Who'll takes its ashes and singing, fling them from the top of the Brill Building?
I realize this means nothing to anyone but me, but I've been thinking about memories a lot lately, mostly because anything beyond a few days in the past always seems to feel like forever-ago. Even things like my trips to Portland and home last month are already starting to fade; it feels like a decade since I lived with Onyx and Dana or with my parents.
There was a really good thread about this, more or less, on Metafilter a few days ago. It's amazing what people are willing to share online, and it's even more amazing that some people have survived their childhoods. Reading the whole thread is definitely time-consuming but so very worth it; but the entries by jarius, grumblebee, and junyatwin really stand out in my mind. Now the thread in question is specifically about "life-altering experiences," not necessarily plain ol' memories, but it's impetus enough for me to get writing here.
I remember being at my dad's parents' place for one holiday or another --- I want to say Thanksgiving but I can't be certain --- when I was six or seven years old. My aunt asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and I said, "A paleontologist!" My aunt gave me a puzzled look and said, "You mean like Indiana Jones?" I gave her an equally-puzzled look and said, "No, he's an archaeologist. I want to study dinosaurs." She just kind of vaguely nodded her head and said, "Oh, ok," in a distracted voice, obviously lost. That moment, right there, is when I realized that I was smart, and that just because someone was older than I didn't mean that they were smarter. That realization has had lots of positive and negative consequences in my life and with how I deal with people.
My whole fascination with dinosaurs started in kindergarten. My teacher, whose name I've forgotten, had these fantastic, multi-colored, square LPs with songs about dinosaurs on them. I don't remember anything else about kindergarten except those records; I don't even remember when we were allowed to listen to them, or how often, or even what the songs were. I just remember dinosaurs, and loving them. I got my parents to buy me every single dinosaur-related book they could find. I suddenly became that stereotypical kid who knew the difference between an Allosaurus and a Tyrannosaurus, or an Oviraptor and a Velociraptor; I had dinosaur clothes, pictures, VHS tapes, pillow cases, everything. I memorized all of the Earth's geological periods, and could name them and their defining characteristics. People from that time in my life still remark on how into dinosaurs I used to be.
It's funny now mainly because I don't know when or why I fell out of that. By the time 3rd grade rolled around I was still into it, but I was getting into my Greek mythology kick. And my classical music kick. By the time 4th grade rolled around, I was completely out of it. Now I just don't get science the same way that I used to...I love the theoretical and abstract points of science, but the nitty-gritty escapes me.
Another big change in my life was when I was accepted to the gifted program in 2nd grade. My 1st grade teacher recommended me because I was always bored in class and to make the tests interesting, I would try and make sure that I finished them before anyone else, regardless of accuracy. The first time they gave me the gifted test, I took it at the local university in a room full of strangers, and I perfomed so poorly that the testers thought I had been accidentally chosen to take the test (I was later told I scored as if I were "brain damaged"). Somehow I was allowed to take it again, this time in a room full of classmates, and I aced it. Getting into that program has led to some of the greatest and richest experiences of my life, to meeting my two best friends, a lot of really good friends, more than a few crushes and loves, and a whole world of learning that otherwise I would not have been exposed. It has also led to a strong and curious mixture of elitism, guilt, ego, and self-doubt that will haunt me until the day I die, caused by too many things for me to go into right now. I could write a novel about my years in that program; it became the central way I define myself in life: different, better, segregated, outcast.
My three next siblings did not get into gifted, and it was a big deal for them. I felt, and still feel, that they resented me greatly for it. I am the oldest and they could not live up to the standard I set, is how it seemed to me. So many times I felt like I was coddled and set apart because of it, while my siblings sat back in the shadows, with our relatives asking, "Why couldn't you get into gifted?" (to which my siblings would inevitably answer, "But I only missed the cut by a few points!") or saying, "Oh, it's ok that you didn't get in, I know you're still smart..." Right now I don't know how much of this is memory or impression but I hate it. I never wanted to make my siblings feel bad, I didn't want to make them different. I am 20 months older than my sister and yet I never knew her "regular" friends, because I was in the program and she wasn't. Hah my eyes are tearing up writing this, you have no idea. My brother, the one with the broken windows, is an underachiever, and I blame myself. He used to be vivacious and active and had a thirst for learning like every kid and then he didn't get into gifted and it changed. He no longer cared about school; he started coasting by and ended up getting kicked out of college his first semester. Thankfully in high school he discovered guitar (he was in chorus in middle school, and won awards for it), and I think that helped reignite some sense of passion in him. But I blame myself for his failings.
My 15-year-old brother got into gifted at an early age, and so did my 11-year-old sister, and my 8-year old brother (in case you didn't know, I'm the oldest of 7 kids). I am so happy that they all did. They are almost like my parents' second set of kids, there's such a gap between we first four and they last three. Hopefully they won't have to experience the fragmentation I felt growing up, the alienation from my own siblings that still haunts me to this day. I don't feel that I understand them and I know they don't feel they understand me.
This is getting a little long in the tooth. Sit down long enough and you could write your whole life out. But the last thing I want to talk about is my parents. They were always supportive of me and of what I wanted to learn; they gave me a roof and good food and books and toys and siblings and so many times I felt so grateful yet acted anything but. I regret that. I need to write them a letter and let them know, as best I can. They've been married since 1976 and I've seen them fight once, and it was something about orange juice. It wasn't even a serious fight; my dad just said something sarcastic and my mom started crying. That's it, no screaming, no drinking, no fighting. They've given me an almost-impossible ideal of marriage to which I desperately want to live up. I miss them so much.
