Memories take up more bandwidth in my brain the older I get. Perhaps this is true because I am acutely aware of having passed mid-life. For me, there is now more to recall from the past than there is left to plan for in the future. It seems that memories drift into my consciousness at the slightest trigger: a landscape; an odor in the air; a remark made by an acquaintance; a photograph; a tune. Some recollections are activated without any apparent cause. Most come in small tidbit-sized pieces, rather than long detailed illustrated narratives. In addition, I have no doubt that all of my memories have been altered by the passing of time until they represent a symbol rather than a truth.
I have heard it said that our first memory reveals traits and values that we carry for the rest of our lives it echoed the concept of a personal mythology. I tried to sift through my earliest memories and determine which one was my first. My youngest childhood experiences had become so intertwined in the storytelling of my family that I had come to believe that I remembered them.
There was the story my father liked to repeat about my ability to outsmart his attempts to keep me from upsetting my dinner plate from the high chair onto the floor. One could think that would be a memory he would have preferred to forget. For me, the story seems a bit unsettling. I am sure I would not be nearly so cheerful with any child who exhibited this skill. However, when my Dad told the tale of purchasing one guaranteed-to-be-spill-proof baby dish after another, only to watch me overcome the newest foil within minutes, he seemed pleased by his daughter’s ability to solve problems. This was a part of my father’s personal mythology. I have no memory of ever sitting in a highchair spilling pureed vegetables onto the floor for entertainment.
My mother liked to tell the story of leaving me at school for the first day of Kindergarten. I entered the schoolyard and didn’t even glance back towards her to wave good-bye. When my Mom recounted this memory, it was usually with a tone of feigned disappointment that I had shed no tears when we parted. However, it was also evident that she was more than a little proud of raising an independent and confident daughter. This was a part of my mother’s personal mythology. I have recollection of this day, although it does seem like a story that is more in keeping with my true nature.
Both of these memories do, however, qualify as healing stories for my parents and for me. Still, I had a desire to identify my own earliest memory. Quite accidentally one day, I happened to see old news footage of Queen Elizabeth II in her coronation ceremony on June 2, 1953. Suddenly, I remembered that day. I would have been four at that time and I can think of no personal memory that pre-dates it.
My mother had a friend, Ruth, who had been a schoolteacher. Ruth and my mother had grown up not far from each other in Nova Scotia, Canada. Yet, they had not become friends until they both married and moved to the U.S. Ruth seemed much older to me than my own mother and much more serious. When in Ruth’s presence, I was instructed to watch my manners carefully. It was Ruth who had suggested that I must witness the Queen’s coronation on television that day in early June.
My parents did not own a car or a television. Mom and I probably traveled by city bus to Ruth’s home. The long steep flight of wooden stairs, which we had to climb to get to the second floor apartment, seemed endless. As I climbed up those stairs, I thought it a silly way to spend such a lovely day. After Ruth opened her door, we were all seated in front of a large wooden cabinet with a small television screen. Still I was not impressed. The elaborate costumes, the formal music, the newscaster’s play-by-play account of the historic event, the pomp and ceremony bored me. Ruth gave me a stern lecture about never forgetting this event. She seemed to sense that I was not really paying much attention. Therefore, she explained I would need to remember because I would someday want to tell my children and my children’s children that I had watched the coronation of a queen. I wondered why any child or grandchild would care.
At first, I was appalled that despite my resolution to forget it, I had indeed remembered that day. It seemed as if I had betrayed myself. Then I realized that I had not held onto the memory of the actual coronation. I had succeeded in my intention to remember what it is like to be a child. I do remember clearly what it is like to have legs that are short enough to make a flight of stairs feel very long. I do remember what it is like to have an adult tell you things about the future that are really from their own past. Furthermore, it does reflect a quality that I have held all the years of my life: quiet defiance.
My Turn 