Category: Memories

As the youngest and only daughter in my home, of course, I would dip into everyone’s closets and dressers, especially my mom’s. It doesn’t help that we wear the same size in literally everything. I am notorious in my household for being a thief, and since before I could remember I would borrow, without permission, anything I found cute and that I thought she hadn’t worn in a while. I am also notorious, according to my mom, for losing and misplacing things, and even prior to this event I definitely earned this notoriety. Now, you would think my mom would hide her valuable possessions from my thieving fingers. I know I would. I don’t know why she decided to entrust me with her 24K gold bracelet, which was gifted to her before I was born and was one of the only pieces of jewelry my dad ever got her. Maybe she believed I would be responsible for once in my life due to the material and sentimental value of this bracelet. Maybe it was the fact that I was going into the spring quarter of my first year in college and it was a sign of faith that she trusted I would turn things around. Either way, I ended up with that gold bracelet on my left wrist as I returned to Santa Cruz, California for the last time.

One evening, I sat with a group of girlfriends of mine on the Stevenson knoll. This knoll overlooks a grassy field with volleyball courts, a paved track, and makeshift baseball and soccer fields. Beyond that lay a woodsy area, and beyond that the city, and finally Monterrey Bay. The ocean view and the feeling of sitting on a quilt surrounded by friends and nature took my breath away, quite literally, because I was always smoking weed out there. That afternoon, we sat on my quilt on the knoll, the six or seven of us, as we smoked, talked, and laughed, passing around three or four fat Backwoods. We listened to a playlist with SZA, H.E.R., Daniel Caesar, and other RnB artists the person on aux knew we’d enjoy, and we watched the many college students just like us play on the field below, soaking in the warmth of the sun that day. The vibe was chill, and the mood was light and fun.

As we sat, I remembered how my friends Kaitlyn Naliyah, and I were finally all in the same place, outside, and had downtime to kill. We had previously talked about getting on a volleyball court together, as we had all played at some point in our youth, but hadn’t made it a reality yet. It was my master plan to get us all down to the courts that day and at my suggestion, that’s just what we did. Kaitlyn and I went down to check out a volleyball from the gym, and after I finished the woods with the other girls we went down to the courts. We hopped on the first court we saw when three other students whom we had never met before asked if they could join us. There was one boy and two girls. I didn’t catch their names or their college affiliations, nor do I remember quite what they looked like aside from them being white and seemingly friendly. Soon enough, we had a pretty decent game going; me on one side with two of the new people, and my friends on the opposite side with the other. At one point the ball landed on my side of the net, and because I was the most experienced, my team had me serve. I picked up the ball and prepared to send it back over. Unbeknownst to me, the next swing of my arm would bring a moment that would break my heart and be etched into my memory forever. I brought my arm back and swung.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the volleyball I had just served go over the net, but my focus wasn’t on that. I barely noticed the players on the opposite side dive after the ball, touching it more than three times to return it. I watched for the longest five seconds of my life as my mom’s gold bracelet unclasped itself and slipped off my arm. The sun glistened off of it like a dream, and it sank into the sand before me. My heart plunged into the deepest pits of my stomach. I told myself that my bracelet was just sitting below the surface of the sand, and I would just have to reach down and scoop it up. As I bent down and stuck the fingers of one hand into the sand where I saw the bracelet fall, I felt nothing. My stomach, still with my heart in it, dropped to the floor. “No”, I whispered to myself. I couldn’t have, I thought. I began to panic, and as I stuck my other hand into the sand to search, I felt myself spiraling. I knew it was God punishing me for smoking, I just knew. And how stupid could I have been to wear my mom’s gold bracelet out with me on the volleyball courts? And not just the regular hardwood courts, but the sand volleyball courts. I begged and pleaded; let it be here somewhere. Oh please, God, if I could just find it, I promise I won’t smoke again. I promise I’ll do my homework; I promise I’ll call my family more often; I promise over and over again. At some point, I told my friends and the strangers who joined us in the game what had happened, and they stopped to help me search for it. My best friend, Kaitlyn, suggested to me that I check my bag, in case I had taken it off and put it in there for safekeeping before the game. I searched each pocket of my purse three times over for the bracelet, turned it inside out, and even ripped one of the zippers when I tried to open it. Still nothing. As I walked back sucking the tears back into their ducts, I watched what looked like chaos to my faded eyes. Everyone from our court, about five or six other college students, dug into the sand searching for the lost treasure. I focused on the guy I didn’t know and never saw again after that day, who sat in the vicinity where I saw the bracelet fall. I watched his hands as he picked up the sand and dropped it, picked it up and dropped it, like a kid in a sandbox. I looked at the sand, how each step, each pile picked up and dropped, seemed to push and suck the grains, thousands at a time, deeper into the unknown. “Stop”, I told them. “I think we’re just making it worse”. They looked at their hands and then at the ground, avoiding eye contact with me. They shuffled their feet a bit; no words were said. Whistles blew from other courts, and games, and conversations went on elsewhere. It had begun to set in that if I did indeed drop it in the sand, I would never get it back. I felt so hurt and tired, and I was embarrassed. How could I stop the game and all the fun to make everyone search for what I lost? Why was I making such a scene and ruining the evening? I told them to resume their game, and that I would go retrace my steps from earlier. I think I remember my best friend asking if I wanted her help, but at that moment I needed to be alone.

