Nin Andrews
What were the biggest challenges to writing your story?  Were there parts you didn’t want to put down on paper?

Joan Cusack Handler
The interesting thing about this writing experience which was unlike any     I’ve ever had was that once she opened up, it was clear that Joan wanted to talk, and she didn’t stop; she had something to say about everything. This book was twice its current length at one time. The girl who wrote that book HAD to tell it all, so I, like an instrument, complied. I didn’t have difficulty putting down the truth; the difficulty came when the book moved towards publication, and I had to face the reader with the truth of my shame—fearing I was a Giant, wetting the bed and my pants in 7th or was it 6th grade, having boils and colitis. The whole time that Joan was talking, she was not aware of or concerned about who was listening (after all she was in Confession); only after she finished and decided to turn her life over to readers, did I/the adult Joan worry about being judged.

The greatest challenge was not in the writing—that was a lark—I wrote sun up to sun down, and I was delirious—crazy about this girl and about everything she had to say; the challenge came in the cutting and shaping, in the ordering of the chapters—what stayed, what had to go, what new chapter had to be written, where to place each incident in relation to what came before and after. How to tell the story. I probably have about 10–15 different orders of chapters, and in the end, I went with an order that unfolded according to Joan’s psychology–given who this girl was and what her fears and anxieties were, what her guilt and shame were, which ‘secrets’ she’d reveal and in what order. Obviously, her betrayal of her sister around the corsage incident was the hardest to reveal—she tried so hard not to be the kind of person who would bring down pain on her sister. Even on Sonny, her torturer.

Nin Andrews
Was it emotionally healing to confess? Both in the church and on the page?

Joan Cusack Handler
Yes, confession was always a healing experience—no matter what you did, the priest, standing in for God, forgave you, provided that you were sorry. And Joan was always sorry; she tried so hard to be good, so she was very grateful that she had the solace of confession to, as she would say, clean up her soul. In a strange way, confessing on the page, seemed to give that Joan back to me; it closed the circle. Once ‘it’ (whatever she was hiding) was ‘out’, it receded in its power to torment. The writing brings the experience to closure. It heals.

Nin Andrews
Your brother, Sonny, was violent, and you had bladder control issues.  I wondered if these were reactions to being in a repressive school, household, and religion?  One had to lose control at some point?

Joan Cusack Handler
Unquestionably, Sonny’s violence and Joan’s lack of bladder control can be explained by the rigidity we all lived with. As one shrink said to me, I was helpless to control any part of my environment, so I expressed my anger by “pissing on ‘em”. And I did. One could say the same about the colitis and the boils—Joan’s body was constantly erupting/breaking out/exploding. Sonny’s explosions were violent and directed towards others (me and Jerry in particular) while Joan’s explosions, equally violent were directed towards herself. It was virtually impossible psychologically to live with the extremes of emotional pain that she did and not let them out anywhere. She had to explode. Keep in mind that the real Joan didn’t have a notebook and refused to think about all that hurt and shamed her.
Sonny and Joan can be seen as the two sides of anger—that which is turned outward (Sonny) and depression—anger turned inward/ on the self (Joan).

Nin Andrews
When you are writing, do you envision a reader?  An ideal audience?

Joan Cusack Handler
Not really. I assume an interested listener. Open minded. Like myself actually. My ideal audience is interested in the emotional and psychological underpinnings of human experience and relationships—In short, why we do what we do; what we feel and why.

Nin Andrews
Eudora Welty said that all writers are essentially assembled by the time they are fifteen.  While I balk at any generalization about “all writers,” I think this might be true of you?

Joan Cusack Handler
To a certain extent, that’s true. Certainly when it comes to character and personality, it is—and a strong interest in and understanding of people and their stories. I’ve often thought that though I didn’t get my psychology PhD till I was forty, I was a shrink at twelve. But it took till well into adulthood for me to develop intellectually—to think. One of the liabilities of being raised in orthodoxy (as traditional Catholicism is) is that one is taught to accept what authority, particularly Church authority, says– without pause or question. That’s the faith we aspired to—believing what we were told to believe. As Joan would say, “Faith’s the thing you can’t be a Catholic without.” Consequently, because I went to parochial school straight through college, I was not ‘schooled’ in thinking openly and for myself. There was very little discussion in any class. Certain topics were never raised; with others, the truth was set down, and we accepted it. Where dissonance crept in, I stifled my doubts and questions because they were signs of ‘pride’ and a lack of faith –a serious flaw in a devout Catholic. The one beacon of actual thought that I remember was my Literary Criticism class in which I had to take a stand and defend my position with examples from the work rather than from what the professor said. It was taught by none other than Dr. Johnson, tall and lanky complete with silver tufts of hair flying like wings as he moved and gesticulated his love affair with literature. It stands out as my favorite class though anxiety had to have been part of that initiation as well.

