Memories Not Worth Remembering
one piece of advice
Excerpt of a Memoir: Memories Not Worth Remembering
There’s a moment that lives rent-free in my head. A memory I don’t think is worth remembering. So why is it there?
It’s about a boy named Brian. I can’t remember his last name. It was 7th grade, during lunch. I was sitting with Brandon and Greg and a few other friends when Brian sat down. He was a big guy, football-player thick, with a heavy head. He had short, curly red hair and a pale complexion. His eyes were thin, with a short nose and faded lips.
(I was once told that our brains can only remember around one hundred faces. When I heard that, I remember thinking of Brian, a friend I wasn’t very close to, but enjoyed the company of. Someone who probably wouldn’t remain in my life for long. Even then, I only saw him every few weeks or months. I don’t remember ever seeing him past junior high. I thought, Would his face be one that fades?
One hundred faces, and I thought of Brian’s. I wondered if I’d remember it. And now, describing him, I’m wondering if that’s what he looked like. If I ever really remembered his face at all. Or if I only remember thinking about remembering it, and the rest is just my imagination.)
Brian sat down at our lunch table and began telling us about a test he took. One that wasn’t for a grade, but for personality. I think he took it in some sort of sociology class. Maybe social studies had a specific lesson that week. What I remember from the story—other than how Brian looked and the shirt he was wearing, a short-sleeved collared shirt in a tight plaid pattern, light colors that clashed with his pale skin—is one single question from the test.
“The last question,” he told us, “was to write down a piece of advice.”
We all leaned in.
He laughed. “I wrote, ‘never touch a flaming dog.’”
We didn’t laugh. Some of us smirked. I did. I thought it was extremely clever. Suddenly, I had a new admiration for Brian. What a funny, oddly insightful phrase. He came up with that himself?
Only later, many years later, did I find out it’s a common idiom, usually phrased as “never pet a burning dog.” How he got to “touch” and “flaming” is up for interpretation. I never think of the idiom for what it’s supposed to mean, to leave an irreparable situation alone and avoid further hurt. I just think it’s a funny piece of advice. What a terrible idea to touch a dog like that.
After all these years, I still think about it. Brian sitting at our lunch table, telling us this simple idiom, and me thinking he was clever and original.
But why do I remember it? It’s not because I took the advice. I’ve certainly pet a burning dog or two in my life. So why?
Why do I remember Brian? Or any of the faded faces from my past that offered no real significance, at least none I can see? Why do they linger?
A friend of mine recently told me she doesn’t remember anything from her childhood. And yet, details better left in the past keep me awake at night. Tricia sitting across from us on the wall in kindergarten. David in his Chicago Bears jacket kicking the pavement. Justin being thrown into the dirt. Jolene’s red dress. Dan licking his finger and rubbing his eye. Tim’s girlfriend cutting her finger in a blender.
Maybe there are lessons. Never touch a flaming dog. Don’t put your hand in a blender that’s still plugged in.
Or maybe some memories don’t mean anything at all. They just refuse to leave.