Memory Makeup: Introduction
While thinking back through my file of memories, it appeared that the word “memory” brought about the idea that they should come from as far back as possible. Immediately I thought of some of the earliest memories I have. While they’re somewhat scattered, I then recall some of the most recent ones. They each link together in a way that describes who I’ve become as a person, not only through the substance of the memories themselves, but the way in which I remember them. The memories in the middle of my life seem to get lost more easily, however as I think through the old and new ones, a few begin to arise. The significance of each memory is a significance I think only I can uncover. It may be a biased significance however, as my mind subconsciously eliminates the memories that I don’t believe make up who I am now, but leaving the others that do. We only are the person that we believe we are.
A Clear and Simple Family
Orange magic marker was my medium. As I had just learned to hold a pencil, I pushed down hard, creating jagged lines on the paper. But the lines worked; they created a work of art that, then, I thought was a realistic depiction of my family. However, now one would look at this drawing and see a circle resting on top of two lines. Two more lines as arms coming off of each of the legs, and then a simple face with scribbles for hair. Then, I had my family to draw. So I did, over and over. That must have been the last time I drew them.
Self-Learning
I had my own cozy corner in my crowded, cluttered, dark dorm room last year. Exhausted from sailing practice I spent half an hour in the shower, letting my muscles relax. It was where I could cry and not notice it. With wet hair and sweatpants, I huddled into my corner and rested my drawing board on my knees. I rarely had time to do this, but I needed it sometimes. Ignoring my homework was something that helped me. I hadn’t been able to learn about myself for my entire life until I was on my own in a place that couldn’t fit me. I had Pink Floyd playing in my earbuds, and I held the drawing board high enough so that I couldn’t see anything else behind it. I got tired too quickly because of practice that afternoon, and I had to wake up a 6:30am the next morning to work out with the team. But not doing my homework and going to sleep was continually the only therapy I could give myself.
Sand Sculptures
I had a slightly more meaningful connection with my dad. One, for the most part, on the artistic level he could understand with me. He is a surgeon, so his hands are steady and talented. He cupped the sand and patted it gently, explaining the shape of an alligator.
Then a turtle.
Then a shark.
Then a lobster.
This is what we did. Sand sculptures, we called it.
The salty air encapsulating us for an entire afternoon, by sundown we were sandy with goosebumps, admiring the sculptures along the shore, only for the tide to take the sea creatures with it later that night.
A Five Second Accomplishment
I remember how sweaty my hands were holding that microphone on stage senior year. I was nervous standing in the blinding lights, but ecstatic knowing that this was it. I loved stage crew because I could do my best work throughout the year, designing and building the sets behind curtains only for it to be presented at opening night with applause and awe. I’m sure the cast had more to be excited about, but this moment felt like mine too. Stage manager and set designer, I worked all year for this. It was what made me want to be a designer, drawing out plans, sharing ideas, making changes last minute, I was addicted to it. At that moment on stage as I was presenting the gift to my tech director, (a five second ordeal that may seem like nothing to everyone else) it made me feel more accomplished and successful than I ever have before. And to think it all began with my tech director, who was also my Spanish teacher, asking me to join stage crew because he felt sorry for me being a new student.
Copper
My brother and I would lay on our bellies on the kitchen floor to be eye-level with Copper. He was the friendliest, most patient basset hound. He always laid on that small red carpet next to the oven to which, looking at the same rug now, I can’t believe I let my face get that close. Dan would hold one ear, I would hold another, and we’d meet at the top of his head. And we would laugh as hard as we could, Copper’s droopy eyes and careless expression told us he didn’t mind. It was as if he was an old, tired grandpa, so far retired that he won’t bother enforcing rules anymore. Mom always enforced the rules, however. But we just stayed there and laughed singing, “Do your ears hang low?”
Bedroom Vandal
More magic marker,
pink bubble gum.
And thin ink spreading out
along the antique wooden dresser,
bottom drawer next to the
brass handle.
A zig zag.