The other part of my development that was delayed was my emotional growth. For me and for my whole family, Irish and Catholic, emotions were not confronted—not spoken about—they were hidden, repressed, acted out. So, for all practical purposes they did not exist. Once again, it took till well into adulthood and many many years in therapy (about 30) for me to learn to identify and eventually integrate what I felt into my life.

Nin Andrews
In my interview with Michael Miller, he said, “Poetry is poetry and not truth, it’s an art, and very little of art is a true depiction of what has occurred.”  Memoir, I think, is also an art.  But can it also be a true depiction of what has occurred?  How do you navigate between art and truth?

Joan Cusack Handler
I’d disagree with Michael’s use of the word truth/true –I’d substitute ‘accurate depiction’ for his ‘true depiction’.  The truth of poetry is part of
what makes it art, but that truth is about essence rather than particulars
and about universality—the artist’s subliminal connection with the world
that unifies experience. It doesn’t matter what particulars we focus on, include or leave out, as long as we are creating a wholeness, an honest wholeness, we are depicting truth.

That said, I feel ridiculous speaking about the Big A (ART) and Truth in
this way. The terms become fuzzy and intellectual and seemingly full of
hot air. My son (a composer and a violinist) and I abhor these discussions.
Maybe I would feel less awkward if we changed the term from Truth to Life
(looks like Joan just jumped in here with her penchant for caps). Yes, Life
works. Poetry is life. Memoir is life. Art is life. And, as far as I’m concerned, if we manage to recreate life, we’ve expressed truth.

Nin Andrews
Did you use fictional names at all?

Joan Cusack Handler
Only once when I referred to a family in what may be considered negative terms.

Nin Andrews
You read a lot as a girl.  Who did you read then?  And who are your major    literary influences now?

Joan Cusack Handler
I read nurse books mostly—the Sue Barton series; I’d have preferred doctor books because doctors were bosses over the nurses, but they were few and far between—and of course Gone with the Wind. In high school I was mad about Eugene O’Neil’s plays, the Bronte  sisters, Hawthorne. In college, my interest in strong women focused on Anna Karenina, the Kristen Lavransdatter trilogy along with Shakespeare of course, the American greats–Sinclair Lewis, John Steinbeck, Hemingway. Currently, I am rereading the Russians—the greatest delineators of character that I’ve encountered (next to Shakespeare of course)—Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Chekhov. I never tire of them. They continue to teach me so much about the possibilities of language and character, and I read them over and over. Just like I haven’t heard enough after listening to Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony once, I can’t take in what a literary master offers me with one reading. My interest through the years has been on character development, and I am consistently moved and humbled at how much these writers knew about psychology—they were actually medical doctors as well as writers. In poetry, I go to Whitman for expansion/freedom and for permission when I fear that I may be saying too much or breaking the poetry ‘rules’ and to Hopkins for cadence and language. Once again, my interest in poetry is in that which explores the emotional/psychological terrain of human experience and relationships. People centered poems as opposed to intellectual poems. Molly Peacock and Louise Gluck are two that I admire.

Nin Andrews
Have your siblings seen Confessions?  If so, what do they think?

Joan Cusack Handler
The only one of my siblings who has read Confessions is my sister, Catherine. Though she finds some of what’s recounted in it painful to recall, she loves the book and values it as a history of our family.
Nin Andrews

Catholicism, it seems, informed almost every aspect of your childhood.   It feels like a presence on every page of the book.   Does it still shape you?  As a writer?  A person?  Are you still Catholic?

Joan Cusack Handler
I used to think that I would one day be free of Catholicism and its dictates.
Not surprisingly, I realize of late that that will never be the case. And I’m finally not angry about it; in fact I like what remains. And it follows from my upbringing–God was a member of our family—the Supreme Father, as was Jesus, the Blessed Mother and the saints, and one does not get rid of family whether one wills to or not. Even when one does not see them. They are woven permanently into the tapestry of who we are. I can no more separate out Catholicism from who I am, than I can being Irish and Tall and emotionally very sensitive. Though I haven’t gone to Mass for many many years—40 or so—except with my Dad during his summer visits with me and my family in East Hampton– I still get tearful when I hear the hymns we sung—particularly the Latin—and automatically start praying when I’m fearful or anxious. At the same time, however, as sure as I was as a girl about the right and wrong/ black and white of so much in life—God exists, He created all life, Satan thrives, heaven is reward, hell, our just punishment, I am that unsure today. I don’t even know what I believe. I was never able to make the transition from Catholicism to freedom and independent thought without wiping out most of what I believed as a girl. I regret that. I would like to have a belief system that worked for me at this point in my life—though I’ve felt this way when I was a younger woman as well—there is great solace in knowing that a Supreme Being exists and is watching over us; likewise, it’s lonely being an orphan.

