Memory is a truly amazing and complicated thing. The range and nature of things that we do, and do not, remember, is a confusing mess. This came to mind recently because of a specific recollection of mine.
Some people I know can tell you what they ate in detail on any day stretching months or even years back in time. I may not even be able to remember if I had breakfast this morning. Some can remember the complete life histories of everyone they’ve ever met, whereas I’m so face-blind1 that in most cases I can’t tell you if I have met them before, who they are, or anything about them.
But certain things get indelibly imprinted in my memory; obscure technical details, numbers (including my first ever credit card number), memories of certain random events (but generally not immediately useful ones like whether or not I locked the front door/car or where I parked), terrible jokes, obscure edgecases, and so on.
So it was with some amusement that I realised that after several decades I retain perfect recall of a piece of homework I submitted2 at school around the age of 11. We were tasked with writing a poem about sounds or silence, and to me this was a mind-blowingly complex request; I did not understand how poems fitted together at all and stared at a blank sheet of paper that evening at home with growing panic. It wasn’t that I couldn’t write something brilliant – I couldn’t even write something terrible.
I was rescued by a slightly older sister who dashed off a couple of verses effortlessly, which I wrote out in my untidy handwriting and passed off as my own efforts the following morning.
I don’t know why I can still recall it perfectly – my sister had long since forgotten even the incident, let alone the content. Maybe because it was trivial for her but meant so much to me – digging me out of a homework-hole as it did.
All of which reminds me that what we remember, and in how much detail, depends upon a complex set of criteria – some of which are well-understood, many of which are not. It’s not like a video camera running all the time.
So here it is, for posterity.
Sounds3
A rustle of mouse
Or is it worm?
Someone whispers
Something stirs
I turn - there's nothing there.
A yawn
A cough
A stifled snore
My heels click loud
On the wooden floor
This poem brings back a lot of memories of long days in classrooms, and of walking down the long wooden-floored corridors. Of course, these days the sound of my heels is slighly different in girl-mode, given their height!
Apropos the selectivity of our memories, I can only suggest that we each marvel at our detailed recollections, but try not worry too much about the gaps.
Sophie Baskerville 