Somebody asked me recently about the first birthday I remember. While I’m usually more than happy to reminisce about my childhood years, this question threw me a curveball because I’m so, so bad at remembering stuff.
Nostalgia might be my second nature, yet when I am asked to recall something specific from my past, I’m at a loss.
Thank God for photographs.
When it comes to childhood memories, photographs are the ones that dictate how deeply a particular moment in time is etched into my mind. The more photos I have depicting a specific day or event, the better my chances are of remembering it. That, and my parents’ stories.
Sometimes, photographs and stories are enough to build memories from scratch, to fill in the blanks of time, to complete my life’s history. Like a little scrapbook.
Anyway, about that birthday.
I think I was 10. I’d be able to tell you for sure if I had the stack of photographs in front of me, but I don’t, so we’ll just go with my hunch for now.
I celebrated this birthday at a local McDonald’s. Back when I was a kid, they had these cute little venues - usually in the shape of a very colorful train or a ship - where they hosted kids’ parties.
Looking back, it probably wasn’t anything too fancy, but as seen through the eyes of a 10-year-old kid, it was heaven. I also vaguely remember that 10 was the age limit for this kind of parties, so I was excited to “make the cut” before it was too late.
Dressed up nicely, with my hair up in curls, surrounded by about 6 of my closest friends… I was beaming with joy. Or so the photos tell me.
The one thing I remember is that I felt really special. A rare feeling for me - maybe less so then, more so now. And I had fun, lots of it. Life was still a game back then. Things were simpler, either black or white. I hadn’t yet discovered all the shades of gray that come with being an adult.
But guess what? Our mind is the ultimate trickster. (Or is it us?)
Every time we try to dig up a memory, we end up rewriting it. So maybe I rewrote the memory of my 10th birthday to fit nicely into my life’s story. To serve as a bridge to a different chapter of my life. To make sense. Or maybe not. I’ll never know.
I wonder how many other memories of mine are unfaithful copies? How many of them I recalled so often that I changed altogether?
We can’t help but rewrite history.
What’s certain is that my relationship with birthdays has always been bittersweet. As years went by, much of the sweetness has worn off, and I’m mostly left with a bitter aftertaste.
Going forward, I feel like I owe it to myself to fix that. To gradually let go of my unreasonable expectations and my terror of being the center of attention.
And to immortalize everything (good and bad) as much as I can. Take pictures, talk about it, write about it - while it’s happening, while it’s fresh.
I won’t be able to stop history from being rewritten. But I can hold on to these mementos like a totem, to remind myself of what’s real. I’ll let them be the reliable narrator of my life’s story, because my own memory can’t be trusted.
I'm like you, I can barely remember events like that. Even when I look at pictures, I likely piece the memory together incorrectly. Lovely reflection :)