A Tragically Built Relationship
May 15th, 2015. It was a Friday. My family and I were standing around my grandmother, newly a widow, in her tall ceilinged kitchen. All the lights were off, and even the dogs were still. That was the first time I had seen my grandmother cry. Yet still, the tension within the family wasn’t gone. My family had had a prior commitment that weekend, but I stayed home with my grandma. I had never spent so much time with her at once before, nor have I ever been able to speak to her with no one around. It was her and me. Alone. Two women who were more alike than they ever knew. It was this moment on that let me create a whole new relationship with her. I wish it didn’t take tragedies to do that. But I finally felt able to console her, confide in her, and be her granddaughter. She kept the phone in her pocket all weekend, and every time she’d pick up she could barely answer the condolences on the other end through all the tears. She told me she couldn’t take the phone calls anymore. I just looked at her, trying not to cry and said “Grandma, you don’t have to answer the phone, you know.” She looked up and chuckled at herself a little, “You’re right, she said. I don’t.” She smiled and embraced me. That was the first time she’s hugged me just to hold me.
Secret Butterfly
My secret spot, it could have been,
right behind my bed.
Pale pink sponged walls held the shape of
a baby blue butterfly
that no one knew existed
until I got tired of sponged pink
and it got covered up.
Clarity
It was the most gut feeling I’ve ever gotten. I moved away from home, and almost instantly I was able to hear myself. No mixed opinions ringing in both of my ears, no pressure that I’ve been making wrong choices. I had my own life. I went to New York City for a weekend and got away from the capital. That weekend, exactly a year ago, was the instant that I felt in the right place. Maybe not a few years before, maybe not a few years ahead, but for now, it’s right. It’s a hard feeling to explain, but being surrounded by constant inspiration was what made me come here. I found my dream deep inside me simply by listening to myself and feeling my feelings. Art school was the only direction. So now, I’m the outcast compared to the rest of the family, they just don’t get it. And that’s okay. It’s a hard thing for people to listen to their true selves, but I’m so grateful that I did.
Distracted
I walked the parade holding the American flag with my team, wearing cowboy hats and white polos. I was the only girl on the team, my mom wouldn’t stop taking pictures. So proud of her daughter, she would brag, competing in the European Championship representing the United States of America. But as I walked that parade over the charming stone bridge in Tavira, I didn’t look at the camera. I admired the stonework of the sidewalk and the tiled facades of the buildings. It was the most picturesque town I’ve ever seen. While appreciative of the experience, I wasn’t interested in the sport that brought me there. I wanted to travel and tour the place. I wanted to just live.
Coverage
The tip was so sharp I couldn’t help but
scrape it against the open white wall
screaming at me to run my arm along its entirety.
“Testing it” I told her.
I continued to sharpen over and over
until I grew up,
and white paint covered a piece of
childhood once again.
First Date
He drove me around to some of the places he thought I’d like. We sat by a lake and enjoyed the setting sun on our faces. He kissed me on that bench.
Then I borrowed his polaroid. He said “get that right there” at the same instant I bent down to compose the exact composition that was in his mind. We stopped, looked at each other and laughed. That was the first polaroid photo I took. That artistic telepathy is what feeds us. And what has been feeding us for the past year and a half now.
Home
He asked me how my classes were going so far,
I just answered with “They’re great, thank you.”
No need to get into my life too much, they’re not even my family,
they’re probably not interested.
But he kept looking at me with big eyes,
waiting for me to say more.
So I continued to tell them all
at that dinner table
everything I did that day.
Specifically, a little game we did in class.
Simply put, each person had to say an object that related
to the one before it.
I gave an example and they started to play.
An hour and a half later we were exhausted
from laughing so hard with our stomach’s
full from dinner.
I didn’t expect that.
But that’s a home.
Conclusion
Some of these memories are quite vague, but that’s the honesty within them. Interpret them as you wish, but they all say something about me at this time of my life. I’m not sure why some memories stick out so much that I can see it happening in front of me, but that must mean more than what I’m writing on this page. I think repetitiveness in one’s childhood is one reason why memories can stick so well, like an annual vacation destination or first days of school, but I think most of it is a dramatic feeling inside at the instant of that memory. Whether it be the enjoyment of smelling the salty ocean while sand sticks to your fingers, or the discouragement one can feel when they see their childhood artwork on the wall being painted over by their parents. Each memory above, at that instant, gave me a significant emotion that perhaps I dwelled on moments later. And throughout constant introspection of my life, those moments never went away. Instead they grew more memorable, and by linking them to other experiences and choices in my life I have given them meaning of my own. And the explanations of a memory, I believe, can only be given by the one who remembers it themselves.
