's love of Emily Dickinson, Salman Rushdie's writings on immigration. Through these letters, Chang explores her memories, the loss of her parents, and the mysteries of her family history.
"In our house, loud language was everywhere - bundles of Mandarin from Mother's mouth, Father nearly perfect English accented with Taiwan-accented Mandarin. Then our Chinglish. But in our house, silence arranged itself like furniture. I was always bumping into it."
"Eventually I stopped praying because I realized that God and I did not speak the same language."
"I wonder what kind of craggy twigs still exist in his brain. It's hard to watch someone who used to have a switchblade as a mind finally kneel down. Yesterday, I showed him a picture of your dead wife. His normally glazed eyes looked and he said 'MA MA', then his eyes began to water. Maybe our final memories will be of our mothers."
*5 stars
May 5, 2026
‘Dear Grandmother, today I found a Certificate of Marriage and a translation of it—July 26, 1939. I also know you were twenty-seven and Grandfather twenty-six. I wonder if this was considered strange at the time, you being older than him. Seeing this date makes me cry. I have tried to tie them together into a long string toward your country—you were united in matrimony at Chungking City, Szechuan Province. I wonder if yours was an arranged marriage or if you loved each other. Or both. I wonder what love looked like in China in 1939.’
‘Dear Mother,—I would like to know if your mother was afraid. She bought me bao zi, buns, every morning—the bao that steamed in small plastic bags with no ties, and sweet dou jiang, tofu milk. Always too hot for me to drink. She sat there and watched me eat, and complained to me about your brother’s wife. I still remember how the two men stared at me, as if I could move a country. Listen. It’s the wind—Sometimes if I listen closely at night—I hear the sound of the bao touching the ground and the wind trying to open the bag.’
‘I didn’t know what was wrong so each night I prayed to God, but God just gave me tomorrow. Eventually, I stopped praying because I realised that God and I did not speak the same language.’
‘It’s the bird his voice became that I now seek. I am trying to make birds out of silence. Birds that will fly away, that I will never see die.’
‘I wonder about all—those restaurants. I imagine the mother yelling chi fan, time to eat. Now,—I yearn to be around them, the way plants have companions—the way garlic plants improve the growth and flavor of the beets next to them.’
‘I’m not sure if you are still alive and, if you are, you probably don’t remember me, but that chasm between us was filled with poetry instead of misunderstanding. Instead of silence. When you shared poems with me, you were filling the space between us with language. I didn’t know what was happening at the time, but I see it now. The language of poetry reminded me to stay alive. It reminded me that, when it felt like I had nothing, I was nothing, I still had words. I could ride language as if on horseback, and it could take me anywhere, including more deeply into myself. I don’t remember what I told you when you called me—I’m sure my face was expressionless and burning. But I remember—how you smelled like perfume and joy. I still remember the way your eyes looked desperate and worried, their insistence that I step out of something. You weren’t satisfied with my silence. I remember nodding as if I was fine. I had language. And it would be the one thing that would keep returning, like light. Language felt like wanting to drown but being able to experience drowning by standing on a pier.’
‘If you saw my poems today, I hope you could see that I heard you even though you couldn’t hear me. I have tried to write shorter + shorter + denser + denser + louder + louder poems. They have become so loud that each night I fold them into origami cigarettes and smoke them so they’ll blow away. What I learned from you was to forget the sun, that the moon burned more, to cling to things that didn’t seem to leave a trace, such as memory or silence or cruelty or beauty. I couldn’t fully understand any of this then. But because of you, poetry kept on pricking me—I’m sorry there was never a till then—I’m sorry I never called—I’m sorry I wasn’t ready for all the conversations we never had.’
‘Each book isn’t just a book, but a period of a life—Sometimes that breath is mortality. Other times, that breath is history. Sometimes memory. Sometimes the moon. Oftentimes, silence. Plath said something like this too: I think that personal experience is very important, but certainly it shouldn’t be a kind of shut-box and mirror looking, narcissistic experience. I believe it should be relevant, and relevant to the larger things.’
‘Winterson wrote that the most powerful written work often masquerades as autobiography. That it offers itself as raw when in fact it is sophisticated. That it presents itself as a kind of diary when really it is an oration. I love when Winterson says that the best work speaks intimately to you even though it has been consciously made to speak intimately to thousands of others.’
‘Saying things others want to hear is easy for an immigrant’s child because, for an immigrant’s child, language is theater. We are always performing. Sometimes at night, with a persistent moon, I could see the numbers beneath my skin. I couldn’t seem to get in sync with a country. I couldn’t figure out if the country was where I buried my memories, or the ground that would bury me. Daughters, there will be some days when everyone around you looks like an executioner. There will be times when everyone sounds like you, but no one looks like you. There will be other times when everyone looks like you but no one sounds like you. It’s okay, though. Those without history are difficult to harm. Because we are always moving. Daughters, I have felt incomplete for most of my life. Please don’t follow me. What I worry most is that you have already started following me. That you are from me. You both have my freckles. What else have I passed on?’
