I, like so many others, am currently thoroughly engrossed in the the podcast Serial. To say that it’s giving me a lot of feelings would be an understatement– so many feelings, in fact, that I’ve decided to blog. (Hi, hello, how are you?)
Many times we are selfish story consumers; we hear things and think, “well how does that make me feel?” It’s one of the things I love best about stories, how we often find a way to use them as a mirror and see some small piece of ourselves within its words.
Thanks to Serial, I can’t stop thinking about memory and what a wonderful and terrible thing it is. Wanting so badly to remember a moment doesn’t mean a thing, but neither does fervently wishing to forget. While listening to the first episodes, I found myself asking, “how can these people not remember this day?” and it was a question that my normal, everyday life was quick to answer.
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I sat down to write my daily 750 words and as I was starting my computer, I wondered to myself if I had completed yesterday’s entry. “Dammit, I missed it,” I thought. “Wait, no. I definitely did it. Yeah, duh. I did it.” I logged in and found I’d actually missed it. “What the hell was I doing,” I wondered, dragging myself through the the memories of the previous day. It came to me after a minute, of course, the incredibly busy day at work, the dinner, and the early bed time, but for some seconds, those things were lost in a haze. And that’s life, I think. We forget more than we ever remember.
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I was cleaning out one of my oldest e-mail accounts. (It’s @yahoo.com.) The oldest un-filed entry, just kind of hanging out in the inbox, is from 2009. I knew what it was without clicking in, but I decided to torture myself a little and read it anyway: a blog post I wrote from my Organic Chemistry lab right after one of the major heartbreaks of my life. I remember the reaction we performed in the lab that day and I remember typing the post up on my Blackberry. I remember the string of days following, showing up to my temporary Folding Paper USA job, feeling like I was choking on my own emotions. I remember eating nothing but chocolate chip cookies for days and days. I don’t remember, however, the specific conversations or words that led to this heartbreak. I don’t remember what was said or why it happened. In my head, at this point, it just seems like one day I had this person in my life and the next day, I didn’t.
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Every time I smell my Shea Butter lotion, I think of being at the resort in Puerto Plata, and specifically, the large ceiling fan in the living room. The blades kind of looked like palm leaves.
(I also remember my first trip the Dominican Republic and how the mosquito net over the bed made me feel like a princess.)
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“Don’t you remember [insert name here] from high school,” Penny will ask me. No. No, I don’t. I never do.
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There are some stories I’ve told so many times that they act like memories, but aren’t truly. My sister knocked out both of my top front teeth (they were at least loose) and though I can tell you how it happened (one time she pushed me so hard I fell to the ground, one time she was handing me the phone and hit me across the face) but I can’t actually remember the blood or cries I’m sure followed. I can force myself to see the yellow paint of our kitchen in 90’s and the land line mounted on the wall, for instance, but I can’t remember the pain.
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I remember the day that my little sister Vyelit left me a voice message to come quickly to Pink’s house because she had something to tell us. That pain, I still recall. Just typing that sentence and remembering how I thought, “something isn’t right. She never leaves a voicemail,” makes a knot lodge inside throat. I remember where I was before (dance practice) and how the rest of the night went (tears) but if you asked me what I did that day, that day that changed our family? I wouldn’t be able to tell you. Maybe if check Facebook. Maybe.
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I can’t ever remember my password for that one credit card website, dammit. I reset it every time.
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I’ve asked my mother several times throughout my life to recount the day I was born or how her pregnancy went when she was expecting me. Mostly she answers me with a pained look and as much as she can scrounge together. “I liked to eat plain white rice with sliced tomatoes when I was pregnant with you,” she’ll say or else, “your dad wasn’t in the delivery room with me,” or some little tidbit that surely can’t be all she remembers, but is.
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I can’t shake this feeling that I want to remember all the important things; trouble is, you can’t always know which moments will be important. There was a time I wrote down those things here, and more often than not, it just resulted in a black and white copy of things I would’ve rather filed secretly away. And yet, during the months that I go silent, I wish so badly I had written something down. Anything at all.