Victoria Noe's Blog, page 14

Why Are We So Hard on Grievers?

Most of us don’t grieve in public and frankly, that’s a relief. Anyone in the public eye who has experienced a loss is closely watched for…what? So we – strangers – can judge how they’re handling their grief. Do they cry at the drop of a hat or do they act as if nothing has happened?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot since I watched both the speech given by Khizr Khan at the Democratic National Convention last week and the reaction from around the country. Perhaps the only thing more impressive was his wife, Ghazala.

I listened to his words, but I watched her. The grief she experienced was obvious in her body language: tense, fragile, struggling for control. She’s not a public figure, so standing on a stage before an audience of thousands – and TV audience of millions – would have been difficult in the best of situations. And this was not the best of situations.

Anyone who has ever grieved recognized the fear in her eyes: fear she would embarrass herself and her husband by losing control at the sight of their son’s picture.

“Why didn’t she speak for herself?” was the first criticism. Frankly, I had no patience for that because she didn’t need to speak.

She said as much – if not more – than her husband just by her presence. Most of the time when someone insists “I feel your pain”, it’s patronizing. But I’ll bet that almost every person who has seen her standing there next to her husband, dignified and supportive, understands exactly what was behind those eyes. More than one person I know admitted to crying during her husband’s speech, but every one mentioned her as the reason.

I’ve lost a lot of people I loved. In every case it was difficult to speak about them, even to friends and family. There were times when I was afraid that the grief would appear suddenly, and I wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears. I might embarrass myself by crying in public. In fact, I remember excusing myself during Mass, to run to the back of church before I started to cry. Maybe you’ve felt that same fear of losing control.

But as painful as it is to watch someone grieve, it is infinitely more painful to be that griever, especially if they know they’re being watched and judged.

So let’s cut each other some slack. Everyone grieves differently. Everyone grieves at their own pace.

Let them.

 

 

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Honoring Friends in Many Ways

One of the questions many of the people in the Friend Grief books have struggled to answer is, “How do I remember them?” We want to be sure that even for those who never met our friend, that they will somehow appreciate that they walked the earth.

The people I interviewed found many ways to do that:

One man helped start a foundation to cover costs related to medical treatment (hotel stays for family members, parking, supplies, etc.).
Two women started a nonprofit to help the homeless, continuing their friend’s work.
One kept a stack of holy cards in his desk, one for each coworker who died on 9/11.
One started an organization to help prevent deaths like his friend’s.
Some committed themselves to ending the epidemic that killed so many of their friends.
Other keep mementoes close by – pictures, jewelry, books, scarves – that belonged to or remind them of their friend.
Some of us got a little carried away, writing six books instead of the one we promised we’d write.

But always, the reason is the same: to make sure that friend is not forgotten.

Yesterday I received a note from one of the men I interviewed for my latest book, Friend Grief and Men: Defying Stereotypes. He wrote to tell me what he’d done with one of his best friend’s baseball caps. It was a small gesture, one that no one would notice, but his friend would’ve enjoyed.

That day – and for the few minutes it took him to write that note – they were together again. His friend was remembered. His friend was loved.

He found a way. Will you?

 

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Friend Grief Events – August

If you subscribe to my newsletter (and you can do that on the right-hand side of this page), this will be old news. If not, there’s a lot going on:

 

August 4 – I’m doing a reading and signing of my latest book Friend Grief and Men: Defying Stereotypes at Bureau of General Services/Queer Division bookstore, in the LGBT Center in New York. I’m focusing on the most talked-about chapter in the book, comparing military veterans to long-term survivors in the AIDS community. Joining me is fellow ACT UP/NY member Jim Eigo, whose story is included. That book and Friend Grief and AIDS: Thirty Years of Burying Our Friends will be available for purchase.

August 7 – Three of my books (Friend Grief in the Workplace: More Than an Empty Cubicle, Friend Grief and the Military: Band of Friends and Friend Grief and Men: Defying Stereotypes) will be for sale in the Emerging Writers Tent at the Queens Book Festival at Citi Field. I’ll be doing a brief reading (Time: TBA) and signing. Admission to the Festival is free.

August 22 – Since the series is finished – and it’s still hard to believe – I’m holding a series finale party at Women & Children First bookstore in Chicago. I’ll be doing a reading from the new book, and all six books will be available for sale.

If you’re in Chicago or New York during these events, I hope you’ll stop by!

Updates on all of these events will post on my Events page. More announcements coming soon for the fall, so be sure to check back often.

 

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Friend Grief Overload

For the past month, I’ve been – like many of you reading this – in a near-constant depression. Maybe not a clinical depression, but a feeling of almost unending sadness.