Nin Andrews
I read Mary Karr’s memoirs a while ago, and she was wild as a girl, and so were her parents.  In her last memoir, Lit, Karr turns to Catholicism to heal her alcoholism and her soul.  Reading her work, I wondered if Catholicism, complete with all its formality, history, and liturgy, offered what her childhood had lacked.  When I read Confessions, I wondered, how does one navigate in the opposite direction?

Joan Cusack Handler
It’s very difficult as I explain above. Though a friend of mine once said that she loves Fallen Away Catholics –the orthodoxy is gone, but the scaffolding, the values, remain. And that’s true. I remain an intensely spiritual person committed to Loving My Neighbor as Myself as the second great commandment directed. But unlike the young Joan who suffered over each decision/move she made for fear that she wasn’t doing a good enough job as a person/Catholic/sister/daughter/girl, I don’t suffer from those doubts any more. I don’t struggle constantly with guilt and shame—my two greatest torturers during the better part of my life. There is no end to the peace of that freedom. I trust my intentions. I know I’m a good person—that I am devoted to being the best person that I can be, and live as authentic a life as I can. I love days like today, Yom Kippur, which calls for our assessment of our efforts over the past year and, like the Jewish form of Confession, a plea for forgiveness. I tell myself that who or what we turn to for that –God, or life, or our own conscience is really immaterial—sometimes I believe that. ‘So the scaffolding remains…’ as I say in one of my poems. Thank God for the scaffolding. Thank the Church for the scaffolding. Thank my father. Thank me.

Nin Andrews
I love the title, The Confessions of Joan the Tall, which made me laugh when I first read it. I thought, Joan the tall instead of Joan of Arc. I also loved the very ornate calligraphy, reminiscent of The Book of Kells. Was the title meant to be humorous?

Joan Cusack Handler
First of all, I too love the title, but I can’t take credit for it; it was the creation of my good friend, Baron Wormser. I’ve been known to obsess   forever over a title, but when Baron, also one of the editors of the book,  suggested it, I knew it was right—for several reasons. First, it’s reminiscent of the way that saints and other well -known figures were  defined in Catholicism. The person was described by the trait that most distinguished them—such as John the Apostle, Jude the Obscure. These existed outside the Church as well—i.e. Ivan the Terrible (just as they continue to exist in Mafia mythology –i.e. Johnny the Nose or Sammy the Bull). And yes, there is definitely some tongue in cheek humor in the title;  it mirrors Joan’s sense of humor –one of her saving graces.

But the title also reflects a very painful truth—that Joan felt she was her
height (Joan would capitalize Height). To the world, it was the most
important thing about her; the first thing noticed and the only thing talked
about. She could never get beyond it. The rest of her was obliterated by it
(I wanted to censor that word and go for something milder, but I think that obliterated was how she felt). She could have been mean and cruel or kind and loving, but those traits would not have been noticed; she would never be more than her height. Thankfully, she was wrong.

That reminds me of another point that I’ve noticed of late. Interestingly, I
speak of Joan as a separate identity—the character I portray as an actor
portrays a character. Some of that makes sense in that the details are accurate—they are taken from my life—the family is realistically portrayed
(though slanted by my experience) and the conflicts are real—no one
would manufacture a boil on one’s eye lid—but shaping the narrative arc
and the choice of character traits to focus on as one brings those characters to life was part of the making of a piece of art. So was at least some of Joan’s feistiness and quick wit. It’s not that these traits did not exist in me—they certainly define me now, but I can never be sure that the Joan I put on paper is the Joan I was. All things considered, she’s the Joan I want her to have been.  I really like this girl; in fact, I love her, and I feel deeply for her.

But the other truth about creating or recreating a character is that once
you have brought her to life with words on paper, she exists on her own.
She has her own identity separate from and independent of the writer/me.
Psychologically, this also works for me. To say that it is difficult to tell the
truth of one’s story is an understatement. In poetry we have form, line and   imagery to frame and contain the emotion; it seems that, at least for me,   memoir moves in so sharply on the target (me!) that I need to establish
distance as a means of protection. For all practical purposes, I need to get
dressed in order to appear in public, and I do this by referring to (and
actually experiencing!) the speaker of the story as separate from me—as
Joan. I can discuss her as Joan; as me, I feel shy and vulnerable.

Nin Andrews
At the top of each page, you have these letters, JMJ under a cross.  Is that for Jesus, Mary, Joseph?  Is that something that appears in Catholic books?

Joan Cusack Handler
Yes, every child who went to Catholic school learned to devote their every word to Christ on the Cross, Mary and Joseph—The Holy Family. The commitment was so engrained that we put it on everything we wrote –homework, class work, greeting cards, letters. That symbol identified us as devout Catholics committed to Christ and proud to stand up and be counted. The cross, JMJ also reflected our understanding that every aspect of our lives ‘belonged’ to The Lord.

