Your Life is a Prize: On Allison Hite's “Never, Ever Give Up”

Allison Hite (ed.) | Never, Ever Give Up: Anonymous Stories and Letters from Northeast Ohio | Parafine Press | July 2020 | 156 Pages

In the spring of 2019, Allison Hite arranged an art installation at Hart Crane Memorial Park, the rolling elbow of riverfront grass near Merwin's Wharf. She displayed dozens of handwritten letters describing the hardest thing that the anonymous authors ever had to do. She also set up a giant yellow mailbox, so that people passing through the park could respond to the writers and recognize their trials.

“Every time I read one of the stories, I’m absolutely amazed by how strong people are,” Hite told WEWS at the time. People started showing up and reading and writing, contributing to the conversation. The artistic intent multiplied.

This summer, Hite has packaged many of the stories in book form. Never, Ever Give Up: Anonymous Stories and Letters from Northeast Ohio came out this summer via Parafine Press.

As an actual book, the collection functions more as a retrospective of the art installation at the park. Interspersed among the stories are photos of the display in action, the curious and receptive residents of Northeast Ohio who spent time with these words and wrote letters of their own. It's the dialogue of a city's faith—that's the art we're really talking about here. On the page, it may read as a passive version of the in-person event, but what is the written word except for an echo of moments past?

The leitmotif difficulties in Never, Ever Give Up will sound familiar to most of us: addiction, grief, abandonment (both healthy and abusive) and the drawn-out pain of becoming oneself. In these stories, which are often short and perhaps intentionally vague, we see great swaths of individual lives melted into bittersweet transformation.

And the stories get to the point quickly enough to form passing lumps in the reader’s throat. Each one is just a few short sentences (or even just a few short words). They are relatable in how broadly the writers might be approaching a certain trauma or development. Just based on tone and content and handwriting, it seems likely that we're reading from a pretty wide age range here: children working through long division frustrations and elderly neighbors reflecting on their own sons and daughters' circuitous path through life. Wherever you are on your own journey, it's complicated.

What's interesting is that the stories themselves are whispered into the world for all to read, but the responsive Letters of Hope are specifically targeted to the original anonymous author. For the reader, it feels at times like we’re peering in on a hushed sympathy in the corner of a party. Like we’re aware of a conversation, but we can’t quite speak up.

But that’s not the point, is it? This book isn’t Twitter, thank heavens. It’s something quieter and more mysterious. It’s the accrual of small coins at the bottom of a dancing fountain in Tower City. Wishes and hopes and reflections.

The net result of reading through these stories is a simple reminder that everyone is working through their own pain and so much of it tends to go unspoken. But once it's thrust into the world, the story lingers and changes us. It reveals us.

The letters themselves are a way of saying, “I am here.”

The responses, gathered in the giant yellow mailbox, are a way of saying, “Yes, you are here.”

The emotion captured here is less about being seen, that misguided prime mover of most social media accounts, but rather something closer to being triangulated in this world. The events and experiences described in these stories are fairly destabilizing. Through writing (sharing, revealing), we have a shot at finding firm ground once again.

It seems that in the last five years or so, the first-person story has really thrived as a popular and riveting forum for how we understand one another. It's a degree of empowerment. Not only do stories like these function as prayer and shared empathy, but, collectively, they're a force of momentum for anyone seeking that sense of place—wherever they are and whatever hand they've been dealt.

Journalism, both local and global, is losing trust as an institution. Honestly, a lot of the stories in Never, Ever Give Up have the telltale signs of a good human-interest pitch. We’ve got the requisite conflict, the peek of intriguing characters, the hint of fuzzy resolution. But where are the reporters who might rush out to learn these stories?

At the same time that newspapers-as-gatekeepers have caved in on themselves, more personal media platforms have risen: blogs, duh, but more importantly, I think, podcasts and first-person storytelling events (which are sometimes one and the same). We could go off on a long tangent about oral histories and Homeric tradition, but my point here is much simpler. We want to hear our neighbors speak on the basic facts of the matter. We want to hear our friends tell their stories, own their truths. And, as it turns out, our neighbors and friends seem generally willing to surmount their fears and get onstage—or put pen to paper.

The same goes for Hite’s project. She has provided a platform for us—you, me—to share our stories and for others—me, you—to listen. When that happens, the stories come naturally. All of this came from Hite’s own story: After her mother's death, her grief grew into storytelling. “And when I finally told my story, I realized that I could connect with people in a way that I never thought was possible,” Hite told WEWS.

The stories we tell about ourselves reveal great truths about the universe, about shared spaces where we're brought together. But the trick is to tell the story in the first place.

“I really believe that so many of us are carrying around really fascinating stories that we don't think are really fascinating,” therapist Lori Gottlieb said on a recent podcast episode, citing her own decision to share a complex, difficult and highly personal story with the world. “We think our lives are pretty ordinary. But the most extraordinary stories come out of people that are grounded in the ordinary.”

In my first spin through the book, the story that really punched me in the gut was a quick piece about a child’s dog dying. Here it is, in full:

The hardest thing I have ever had to do was say goodbye to my dog. I know that it might sound not that bad to some people, but this dog was with me when my mom when through a rare form of breast cancer, this dog was with me when my parents got divorced and my mom was a single mom taking care of six kids. This dog was always here for everything and he was really my best friend. He was also here when my sister was in the hospital because they couldn’t figure out why she was sick, he was here when I found out that my little brother wasn’t the same as everyone else, and thing that I have no problem doing because he is mentally challenged. But he was always here to support me and love me no matter what.

I looked over at my own dog, snoozing on the couch, of course, and remembered again that a friend is a precious thing. I think we all know that. The stories in this book—these are the hardships overcome to create the place we call home together. 

Those interested in taking a closer read of the project are welcome to visit Wade Oval this summer, where Hite has once again installed the letters and the giant yellow mailbox.