In my research of memoirs (I dream of writing about my own journey one day), I came to realise that a memoir recounting a life does not necessarily guarantee wise reflection or healing. Still, even if the writer can’t always offer the reader these things, they themselves must experience a sense of self-healing simply by committing their story to paper and allowing others to ingest it; sharing the load, so to speak.
Christy Chilimigras’s Things even Gonzalez can’t fix surprised me. She is only 24 years old and has written a memoir about her life. How much must one have experienced in 24 short years to enable one to write a book about it? One cannot help but admire the author – her unapologetic chutzpah, first of all, but also her courage to tell the world with such brutal honesty and describe in such vivid images the disturbing nature of her childhood.
As she narrates the varied horrors of being raised by two addict parents, I found her tone unsettling, but also quirky and even comedic at times. She paints scenes of a father who drags her and her sister out of bed in the middle of the night to go with him to Hillbrow to buy crack, and later sexually objectifying his own daughters, and of a gentle mother who finds solace in smoking weed – at times zoning out so much that she forgets she has children.
What really nagged at my soul and had me devouring the 200-odd pages in just about one sitting, was that the setting was so contemporary and so close to home that it might as well have been one of our neighbours. It’s about a Greek family living in Johannesburg – the city I call home – and describing such suburbs as Linden and Parkhurst – suburbs my family and I call home – but more than that, it’s that even the neighbours were wholly unaware of how the addiction of two parents was wreaking physical and psychological havoc on a child living next door and mere metres away.
But besides the fact that I found the setting and surrounds so relatable, it is an engaging,
exceptionally well written and utterly unputdownable piece of work.
Her message reaffirmed once again my own belief as mother and grandmother, that our most powerful tool as parents and grandparents is a healthy and open channel of communication between us and our kids that is totally unconditional and filled with loving acceptance. But arguably more importantly, her story made me realise how important it is for people to recognise their child or grandchild, no matter their age, as a human being with a full set of rights and someone who deserves respect.
So, as I close this book – with some relief – I’d like to congratulate Christy on a job remarkably well done. For writing and sharing her story, but also for her wisdom at such a young age to find a way to step far enough away from her pain to write her memoir and, in doing so, rediscover herself, her sexuality and her sanity.
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