Nin Andrews
Joan uses capitalization a lot. Can you choose a section of the book that exemplifies that and tell us why?

Joan Cusack Handler
Because Confessions is actually Joan’s conversations with herself and her notebook, she is not concerned with the traditional dictates of grammar and punctuation. She uses Caps to signify how important a word and what it represents; it’s one of Joan’s idiosyncratic ways of expressing her feelings and underscoring her ways of thinking about a topic, ie. Mortal sins are Terrible; venial sins aren’t so bad— clearly there’s a serious difference between the 2 types of sins and Joan gives a kind of visual of that—the caps more important or senior letters compared to the quieter more benign smaller letters.

Confessions is reflective of my poetry as well. My project for all of my work is to recreate voice –on the page– and as such I use words and letters as visuals–physical objects that have shape and size– to deepen or further carry that voice. My goal is always authenticity and I carry that through to the way the words appear on the page. Not all voices are best revealed in perfect diction and line. In my poetry I use the page as canvas and move away from the more traditional left margin as the starting off and returning  point. The poem tells me where it wants to start and where it wants to go as it reveals itself–as it speaks. If I followed my inclination to its fullest, and I hope I do someday, rather than broken into several pages of a traditional size book, my poems would be of one piece on huge stretches of paper and rolled or hung. I think we are stymied by book size-the limits of a book that fits on a bookcase—words want a  broad canvas  as does the mural or symphony. As far as Confessions is concerned, the page doesn’t impede, but perfect diction and grammar would have been a violation rather than a representation of the voice –at odds or out of sync with–and therefore an impediment to our hearing it—like putting on  Sunday clothes when you’re going out to play—they just don’t fit.

Excerpt from Confessions of Joan the Tall

Washing Your Soul
I try to be really really careful with My Soul. I’m not even
sure what it is, not like my body that I’m pretty clear
about. But the Soul’s different, you can’t see it and it’s
more Important than anything. I figure it has to be some-
where inside the body. For a while I thought maybe it filled
in the spaces between my heart and my belly, another time
I decided it was in my left arm up close to the top where we
get our vaccination. And the Soul’s round too I think, like
a cupcake, the bottom part where the paper is. That sounds
kind of weird but it seems like a pretty good answer to the
Not Being Able to Picture It and Where on Earth Is It Soul
Problems I’m always thinking about. And the color changes,
before Confession it’s all dark grey and smudgy but after Con-
fession and Penance it’s all white and pure. I like thinking of
the grey disappearing and my soul being all clean and white
again. More than anything I want a Clean and Pure Soul.

Nin Andrews
Confessions is written in the voice of a Catholic girl coming of age.  Did you keep journals from your childhood?  Do you still hear the voice of the girl you once were?

Joan Cusack Handler
Actually, I didn’t keep journals as a girl. I still don’t, but I try to carry a notebook with me in the hope that something will spur me to write. (Because my intention is often much purer than reality, I usually have to count on the envelope from a doctor’s bill or credit card payment to sit in for one of the 6 or so notebooks I have strewn in different places around the house, ready for me to make use of them.)

It’s strange how clearly I heard Joan’s voice as I wrote; I felt very much like a vessel carrying this girl inside me. It’s the closest I’ve come to giving birth that I’ve experienced since actually giving birth to my son 32 years ago.  Several people have described it as channeling, and that’s what it felt like. Though I’m not still writing in that 12 year old voice, she’s still very much there, and I can access her voice pretty much at will. Because I kept so much in as a child and well into adulthood, I felt like I was meeting this girl for the first time and finally opening up to what she refused to feel and know when she was living those experiences. A part of me that I’d been deprived of came to life for me in full color, and I felt as though my life rearranged itself and clicked into place. I met this girl I had been for the first time; though I knew the details of her biography, I was finally privy to her internal world.

Nin Andrews
Being tall was the curse of your childhood.  You really suffered from being an almost six foot tall girl.   Did your faith help or hurt you to cope with this your negative self image?

Joan Cusack Handler
I did suffer a great deal from the incessant teasing and from feeling so different and weird. I prayed all the time as a girl, and my faith in Jesus and the Blessed Mother was a kind of spiritual muscle that I fully trusted. In the end, I always knew that God was there with me, and I could count on Him to help me through whatever pain I experienced. After all, look at what He suffered for me. Like Rose Kennedy, I tried to hold on to the fact that He wouldn’t ask me to bear what I couldn’t. As an adult who’s been estranged from the Church for 40 years, I miss that faith and conviction that, as the Irish Blessing says, God holds me in the palm of His hand.