Memory is not fully itself when it reaches only into the past. A memory that is not alive to the present does not 'remember' the here and now, does not 'remember' its true identity, is not a memory at all. He who remembers nothing but facts and past events, and is never brought back into the present, is a victim of amnesia.
- New Seeds of Contemplation, Thomas Merton
* * *
I’m not sure of the exact reason for the call anymore, but we had been on the phone, talking for a little while; Brett’s was the first number I knew by heart. I guess it was that time of year, because somehow we ended up, as many second-graders might, talking Girl Scout Cookies. We both agreed unanimously on the quality of Thin Mints, but I knew for certain that my favorites were Samoas. And, considering the context of our conversation, I felt compelled to express this delight to Brett, my best friend, hoping he might share my affinity.
“You know the Samoas?” I asked him. “The caramel and coconut ones?”
“Yeah!” he shouted. I was just about to follow up with “Those are my favorite!” when he continued, “I hate those!”
“Yeah, me too,” I replied, without missing a beat. I felt instantly ashamed of my compromise.
The conversation carried on, and I forget the rest.
* * *
The Rec-Plex (short for Recreational Complex) was a periodic pleasure for my father and his four boys. He took us there maybe one Friday or Saturday out of the month for a couple hours of play; we spent most of our time in the pool area, but I can remember following my dad every once in awhile into the gym area, which had a track on the second floor above the basketball court, and running around the track with him.
The pool area was divided into kids’ and adults’ sections. The kids’ section had shallow water with mushroom-shaped fountains and such, but it also had a slide and a whirlpool for older kids or adults. The adults’ section, however, was an enormous quadrangle. It was usually roped off in various places to indicate where the “free swim” area stopped and the more professional swimming lanes began, or to indicate the vicinity wherein those who wanted to use the high-dives should stay.
I was old enough to feel comfortable swimming in the adult section with my dad and brothers, but I was also old enough to start realizing things which were comfortable within the confines of family, but embarrassing when combined with the presence of friends.
One particularly embarrassing thing was public showering. My dad was one of those guys who perceived the practice as a matter of recognizing an anatomical given. This was not a problem for a number of years because it was all I knew, and I had only ever been to the Rec-Plex with my dad and brothers, not friends. As a young boy growing up and starting to make more friends, however, this unabashedness had begun to wear out quickly.
On one of these days of aqueous enjoyment, I happened to run into two acquaintances of mine, Calvin and Matt, in the large quadrangle. I had shared a couple classes with them over the course of elementary school, but was not exceptionally close friends with them. We chatted briefly, shooting as much of the breeze as nine- or ten-year-olds can, and then we went on with our regular, pooling activities.
Perhaps an hour or so later, Dad informed us that it was time to go, which meant, as it suddenly occurred to me, that it was also time to hit the showers. This was a dreadful proposition to be sure: on the one hand, I knew I would be unable to explain to my dad why showering was not on option this time, but on the other hand, were one of my classmates to happen through on their way to the locker room and see me naked—it just couldn’t happen.
As quickly as I could, though after much deliberation, I stripped down to nothing and began scrubbing myself with the bar of soap, my heart beating with terror and anticipation of the worst. After having sufficiently bathed myself, I turned off the water and scrambled across the tile floor to grab my towel. However, I was so nervous that my muscles didn’t seem to function as fluidly as they normally would. I tugged stiffly on the absorbent cloth, unable to free it from the hook, hanging twice as high as me.
Then, despite all hope, the nightmare became reality: just before I had yanked the towel from the hook, Calvin strolled around the corner, headed to the locker room just beyond the open showers. I attempted to cover myself, but it was too late: Calvin had already seen not a cotton-swathed boy, but a cloth-rectangle floating above a naked boy’s lower half. With the towel finally in its proper place, we made the briefest eye contact and Calvin walked on.
* * *
I sat on the couch, pondering. Looking up, I asked, “Do you ever have those seemingly irrelevant memories that, for some inexplicable reason, almost regularly come to mind? But you know, you know for a fact, that those related to that event won’t remember it, too?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Steffeny responds. The rest of the girls answer similarly.
“I have those all the time,” I continued, “and a lot of them have been surfacing lately. I’m not really sure why.”