I walked up and down the dirt path of the knoll, grazing the ground with my tear-filled eyes. I returned to where we sat and smoked and asked the other girls if they’d seen it. Of course, they hadn’t but said they would keep an eye out for it. At one point I looked back at the volleyball courts, then out to the field, then to the entire landscape before me. Everything just resumed, as if my heart didn’t just fall out of my chest a moment ago, as if I wasn’t having back-to-back panic attacks about what just happened, about what the sand had just stolen from me. The games went on, like clockwork, and I truly felt the realization that an innumerable amount of people go on with their lives with no thought of what goes on in yours. I continued to look for the bracelet that I would never see again.

The whole moment felt so surreal. To this day, the memory is still vivid in my mind, but it’s like the memory of an old dream; too real to be insignificant yet mystical enough to know it could only exist in the realm of my mind. I was so high that day, that sometimes I wonder if the moment I lost my mom’s bracelet ever actually happened. I hadn’t seen it fall off my wrist and bury itself in the sand, but I had really lost it another time that day at a place I forgot to check. It felt as if the bracelet disappeared into thin air. As if the bracelet fell not into the sand on the court I played volleyball on, but into a parallel dimension, slipping away from the safety of my wrist, falling through a window that on that evening connected my world with another. I imagine my mom’s bracelet is off somewhere, sitting in the sand of another court, or on the smooth beach of another shore, or buried in the plains of a desert on another planet, waiting.

A week later I picked up the phone and called my mom. I tried for her a couple of times, and eventually, she returned my call. I told her I had something really important to tell her, and I was really sorry. She braced herself for the news. When she heard that I lost her beloved gold bracelet, one that had known her longer than I have, she got mad, said something, and hung up. I sat on the couch in the lounge of my house that I was calling from. I stared at the carpet, the walls, and the dorm room furniture for a while. Grateful that I at least got that off my chest, I heard my phone light up and read the text on my screen. It was my mom, telling me that she thought I was going to tell her something bad had happened to me, and that losing a bracelet dulled in comparison to what we all know could happen to a young college-aged girl. I cried, and with a heart still heavy and hurting, I slept more at peace that night than I had in a while, and began my first attempt at sobriety. It took a while for the memory of losing that bracelet to not hurt, probably as long as it took to stick to my sobriety. However, like clockwork, I know all things eventually fall back to where they need to be.

Memories are malleable with several different variables that change the biases of memories. Memories vary with different factors that contribute to the outcome of a memory. Certain defaults such as age, gender, cultures, and languages can alter how an individual remembers an event. Additionally, people often adopt other people’s memories whilst listening to another person’s point of view. This occurs often between eyewitnesses even when experiencing the same event at the same time. The different factors ultimately create changed memories, and with informational influence, witnesses can change a report due to the lack of confidence felt about own memories. Memories are active constructing and reconstructing of different information often susceptible by social influences (Williamson, Weber, & Roberston, 2013). People often hear mistaken information and unconsciously retrieve that faulty information as new memories.

Human memories are highly malleable and are easily changeable (Meena & Kumari, 2018). Human memories are created by newly processed information mixed with previously stored information (Meena & Kumari, 2018). This creates pseudo memories that are recognized as artificial memories. False memorization is easily reformed due to differing factors. One major factor in changing or creating false memories is listening to other people’s memories and unconsciously assuming that this new information is own’s true memory. During eyewitness reports, eyewitnesses will opt to take each other’s memories and create as own. Assuming that new information is a true memory causes many reports to be false and filled with wrong information creating non-accurate reports (Williamson, Weber, & Roberston, 2013). For example, if two people were involved in a crime scene and are meant to give helpful information to police, the two eyewitnesses should be separated to lower the chances of information influence. Eyewitnesses will often share information and prefer to use another’s information. This is especially seen in eyewitnesses that trust a witness with an image of being a more credible source (Williamson, Weber, & Roberston, 2013). Informational influence is responsible for making errors in memories and co-witnesses reports.