It started with the slaughter at Pulse nightclub in Orlando. It wasn’t just shocking. I was disturbed by my reaction. I wasn’t alone. Many people – in and out of the LGBT community – were devastated by the horror inflicted on people out for a fun Saturday night.

But it didn’t stop there: Baton Rouge, Minnesota, and the sniper in Dallas. Those weren’t the only shootings. I live in Chicago and almost every news broadcast opens with a tally of the previous day’s gun violence. But I’m not here to talk about guns. There were bombings and plane crashes and car accidents. The bad news feels constant.

These are the events that get the attention of a nation, and deservedly so. The victims – strangers to most of us – deserve to be remembered. But what of the others, the ones whose deaths don’t make the nightly news?

Tomorrow I’m going to a wake and service for a man I first met seventeen years ago when our daughters were in kindergarten. His death wasn’t a shock, though he’s younger than I am. But the news almost pushed me over the edge.

Right now there are people glued to their TV’s trying to make sense of all the recent violence. There are people like me, doing their best to avoid watching one more minute. And there are people out there who are dealing with friend grief on a much more personal level,

Some of them lost friends in the well-publicized tragedies. Most lost friends whose picture will not be in the paper. There will be no public memorials for them. The president won’t speak at their funeral. But their grief is every bit as important, every bit as real, every bit as bottomless.

What can we do? About the larger issue of violence in our society…I have no clue. But we can help those who have lost friends: in very public and very private circumstances. We can be there for them: to listen, to hug, to be present. And if we’re the ones who have lost a friend, we can summon every ounce of strength and ask for help.

We all need help, especially when we grieve. Don’t try to do this alone. Now is the time to hold our friends close to us: as much as we can, as long as we can. And let them do the same for us.

 

 

 

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Finding Community at a Writer’s Conference

The 2011 WDC Pitch Slam. Every bit as terrifying as it looks.

Not long ago I blogged about my experience at Book Expo America. Now I’m preparing for next month’s Writer’s Digest Conference in New York.

It’s my 6th one (7 if you count LA a few years ago). The one I attended in 2011 was my first writing conference and I was terrified. I had no blog (that started a few weeks later). I had no Facebook author page (that took longer). I started tweeting on my way to New York. I had barely started writing. I learned a lot that weekend, in spite of myself.

As always I have a plan: what I want to accomplish while I’m there, who I hope to have a drink with (Porter Anderson and Gabriela Pereira among others) though I’m sad my conference buddy Kathy Pooler won’t be attending this year. And this year, unlike most years, I’m pitching a book.

Attending a large conference in any field is daunting. If it’s your first time, it can be terrifying, especially if you don’t know anyone there. You probably think everyone knows what they’re doing, except you. That’s not true, but it sure feels that way.

This year Writer’s Digest opened a Facebook group for attendees. The first couple of weeks seemed to focus on how far people were traveling, what to wear and how to pitch. Nothing wrong with that, but it felt tentative.

Then a few people started posting things like, “I write urban fantasy. Anyone else?” Before long, people were identifying themselves by their genres (sometimes multiple genres). Finally, there was someone in the group they could relate to! That feeling of isolation, of feeling alone was gone. The bonding didn’t stop there.

Now some of those groups have decided to meet, either pre-conference for lunch or during the conference. Few professions are as solitary as writing, and even though there was great excitement at finding like-minded people online, many felt a clear need to meet in person with those who “get” it.

At my first Writer’s Digest Conference in 2011, I was determined to make contact with other writers. The first night I sat at a table of mostly men who ignored me. But somehow I managed to find a group of other writers – Jeanne Veillette Bowerman, George Davis, Al Katkowsky, Karl Sprague, among others – who quickly became my posse. We were all there for different reasons, at different points in our careers, from different parts of the country. But we bonded, so that by the time the Pitch Slam was over on Saturday afternoon, we celebrated in the hotel bar and then ventured out onto 9th Avenue in search of a restaurant that would let us in.

The rest, as they say, is history. We are still in contact, still get together at conferences whenever possible, still keep in touch online. We read each other’s works-in-progress when we need feedback from someone we trust. We share blog posts and tweets. We seek advice and support. And we get it.

Conferences are great for skill-building and networking. But nothing compares to spending a weekend in a freezing cold hotel, eating over-priced food with friends you trust.

I’ll see a few familiar faces at Writer’s Digest. And I look forward to seeing new ones, too.

 

 

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Friend Grief and Grantchester

pbs.org

I’m a big fan of British period mysteries, and given the harsh reality of the news the past two weeks, I admit to a bit of escapism.

