“Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better of even their blunders.” - Friedrich Nietzsche 

IF

My earliest remaining memory is of my younger brother, Na’im, being born on my 5th birthday and I guess in many ways I was born that day as well. I can’t imagine what it was like to have lived without true and lasting memories. Each day falling before the next and away from the last. But this is often the human condition. One day we awake and the lives we lead as children are washed from our heads. Life is but a singular moment, fully realized, over and over again. But my whole life materialized in all of its plurality when I took my little brother within my arms. My dad designated me as being the first person aside from my mother to hold Na’im as a birthday present. I remember being scared and trembling, afraid I’d drop him. I forced a smile for the picture, rocked him back and forth in my seat, and handed him back to my dad before heading back to the waiting room for my birthday celebration. We had chocolate cake with vanilla icing. I don’t think I’d give that memory back or trade it for another base memory if I could. But maybe there are a lot of things I’d like to forget. 

MAYBE

My Great-Grandmother Henderson developed Alzheimer’s disease late in her life. She was my momma’s grandma and they reminded me of each other in a myriad of ways, even if it was mainly cosmetic due to my childish mind. My mother doesn’t have a very good memory. While she remains extremely competent and intelligent, she often needs to be reminded of things. I have a deep fear of my mother developing Alzheimer’s disease. My Grandma Henderson lost all sense of my existence. Her mind seemed to have returned to a prior point in time even as her body lingered on. For most of my life I’ve thought about the tragic consequences of having lost one’s mind in time. And I am certain she lost too much, more than I have the capacity to truly comprehend. But maybe it was a blessing to lose the pain as well. Maybe that’s me trying to remember to look at the bright side. 

I have a very good memory. Most of it seems to be used for useless trivia about basketball and comic books. I can’t even forget a daydream. My memory seems to be growing too deep and I feel like I’m drowning in it, almost immobilized by it. My human memory is filled with human truths and real lies. It shifts in ways I can’t anticipate. It started as a single house, that was built solely for me. Then my memory shifted into an endless ethnostate of immovable values, anxieties, thoughts, and moments. Maybe I’d be happier if I could forget a few things. 

PROBABLY 

I would probably forget the moment I learned to hate myself, to begin with. I can’t put exactly when that was into context but I know it happened sometime before I was 10. I’d forget to stop smiling when I notice someone noticing my joy. I’d forget Game 6 of the 2008 NBA Finals. I’d probably want to forget my limitations and my fear of failure and my commitment issues. I’d forget my ability to doubt and hope that disappointment wouldn’t swarm into the cavity that doubt left behind. I can’t help but think I’d probably forget my way into a better life. 

One of my favorite novels, The Memory Police by Yoko Ogawa, follows an oppressive regime that subjugates their people by forcing them to forget everyday objects that may inspire rebellion. (SPOILER ALERT) The novel ends with the protagonist trapped in a room, immobilized and compromised by her mind, completely unable to move. She lies there, incapable of willing herself into being. She lies on the floor and forgets herself. I can’t recall the amount of times I forgot myself. I am blessed because even in those moments I can remember my way back to my earliest remaining memory and pull myself into being, step by step, from there. 

🦋

published April 29, 2022