Remembrance of things past is not necessarily
the remembrance of things as they were.
— Marcel Proust, French novelist and critic, 1871–1922
“I am God’s gift to mankind! I saved the world, all by myself!”
Are these the latest graveyard-shift tweets from the Sleepwalker-in-Chief, you ask? No, but they do belong to fake reality. Exaggerations such as those above are, too often, the unspoken premise of the memoir writer.
Publishing an autobiography is the very thing I had long vowed never to do, notwithstanding the occasional prodding of family and friends. Yes, I’ve been known to blow my own horn, but to do so at length and in print seemed a tad presumptuous.
My former teacher and long-time mentor, the iconic Dr. Otto Tucker2, believed I have a story which should be told, and he encouraged, yea, cajoled me, to put pen to paper. I last spent time with Otto and his wife, Ruby, at St. Patrick’s Mercy Home, a few months before his 2015 passing. His parting words to me were, “I probably won’t see you again, but promise me you’ll write the book.” I told him I would.
I believe an autobiography worth reading should engage and entertain. And it should inform and instruct. The reader should be able to glean a few pointers, practices to emulate, pitfalls to avoid. I trust that the pages which follow will cut the mustard.
Once I had delved into this marathon project, it became quite therapeutic. The introspection and self-reflection are worth several weeks on a shrink’s couch. While writing about oneself can easily degenerate into a whitewash, a pat-on-the-back routine, there are some built-in checks and balances. Mine has been, continues to be, a very public life. Much, if not most, of what I say in these pages can be corroborated or contradicted by others.
Autobiographical musings are a long, lingering look in the mirror. If you misrepresent what you see, you may well con a whole lot of people. But you won’t fool yourself. Because tomorrow morning—and every morning after—you’ll be reminded of it all over again, and again, and again, as you stare into an unforgiving, brutally honest mirror.
Yet the very nature of the undertaking precludes a balanced result. And as Proust reminds us above, memory can be both partial and fallible. Within those inevitable constraints, I have attempted to represent as honest a portrayal as possible. Finally, though, this is my perspective.
As ever, I continue to forge ahead, sometimes at breakneck speed, always mindful that my every move is being watched and judged by mortals and immortals alike. Bemoaning from the sidelines has never been my default setting. Always, I have wanted be where the action is. I am the man in the arena.
2 Salvation Army officer, education administrator, university professor, humour writer, historian