Read to Write: The Best of Me, by David Sedaris

I don’t know if it was my first introduction to David Sedaris, but the most memorable moment of experiencing his storytelling powers was listening to him read, “Santaland Diaries,” on our way from Maryland to Michigan. I was so captivated and entertained by Sedaris’ hilarious, awkward, and vulnerable observations that when we found ourselves with a flat tire, and Jesse pulled over to the side of the road, the first thing I asked was, “Can we at least finish the story?”

Sedaris is hilarious, but what I appreciate about his humor is that the joke serves as a cue that something more is on the way. He’s working something serious out, and his humor allows us to come along with him. What’s more, his humor is used to show that he makes no claims that he is a perfect, or righteous, or any holier than thou kind of narrator. He is an honest one. This is my favorite kind of nonfiction writer. Anyone who can take their vulnerable, perhaps shameful attributes and put it to story has my undivided attention.

Which is what I think Sedaris does in his collection of essays, short stories, and poetry (!), titled, The Best of Me. I wonder if the title is ironic, or perhaps named to make the reader uncomfortable and conflicted: Can the worst of our traits laid out honestly, and in story form, bring about what is true, what is good, what is beautiful?

In “Front Row Center with Thaddeus Bristol,” Sedaris critiques – mercilessly – elementary and middle school holiday plays. He complains about the folding chairs, the fact that the play is put on in a makeshift theatre that also is a cafeteria that smells of “industrial-strength lasagna.” I confess, this is incredibly relatable (although I’ve said the auditorium/cafeteria smells eternally of orange slices and bologna), and I laughed heartily at his description.

He writes that the seven-nine-year olds had no urgency while performing, ‘The Story of the First Christmas,” but that he could hardly blame the children because the script was terrible:

“Mary to Joseph: ‘I am tired.’

Joseph to Mary: ‘We will rest here for the night.’

There’s no fire, no give and take, and the audience soon grows weary of this passionless relationship.”

Here, Sedaris gets at a rather universal characteristic regarding Christmas pageants and frankly, the Christmas story. There’s a dullness to it. Perhaps it is because the story is so dramatic, so outrageous, that all one can do is relay the facts as emotionlessly as possible (and hope for an Imogene Herdman to ask the tough questions and bring the story to life).

The line that made me choke on my coffee and consider for a few seconds whether I’d breathe again was Sedaris’ comment on the actress who played Mary: “In the role of Mary, six-year-old Shannon Burke just barely manages to pass herself off as a virgin.”

Of course it’s a ridiculous comment, and perhaps I’m a terrible person for laughing but again, I think Sedaris is getting at what an impossible story this is to tell. Towards the end of the essay, I began thinking of stories that would make for better plays children could perform.

But it is Sedaris’ question at the end that made me think it might be precisely the children performing an impossible story in a stinky cafe-theatre while we sit in uncomfortable chairs that we’ll have to put away later, that are the perfect people to bring the story to light. Sedaris watches adults applaud, smile, give ovations and in yet another honest moment asks: “Is it just them, or am I missing something?”

Last year, I sat next to Hadley in church during the Christmas Pageant, and we watched the tallest, oldest Gabriel I’d ever witnessed stand amongst the first-third grade shepherds and wise men. Hadley was laughing so hard the pew was shaking, so I did what any respectable mother would do, leaned over, and whispered, “Hey! Did that kid lose a bet or something?”

“No,” Hadley said. “They asked me to play Gabriel and I said I wouldn’t so he had to do it.” She told me this like she’d just scored the winning goal at a soccer game, and upon her admission, I joined in on the laughter. This was a proud moment for Jesse, who serves as a deacon and is in general an all around respectable, rule-following kind of guy.

I won’t argue with the serious folk that my response was inappropriate, although I also can’t deny that watching Hadley, who was Mary’s age at the time, made me wonder what happened in between the time Gabriel bounced into her kitchen or wherever she was at the time, and when she said, “I am the Lord’s servant. Let everything you said happen to me.” Hadley’s response was true, and genuine, and this impossible story is for her to turn over – and hopefully hold on to – however she needs to. Maybe laughing will help her hang on.

The other day I was talking to a friend about how exhausted I was with everyone yelling about everything over social media. Yes, what they’re saying is important, and I’ve no doubt it is true. But there’s no story. I told my friend I would love to see someone take their anger and turn it into a story. This though, is the risk a storyteller takes: laying out the worst of ourselves not in the hopes that we show what’s best, rather, that what we’ve offered makes a connection so that together we can can keep living an impossible story.

This is what Sedaris’ writing has done for me.