By Rabbi Rachel Esserman

Reading “My Childhood in Pieces: A Stand-up Comedy, a Skokie Elegy” by Edward Hirsch (Alfred A. Knopf) and Rachel J. Lithgow’s “My Year of Bad Dates” (She Writes Press) for this review left me with a question to ponder: What’s the point of writing a memoir? I’m not asking that because these books weren’t worth reading, but rather because the authors not only focused on very different parts of their lives, but they also approach the material from very different points of view. For example, when authors write about difficult times in their lives – I’ve yet to read a memoir where someone focuses on a good period – they are usually processing the traumas that occurred. However, Hirsch is accurate when describing his work as “stand-up comedy”: the mostly very short vignettes about his childhood left me expecting to hear a drum rimshot highlighting the punch line. While Lithgow does include humor in her work, her focus is more on the anguish and distress she felt. Hirsch seems to be distancing himself from the pain, while Lithgow highlights those feelings. The dates she describes are really a jumping-off point for her in-depth review of her past in order to understand her present. 
I was not familiar with Hirsch’s poetry when I asked for his book, although I have enjoyed several poems since finishing his memoir. His prologue, which made me laugh, immediately introduces his stylistic choice: “My grandparents taught me to write my sins on paper and cast them into the water on the first day of the New Year. They didn’t expect an entire book.” His work, though, is more about the sins of his family, or, perhaps more accurately, their foibles. 
His parents’ marriage was an unhappy one. His father was a gambler and a runaround. At one point, he moved with his new girlfriend to a different state and didn’t see his two children for years. After Hirsch’s mother remarried, her new husband became a father figure to the author and his sister. The child from that new marriage is treated by Hirsch as a full sibling, although the children from his father’s second marriage were strangers. Hirsch defies the stereotype of a typical poet: he is a jock in high school, participating in several sports. Although he did start writing poetry in high school, his interest is mentioned only a few times in passing. 
The most interesting sections describe the author’s very colorful relatives and the many family fights and disagreements, although the specifics started to blend together as the pages turned. Hirsch’s writing career takes place after the close of his memoir; if readers didn’t know he was a published poet before starting the book, they might still be unaware after finishing the work. The memoir left me with mixed feelings. It was easy to read and entertaining. However, it reads more like a series of snapshots, rather than a full portrait. Or, to use another metaphor, it feels like a puzzle that’s missing some of its pieces. Perhaps those who know more of Hirsch’s writing might be able to fill in those blanks.
While readers need to piece together Hirsch’s life, Lithgow offers a technicolor view of hers, even though most of it is less than pleasant. One thing is noticeably missing: the author never mentions the name of her almost ex-husband (at the time of writing, they were separated, but he had yet to sign the divorce papers) and his very famous actor father. That is understandable because her comments come very close to libel, although, from what she writes, I doubt a) that they’ll read her book and b) they would simply treat it with the same disdain they treat her life.
Lithgow notes the abuse that occurred in her family of origin, which led her to accept abuse from her college boyfriends and husband. The memoir takes place during a difficult time: her father is dead, she is turning 50 soon and her 22-year marriage is over – but still affecting her life. Plus, she’s been dumped by Joe, her boyfriend for most of the past year, who was a) moving to another state to marry a woman he just met and b) still claims that she is the love of his life. Does Lithgow block his number? No. She continues to carry on a dialogue with him, even though she knows their relationship is over. At least he has a job: she is still supporting her husband, who has never held a real one or contributed money to help finance their life. Even better, he seems completely undependable when it comes to their two children who are now teenagers and who have difficulties of their own. 
Although Lithgow injects humor into her work, particularly when describing the various bad dates she has, it will be clear to most readers that she has mental health issues. It, therefore, came as no surprise when, toward the end of the memoir, she is diagnosed with PTSD. While successful in the work world, she has never dealt with her emotions, locking them into some mental closet as if that would make them disappear.
At the end of “My Year of Bad Dates,” the author finally seems to be coming to terms with her life, but that still feels like a work in progress. What may surprise readers is her noting that she wouldn’t have changed a thing in her life. At least, it surprised me. Maybe that’s mentally healthy for her since she can’t change the past, but I certainly hope she has learned from it. Otherwise, she risks making the same bad choices the rest of her life.