DARK ROAST, DUNKIN —
my earliest memory was an act of protest.
when i was younger, i didn’t like how humans openly accepted that as we get older, our past becomes fuzzier and fuzzier. to me, it felt superficial to exist in the present and know that it would soon be our forgettable past. of course, as a 7-year old, i didn’t have words to describe exactly why it bothered me that our memory as humans was so fickle. but looking back, i know i would say damn you, hippocampus.
i just knew that i didn’t want to forget my first crush’s name. i knew that i didn’t want to forget which track my dad played more than others on the beatles cd. i knew i didn’t want to forget my favorite animal of all time.
and, finally, i knew that i didn’t want to forget what it was like to be 7 years old, during a fall afternoon, in mid-september.
so, in an act of protest, a 7-year-old natasha tried to remember something, anything, with a promise to herself that she’d never forget it. no matter how old and how busy her life got when she was a gross teenager.
more later, but first my words:
my words: fundraising used to be formal. i wrote about how memes are being used to land checks in silicon valley, and what that signals about the next generation of founders
learning lesson: the coronavirus hasn’t simply created new trends in remote deal-making, but it has accelerated pre-existing ones that otherwise would have gone under the radar. file memes under it, and next up, ghosting.
etc: in july i wrote about how stanford students are short-circuiting investors by investing in their peers via an investment club. steph mui, one of the organizers, recently told me that anyone interested in doing the same should reach out to 2020icgsb@gmail.com for help.
anyways,
to pursue this challenge, i picked an event that was horribly simple. i figured i’d probably unintentionally remember things like my first crush (jeff), most loved song (eight days a week), and favorite animal (tasmanian devil). i wanted to remember something subtle, something i’d be happy to have just because i would have forgotten it otherwise.
i landed on picture day. i remember dressing up in a black and white frock and walking into the church basement for my portrait. my mom was on my left and i was looking down, staring at my hands, trying to be present. in my head i remember telling myself: remember this moment, because it will probably be the youngest version of yourself you will remember when you’re old. after smiling for the photo, i walked out of the church. and that’s the last bit of the memory.
today, i’m less than two months from 24, we’re in the midst of a year the world says will never be forgotten, and i’m stuck thinking about this silly little picture day.
i’m thinking about how younger me would have been ecstatic. i would have tested out how unforgettable the year truly is, spinning around and indulging in as many silly details as my mind could let me. i would laugh in adult’s faces, and tell them that this it what it feels like to be in a present that is irreversibly documented.
older me has learned how to journal, so remembering doesn’t have to be as intentional as crossing one hand over the other and etching it into my mind. older me knows that remembering isn’t as simple as a walk on picture day with my mom on the left. remembering is powerful. it comes with responsibility. and, in 2020, a layer of sadness, tragedy, and nostalgia for “lasts.” last vacation i had, last hug, last big party.
and just like that, my little act of protest — remembering a simple day that means nothing to no one except for me — feels even more special.
how’s that for #wistfulmondays,
n
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