‘I began to admire work where language enacted subject matter, not where content overwhelmed or trumped language. The poet Richard Siken said something similar: My contribution isn’t going to be the biographical facts. It will be my take on it. I think that’s true for all of us, our take on it. The paradox is that we don’t actually take anything. Writing feels a bit like trying to attach words to things that are moving, that we cannot see, and that we can never fully understand. Maybe I am staring into a piece of paper like it is a pond, hoping one day that what looks back is not my own reflection, but my great-grandmother’s face. Maybe poetry is the distance between my face and her face. Maybe it’s the difference between how the moon looks in the sky and how it contorts when a mayfly travels across the pond.’
‘In Minor Feelings, Cathy Park Hong writes about the book and film Crazy Rich Asians: If you discriminate against us, we’ll make more money than you and buy your fancy hotel that wouldn’t let us in. Capitalism as retribution for racism. But isn’t that how whiteness recruits us? Whether it’s through retribution or indebtedness, who are we when we become better than them in a system that destroyed us?’
‘Staying silent was following in my mother’s footsteps. But by telling you, I risked adversely shaping your views of the world—as an unfair one—one where we would be victims. Do you know how astonished I was that so much had changed but so much hadn’t? If I don’t know how to protect myself, how can I protect you? I know that even though I was born on this land, in a small hospital in Detroit, Michigan, that my sun is still brittle. That if my sun even exists, it is behind all the other suns and emits radio static. I promise not to pass handfuls of hate into your hands. I promise to teach you how to be the bird and the beak. And the sky with many other birds.’
‘Sometimes I think it would be easier if grief were no longer blurred. If I could just ride it like a horse. When I look at you, I imagine myself inside your head, looking out at me, something that is not you, but of you. H Is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald: The archaeology of grief is not ordered. It is more like earth under a spade, turning up things you had forgotten. Surprising things come to light: not simply memories, but states of mind, emotions, older ways of seeing the world.’
‘You can tell when someone has suffered deeply. Their heart is smaller and it no longer smokes. I want my heart to be smaller, too, more used up. When I look down at my heart, it is no longer there. I find it kneeling in the corner and shaking. I tell it in Chinese to stand up, but it doesn’t understand me. When I command it in English, it only gets larger.’
‘Do you remember once in San Francisco it began to rain? We spoke against gravity. Poets and poems came out of our mouths faster than we could comprehend each other. We could hear the clocks, but their ticking had separated from death. Tiny bulbs of wisdom came out of your mouth. What’s the rush, you said about publishing. I added: Does the world need another competent book of poems? Most times, we wouldn’t answer our own questions because what did we know? We only knew that we couldn’t scrub poetry off our bodies. And we ourselves feared the greatest death, which was writing merely competent poems. What I’ve learned from you is how important friends are to the poems themselves.’
‘I hope they don’t kill you. I hope you still have time to write, you said. I now understand what you meant. A job like this is like a burning house you have to sleep in. Over and over. In fact—any busy day job can feel like a burning house. All of my poems smell like smoke. Do you remember how we chuckled at what Terrance Hayes once said? I wrote it so I wouldn’t have to talk about it—thank you for being such a good—friend. By finding friends like you, I had inadvertently located the general coordinates of myself. You may not know that you recently startled me when you said: I only have twenty years left at the most.’
‘At breakfast this morning, I spoke to a poet about—how neither of our mothers, both of whom had left their countries, rarely spoke about their pasts. My mother fled from China to Taiwan when she was eight or nine, and then left Taiwan for America when she was twenty-one or twenty-two. This poet said that maybe it’s us, the next generation, who will write in response to that history.’
‘I used to think I was a transcriber of my own experiences and memories, adding an image here and there, but now I think I am more of a shaper. I take small fragments of imagery, memory, silence, and thought, and shape them with imaginary hands into something different. What’s left doesn’t need to have a firm, precise shape that resembles reality though. It can be unshapely. Splayed.’
‘I could see how memory works (and fails) in fragments as my mother answered my questions—describing images of pickled vegetables, a servant escaping, a mother holding the hand of the wrong child. Working on these letters and listening to the interviews made me think that grief and memory are related. That memory, trying to remember, is also an act of grieving—sometimes forgetting or silence was a way to grieve lost lands and to survive. In my case, trying to know someone else’s memories, even if it’s through imagination and within silence, is also a form of grieving.’