Grantchester is a traditional mystery series – based on the novels by James Runcie – set in the real-life town of Grantchester in Cambridgeshire eight years after the end of World War II. The stories revolve around the vicar, Sidney Chambers (played by James Norton) and his mate, grumpy police inspector Geordie Keating (played by Robson Green). They are supported by a memorable group of characters – Sidney’s assistant, his housekeeper, the girl-who-got-away, and others. The richness of the characters is what has kept me a fan through its three seasons on PBS.

The first season finale digs deep into Sidney’s personal demons: not just the woman he loved and lost, but the trauma of war. When two men who served in the same squad are murdered, and their former commanding officer suspiciously uncooperative, Sidney and Geordie vow to find the truth.

pbs.org

The body count continues: Geordie is gravely wounded when they search an empty factory for clues, and a third man from the squad kills himself in front of Sidney. Each successive violent incident, including Sidney’s inability to convince the third man to forgive himself, triggers flashbacks in Sidney: flashbacks to his own war trauma.

What happened to that squad – and separately to Sidney – was moral injury, something I wrote about in Friend Grief and the Military: Band of Friends. It’s what happens when you do something against your conscience. Maybe you feel you should’ve been able to stop something bad from happening. Maybe you feel guilty for being alive when those you served with are dead. Maybe you were forced to do something you knew was wrong.

In the case of the squad, they were ordered to unnecessarily kill Germans who were already captured and no threat to them. On their refusal, their squad leader did the deed. For Sidney, his own mistake led to the death of a man under his command (though the truth is much more devastating).

The guilt of what happened to the squad led to the murders and suicide. Geordie’s near-death eerily echoed the death of Sidney’s young soldier.

As I said, the story takes place in 1953. These men have had eight long years to grieve, to suffer, to blame themselves. They drank too much, drove too fast, slept with women they didn’t care about. No amount of penance could erase their guilt.

pbs.org

“We live in the shadow of it, “Sidney admits. “All of us.”

They punish themselves and do so in isolation. They don’t discuss what drove them to despair because their shame is too overwhelming. Sidney’s assistant and housekeeper reach out to him, offering their willingness to listen, to help him with the case (which they do, hilariously), to support him any way they can. But Sidney – like the men in that squad – doesn’t feel worthy of their love.

No spoilers here. You’ll have to watch the show yourself. But it won’t surprise anyone to learn that unlike other plot devices, Sidney’s moral injury isn’t “fixed” in one episode. The moral injury suffered by men and women in real life isn’t quickly or easily addressed either.

But if you want to learn more, and how you can make a difference, Military Outreach USA can help.

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Friend Grief and Orlando – Part 2

thehill.com

As I wrote last week, I had a hard time understanding my feelings when I heard the news of the massacre at Pulse, a gay nightclub in Orlando. Unlike my response to 9/11 – to watch TV for hours at a time trying to make sense of it – I understood why this happened. My response, though, was something that felt a lot like flashbacks. That’s because it was.

What I witnessed over the next week was a replay of the best of what I refer to as ‘the bad old days’: the early days of the AIDS epidemic. That was when I saw the real power of friendship.

Then, like now, many people in the LGBT community were shunned by their families and communities, denounced from the pulpit by men of God. Then, like now, they were fired from jobs and thrown out of apartments with no legal recourse. Then, like now, their lives were at risk every time they walked out the door, because they were despised.

What was different then – though it’s still a factor – was the double whammy of being gay and having AIDS. If you were gay, it was assumed you had AIDS and were a danger to all who came in contact with you. So being HIV-negative didn’t really help.

In the early days a lot was unknown. I was scared at first, too, but educated myself quickly. Many – maybe most – people didn’t bother. But those who did made all the difference.

It had long been the case that friends became family to many in the LGBT community, replacing birth families that rejected them. But when the AIDS epidemic began, those friendships became even more important.

No matter their own HIV status, friends stepped up. They gave financial support or a spare bedroom. They accompanied their friends to doctor appointments, acted as advocates in the event of health care (or lack of care) crises. They fed them, bathed them, buried them.

So now, with Orlando, many of those same tasks are being handled by friends. Again. There is a palpable ‘been there, done that’ feeling to it, though the circumstances are different. And the anger…wow, the anger is white hot. Because once again, the entire community is at risk.

These are people who survived the suffering and deaths of dozens, even hundreds of friends. These are the people who turned a red ribbon into a badge of honor and changed forever the way ordinary citizens deal with the government, the medical establishment and the media.

Do not underestimate them. There has been tremendous change in our world: greater understanding and acceptance of LGBT people. But as we witnessed last Sunday, there is a long way to go.

