“IT WAS GREAT TO see students stepping up and helping out,” writer Jane Hawley said of Kimberly Navarro, the host for “Reading the Invisible Memoirs,” a fundraiser and event for Random Writers Workshop and the release of the anthology, “Invisible Memoirs: Lionhearted.”

What would I have done without Kimberly as emcee on Friday the 13th? Probably would have canceled the event. When I wasn’t feeling well I put out the call and every student was ready to help. No cancellation necessary.

Jane authored the graphic memoir, “Grand Mal,” and read fiction prior to Navarro finishing off the night with an excerpt from her memoir, “The Visitation.” Both women read complex prose. Along with the rest of the memoirists, their words captivated the audience over at The Gate.

Felt like Jane had really grown in her ability to perform since attending Texas State’s MFA Fiction program. Kimberly is an attorney in the making, so she’s a natural on the stage as well.

I was moved by Melinda Carroll reading from “I Earned That Diamond.” Her tale is about relationships gone so bad they’re like a tumultuous earth coughing up diamonds. Call me a big baby. I wanted to cry soon as she stepped onto the stage to share her story. Like the evening’s other readers, she performed as if she wasn’t nervous at all.

One woman said after hearing Melinda read: “I’m going to go home and write! She told my story. That’s my story.”

I think Melinda told a lot of women’s stories that night. Women who stand up for what they earned through enduring hard times with oppressive men. I’m drawn to the line from her memoir which talks about a ring from her mother: “I love wearing a ring that represents a love that weathers storms . . .”

Melinda admitted she couldn’t eat before the event. I thought maybe she would bow out. Thought the same about Veronica Madrigal, whose poetry inspired the title of the The Invisible Memoirs Project anthology. Veronica stopped by earlier in the day for a pep talk. I offered encouragement about sharing personal details. “We all have problems,” I said. “Just tell anyone who judges you, they should see the problems the other writers have.” Of course I was half joking. “People will connect with your words,” I added.

Neither student quit on the evening. In fact, both gave such strong performances that I really wished they had entire books of their own to sell. The standing-room-only crowd would have easily bought fifty copies.

Who had the most laughs during the event? Ann Cook. She read from “Happy Acres Trailer Park.” Kids laughed. Old people chuckled. I think there was even a few guffaws. I’ll tell you what those giggles meant to me: a prediction. Ann’s manuscript will sell. She’s going to sell to a mainstream publisher and have every audience in stitches.

Ann suggested a few gulps of wine helped her deliver her tales. “Good thing I was prepared,” she wrote on Facebook. Of course everyone loved her reading. “When people tell me how much they enjoy Happy Acres Trailer Park, all the time I spend laboring over every single word is worth it.”

Nancy Edwards read sweetly with her husband Mitch, both decked out in Christmas attire and gave her afterthoughts about the evening: “The reading had a magical presence and I was delighted to be a part of the event! Everyone did a wonderful job and you could feel the honesty of each work as it was written and presented. Thanks to all who continue to give us truth, feedback, and support each week in our Random Writers group.”

Brian Dees was so into reading from his working class memoir, “Shipped Back,” that I thought he looked at me at one point like I was an evil boss from his past. Was he going to jump off the stage and kick my ass? Would the show really break out, then? Do writers throw chairs?

The murder of an inmate in “Snitch,” is just a damn hard story to write, let alone read. After Shannon Choate performed her memoir she thanked me for helping empower her as a writer. As I write this brief essay, I think: Those are your words, Shannon. Your memories. Your experiences put down in a gesture of remembrance. What was I but a facilitator? A sort of messed-up dreamcatcher helping writers grab hold of their most haunting memories.

The violent murder of an inmate in Shannon Choate’s piece. The meaningfulness of familial artifacts in Maria Mercado’s tale of a shawl. The seizure of Jane Hawley’s mother. The dishonesty of a broken relationship in Melinda Carroll’s past. The death of an elderly woman in Nicole Bradley’s recollections (and her own fulfillment of having a child). The visitation of a statue of the Virgin Mother that Kimberly Navarro as a young girl wanted so badly to touch, even Ann Cook stealing Barbies. Sure, we laughed about Ann’s recollections. But they haunted her as well and still do.

My own stories in the nine parts of “Anhinga” about nearly drowning also haunt me. They haunted me further when Kimberly Navarro’s father told me he almost drowned twice. I never thought my story would connect with anyone. Even as an instructor I forget about my own life, that I’m just a sorrowful creature at times, haunted in similar ways to other writers.

Memoirists connect to people in the most beautiful of ways.

I nearly cried when reading the last words of my memoir in a scene reminiscing about what saved my life as I slid down a canal bank toward raging waters. I was around four or five at the time.

I didn’t cry though. I buckled down and stood my ground. Now I leave them with you.

This was Dad’s lament for what he thought would be my constantly sinking body. I sang it over and over. I sang it until I stopped sliding, just inches above the canal’s raging edge.

And then for the first time I felt like I knew who I was. I stopped crying and looked over to where I still held my lunchbox. Slowly, I moved up the canal bank, swimming through the mud.

Inch by inch, I made my way.

I knew who I was. I really did. I looked upward and flapped my wings.

I was an angel now and I soared.

(Of course, if you want to read more of my words, or anyone else’s, just contact me to order “Invisible Memoirs: Lionhearted.”)
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