‘As I began to write, though, my own memories started to return, and I began to trace in language some of my own painful childhood experiences, which I had always kept hidden. I realised I had to tell my stories in order to reflect on theirs because, while I had always thought our stories were separate, they were actually intimately connected—I began to think about how maybe my memories are never really just my memories but are fragments of memories and stories from others. And that memory, for many of us, is shaped by motion, movement, and migration.’
‘Maybe if I listen closely enough, the stone is a thought, the bell makes a sound without ringing, and I can hear children grow. Maybe our histories can never be fully known. Maybe curiosity is its own language. In the end, these epistles brought me much sadness and shame to write, but the process was also joyful—And with each word, I become more and more myself.’
June 20, 2021
Beautiful and evocative. Also, lots of memstud references. Marianne Hirsch and Paul Ricoeur? It’s been a minute.
November 29, 2021
Absolutely incredible. A gift, to me specifically
February 8, 2022
Great meditation on memory and family history.
November 26, 2024
Dear Victoria Chang,
Your language is a language I want to learn how to speak. You are brilliant. Your prose, creativity, and rhythm is unique. As I read your writing, I kept thinking about how to draw close to your gift, your voice, your creativity.
You reminded me how writing requires patience, silence, and listening. How words and language find us at the right time, at their own bidding, not ours. We never wield them with our pen. To find them, we need to know how to listen. Writing is a relationship with words and silence. It requires humility, a bowing down to language and its distinct harmony.
You reminded me of familial history and invited me to look at my own history. You made me revisit my own memories of my mother and my father and made me regret the questions I was not able to ask them. There is so much to know. There is much I could have, should have known.
Memory is a living thing and the act of remembering is not only a form of living, but of grieving, too. Memory breathes because in every act of remembering we either lose or add to the memory.
You are brilliant and I want to read more of your works. You amazed me with your creativity in "Obit" but in "Dear Memory," I have just confirmed your uniqueness. Your prose, your voice, your talent are such great memories of a reading experience to carry.
Thank you for your writing.
Your language is a language I want to learn how to speak. You are brilliant. Your prose, creativity, and rhythm is unique. As I read your writing, I kept thinking about how to draw close to your gift, your voice, your creativity.
You reminded me how writing requires patience, silence, and listening. How words and language find us at the right time, at their own bidding, not ours. We never wield them with our pen. To find them, we need to know how to listen. Writing is a relationship with words and silence. It requires humility, a bowing down to language and its distinct harmony.
You reminded me of familial history and invited me to look at my own history. You made me revisit my own memories of my mother and my father and made me regret the questions I was not able to ask them. There is so much to know. There is much I could have, should have known.
Memory is a living thing and the act of remembering is not only a form of living, but of grieving, too. Memory breathes because in every act of remembering we either lose or add to the memory.
You are brilliant and I want to read more of your works. You amazed me with your creativity in "Obit" but in "Dear Memory," I have just confirmed your uniqueness. Your prose, your voice, your talent are such great memories of a reading experience to carry.
Thank you for your writing.
December 28, 2022
Wow. These letters are achingly beautiful and filled with so much wisdom. Chang is obviously just so well read, and I made so many notes about digging into a lot of the sources she cites in these letters. I highly recommend this if you have lost anyone or are interested in memory as a way of both grieving and learning to know yourself. Beautiful book.
May 24, 2022
I always love how Victoria Chang utilizes different forms of writing in her work. This one was great and the collage pages literally 🥲
September 2, 2022
well, this unexpectedly wrecked me! i think it’s partially because so many of my own unintelligible thoughts and emotions are often wrangled into letters. of course, chang does this so much more eloquently, but the desperation, the struggle, the emergent growth takes on a very familiar shape. threaded through these epistles is an honest push-and-pull with identity and culture and language, but most of all i appreciated the humanness of her uncertainty. “i hope life has not been lost on me.” ahhhh, me too, me too.
chang praises writers who “write with an intimate intensity but also a generous capaciousness”. i think she accomplishes this quite well; her voice is as far-reaching as it is penetrative.
chang praises writers who “write with an intimate intensity but also a generous capaciousness”. i think she accomplishes this quite well; her voice is as far-reaching as it is penetrative.
October 10, 2025
Le daría infinitas estrellas si pudiera
August 3, 2025
agonizing to me in many different ways
November 19, 2021
There's so much truth and beauty in this book!
from a letter titled Dear Silence:
"Do I want to risk going into you in order to come out with words? To let the words build into something that is no longer me?
...
Last night, I went to a talent show at the children’s school. Kids dressed as sharks running around in circles. Popular girls with matching ripped jeans and long flat-ironed hair singing pop songs and dancing unenthusiastically. A magic show, piano players, ukulele players, joke-tellers…
Then a boy got up and the music began. He sang “Never Enough” from the film The Greatest Showman. I didn’t remember the song or the film, but his opening breath was so quiet, it was Ruefle’s rack.* That was poetry. I think that is why I write. That is why I want to make art.