So it’s back to the streets, the halls of Congress, the internet. They will not rest until they feel safe, once and for all. I’ll be right there with them, any way that I can.

Because that’s what friends do.

 

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Friend Grief and Orlando

Like most of you, I woke up Sunday morning to the news of the massacre at Pulse nightclub in Orlando. And although the immediate rush to judgment was that it was a terrorist attack carried out by a young Muslim man, the unfolding truth is more complicated.

As I write this, we’re learning that he was not only infuriated by the sight of two men kissing, but he himself had spent time at the nightclub. He may have had a profile on a gay dating app. The facts are still being revealed. We’ll never really know why.

But one fact is certain: a gay nightclub was targeted. A group of people officially hated by most of the major religions and regularly denounced by politicians. A group of people that has endured an epidemic that is now 35 years old.

That’s the part that I can’t get out of my head, because I feel in some ways like it’s 1986, not 2016. As stunning as the developments have been in recent years for equal rights, so too has been the backlash. And much of it is eerily familiar.

When I read about bakers refusing to provide wedding cakes for gay weddings, I remember funeral directors who refused to bury anyone who died of AIDS.

When I read about protests at Target, against their policy of allowing transgender people to use the restroom they wish, I remember protests against allowing young Ryan White to attend school.

When I watched the Tony Awards, everyone was wearing ribbons, though they were silver this time, not red.

Last night I read about a call for volunteers to visit wounded survivors in the hospitals in Orlando because their families had kicked them out of their homes for being gay. I remembered a young man I visited in the hospital who was dying of AIDS. His family refused to visit, until they came to claim his body and return him home for a Christian burial and prayers that he would not in fact burn in hell (though they believed he deserved it).

For two days I’ve watched my friends in the LGBT community grieve: grief like I haven’t witnessed in decades. I’ve watched them speak before thousands of people in public vigils, honoring the dead and resolving to work for a better world. Again.

So, yeah…flashbacks.

I’m not going to lie: I don’t feel very optimistic right now. But I do know that what will sustain the survivors, the families and the friends is ultimately what got everyone through the early, dark days of the AIDS epidemic: love.

Friends – gay, straight, bisexual, transgender, gender queer – will make the difference again. We will be there to help in any way we can. We will push down our own grief to get the job done. We have to: because so many in the LGBT community have been turned away by their birth families. Friends will continue to step up.

What we won’t do now – and didn’t do then – was try to contain the rage. As one of the long-time volunteers at the Names Project told me about why she continues to work on the AIDS Quilt, “the anger fuels me”.

I hope we’re all angry right now: angry that anyone can cause that kind of destruction on a group of people they hate. Angry that anyone can hate a group of people that much. Angry that so many people are celebrating – online, in hypocritical “thoughts and prayers” comments and from the pulpit – the loss of forty-nine innocent lives.

And I hope to God we’re angry enough to do something to stop it from happening again.

 

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Nonfiction Book Proposals for Indie Authors?

She’s the expert. Not me.

A few years ago I wrote a nonfiction book proposal to submit to agents. That when I assumed I would go the traditional route. That didn’t happen.

Now that I’ve self-published six books (the Friend Grief series), I’m hard at work on the research for a bigger, more complicated book. Fag Hags, Divas and Moms: The Legacy of Straight Women in the AIDS Community examines the contributions they made around the world for the past 35 years.

I’m assuming that this will be self-published as well. I have an ongoing crowdfunding campaign through the New York Foundation for the Arts which grants tax-deductions for all contributions. There’s a lot of expense related to the research – travel, photocopies, permissions, etc. – so the money is not wasted.

But…

I recently ran into an agent I approached last summer about the idea for this book (that’s all it was at that point). He gave me valuable advice, which is guiding me now. He’s still interested in the book, so I’ll pitch him at a conference in August. It doesn’t necessarily mean I’m interested in traditional publishing, but I’m at a point where I could benefit from having an agent.

I decided to sit down and write a formal book proposal. Because the truth is, indie authors can benefit from doing so.

