Memory, and a July 22, 1987 greeting card

One of my friends remarked to me that he felt bad about how little of his childhood he recollected based on how much of mine I remembered. While it is true that I have a lot of memories that are quite clear and well-developed, and my sister confirms the ones that are shaky, a big part of how much I remember comes down to three things.

One is that I reinforced those memories by writing them down a long time ago, often multiple times. I had about 20 pen pals by the time I was 17 and I didn't have a kaleidoscope of experiences to relate to them on a regular basis. It wasn't uncommon for me to relate the same stories again and again to people.

I believe the second reason was that I grew up in an era with far less media saturation so I was less distracted and more engaged with my world, troubling and troublesome as it could be. I wasn't spending my days distracted by Netflix, surfing the web, or playing video games. The norm for me was being present in the world and observing closely. When you live in a state of hypervigilance, this is necessary, not just a product of curiosity.

The final reason is that I'm a very emotional person and the feelings you have at the moment a memory is formed are encoded with the details of an experience in your brain. Strong emotions and detailed memories stick out like mountains in the memory. People who aren't present live life in a blur because they're not reacting. The memories are plains of indifference.

All of that being said, without my enormous stash of correspondence from the time of my long distance relationship, I wouldn't have the details required to write my book with any sense of accuracy. It comforts me to have such granularity to my story because I value truth and complexity. Many of my cards and letters to Tito were about detailing my history and reactions in a way which I wouldn't otherwise recall in such detail.