The Persistence of Memory*

*Title shamelessly stolen from and inspired by Dali’s melting clocks.

Think of people who have made you angry. Now imagine those same people as children. Imagine their parents, their grandparents, the town they live in, the people they grew up with; imagine the hard things that happened to their families, the clothes they grew up wearing, and, if you can, the number of books you saw in their home. Do you still feel angry? 

When I was in grade four, I realized I knew a girl I will here call Autumn. I don’t know if I ever didn’t go to school with her, or if she if moved in this year. I only remember that she had purple leggings, and purple shirts, and a truly terrible haircut for a fourth-grader. It looked like her hair was either stuck close to her head, in kind of macaroni curl shapes, or like she had stuck her her finger into a light socket and electricity was making every hair on her head stand on 80’s blow-dried end. In this year, we became friends, since she was also in my girl-guide troop. (I did every kind of thing in childhood, at least once. This is one example of what were many activities.) I would talk to Autumn if we sat near each other, or maybe hang out on the play ground. It was easy to play with almost everyone at that age, and it was a small school in a small town where not many people had the kind of money that would come yet.

It did not stay easy to be friends with everyone, especially Autumn. She had a bladder control problem, and would sometimes wet her pants. To this day I can’t think of a more brutal introduction to the shaming tendencies of others than this. I think most people are introduced to this at some point, and I am no exception. But I cannot imagine the hell that would have been wearing protective pants to school, being afraid to go on sleepovers, or knowing that you smell like pee because your body isn’t working the way it’s supposed to. That part was and perhaps still is always so invisible to children – it’s hard to imagine people are sick if you can’t see their illness or injury. I felt guilty, like I was ashamed of our friendship, but also torn about going out of my way to show my connection to her, lest I be painted with the same brush in the eyes of our now fifth-grade classmates.

One day, I got home from school and my Mom was hanging up the phone. She looked at me like a serious conversation was coming, and we sat down at the table to talk. My Mom had told me that she had just gotten off the phone with Autumn’s mom.

“So that was her mom, Autumn’s birthday is coming up. She was asking Autumn what she’d like to do for her birthday, and Autumn said, ‘Nothing, I don’t want to do anything.’.”

I looked at my Mom, she had kind of a hard, heavy-browed look on her face.

“Her mom thought maybe Autumn needs some good friends around for her birthday. She wants to throw a surprise party, and have you and another friend surprise Autumn after school next Friday. What do you think about that?”

I could feel how I would feel if I had so few friends to be counted on to celebrate my birthday. Another friend and I were the only people Autumn had named, and her mom was hoping we would come and surprise her, then stay for pizza, movies, and a sleepover in the family room. I remember feeling a strange mix of emotions following my agreement to go: disappointment for this girl I felt I barely knew for her pitiable lot, bittersweet relief for my own more comfortable list of friend groups, and a tangle of concern for my reputation and horrible gut-wrenching guilt over this worry. A tinge of anger around the edges of the whole mess; resentment for this situation and this person whose needs I did not want to meet. I said yes out of what I would see now as a sense of obligation, in part to make up for the many times I’d looked the other way instead of being her defender this past year, or seen her in tears but not offered comfort or shelter from cruelty.

The day arrived. It was weird going into her house for the first time, there are always new smells and other information that your exposed to when you get to see more of the context in which people live. Autumn’s mom was a heavy smoker, so although the house was clean, it all reeked of cigarette smoke, and the smell hung heavy in my lungs and mouth. Autumn’s mom took us through their trailer to the kitchen. She showed us a huge three-tiered pink cake that she had iced herself and decorated with little edible silver balls, the kind that could crack a tooth if you weren’t careful. She said the plan was for us to hide behind the counter that the cake was sitting on. She would send Autumn to look at her masterpiece, the pink beauty that Autumn thought she’d been making for a wedding, but that was really for us, for the party. We would pop out from behind the counter, yelling surprise, and kicking off the birthday celebration.

When we heard the front door, we hid. Autumn’s mom went to get her, and we heard her telling Autumn about finishing the cake, and that she should go take a look. It was a perfect moment; we managed not to giggle and give away the surprise, and popped out so effectively that Autumn screamed and jumped and then started laughing and gasping. We had to explain what was happening, that we were at her house surprising her for her birthday party. She heard the whole plan with wide eyes and open mouth, looking between us and her mom as we all chattered about the successful cake diversion and plans for the night, and laughing. I remember vaguely that the pink cake was delicious, but that moment in the kitchen the story I’ve recalled many times since then, not what followed.

“We understand the world by how we retrieve memories, re-order information into stories to justify how we feel.” – Stephen Elliot

I’ve been part of other surprise parties since, and have been the lucky recipient of a few great birthday surprises myself. Although there have been some excellent and completely perfect reactions, I don’t think any have been as transformative for me. I have thought about that surprise birthday for years, and have been reminded of it several times by Autumn herself, who mentions it every time I’ve sent the lazy birthday greetings of social media. Although I haven’t seen her in years, she remembers the impact we had on her, and I remember the less-visible side of the story. I have worked hard to not re-order this story in my brain each time I’ve retrieved this memory. It would be easy to start believing that I was a heroic character in this story, if I allowed myself to frame it that way. But I know the truth. I know what was really in my mind and in my heart when I agreed, and when I went, and afterwards when I allowed myself to slide back into apathy and comfort and dissolving loyalty. I know that I am not a hero in this story, but rather a villain.

In childhood we all play our parts, and sometimes try out for roles we may later regret taking on. I’d hope others remember me as I believe Autumn does, but I also know I haven’t always earned that. There are stories I tell myself in which I’ve come to believe that I am the victim, and can therefore justify my own bad reaction or unflattering response. It’s so much harder to be honest with myself, to remember that everyone else has the memories and stories that make them who they are just like I do. It’s so much more work though to move beyond my own subjective experience, and allow myself to recognize the misleading nature of my own stories as I retrieve them, and as I use them to justify my feelings.

One person can be so many things. It seems that one’s character cannot be easily compartmentalized into one box or another. Perhaps instead character is a continuum; each time, choices made sends one closer to one side or another, toward the kind of person one wants to be, or taking one further away from that version of self. I would make the exact same visible choices if I could have a do-over in this case, but with a significant change in the less visible. This is what has lasted for me in this memory, the ugly attitude, selfishness, and callous underbelly of my actions. What may seem like a minor childhood experience to others has been replayed in my mind many times. As I retrieve these memories, re-order this information into story, I see how easy it is to justify the way I felt at the time, and how unaware I was of what this friend’s life must have been like. I see also how easy it is to become captive in the memory prisons of my own making.

Think of people who have made you angry. Now imagine those same people as children. Imagine their parents, their grandparents, the town they live in, the people they grew up with; imagine the hard things that happened to their families, the clothes they grew up wearing, and, if you can, the number of books you saw in their home. Will you only tell your self the same stories? Will you try to justify the same feelings? What are you missing?