After he finished to a standing ovation, I remembered that this was the boy who was recently outed at school. This small seventh-grader sent his insides out, through his mouth, in small envelopes.
(That image of the boy just really gets to me; here’s to being brave and being met kindly when we are.)
Dear Teacher:
Each book isn’t just a book, but a period of a life, a period of learning how to write. Each book has its own hair color, its own glasses, its own favorite mug, its own computer, its own shirt and pants, its own tears.
Dear Teacher
Gertrude Stein: “You will write if you will write without thinking of the result in terms of a result, but think of the writing in terms of discovery, which is to say that creation must take place between the pen and the paper, not before in thought or afterwards in a recasting.
I like the idea of writing slightly ahead of thought. The way the moon always seems to be chasing a whale.
From Dear C:
Some days, I want to tell everyone I meet that my mother died. Sometimes I do tell them, just to see who reacts. Most people don’t. Most people probably wonder why I am still writing about my mother. I want to tell them that it is because my mother is still dead.
Dear Father
I know you haven’t read H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald, because you can’t read, but she writes about the death of her father so well: The archaeology of grief is not ordered. It is more like earth under a spade, turning up things you had forgotten. Surprising things come to light: not simply memories, but states of mind, emotions, older ways of seeing the world.
When someone has dementia, or any brain disease, grief is multidimensional. You grieve them while you are wiping their nose or cutting their food into small limbs. Part of them is dead, part of them is dying. But so much of them is still alive. It’s like Macdonald’s earth, but that person is only partially buried. Every time you turn the spade, you poke them and they try and get up, wander around until you have to rebury them, tuck them back into the earth. I have had so many funerals for you, Father. I hide my hands in my pockets because they are always covered with dirt.
from a letter titled Dear Silence:
"Do I want to risk going into you in order to come out with words? To let the words build into something that is no longer me?
...
Last night, I went to a talent show at the children’s school. Kids dressed as sharks running around in circles. Popular girls with matching ripped jeans and long flat-ironed hair singing pop songs and dancing unenthusiastically. A magic show, piano players, ukulele players, joke-tellers…
Then a boy got up and the music began. He sang “Never Enough” from the film The Greatest Showman. I didn’t remember the song or the film, but his opening breath was so quiet, it was Ruefle’s rack.* That was poetry. I think that is why I write. That is why I want to make art.
After he finished to a standing ovation, I remembered that this was the boy who was recently outed at school. This small seventh-grader sent his insides out, through his mouth, in small envelopes.
(That image of the boy just really gets to me; here’s to being brave and being met kindly when we are.)
Dear Teacher:
Each book isn’t just a book, but a period of a life, a period of learning how to write. Each book has its own hair color, its own glasses, its own favorite mug, its own computer, its own shirt and pants, its own tears.
Dear Teacher
Gertrude Stein: “You will write if you will write without thinking of the result in terms of a result, but think of the writing in terms of discovery, which is to say that creation must take place between the pen and the paper, not before in thought or afterwards in a recasting.
I like the idea of writing slightly ahead of thought. The way the moon always seems to be chasing a whale.
From Dear C:
Some days, I want to tell everyone I meet that my mother died. Sometimes I do tell them, just to see who reacts. Most people don’t. Most people probably wonder why I am still writing about my mother. I want to tell them that it is because my mother is still dead.
Dear Father
I know you haven’t read H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald, because you can’t read, but she writes about the death of her father so well: The archaeology of grief is not ordered. It is more like earth under a spade, turning up things you had forgotten. Surprising things come to light: not simply memories, but states of mind, emotions, older ways of seeing the world.
When someone has dementia, or any brain disease, grief is multidimensional. You grieve them while you are wiping their nose or cutting their food into small limbs. Part of them is dead, part of them is dying. But so much of them is still alive. It’s like Macdonald’s earth, but that person is only partially buried. Every time you turn the spade, you poke them and they try and get up, wander around until you have to rebury them, tuck them back into the earth. I have had so many funerals for you, Father. I hide my hands in my pockets because they are always covered with dirt.
August 2, 2021
what the heck I have no words
December 26, 2021
Lovely, rich, wise. A book to read again and again forever.
November 17, 2024
Incisive letters about identity and loss addressed to both the living and the dead. Stellar writing as always.