There was a really good thread about this, more or less, on Metafilter a few days ago. It's amazing what people are willing to share online, and it's even more amazing that some people have survived their childhoods. Reading the whole thread is definitely time-consuming but so very worth it; but the entries by jarius, grumblebee, and junyatwin really stand out in my mind. Now the thread in question is specifically about "life-altering experiences," not necessarily plain ol' memories, but it's impetus enough for me to get writing here.
I remember being at my dad's parents' place for one holiday or another --- I want to say Thanksgiving but I can't be certain --- when I was six or seven years old. My aunt asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and I said, "A paleontologist!" My aunt gave me a puzzled look and said, "You mean like Indiana Jones?" I gave her an equally-puzzled look and said, "No, he's an archaeologist. I want to study dinosaurs." She just kind of vaguely nodded her head and said, "Oh, ok," in a distracted voice, obviously lost. That moment, right there, is when I realized that I was smart, and that just because someone was older than I didn't mean that they were smarter. That realization has had lots of positive and negative consequences in my life and with how I deal with people.
My whole fascination with dinosaurs started in kindergarten. My teacher, whose name I've forgotten, had these fantastic, multi-colored, square LPs with songs about dinosaurs on them. I don't remember anything else about kindergarten except those records; I don't even remember when we were allowed to listen to them, or how often, or even what the songs were. I just remember dinosaurs, and loving them. I got my parents to buy me every single dinosaur-related book they could find. I suddenly became that stereotypical kid who knew the difference between an Allosaurus and a Tyrannosaurus, or an Oviraptor and a Velociraptor; I had dinosaur clothes, pictures, VHS tapes, pillow cases, everything. I memorized all of the Earth's geological periods, and could name them and their defining characteristics. People from that time in my life still remark on how into dinosaurs I used to be.
It's funny now mainly because I don't know when or why I fell out of that. By the time 3rd grade rolled around I was still into it, but I was getting into my Greek mythology kick. And my classical music kick. By the time 4th grade rolled around, I was completely out of it. Now I just don't get science the same way that I used to...I love the theoretical and abstract points of science, but the nitty-gritty escapes me.
Another big change in my life was when I was accepted to the gifted program in 2nd grade. My 1st grade teacher recommended me because I was always bored in class and to make the tests interesting, I would try and make sure that I finished them before anyone else, regardless of accuracy. The first time they gave me the gifted test, I took it at the local university in a room full of strangers, and I perfomed so poorly that the testers thought I had been accidentally chosen to take the test (I was later told I scored as if I were "brain damaged"). Somehow I was allowed to take it again, this time in a room full of classmates, and I aced it. Getting into that program has led to some of the greatest and richest experiences of my life, to meeting my two best friends, a lot of really good friends, more than a few crushes and loves, and a whole world of learning that otherwise I would not have been exposed. It has also led to a strong and curious mixture of elitism, guilt, ego, and self-doubt that will haunt me until the day I die, caused by too many things for me to go into right now. I could write a novel about my years in that program; it became the central way I define myself in life: different, better, segregated, outcast.
My three next siblings did not get into gifted, and it was a big deal for them. I felt, and still feel, that they resented me greatly for it. I am the oldest and they could not live up to the standard I set, is how it seemed to me. So many times I felt like I was coddled and set apart because of it, while my siblings sat back in the shadows, with our relatives asking, "Why couldn't you get into gifted?" (to which my siblings would inevitably answer, "But I only missed the cut by a few points!") or saying, "Oh, it's ok that you didn't get in, I know you're still smart..." Right now I don't know how much of this is memory or impression but I hate it. I never wanted to make my siblings feel bad, I didn't want to make them different. I am 20 months older than my sister and yet I never knew her "regular" friends, because I was in the program and she wasn't. Hah my eyes are tearing up writing this, you have no idea. My brother, the one with the broken windows, is an underachiever, and I blame myself. He used to be vivacious and active and had a thirst for learning like every kid and then he didn't get into gifted and it changed. He no longer cared about school; he started coasting by and ended up getting kicked out of college his first semester. Thankfully in high school he discovered guitar (he was in chorus in middle school, and won awards for it), and I think that helped reignite some sense of passion in him. But I blame myself for his failings.
My 15-year-old brother got into gifted at an early age, and so did my 11-year-old sister, and my 8-year old brother (in case you didn't know, I'm the oldest of 7 kids). I am so happy that they all did. They are almost like my parents' second set of kids, there's such a gap between we first four and they last three. Hopefully they won't have to experience the fragmentation I felt growing up, the alienation from my own siblings that still haunts me to this day. I don't feel that I understand them and I know they don't feel they understand me.
This is getting a little long in the tooth. Sit down long enough and you could write your whole life out. But the last thing I want to talk about is my parents. They were always supportive of me and of what I wanted to learn; they gave me a roof and good food and books and toys and siblings and so many times I felt so grateful yet acted anything but. I regret that. I need to write them a letter and let them know, as best I can. They've been married since 1976 and I've seen them fight once, and it was something about orange juice. It wasn't even a serious fight; my dad just said something sarcastic and my mom started crying. That's it, no screaming, no drinking, no fighting. They've given me an almost-impossible ideal of marriage to which I desperately want to live up. I miss them so much.