| We all have histories. We have no control over them. They have brought us to where we are. Or it might be more accurate to say that the ways in which we have dealt or not dealt with our pasts have brought us to where we are. We do, however, have the power to exercise some control over our pasts. We can consciously choose what, when and how to remember the pieces of our lives that preceded this particular moment -- the moment that will become history as soon as I end this sentence with a period. As I mull these thoughts for the thousandth time, I am reminded that there are way too many people who have a very slim list of good memories to salvage from heaps of negative or otherwise difficult circumstances: children who never felt loved, revered or protected; children for whom living in the same apartment for one month represents stability; children with parents in jail or prison; children whose parents are imprisoned by dependence on drugs; children whose dreams are interrupted by violent sounds in the next room; children who are awakened in the middle of the night by groping, cold, sweaty adult hands and hot adult booze-laced breath whispering "don't tell anybody" -- adolescents who have never had the chance to be children because they had to grow up way too fast in order to survive; adults who stew in confused anger inside prison walls whose memories of childhood only add to their anger and confusion; and others who do not have memories of a father's adoring smile or the smell of cake made especially for them baking in their grandmother's oven. These little stories are for them. I have plenty of not-so-wonderful stories to tell, but I will not tell them here. I am blessed to have a long list of warm and wonderful memories of childhood. Some need to be picked out of steaming piles of less-than-ideal circumstances and cleaned off, but most shine on their own -- untouched and uncompromised. So from time to time I will share some of my memories. Not monumental things, but the simple day-to-day stuff that makes me smile when I remember them even on my most difficult days. Here is one of them. For those who are similarly blessed with mountains of good memories, maybe my simple tales will help you to recall your own. For those who draw blanks when you look behind you for something good and warm -- it is my honor and privilege to share my good memories with you. I grew up in New York City, so most of these little stories will take place in New York and vicinity. Here is one of them: There was a Christmas when I was about five. My grandmother -- whom everyone called Aunt Lee -- asked an odd favor of me. One of the things she did to make ends meet was to care for the children of a wealthy white family. One of the kids was a boy who was about my age and size. Aunt Lee took me to the shoe department of Macy's department store and had me try on different pairs of cowboy boots. I found the perfect pair. They were brown leather. The upper portions had intricate designs stitched in with scattered pieces of colored glass made to look like semi-precious stones. They were the most beautiful pair of boots that I had ever seen and cowboy outfits and guns were very big when I was five. I was so happy with the boots that I had forgotten that the shopping trip was about the rich little boy that Aunt Lee cared for. She interrupted my glee and turned to me somberly to say, "Kenny, thank you for picking out the perfect pair of boots. Now -- I'm sure that little Kevin will love them. Take them off now, dear," Aunt Lee said gently. I sat there with my mouth hanging open with tears in my eyes while I listened to Aunt Lee's next words: "Remember? They are not for you." I was heartbroken. All the time I had been trying on cowboy boots I guess I had forgotten or chose -- not to remember that the boots were not to be mine. I pulled off the precious boots and put them back in their box while sobbing. Christmas Day arrived. I got a cowboy shirt that looked just like the kind that Roy Rogers wore on the Roy Rogers show on Saturday morning television. "I got a holster with two guns with pearl handles and several rolls of caps. I got a cowboy hat with a leather string attached so that I would not lose it if it blew off during an imaginary cattle drive or knocked off during a fight with bad guys. I already had a pair of genuine blue jeans. But the outfit looked pretty silly with my PF Flyer sneakers. Aunt Lee smiled and handed me a long rectangular box wrapped in red shiny paper. Mahalia Jackson's voice lilted from the 78 RPM record and filled the tiny apartment with the sweetly sung words of "Silent Night." I tore off the wrapping, pulled open the box and yanked out the tissue paper to find the brown cowboy boots with the intricate designs and colored pieces of glass sewn in. It was one of my best Christmases. |
| Simple Things/Lang Kenneth Haynes Shared Memory: Christmas 1954 |
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