Thursday, November 17, 2005
Sunday, November 06, 2005
What is Memory?
His name was Bruce, I believe, and I really do not remember much about him other than one fourth-grade day he challenged me to meet him at the bike racks after school to fight. It is as if he appeared in my memories of elementary school saying those words and disappeared after the conflict was over. I do not remember why he wanted to fight me. I do not remember him seeming angry with me even as he challenged me. Nor do I remember being frightened, surprised, anything but ready to meet him. I was ready to fight. I guess I was angry with him at the time he challenged me, but I have no memory of anger. I was certainly mad at him after we met that first time at the bike racks, and I remember why.
Maybe he did not like the way I looked. Now that I look back on it, I must have looked like an unusual kid in the fourth grade. I walked on crutches and I rode a bike to school. It is odd that I do not remember this specifically but I guess I lay the wooden crutches across my bike’s basket, climbed on and rode away. The certain memory I have is that I had the crutches before I climbed on the bike and after I climbed off.
What may have seemed odd to people then was that I could ride a bike at all, but it did not seem odd to me. My left leg and foot just took a free ride on the left pedal because all my motive force came from my right leg. After becoming an adult, I encountered people who expressed amazement that I could ride a bike, but I do not remember anyone saying that when I was a kid. Maybe they thought if they called it to my attention I would suddenly be unable to ride. However, I do not think their amazement would have immobilized or surprised me because they would be expressing amazement at something that was obviously easy and common for me.
It was not just crutches across my bike basket either; I had just begun playing the trombone. I took it back and forth from home to school faithfully so I could practice every night as I was told to do. I remember putting the trombone case across the top of my bike basket. It always reminded me of an airplane wing. I have no memory of it, but I must have put my crutches across my basket in the same way. Seems to me like I used to hold the case, and I guess the crutches, on the top of the basket with a bungee cord. I really do not remember using the crutches all the time in the fifth grade; they were such an extension of me I seldom thought about them.
That huge basket seemed to fit the big beast of a bike I rode. It had what I later learned to call balloon tires, full fenders, and a wide stamped metal tank that housed twin battery powered headlights between the front tire fork and the seat. The bike had come from Sears and Roebuck, a Christmas present, but I bought that basket myself with allowance money and money I got from deposits on bottles I collected from the roadsides and cashed in at the neighborhood grocery store. I bought that extra large basket specifically because it would hold many bottles and I would not have to make so many trips back home while collecting.
To get back to Bruce, I really only have two days worth of memories of him—the two days I met him at the bike rack after school at Wiley Post Elementary School, to fight. Oh, but I cannot tell you any more about Bruce until I tell you something about Wiley Post.
Unlike Bruce who I thought of as a foreigner—a northerner maybe, Wiley Post, after whom our school had been named, was an Oklahoma boy and a famous pilot—though I don’t think he had Indian blood like most of us who attended his namesake school, or like his friend Will Rogers. Post’s plane, a hybrid Lockheed Orion-Explorer writers have termed a “beast,” had the same clunky oversized wing-look my bike had with a trombone case and crutches bungee corded sideways across the top of the basket.
Another thing about Wiley Post was he had a patch over one eye. I always wondered how he could fly without the depth perception two eyes provided, but never asked anyone about it, almost as if I did not think anyone had noticed and I did not want to bring it up lest he be deprived of his chance to fly. Of course, by the time I knew of him he had been dead for several years and could not ever be deprived of his chance to fly, but that did not seem to matter to me. I kept quiet about it anyway.
Because of that eye patch maybe, as I remember, he had a kind of set back, squarish look about his gaze and even about his stance. His squarish, squinty, one-eyed look spoke volumes to me of his bravery in the face of the adventures I knew he must have experienced.
Bruce, on the other hand, had a bean shaped body and a bean shaped head—reminded me of two white navy beans, a small one stacked vertically on top of a big one. His black hair was cropped close. He had button eyes, and walked with a slight tilt forward, as if his forehead always preceded him everywhere he went. He was neat, precise, earnest, bland, and one day for reasons I cannot remember, he challenged me to “meet him at the bike racks after school” to fight.
