Remembering Susan
There are a few anniversaries that pop up on my phone. My wedding day, friend’s birthdays and the dates of a few people who have died like my dad, mom and brother. One person who is on that list is my late friend, Susan. She was special to everyone she ever met. For me, she was instrumental in helping me launch my writing career.
Susan and I worked together at a cluster of radio stations. She was the administrative assistant to the general manager, and I was one of several producers and engineers for all the stations. Both Susan and I had been writing since we were teenagers, and although Susan was my junior by 20 some years, our love of language and writing brought us together.
Susan was of Filipino ancestry. She grew up in Catholic school, always pulling against the reins at school and at home, struggling to be the obedient daughter of two very traditional parents and yearning to be a modern American teenager. She defended her heritage ferociously and like many children of immigrants, made a point of educating people. When someone once praised her for how well she spoke English, she responded “I was born here, dumbass.” I later found a tote bag with an illustration depicting exactly that scene and gave it to her.
Susan often corrected my language like my mother did. On one occasion, when I referred to someone as “Oriental,” Susan quickly responded seriously and a bit icily, “Things are Oriental. People are Asian.” I was in love with her from that moment on.
Once we discovered our mutual interest in writing, we shared our stories or ideas for stories. More than that, Susan challenged me. She might come back with a criticism about a character description or a plot line and make me write revisions. She challenged me on nearly everything, sometimes, I think, just to see if I would stand my ground. Most importantly, she would make me write things that were uncomfortable for me. Things that were out of my wheelhouse. She made me write my own obituary and tore it apart when it wasn’t glowing enough. She made me write an erotic story that she insisted had to be from my personal experience. She was the only one to read it before I deleted it. She had only one minor suggestion that I must admit, did make the story better.
Susan wrote personal stories but preferred to write erotica. She might have me make suggestions about phrasing or descriptions of things, but never made me read her stories because she knew that it would make me uncomfortable. (“Should I say that his penis bobbed like a diving board or like a popsicle stick in the mouth of a toddler?”)
I, in turn, challenged her to write things that were more personal. She always wrote from a distance, never writing about her marriage, her children, her paternal family or friends. She would tell wonderful stories about her father and her kids but refused to write about them. Later, I would write about her father as a respected member of the Filipino community in the story Boxed In and about her son’s dealing with his heritage in the story An American Pirate. She loved these stories that were written almost word for word as she had told them to me.
Our writing got better and better. She showed me the economy of words and ways to be more descriptive. She bought my books and passed them on to her family and friends. Even after a book was published, if she found a flaw or mistake, she would point it out.
I begged her to publish. She refused time and time again. I showed her how she could do it for nothing, do it anonymously if she liked or through a publisher, but she just didn’t believe that her erotica was anything anyone would want to read and she wasn’t interested in writing anything else. Through it all she served as a muse, a critic, an editor and cheerleader for me.
In 2013, Susan was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma, a cancer of the blood cells. At first, she refused to learn the lingo of cancer, believing that it would accelerate her condition. Her cancer was particularly aggressive, and she lost her beautiful long, dark hair during treatment, a crushing blow for her. She did her best to live her life. She continued to work, doted on her sons and refused to talk about her condition. She sought out other women who were dealing with or had survived cancers. The group dubbed themselves the “Chemosabes.”
Susan began writing about her cancer journey, the first time she had ever written anything personal. She wrote about everything; her diagnosis, her husband leaving her because he couldn’t handle her illness, her sons’ difficulty in understanding all these things. Sometimes, she wrote angrily, sometimes with humor and often with resignation. I felt somehow responsible for her cancer because I had always tried to get her to write about herself. If I had let her alone, maybe cancer would not have come calling.
She never asked me to read her blog, but I did. I have it on my computer to this day. She never asked me to critique her blog, and I probably wouldn’t have if she had asked. Susan continued to visit with me. I would get a text or email inviting me to lunch. She always chose a place that was sunny and always made sure she was well dressed and the effects of cancer on her disguised. She always smiled brightly, and her eyes sparkled just the way they always had when I first met her.
When Susan finally succumbed to her disease, I went to the funeral, a Catholic mass at her parent’s church. Everyone that ever knew her was there, I think. Her Chemosabes huddled together and I’m sure that the radio stations were all running skeleton crews that morning.
I tried for some time to find another writing partner, but no one was ever as interested in what I wrote as Susan. Some were wrapped up in their own work while others were too afraid to be critical of my work. Others were just lazy. Just as well. Susan never stopped trying to make me better. I’m sure if Susan were to read this, I’d be getting an email with a few notes on how to make this better. She was one of a kind.
Copyright 2024 by Jose Antonio Ponce