July 19, 2023
amo la no-ficción y la meta-literatura y este libro es ambas. terriblemente devastador, no es una lectura ligera para nada, pero es hermoso. destaqué un millón de frases. me hubiese gustado leer el libro físico; los recortes, los documentos, las fotos familiares hacen que sea un trabajo super especial. disfruto mucho leer sobre los límites del lenguaje, pelear con él. la autora va resolviéndolo a través del texto, encuentro. no le doy 5 estrellas solo porque algunas frases se me hicieron clichés de repente, y otros detalles-mañas. pero es un muy sólido y cicatrizante 4.5. también hace referencia a muchísimos autores, fue muy loco leer los nombres Vallejo y Neruda entre letras gringas-chinas.
February 28, 2026
chang's way of writing is simple, direct, clear. her metaphors are short but crystallized. her longing encapsulated in her uncertainty, in these words that attempt to speak to the silence that she holds. that holds her.
loved the structure/layout of this work that combines images from her family history written on/over with her own questions, conversations along with her poetic letters to her family and friends and peers that cast their gaze into her as these letters return it. definitely a meditative work that contends with immigration, ancestral (be)longing, the idea of home and self and the gulf that mediates that un/knowing. inspiring for my own thoughts/work.
really love when writers pull other writers into their work like they're in conversation, and chang does that periodically. now have some new works to read :)
loved the structure/layout of this work that combines images from her family history written on/over with her own questions, conversations along with her poetic letters to her family and friends and peers that cast their gaze into her as these letters return it. definitely a meditative work that contends with immigration, ancestral (be)longing, the idea of home and self and the gulf that mediates that un/knowing. inspiring for my own thoughts/work.
really love when writers pull other writers into their work like they're in conversation, and chang does that periodically. now have some new works to read :)
November 25, 2023
I was crying probably 2 pages into this book. It sits as a lump in my throat bringing up feelings about my immigrant mother I hadn’t thought about or have chosen not to. Beautifully and painfully written. Love that it’s letters to different people in her life.
June 26, 2025
Good stuff. The bibliography goes hard and I now have many books to find and/or revisit.
July 11, 2022
RATING: 5 STARS
Dear Memory is a difficult book to put in a genre. While these are mostly in letter form, they have a poetic essay feel, as well as photographs with some poetry. I wasn't sure what to expect, but as Chang was recommended by a good friend, I knew it would be good. It blew me away. I can't explain what exactly made me love this so much, but the writing was so vulnerable and powerful. There are many issues - silence, grief, writing, family, etc - that I related so well to that it felt like having a conversation with a friend.
Dear Memory is a difficult book to put in a genre. While these are mostly in letter form, they have a poetic essay feel, as well as photographs with some poetry. I wasn't sure what to expect, but as Chang was recommended by a good friend, I knew it would be good. It blew me away. I can't explain what exactly made me love this so much, but the writing was so vulnerable and powerful. There are many issues - silence, grief, writing, family, etc - that I related so well to that it felt like having a conversation with a friend.
April 22, 2022
A thoughtful intersection of so many different pieces of Chang's life especially the death of her Mother and the decline of her Father that she has addressed in OBIT and The Boss, their life as immigrants, but also her childhood as well as some poems on writing. This book features beautiful collages in between the epistolatory poems that use family photos and texts from/about her parents.
November 20, 2021
In this haunting and luminous work, Victoria Chang gives us a series of epistles and found collages to address the melancholic remembrances of things past. Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief (Milkweed Editions, 2021) is an elegy and lament for the dead and gone: her ancestors, her teachers, and friends. She quotes poet Mary Jo Bang: “What is an elegy but the attempt / To rebreathe life / Into what the gone once was…” The book is filled with light and shadow, the pneuma of humanity and the human condition. More poetry than prose, the book is a connotative tour de force of what it means to be alive and to live with the breath of memory and regret.
Chang is a poet, a teacher, and program chair in the Creative Writing Department at Antioch University. She believes in writing that puts language at risk, allowing words to build into something beyond the self. She asks: “Can I be the hawk and the storm that tries to murder the hawk?” The question is fraught with danger. She confronts and sifts through memory and goes directly to how our lives often play out in the blood, the DNA of who we are, and what we do with our brief time in this human epoch. She documents the sorrow and grace of her existence, both visually and in words. “Perhaps something never happened if no one remembers it,” she writes. “Perhaps there’s no truth. Just memory and words.”
Coupled with her words are these haunting collages, many composed of documents and paper fragments of her past. She writes dialogue with her mother directly in the spaces on each picture as if conducting an interview. Other collages are family photographs, some with faces etched out as if demonstrating how they dwell in the shadows of her history. Collectively, the collages tell the parallel story; they weave into and out of the word-epistles. The letters and the collages are rare jewels. They both enhance and magnify the threads that bind the story together from word to image. Her poet’s sense of the spare and lyrical is ever-present in the art and the words.