The day he issued the challenge, I remember being in a crowd of other kids, but I do not remember any of them noticing or commenting on the challenge. I went to the bike racks after school--and here is one of the strange things about this memory--there was no one else there, just Bruce. I have no memory of other kids, no one was there getting bicycles and heading home. Nor were there, in my memory at least, teacher cars parked anywhere. This does not seem possible to me. I have been teaching for over twenty-five years, there is usually at least one teacher car at a school, especially right after school. I do not know why I have no memory of any one else at school. I do remember Bruce being there, standing by the bike racks, waiting. He was wearing a Boy Scout shirt.
We use to do that—wear our scout shirts to school on days we had den or pack meetings. I do not remember anyone wearing a full uniform to school, but scout shirts and blue jeans were a common, if not official, scouting uniform. Bruce was older than the rest of us. We were little fellows, little blue-shirted, yellow-scarved, Cubs. He was brown-shirted, a Boy Scout.
He was waiting by the bike racks as I walked up. I do not remember feeling anything but ready--no fear, no excitement, nothing. Bruce showed no signs of emotion either. He glanced at me in a blank, bland, unemotional way and began walking toward me, looking down and to my right, not meeting my gaze. I almost turned to look to my right when he began talking. He said, “I can’t stay and fight. I gotta go to Scouts.” Simultaneous with the word “Scouts” he punched me in the stomach, turned around and walked away at his steady, plodding, forehead first pace.
I felt emotion then. With the wind knocked out of me, and my stomach hurting, anger and frustration pumped inside my head as I looked at his retreating figure. I did not even try to go after him. In spite of the obvious fact that I could not catch him if he broke into even the slightest run, chasing after him never entered my mind. I have no memory of what happened next. I guess I loaded up my bike and rode home.
At that time, I did not know the meaning of the word “irony,” but through my head-pulsing frustration and rage, I knew the feeling of the word. Bruce did not have time to stay and fight because he had to go to Scouts. Somehow, the hypocrisy of his statement cooled my anger. Even though to many he won that fight--did damage to his enemy and escaped unscathed—I thought his hypocritical statement was a sign of cowardice, both because fighting at the bike-racks was a very un Boy Scout thing to do, and because in uttering it he took a cheap shot and walked away.
I do not remember telling my parents, teachers, or anyone about the “fight.” I did not talk about it until I saw Bruce at school the next day. To my memory we were in the same place, same crowd of students, with the same words said, except this time it was me challenging him. I remember some heat in the words I hurled at his bland face. At the bike racks after school, it was almost the same scene again. Again inexplicably, we were alone, no students, no teachers in sight. Once again, he was waiting. However, this time as I came up on him, he did not advance on me to hit and rationalize. As I stepped up and squared off to face him, he looked to my right again, except this time his eyes were raised looking at some distance behind me. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw my mother rounding the drive that circled up to the school.
It is another inexplicable memory. My mother never picked me up from school. She worked. My memory does not tell me why she was picking me up that day. Maybe there was more general knowledge about the previous day’s “fight” that my memory holds. As soon as Bruce saw her, he turned to walk away again. I remember another flash of anger as I looked at his retreating back. Taking a few steps forward I raised one of my crutches high over my left shoulder with both hands. At the highest stretch of my preparatory move, I remember hearing my mother scream, “Ronnie, no!” At her scream, I paused. Bruce paused. Everything seemed to pause, all the absent students, teachers, even the empty schoolyard. The pause seemed long, thoughtful on my part. But it could have only been a heartbeat, because I brought the flat side of my crutch down across his upper back before the echo of her “no!” drifted into the silence.
“Huh,” was the satisfying sound Bruce made as the solid force of the blow pushed air from his lungs. His arms flew out and he fell forward. A second breath was expelled as his chest hit the ground, “huh, huh!” He got back up immediately, seemingly unhurt. Again, memory fails me. I have a dim memory of him shrugging off my mother’s earnest queries as he turned, eyes averted, towards his home. I have a half memory of my mother scolding me in the car all the way home, but I remember no further consequences, no conferences with teachers, other parents, principals . . . nothing. After that second meeting at the bike rack, I have no further memories of Bruce . . . nothing.