It forces you to explain yourself and your book in an objective way. This book is somewhat personal to me because I am one of those women. But since it’s not about me, I have to approach it in a thoughtful way. Not everyone knows what you know. That means I have to be able to explain it to people who are new to the subject.
It forces you to organize. The question I had for the agent last summer was about format. I figured there were two ways the book could go, and I wasn’t sure which one made the most sense. In some ways, I’m too close to the subject, so I needed the opinion of someone outside the AIDS community. His feedback confirmed what I suspected was the best way to go
It forces you to focus on marketing. What books are comparable? Can you define the genre? Who is your audience and why would they want to read your book? What’s your plan for reaching them? These are questions many authors avoid answering, because they force you to create a marketing campaign. And we all know many authors want nothing to do with marketing. It’s not something you can put off considering until after the book is published. I started a Facebook page about the book last September, a full two years before I expect the book to come out. I’ve written freelance articles on the topic and later this year will begin giving presentations 
It forces you to visualize: what will your book look like? One of the requirements for a nonfiction book proposal is a Table of Contents. That was the biggest part of my discussion with the agent, because I knew it would drive the direction of my research and interviews. I’m pretty clear on that now, though I assume it will be tweaked down the line. I’m also visualizing literally: collecting images to be used in the book
It forces you to write your book. Nonfiction book proposals differ from fiction by not requiring a finished manuscript, just a sample chapter or two. Truthfully, that’s the only part I don’t have. I have freelance articles, but not a chapter. But thanks to the ToC, I know which chapter I’ll write first.

All of these are things every author needs to consider, whether they are indie authors or are traditionally published. I won’t lie: it’s a lot of work. And when you’re already writing a book and living a life, the last thing you need is more work to do. But it’s worth it. It’s so worth it. Because no matter where you are in the process, it will result in a better book – one that you’ll be able to easily sell.

 

Here are some resources for crafting a nonfiction book proposal:

 

Start Here: How to Write a Book Proposal – Jane Friedman

Publish Your Nonfiction Book: Strategies for Learning the Industry, Selling Your Book and Building a Successful Career – Sharlene Martin

The Nonfiction Book Proposal Demystified: An Easy-Schmeasy Guide to Writing A Business Plan for Your Book -Nina Amir

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Friend Grief and Men: Defying Stereotypes

It’s here, finally, the last book in the Friend Grief series.

As I’ve said before, when I started this journey I believed that men would be difficult interviews. I worried that most of those I interviewed would have to be women. I was wrong on both counts. Tomorrow, June 1, is publication day for Friend Grief and Men: Defying Stereotypes.

I wanted to share an excerpt from the book here, but I was conflicted. Should I share the story of the friendship between two Chicago Tribune sports reporters? The three actors? Should I share a little from the chapter I’m most proud of, the one comparing military veterans and long-term survivors in the AIDS community?

In the end, I decided to share the dedication of the book. It was the first thing I wrote, in one sitting, in about ten minutes. That’s the thing about writing: sometimes (though not always) it comes easily. Luckily it did, because it guided me the rest of the way.

I hope it gives you a sense of the book: stories of men from their 20’s to their 80’s, gay and straight. Stories of men whose friends died on the battlefield, from a frightening virus, from cancer or heart disease or accidents. Stories of men who struggled to go on after losing the men and women whose friendship helped define their lives. You might laugh at some of them; you might cry, too. But all will touch you, and I hope, inspire you to support men who grieve their friends. Here, then, is the dedication:

My father’s friends were loud, sometimes profane, argumentative and fun. I was born in the 50’s so I still call them “mister”. I’ve never felt comfortable calling them by their first names.

You know how it is with the generation older than you: they’ve always been around and you assume they always will be. But, of course, that’s not true.

In 2005, Daddy was the first in his group to die, a few weeks before his seventy-seventh birthday. I don’t know how much they talked about his illness when I wasn’t around. I do know that as shocked and worried as they were about his prognosis, they did not abandon him.

In some ways, they did what a lot of men do when something bad is happening: they ignored it. They were still loud, profane, argumentative and fun. That had to be a comfort to my father, even as he also pretended everything was fine.

And when it mattered, they showed up – one within the hour – after we finally called in hospice care. Another – the loudest, funniest, most profane and argumentative – took one look at Daddy in his hospital bed in the living room and bolted for the front porch to fall apart.

They came to the wake and served as pallbearers. They picked up my mother for occasional group lunches. They took her out to breakfast.

The group is smaller now, and in a few years it will be gone completely. My father was a good friend to them and that love was returned, though not perhaps in ways that were obvious. I’ll always be grateful for their love.

This book is dedicated to my father and his friends: Mr. Guthrie, Mr. D’Angelo, Mr. Salmieri, Mr. Coughlin and Jake Taylor (the exception to the “mister” rule because he’s almost always referred to by his full name). Someday they’ll all be together again, to tease and joke and solve the problems of the world while drinking scotch and listening to Sinatra.

And that will be a very good day.

 

Friend Grief and Men: Defying Stereotypes is available in e-book format from Kindle, Nook, Kobo; coming later this week on iTunes. The paperback version will be out June 11.

To meet some of the men in the book, check out my Pinterest board.

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