Dear Brain, I Give You the Finger, Part 1

by Phyllis

“As a recorder, the brain does a notoriously wretched job. Tragedies and humiliations seem to be etched most sharply, often with most unbearable exactitude, while those memories we think we really need—the name of the acquaintance, the time of the appointment, the location of the car keys—have a habit of evaporating.” I recently read that in a National Geographic article about memory, and I think I agree—-with most of it, anyway. It jives with other things I have studied, read about, and experienced. Even the part I may not totally agree with--the tragedies and humiliation part--can be interpreted to reflect how I have come to understand memory, because it says that certain important events seem to be more clear and definite, not that they in fact are more clearly remembered.
That is what I think.
What I learned about comprehension and memory in some linguistics courses I took in college seems to back this up. I don’t know how hard it will be to distill this idea in a few short sentences, but I will try: one theory about how the brain works is that comprehension—short-term memory, working memory, whatever you want to call it—relies on a huge network of interconnected “groups” of information in the brain. The groups are different for everyone, but when we hear or read words or concepts, those concepts, and all the things we associate with them, are “activated.” They are ready, primed.
For example, I say “cat.” Upon hearing or reading the word, you have activated concepts in your brain network that you associate with cats. You start to think about whatever you associate with cats: you have one and it is very important to you. You are thinking about him now, and you picture him; he nuzzles against you and purrs quietly. Or you hate cats, and all the negative associations you have with cats are brought to your mind. They scratch, they smell, they’re lazy. You can’t even claim that you have no associations with the “concept,” because everyone who hears someone pronounce the word “cat,” at the very least activates the groups in their brain that include information like: small, furry animal, drinks milk, meows. It is involuntary—you can’t help it. And all because I said “cat.” Does this make any sense?
And what about vivid memories I have? What I read in National Geographic would tell me they are because the event I remember was significant—yes, even a tragedy or humiliation. But things I have studied tell me they may be mostly constructed. Yes, we remember events, but our brain has done its best to store away this memory like it stores everything else: in this interconnected maze of related concepts, these “groups.” Perhaps the brain misfiles things sometimes. I remember, for example, losing a tooth as a child while listening to sports on the radio. With the money I got from the tooth fairy, I bought myself a present on my birthday (in March). Later in life, I tell my family the story. I say I lost my tooth listening to a Seattle Mariner baseball game on the radio (I do remember listening to a lot of games on the radio, and I can’t imagine what other sporting event it could be.) My son points out to me there are no baseball games being played in March, and I am at a loss. What part have I remembered incorrectly? How much of my memory was manufactured? Have I connected more than two memories into one? What was a “vivid” memory for me is now a hazy mess. But that’s what happens when we recall past events sometimes. We swear we remember something clear as day. And, again, we can’t help it. It’s automatic. It’s the way the brain works. But it means that memory may not be entirely accurate.
That sucks.
Because I write to remember. I want to get down on paper what is in my brain so I can remember it. I have taken great comfort in the idea; I think to myself, Self, you will read this later and be glad. Your writing will serve you when you can’t remember the details of your life, when you are grasping for a piece of your past feelings, thoughts, emotions, and desires. I am not so sure now. What will I really have? Annie Dillard writes: “After you’ve written, you can no longer remember anything but the writing. […] After I’ve written about any experience, my memories—those elusive, fragmentary patches of color and feeling—are gone; they’ve been replaced by the work.” Great. So I used to have memories; they were hazy and unclear and I struggled to sort them in my brain, but once I wrote about them, they ceased to be memories anymore.
What remains is constructed, fabricated, solid, definable…there.
I wonder then, as I think about the time I spent in Brazil, and the many experiences, emotions, trials, and adventures I had, what really happened. What do I remember and what have I manufactured? Perhaps there is no way to know. It happened nearly twenty years ago, and I was twenty years old. Keep that in mind when you read my next post.