Can memory be truth if it fades in and out like distant music on the wind?
Maybe he did not like the way I looked. Now that I look back on it, I must have looked like an unusual kid in the fourth grade. I walked on crutches and I rode a bike to school. It is odd that I do not remember this specifically but I guess I lay the wooden crutches across my bike’s basket, climbed on and rode away. The certain memory I have is that I had the crutches before I climbed on the bike and after I climbed off.
What may have seemed odd to people then was that I could ride a bike at all, but it did not seem odd to me. My left leg and foot just took a free ride on the left pedal because all my motive force came from my right leg. After becoming an adult, I encountered people who expressed amazement that I could ride a bike, but I do not remember anyone saying that when I was a kid. Maybe they thought if they called it to my attention I would suddenly be unable to ride. However, I do not think their amazement would have immobilized or surprised me because they would be expressing amazement at something that was obviously easy and common for me.
It was not just crutches across my bike basket either; I had just begun playing the trombone. I took it back and forth from home to school faithfully so I could practice every night as I was told to do. I remember putting the trombone case across the top of my bike basket. It always reminded me of an airplane wing. I have no memory of it, but I must have put my crutches across my basket in the same way. Seems to me like I used to hold the case, and I guess the crutches, on the top of the basket with a bungee cord. I really do not remember using the crutches all the time in the fifth grade; they were such an extension of me I seldom thought about them.
That huge basket seemed to fit the big beast of a bike I rode. It had what I later learned to call balloon tires, full fenders, and a wide stamped metal tank that housed twin battery powered headlights between the front tire fork and the seat. The bike had come from Sears and Roebuck, a Christmas present, but I bought that basket myself with allowance money and money I got from deposits on bottles I collected from the roadsides and cashed in at the neighborhood grocery store. I bought that extra large basket specifically because it would hold many bottles and I would not have to make so many trips back home while collecting.
To get back to Bruce, I really only have two days worth of memories of him—the two days I met him at the bike rack after school at Wiley Post Elementary School, to fight. Oh, but I cannot tell you any more about Bruce until I tell you something about Wiley Post.
Unlike Bruce who I thought of as a foreigner—a northerner maybe, Wiley Post, after whom our school had been named, was an Oklahoma boy and a famous pilot—though I don’t think he had Indian blood like most of us who attended his namesake school, or like his friend Will Rogers. Post’s plane, a hybrid Lockheed Orion-Explorer writers have termed a “beast,” had the same clunky oversized wing-look my bike had with a trombone case and crutches bungee corded sideways across the top of the basket.
Another thing about Wiley Post was he had a patch over one eye. I always wondered how he could fly without the depth perception two eyes provided, but never asked anyone about it, almost as if I did not think anyone had noticed and I did not want to bring it up lest he be deprived of his chance to fly. Of course, by the time I knew of him he had been dead for several years and could not ever be deprived of his chance to fly, but that did not seem to matter to me. I kept quiet about it anyway.
Because of that eye patch maybe, as I remember, he had a kind of set back, squarish look about his gaze and even about his stance. His squarish, squinty, one-eyed look spoke volumes to me of his bravery in the face of the adventures I knew he must have experienced.
Bruce, on the other hand, had a bean shaped body and a bean shaped head—reminded me of two white navy beans, a small one stacked vertically on top of a big one. His black hair was cropped close. He had button eyes, and walked with a slight tilt forward, as if his forehead always preceded him everywhere he went. He was neat, precise, earnest, bland, and one day for reasons I cannot remember, he challenged me to “meet him at the bike racks after school” to fight.