* * *
It was second grade when my crush on Jani Becker started. She was the first girl that I had ever liked, and I was pretty enamored. We were in class together, but, being that I was exceptionally shy, I never let on to her that I liked her and hardly even talked to her (though I enjoyed what few interactions we had).
This of course did not lead to any first kiss or handholding, or flirting of any kind, seeing as I was too bashful to ever admit my affection to her, but I did continue being charily fond of her. In fact she was the only girl I liked from that time until the end of fifth grade. I had plucked up a little courage and self-confidence over this time—enough to talk to her at least, being that she was in my fourth and fifth grade classes—but throughout this time I remained, on the subject of my sentiment, steadfastly sheepish.
I had developed general relational skills, but, because of my limited dealings with romance, when it came to Jani, a girl whom I like liked, I had no idea how to properly interact.
It was now the beginning of my fifth grade year—by this time, I had only told my mom and Brett about my three-year crush—and I was seated at a table of all girls, directly across from Jani Becker. During some downtime in class one day we, like kids and grownups do, started talking. And, like kids and grownups do, we started talking about relationships, who liked who, and whatnot. I don’t remember much about the conversation, but eventually the group turned to me.
“So do you like someone?” Jani asked me, smiling.
I admitted that I did, but was not willing to say whom. The girls all giggled.
“Is she in another class?” Jani asked, leaning forward on her desk.
“No, she’s in our class,” I answered honestly, not yet realizing that I had considerably narrowed the scope of prospects. The girls giggled some more.
“Is it Katie?” they asked, referring to another Katie across the room.
“Nope, no one at that table,” I said, nervous but still clueless.
“What about that table?” they asked, indicating the one just next to it. I denied my attraction to anyone at that table. Slowly they began eliminating tables in the classroom (of which there were few), and slowly I began to realize that once we reached our table, I was screwed. If I stopped them at this point, at another table with another set of girls, they would presume my affection for someone I didn’t actually like.
“Is it this Katie?” Jani asked, pointing to her left.
I shook my head, nervously simpering. My time of secrecy was drawing to an end.
“I think I know who it is…!” Jessica whispered across the table to Jani.
My heart was pounding as the girls paused for a moment.
“Is it me?” Jani asked. There it was. The gavel fell. No one was left to choose from, except for Mrs. Scanlon, and that would not do.
“Yeah,” I blushed. The girls erupted in excitement.
“Does anyone else know?” Jani pushed on.
“Yeah,” I said, “I told my best friend back in second grade.” It was a seemingly insignificant admission.
“Whoa,” she said, “you’ve liked me since second grade?”
I couldn’t tell if the shock was out of flattery or offense. It hadn’t occurred to me that liking someone that you hardly talk to for almost four years might be a long time.
* * *
Moving from elementary school to middle school was a big change, not drastic, but big. We had six teachers every day instead of one, we used lockers instead of having our own desks, and our student population was much higher than I was used to, as it combined three elementary schools together. The experience was altogether new and exciting.
My first day of sixth grade started out well. I had seen a few familiar faces on the bus ride and had already made a friend in my first hour course, “communication arts” (English, in laymen’s terms). Now I made my way to my second hour: geography with Mr. Elmy. I entered the classroom and surveyed the room, hoping for a friend to sit with. But I didn’t recognize anyone, so I plopped myself down in an open, front row seat and began looking around the room, waiting for class to commence.
As my eyes drifted, my gaze fell on a kid named Ryan Reavey, sitting in the back row, chatting and joking with a girl whom he probably knew from his elementary school. I watched them for no particular reason as they talked, innocently observing their interaction.
His eyes caught mine. “Hey, you got a staring problem?” he asked me, catching me completely off guard. I turned with my head lowered and mumbled something like, “no,” refusing to turn around again. I felt hurt, and stupid. I didn’t even know him.
It was in that moment, the first of many in my adolescence, that I realized that I had to learn to be quick-witted, or I would not survive.
* * *
“If you were able to take a collection of these memories and look at them altogether, what would they say about a person? If you knew nothing else about that person, would you be able to get a sense of who they are? If you did this with your own memories, could you tell something significant about yourself now?”
I paused for a moment, having adequately concluded my thoughts. “I don’t know. That’s what’s been on my mind.”
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