Often, Chang’s language stuns us with its beauty and insight. “Maybe our desire for the past grows after the decay of our present, she writes. “When the present is more than we can hold, it turns into history. And the future turns into water. The water between your countries.” It is this water that her family journeyed over to find their destiny. Chang feels her place in America, but the book she creates also pays homage to those who made that journey and who, in turn, made her a unique part of a new nation, a new home. This is an immigrant story, and Chang pays artful attention to this most American of ideas. She wonders if memory is different for immigrants, “for people who leave so much behind. Memory isn’t something that blooms but something that bleeds internally, something to be stopped. Memory hides because it isn’t useful.” It is clearly the calling of the poet-artist to bring the memory forward, to shine light, muted or harsh, to illuminate the darkness of experience, of grief, of sorrow, of regret.
There are gaps in her family history that she does not fully understand and wants to explore. Memories, dreams, reflections, all kaleidoscope together in the form of questions she did not ask at the time, or did not find the answers to later. “The things that didn’t matter at the time are often the most urgent questions after someone has died,” she writes.
She devotes much to a discussion of silence and grief. What is not said speaks volumes. It is silence that cannot be undone, and in that way, Chang tells us, it is like death. The story ends when no one remembers the words, the people in the photographs, the significance of things. But the dead are wise. They know things. “By the time we die,” Chang writes, “we know everything we need to know.” Those of us left behind must wonder what the dead have taken with them. It is up to the living to remember the strands of the story and continue it.
Chang circles back to writing at the end. She recognizes that dragging a “not-yet-ready memory” into the light is often painful. It is difficult and lacerating. “More and more,” she writes, “I think writing is not a choice but an act of patience. An act of listening to silence, into silence.” It is in silence that, paradoxically, we hear voices. In silence, we communicate with the dead, with our own souls, and where the world is still enough to hear our own breath rushing in and out of our lives. It takes bravery and courage to listen to the silences and become aware. Victoria Chang models such heroism for us, and the result is a shimmering and beautiful book.
Chang is a poet, a teacher, and program chair in the Creative Writing Department at Antioch University. She believes in writing that puts language at risk, allowing words to build into something beyond the self. She asks: “Can I be the hawk and the storm that tries to murder the hawk?” The question is fraught with danger. She confronts and sifts through memory and goes directly to how our lives often play out in the blood, the DNA of who we are, and what we do with our brief time in this human epoch. She documents the sorrow and grace of her existence, both visually and in words. “Perhaps something never happened if no one remembers it,” she writes. “Perhaps there’s no truth. Just memory and words.”
Coupled with her words are these haunting collages, many composed of documents and paper fragments of her past. She writes dialogue with her mother directly in the spaces on each picture as if conducting an interview. Other collages are family photographs, some with faces etched out as if demonstrating how they dwell in the shadows of her history. Collectively, the collages tell the parallel story; they weave into and out of the word-epistles. The letters and the collages are rare jewels. They both enhance and magnify the threads that bind the story together from word to image. Her poet’s sense of the spare and lyrical is ever-present in the art and the words.
Often, Chang’s language stuns us with its beauty and insight. “Maybe our desire for the past grows after the decay of our present, she writes. “When the present is more than we can hold, it turns into history. And the future turns into water. The water between your countries.” It is this water that her family journeyed over to find their destiny. Chang feels her place in America, but the book she creates also pays homage to those who made that journey and who, in turn, made her a unique part of a new nation, a new home. This is an immigrant story, and Chang pays artful attention to this most American of ideas. She wonders if memory is different for immigrants, “for people who leave so much behind. Memory isn’t something that blooms but something that bleeds internally, something to be stopped. Memory hides because it isn’t useful.” It is clearly the calling of the poet-artist to bring the memory forward, to shine light, muted or harsh, to illuminate the darkness of experience, of grief, of sorrow, of regret.
There are gaps in her family history that she does not fully understand and wants to explore. Memories, dreams, reflections, all kaleidoscope together in the form of questions she did not ask at the time, or did not find the answers to later. “The things that didn’t matter at the time are often the most urgent questions after someone has died,” she writes.
She devotes much to a discussion of silence and grief. What is not said speaks volumes. It is silence that cannot be undone, and in that way, Chang tells us, it is like death. The story ends when no one remembers the words, the people in the photographs, the significance of things. But the dead are wise. They know things. “By the time we die,” Chang writes, “we know everything we need to know.” Those of us left behind must wonder what the dead have taken with them. It is up to the living to remember the strands of the story and continue it.
Chang circles back to writing at the end. She recognizes that dragging a “not-yet-ready memory” into the light is often painful. It is difficult and lacerating. “More and more,” she writes, “I think writing is not a choice but an act of patience. An act of listening to silence, into silence.” It is in silence that, paradoxically, we hear voices. In silence, we communicate with the dead, with our own souls, and where the world is still enough to hear our own breath rushing in and out of our lives. It takes bravery and courage to listen to the silences and become aware. Victoria Chang models such heroism for us, and the result is a shimmering and beautiful book.
