The Truth About Memories

I have always believed memories are forever. I have never doubted that the memory of my 5th birthday party or that day I got my first puppy are inaccurate in any way. They are how I remember them, and how I remember them is true. That's all there is to it. Right?

Two days before I was to turn 5 years old, itchy, red spots began to swarm my body: chicken pox. Only one girl showed up to my party; everyone else's mothers didn't want them in the close vicinity of a sick, contagious child. There was a giant white cake with blue frosting. I wore a little yellow dress and my hair in a high pony-tail. We played "pin the tail on the donkey." It's all so clear. And despite my minor illness, it was a terrific day. I smile thinking back on it now.

But just last week, photos from that day were found stored away upstairs in the attic. To my surprise, the photos revealed a giant BLUE cake! I was dressed in a little orange t-shirt and shorts. The party was a puppet show, not "pin the tail on the donkey." Yes, I did have the chicken pox and only one friend was at my party, but the rest of my so called "memories" were completely off. I was shocked.

Our class discussion last week hit my issue right on the nose. The teachers spoke of a podcast called Radiolab in which the hosts explore different Science related topics, one of which being memory. What the Radiolab anchors have discovered is that every time you recall a memory, you are actually recreating that memory. When it is being recreated, it is being reassembled, reevaluated and therefore subconsciously being changed. That means that the things you remember the most often are actually the memories that are the most subject to alteration. Those are the memories that are the further from the truth. And those are the memories we cherish and share as if they are truthful and accurate.

This was a little much to handle at first. If my 5th birthday party, a more or less insignificant date in my childhood, had been altered, then there was no doubt that plenty of other, more significant memories had been changed as well. These memories have shaped me as I've grown up, and it's scary and difficult to picture these memorable moments of my life differently. So I guess my question is... if all the memories you've ever remembered may be inaccurate, does that make them any less real? Does knowing these memories are altered change their everlasting impact?



You can listen here to the podcast about memory and forgetting.

What Will We Remember?

Waking up yesterday felt a little too normal. The day proceeded like any other jam-packed Sunday. By 1:00 pm, I had already walked the dog, went to Sunday school, attended a friend's sweet 16 birthday party and had a tutoring session. It wasn't until I returned home well into the afternoon that I remembered that this "normal" day was in fact the ten year anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks on the US. Enraged by my own oblivion, I decided to try and commemorate the day the only way I could: by remembering. 

I remember the morning of September 11, 2001 so vividly. Sitting in Ms. Barras's first grade class, I remember watching tears stream down my teacher's face as she tried to wipe them away in order to remain composed in front of a class of 7 year olds. I remember seeing both moms and dads together in the pickup line after school. I remember the confusion when my dad was already home from work when I returned from school. I remember feeling hopeless when nothing I did could help the adults around me feel better. But most importantly... I remember. I don't remember much from my first grade year, but I do remember this. And although I may not have understood the severity or the impact of the situation, I must have somehow been aware of the importance and effects of the day's events.

My parents were about the same age as I was on 9/11/01 when John F. Kennedy was shot in '63. They too can perfectly recall not only their whereabouts on this day, but also small details - details that normally would have been forgotten long ago. My mom, only 5, had wanted nothing more than to plop down in front of the TV and watch her favorite show, Bozo's Circus, around lunchtime. But to her surprise, Bozo had been cancelled, and every program for the rest of the day was replaced with a different news anchor furiously covering the assassination. My dad, who was 7 at the time, remembers JFK's assassination as well. Upon his return to school after lunch at home, he remembers noticing the crossing guard, who was always smiley and warm, crying to herself. At school, all the kids were running around telling each other "The president was shot!", none truly understanding the level of seriousness concerning the subject. But, despite their inability to really comprehend what had occurred, it was clear that this event would have an enormous and lasting effect on them, but one that the kids could not possibly have predicted at the time. 

I realize that the kids my age are the last generation that will ever be able to talk about what they recall from that fateful day in 2001. I thought about the necessary steps I must take in preserving my memory for years to come. When I am 55, I want to be able to remember my experience as a terrified first grader just as my parents remember their reactions (and their parents' reactions) to JFK's assassination. And the only way that any of us will be able to continue to remember our stories, is continuing to listen and share our experiences with everyone, especially the generations to come. 

"Identical Strangers"

Earlier last week, as my dad and I were cruising down Sheridan Rd, we began to listen to an interview on NPR with Nancy Segal, a psychologist at California State University, Fullerton. She told the story of three babies: one set of identical twin girls, and an unrelated baby girl born to a different mother around the same time in the same hospital. The nurse accidentally switched one of the twin babies for the other unrelated baby. For the next 28 years, two unrelated girls would grow up believing they are fraternal twins, and one girl - one of the identical twins - would grow up living with a family that really wasn't hers. Eventually, at the age of 28, the biological twins ran into each other at the supermarket, and stupefied at their uncanny resemblance, decided to get DNA tests, and ultimately found out the truth: they were twins switched at birth. 

Everyone involved was intensely affected and devastated. Lives of what could have been haunted the girls and their families in unexpected ways. I was dumbfounded after hearing this story. The thought of finding out that my entire childhood and adolescence was not how it was meant to be was terrifying.  But this got me thinking: if these girls loved their early lives, and their experiences and love were true and real, then why should it matter who raised them? Would the truth negatively impact their feelings towards the past? Why does this one thing  - family - play such a huge role in defining ourselves and our lives?

A discussion in my American Studies class helped shed some light on finding the answers to these questions. In class, we discussed what constitutes the "American Dream." A classmate pointed out how Americans value family; how the original American dream ultimately was to be wealthy and to be able to provide for a large, happy family. Suddenly, I began to better understand the situation. Finding out that the family you've known and loved for so many years isn't really yours biologically, you would immediately lose that sense of belonging. Like the girls in the story, learning this truth could disconnect you from your family, thus disconnecting you from feeling what many Americans crave. I'm sure that other cultures and societies have their own version of the American Dream that centers around this sense of family. And once you feel less and less connected to family, you could feel like you belong to nothing important. Family is what holds us together-- inside and outside of America-- and is an underlying aspect of what helps us form our own identities.