On a winter night my freshman year, I jolted awake from a poorly planned nap crammed between midterm study sessions. With a devastating sense of loss, I realized that my mother was nowhere to be found. I called out to her, my eyes bloodshot, then fell back into bed. I was not in my house in Korea, 6,600 miles away, but rather in my dorm room at Dartmouth, my supposed home away from home.
At that moment, all I wanted was to go back to elementary school, to a time when my mom would comfort me after a nightmare involving a homicidal chicken. I fought back an onslaught of tears as I realized that this time, no one was there to reassure me. I missed the days when I shouted for my parents after a spooky dream, and they came running for me, missed the rush of tender relief I felt as they held me in their tight embrace, rocking me back and forth to sleep.
Now, buried in material about trade-offs in public policy and Vladimir Nabokov’s “Pale Fire,” I grieved for the childhood memories that came back to me with such a sudden pang. Until that moment, it seemed as though they had evaporated into thin air, faded into the background as time marched inexorably onward.
Even in kindergarten, I was an introspective loner who preferred snuggling up with an Astrid Lindgren storybook to playing dress-up with giggling friends who constantly teased me about my bookishness. My big brother raised hell wherever he set foot, an ingenious class clown who shot back witty remarks at disapproving teachers and tirelessly ran around the neighborhood with a throng of admiring peers trailing behind.
Despite, or perhaps because of, our diametrically opposed personalities, we were insufferable yet inseparable pals from the very beginning. We bickered, scuffled, snickered and blubbered together over the years. We would reenact epic combat scenes from Digimon Adventure, dare each other to jump from the top of a jungle gym and protest loudly as our dad inquired about our homework.
I ached for the blissful world I inhabited in those days, the mythical creatures of ancient Korea and the fantastical landscapes of Russian folklore that lay at my fingertips -— the ludicrous courage and solemnity with which I accompanied my brother on any number of apparently dangerous expeditions, from navigating through sinister alleyways to defying our father’s order to brush our teeth by 9:30 p.m. Somewhere along the frenzied timetable of classes and club meetings, I had lost the spark of passion and tenacity that had suffused my childhood.
And then, all at once, I found myself reliving the powerful moments that had defined those years in Korea.
With hushed breath, I stared at the immobile body of my beloved grandmother, gulps of stifled sobs escaping through my clenched teeth. My mind continually replays her last words and her low chuckle as she graciously received my temper tantrum the morning of her death. As a token of her unconditional love for me, who she called her “puppy,” she had asked that I join her on a trip to the grocery store.
Both of my parents worked late, occasionally in faraway cities, so my grandmother had practically raised me and my brother since the first grade. Mom was absent most of the time — a figure I idolized as a poised, ambitious career-woman, but not a tangible presence in my life. Dad was a terrifying influence both at home and away, whose lifelong dedication to research and professorship compelled him to demand the same level of self-control and work ethic from his children. But my grandmother – she was plate after plate of meticulously prepared comfort food and wrinkled smiles that warmed the nooks and crannies of my heart.
* * *
I knew that my task for the day was to study, not to reflect, so I pulled my mind from my memories and back to “Pale Fire.” But the words I found in its pages catapulted me right back.
... I’ll turn down eternity unless
The melancholy and the tenderness
Of mortal life; the passion and the pain...
Are found in Heaven by the newlydead
Stored in its strongholds through the years.
Professor John Shade, the novel’s protagonist, muses about his tendency to stroll down memory lane, which resonated with me as I longed for the haunting yet rejuvenating memories of my childhood. I wondered whether years from now, my memories of home would remain as cherished and unadulterated as they seemed to me in that moment. In the back of my mind, I knew that even the memories I cherished most must have had flaws before time wiped away their imperfections.
The solution to this dilemma, however, came promptly and unexpectedly.
Sitting at a trippee reunion dinner that evening, I found myself thinking back on my experiences at the Luna Bleu Farm during my organic farming trip in the fall. I remembered the awkward handshakes that we exchanged. The sunshine that ricocheted off of the cow hides as we bonded around a serene grazing area. Yet the persistent memory of my family made me secretly homesick when I slept in a tent along with my trippees that night.
In this, I had a revelation. Memories, as fluid and unreliable as they are, will remain a constant in my life. They provide extraordinary strength, motivation and consolation in times of happiness and sadness. There is no distinct space into which I can shove all my memories to preserve them in their original forms. But I don’t need to. My memories are not important because they are accurate -— they are important because they intersect with my current life at Dartmouth and shape so much of who I am.
