Jewel

Yesterday I recognized someone in Starbucks I haven’t seen for 19 years, which was not only a pleasure, but a relief, because at the age of 50, I’m increasingly prone to forgetting things.

This is embarrassing for a non-fiction writer. I’m supposed to know what I’m talking about. But the other day while interviewing a well-known guitarist, I tried to recall Muddy Waters’ real name, which was McKinley Morganfield, but all I could come up with was “Marion Morrison,” which was John Wayne’s real name.

My memory is an attic where the spiders of time have been at work. Everything’s still there, junk or treasure, but some things are so cobwebbed they take a bit of finding. Still, it may sound strange, but whenever I can get past the embarrassment, I choose to see something valuable in this, even transcendent. As Darwin said, we tend to learn and keep the skills that help us survive in the world. If this is the case, what we forget is the superficial stuff. We remember what is important.

And what goes first are words, names, terminology, the noun at the end of the sentence. When you think about it, language is a pretty recent experiment in human history, and to me, it’s starting to seem like an insubstantial connection to the world, a filament of intellectual glue, no more. Human contact, faces, expressions, touches, seem far more what life is all about. You don’t forget them. I knew I knew the guy in Starbucks even though he’d lost weight and gone gray. Two days after the semester ends, I can forget the name of a student I’ve seen almost every day, but faces stay.

Yet there’s something still deeper, I think, and this question of forgetting and remembering lights it up. Sometimes I can’t remember even a face, and all I get is an emotional gestalt, an aftertaste that’s the complex but lasting impression of experience. The soul, if you like.

I’ll give you an example. Every so often I call my daughter by my younger sister’s name. But I refuse to see this as creeping dottiness. It’s a sign that I see in both the same robust strength, the same intelligence, and I feel the same combination of pride and protectiveness. What’s in a name? It’s the emotional thumbprint that really defines us.

Besides, a good memory isn’t necessarily a virtue. When my memory was at its scary best, I used it as a gaudy cloak, as a weapon. You quote something, I’ll top it. You offer a fact, I’ll correct it. Anyone with perfect memory is invulnerable and insufferable.

In the end, sang Jewel, only kindness matters. I’m pretty sure it was Jewel.

August 17, 2003 Sunday