October 14, 2025
The shape of memory is / a tree. The trees have / witnessed all the wars. / What is a tree but / persistence and secrets?
April 19, 2022
I’ll read any of Chang’s poetry, Obit was one of my fave collections ever. This isn’t necessarily a poetry collection, but an epistolary with poetic letters written to family or characters from Chang’s past. I love to read anyone writing beautifully abt grief and losing parents. This collection also includes collages with images and artifacts and handwritten poems on them. It’s like an updated version of the photo spread in the middle of memoirs and they appear between every few letters and it is fantastic.
May 29, 2024
"If I press the button,I imagine the large hot water dispensers common in Asia. We don't want to know our family's history, but we must for it is all around our lives.
hot water will burn me.
The water is history.
I don't press it but why
am I still soaking wet? p.9 Dear Grandmother.
"Working on these letters and listening to the interviews made me think that grief and memory are related. That memory, trying to remember, is also an act of grieving. In my mother's case, sometimes forgetting or silence was a way to grieve lost lands and to survive. In my case, trying to know someone else's memories even if it's through imagination and within silence, is also a form of grieving." p.144 Dear Reader
Writing: a way to shape one's story, to know one's self.
Silence: holds answers in and of itself
Grief: digs up memories
Maybe these weren't Victoria Chang's intended meanings for these concepts, but they are what I felt after reading her book.
I enjoyed the uniqueness of this form of writing. Chang shares an intimate journey into how she learned about her mother and her family roots after her mother and father's deaths. She composes letters written to them, to her sister, to her daughter, to friends, to teachers, and even to the company her father worked at as a way of exploring grief. Within the letters, she quotes other writers whose lines resonated with her and her response to them using context from her own life.
Between these letters, there's mixed media art from documents like birth certificates and old family photos that have Chang's handwritten notes cut and pasted in a way that felt like poetry. She includes an interview with her mother in these lines as well, talking about her past moving from China to Taiwan to America.
I felt sad to learn in that interview that her mom regretted coming to America because they would never been seen as American, only Chinese. That is the reality that so many immigrants to America face.
This was my favorite passage:
"At mother's funeral, a bony Chinese man said, Your mother was always a bit chubby. I was always worried about her health. As if her weight had caused her lungs to fail. He didn't mean any harm, just as Father never meant any harm. But harm is rarely about intention. I remember all the times aunties would say to me, You've lost weight. Or, You've gained weight. Stand up so we can see you better.
A month before Mother died, she was so frail. She had lost all the weight of seventy-four years. I don't think she was finally happy. She looked small and beautiful in a baggy old dress with blue flowers that she could finally fit into. I was secretly happy that she would never have to worry about her body again. That the weight of caring for father was gone, that the weight of her countries was gone, that she was finally the weight of light. p. 33 Dear Body
Other thoughts I came away with:
-School yard bullies tend to stay with us longer than we expect.
-A personal history is intricately linked to your family's past, but what does that look like when your parents are immigrants with a history that is hard to talk about?
-Wanting to write and have your writing resonant with or impact others reminds me of how I keep a journal, only for myself, but sometimes I want to share that journal with others
-I remembered when my granny died and we kept her angels she collected from us as presents over the years. Chang's words helped me remember that. "When she died, I threw most things away, except for the teapots. When a mother dies, everything you've given to her comes back to you. Now the teapots line up on my mantel like grief." p. 101 Dear Father
-Dementia has its own sort of grief where you are grieving the loss of the person while they are technically still living.
-I think the letters would be great to use as reading passages for older ESL students and adults.
-I love that the book is red. From the book cover, to the hardback book underneath itself, Chang is purposely using this color that represents so much of her heritage.
"I used to hate red.
The color of meat and
shame. Now I paint my
lips red so I don't disappear."p. 43 Dear L
July 5, 2022
“I think writing is not a choice but an act of patience. An act of listening to silence, into silence.”
It is no disaster when someone we love day as every day passes, we get closer to meet them again, that what someone once told me. I never really wondered what to do during these days where we wait as I am just going from one day to the next, just reading and writing. Reading is becoming my identity as I am not only reading books but myself, others, and the whole universe. But I never saw writing or reading as an act of patience and listening to the silence those who died left behind.
Grief is very astonishing for the things that it will make you do; I remember “Talking to Grief” by Denise Levertov where she considered grief as her own dog.