The day he issued the challenge, I remember being in a crowd of other kids, but I do not remember any of them noticing or commenting on the challenge. I went to the bike racks after school--and here is one of the strange things about this memory--there was no one else there, just Bruce. I have no memory of other kids, no one was there getting bicycles and heading home. Nor were there, in my memory at least, teacher cars parked anywhere. This does not seem possible to me. I have been teaching for over twenty-five years, there is usually at least one teacher car at a school, especially right after school. I do not know why I have no memory of any one else at school. I do remember Bruce being there, standing by the bike racks, waiting. He was wearing a Boy Scout shirt.
We use to do that—wear our scout shirts to school on days we had den or pack meetings. I do not remember anyone wearing a full uniform to school, but scout shirts and blue jeans were a common, if not official, scouting uniform. Bruce was older than the rest of us. We were little fellows, little blue-shirted, yellow-scarved, Cubs. He was brown-shirted, a Boy Scout.
He was waiting by the bike racks as I walked up. I do not remember feeling anything but ready--no fear, no excitement, nothing. Bruce showed no signs of emotion either. He glanced at me in a blank, bland, unemotional way and began walking toward me, looking down and to my right, not meeting my gaze. I almost turned to look to my right when he began talking. He said, “I can’t stay and fight. I gotta go to Scouts.” Simultaneous with the word “Scouts” he punched me in the stomach, turned around and walked away at his steady, plodding, forehead first pace.
I felt emotion then. With the wind knocked out of me, and my stomach hurting, anger and frustration pumped inside my head as I looked at his retreating figure. I did not even try to go after him. In spite of the obvious fact that I could not catch him if he broke into even the slightest run, chasing after him never entered my mind. I have no memory of what happened next. I guess I loaded up my bike and rode home.
At that time, I did not know the meaning of the word “irony,” but through my head-pulsing frustration and rage, I knew the feeling of the word. Bruce did not have time to stay and fight because he had to go to Scouts. Somehow, the hypocrisy of his statement cooled my anger. Even though to many he won that fight--did damage to his enemy and escaped unscathed—I thought his hypocritical statement was a sign of cowardice, both because fighting at the bike-racks was a very un Boy Scout thing to do, and because in uttering it he took a cheap shot and walked away.
I do not remember telling my parents, teachers, or anyone about the “fight.” I did not talk about it until I saw Bruce at school the next day. To my memory we were in the same place, same crowd of students, with the same words said, except this time it was me challenging him. I remember some heat in the words I hurled at his bland face. At the bike racks after school, it was almost the same scene again. Again inexplicably, we were alone, no students, no teachers in sight. Once again, he was waiting. However, this time as I came up on him, he did not advance on me to hit and rationalize. As I stepped up and squared off to face him, he looked to my right again, except this time his eyes were raised looking at some distance behind me. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw my mother rounding the drive that circled up to the school.
It is another inexplicable memory. My mother never picked me up from school. She worked. My memory does not tell me why she was picking me up that day. Maybe there was more general knowledge about the previous day’s “fight” that my memory holds. As soon as Bruce saw her, he turned to walk away again. I remember another flash of anger as I looked at his retreating back. Taking a few steps forward I raised one of my crutches high over my left shoulder with both hands. At the highest stretch of my preparatory move, I remember hearing my mother scream, “Ronnie, no!” At her scream, I paused. Bruce paused. Everything seemed to pause, all the absent students, teachers, even the empty schoolyard. The pause seemed long, thoughtful on my part. But it could have only been a heartbeat, because I brought the flat side of my crutch down across his upper back before the echo of her “no!” drifted into the silence.
“Huh,” was the satisfying sound Bruce made as the solid force of the blow pushed air from his lungs. His arms flew out and he fell forward. A second breath was expelled as his chest hit the ground, “huh, huh!” He got back up immediately, seemingly unhurt. Again, memory fails me. I have a dim memory of him shrugging off my mother’s earnest queries as he turned, eyes averted, towards his home. I have a half memory of my mother scolding me in the car all the way home, but I remember no further consequences, no conferences with teachers, other parents, principals . . . nothing. After that second meeting at the bike rack, I have no further memories of Bruce . . . nothing.
Can memory be truth if it fades in and out like distant music on the wind?
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