“(…), you need
The right to warn off intruders
To consider
The house your own
My house your own”
Victoria Chang says about memory and silence: “trying to remember, is also an act of grieving. (…) maybe silence is not something to interact with, to be filled in, but rather to let wash over you, to exist within. Maybe silence is its own form of language. Maybe silence is also a life lived. Maybe the unspoken can lead to the widest imagination. Maybe it's the most open text. The loudest form of speaking we have.”
Maybe that what grief does best; grief bring memory as a way to warn you of forgetting, of shame, of guilt, and through indulging into memories, one takes silence as worshiping those who left, to never forget them: silence as another way of breathing. I remember back in middle school; there was a girl in class with me, she always had the greatest grades but she never every spoke in class, never participated, even when the teacher brings her Infront of the class and ask her she stood there in silence! I never wondered why back then, maybe because we wonder about those who talk not those who take silence as a language. I never heard that girl voice, I don’t think anyone did. Going through grief and loss, I now believe that girl is lucky, even though for her not to speak at all it must been hard as maybe it is a trauma response, but silence is what heals. Silence is always the answer. Perhaps silence is the act of patience, maybe all the words we write is nothing but the language of silence.
“Maybe our final memory will be of our mothers.”
It is no disaster when someone we love day as every day passes, we get closer to meet them again, that what someone once told me. I never really wondered what to do during these days where we wait as I am just going from one day to the next, just reading and writing. Reading is becoming my identity as I am not only reading books but myself, others, and the whole universe. But I never saw writing or reading as an act of patience and listening to the silence those who died left behind.
Grief is very astonishing for the things that it will make you do; I remember “Talking to Grief” by Denise Levertov where she considered grief as her own dog.
“(…), you need
The right to warn off intruders
To consider
The house your own
My house your own”
Victoria Chang says about memory and silence: “trying to remember, is also an act of grieving. (…) maybe silence is not something to interact with, to be filled in, but rather to let wash over you, to exist within. Maybe silence is its own form of language. Maybe silence is also a life lived. Maybe the unspoken can lead to the widest imagination. Maybe it's the most open text. The loudest form of speaking we have.”
Maybe that what grief does best; grief bring memory as a way to warn you of forgetting, of shame, of guilt, and through indulging into memories, one takes silence as worshiping those who left, to never forget them: silence as another way of breathing. I remember back in middle school; there was a girl in class with me, she always had the greatest grades but she never every spoke in class, never participated, even when the teacher brings her Infront of the class and ask her she stood there in silence! I never wondered why back then, maybe because we wonder about those who talk not those who take silence as a language. I never heard that girl voice, I don’t think anyone did. Going through grief and loss, I now believe that girl is lucky, even though for her not to speak at all it must been hard as maybe it is a trauma response, but silence is what heals. Silence is always the answer. Perhaps silence is the act of patience, maybe all the words we write is nothing but the language of silence.
“Maybe our final memory will be of our mothers.”
February 22, 2024
Well, Chang made me cry. She knows how to say the truth. Her final epistle is to the reader, and she mentions post-memory, and everything in this book just felt even more precious to me, even more important after reading the last few pages.
Throughout the book I was writing down notes, marking pages, but I realize now it was a useless exercise. I will read this again, I must read this again. The whole book is meant to be read not in clips or highlighted quotes, it's meant to be read as one.
The idea of memory and post-memory is not a common idea. It is similar to "inherited trauma" but I feel that post-memory is more specific, because not all memories are traumatic, but all memories can be passed down from one generation to the next.
Post-memory is probably why I am a poet, why Chang is a poet. We had or have someone in our life, someone important, who had bad things happen to them, traumatic things happen. Those memories are not our memories, but they are post-memories. They are apart of us, just as our own memories, but it causes a liminalness in our identities, always seeking and seeking and seeking. I feel I have found a doppelganger in Chang, we are the ones who are tired and go and go and go, but are still restless, reliving memories that are not our own.
Dear C.
Thank you for writing this book, it means more to me than I can write here.
Thank you.
Throughout the book I was writing down notes, marking pages, but I realize now it was a useless exercise. I will read this again, I must read this again. The whole book is meant to be read not in clips or highlighted quotes, it's meant to be read as one.
The idea of memory and post-memory is not a common idea. It is similar to "inherited trauma" but I feel that post-memory is more specific, because not all memories are traumatic, but all memories can be passed down from one generation to the next.
Post-memory is probably why I am a poet, why Chang is a poet. We had or have someone in our life, someone important, who had bad things happen to them, traumatic things happen. Those memories are not our memories, but they are post-memories. They are apart of us, just as our own memories, but it causes a liminalness in our identities, always seeking and seeking and seeking. I feel I have found a doppelganger in Chang, we are the ones who are tired and go and go and go, but are still restless, reliving memories that are not our own.
Dear C.
Thank you for writing this book, it means more to me than I can write here.
Thank you.
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