True memories are mental images that are stored in the visual cortex however, memories can be created by receiving new information through listening which is why false memories occur frequently within eyewitnesses. Recent neurophysiology studies have found that true memories are stored within the visual cortex while false memories are more active in the auditory cortex (Meena & Kumari, 2018). Neurophysiology studies found how vulnerable eyewitnesses are and how easily witnesses acquire false information without attaining knowledge of false memories. In hopes of lowering false eyewitness reports, eyewitnesses need to wait separately to be interviewed, should not share information, and should be questioned as soon as the event occurred due to higher likelihoods of memories altering over time.

Misinformation is also highly seen within witnesses due to the use of simple word suggestions. Suggestive words can determine how a witness remembers a car accident. For example, if a police officer uses the words “car hit” then the witness will report the accident as a bump but, if the police officer decides to use the words “car smashed into” the witness is more likely to remember the accident as a serious car crash (Meena & Kumari, 2018). Therefore, police officers should use the same language when filling out reports and be aware of the stature in which the reports are given. On top of that, different languages also affect word usage and can create false memories due to differences in which languages use agentive words. For example, native Spanish speakers use “Se” which translates to oneself or itself, therefore, when bilingual participants translated the following statement, “tore the bodice”, the bilingual participants stated that “the bodice tore” (Fuasey & Boroditsky, 2010). In this study using both bilingual speakers and English speakers, 53% of agentive readers were more willing to convict the plausible suspects than the non-agentive statements. Therefore, the agentive statements read by English speaker made these participants convict suspects more times than the non-agentive Spanish speakers (Fausey & Boroditsky, 2010). Additionally, the English speakers were more likely to find the suspects higher than the bilingual participants (Fausey & Boroditsky, 2010). Agentive and non-agentive statements change the perspectives that eyewitnesses hold and conform to different eyewitnesses’ views of experiences. Usage of different words could also be used when trying to manipulate cases. This also leads to false confessions that create wrongful convictions of suspects.

Due to memories being fragile and easily changeable this becomes a dangerous and unfair usage of power which unfortunately has also been seen throughout experts. Psychologists and police officers have been caught manipulating eyewitnesses to change the outcome of cases therefore, all judges and jurors need to become aware during testimonies given in courts. Further education should be allowed within the courts to adhere to each case before a trial begins. This could lower the chances of wrongful convictions and allow for better credible sources as evidence. Eyewitness testimonies are not reliable enough to act as a main source of evidence. Since there is often no conscious knowledge of wrong information being used, eyewitnesses testimonies are risks taken within the justice system that create further issues.

We often associate the word ‘history’ and ‘fact’ as synonymous and interchangeable. We don’t take into consideration what goes on while recounting or retelling stories or events from the past. Memories are constructed and reconstructed with every re-telling of the event, and with every repetition, the recollection is slightly altered and changed. The question that this paper aims to answer is whether memories and personal testimonies paint an accurate picture of what truly went down in the past, or do they create false alternate realities?

David Gallo defines memory as “not simply recording of the past, but a deliberate piecing-together of retrieved information and other relevant information in an effort to make sense of the past” (Gallo 13). Stories of our ancestors are often passed down generation after generation in the oral and written form. After a few decades, these memories are seen less as a person’s stories and life experiences and more as a ‘historical account’, which is viewed as being an unchangeable fact. However, how people recall memories is not only about what they want to remember, but also about how they want to be remembered by others. One might distort the details of a story to make oneself look better, or in cases of testimonies, to plead innocence. In Akutagawa’s story In the Bamboo Grove, the three people involved in the murder provide three contrasting testimonies of what had happened, as each of them had their self-interest relating to honour and pride in mind. This illustrates how oral narrations of an occurrence can be laced with misrepresentations and contortions of the truth.

Psychologists have conducted extensive research on the ‘false memory syndrome’ or the ‘misinformation effect’ and have found that it is possible to plant memories of events that never happened in the first place. Studies have shown that when people experience an event and are later exposed to new and misleading information about it, their recollections often become distorted. In other words, they can be coaxed into ‘remembering’ events that had never happened. Participants in one such study were led to believe that they got lost in a shopping mall as a child and an old man helped them get back to their parents, but all of this never happened (Loftus). Researchers planted a false memory in their heads, of which they were later convinced that it was the truth; it was their history. As a result, this invalidates the very idea based on which these events are recounted and remembered; historical memory cannot be trusted, and our past being an alternate becomes a possibility.

In the novel The Sense of an Ending, the protagonist Tony talks about how “memory isn’t the lies of the victors, but the self-delusions of the survivors” (Barnes 16). The history that we know is of Tony’s – the survivor who chose to tell it, and not Adrian’s – the victor who died. Tony recalls certain things which are just distorted and altered versions of his past. It is highly probable that Adrian’s version of the story would’ve been very different from Tony’s. After all, what one ends up remembering isn’t always what one has witnessed (Barnes 1). Tony doesn’t remember the letter he wrote to be as scathing and malicious as it was, hence making his judgement of Adrian and Veronica’s character and behaviour towards him highly questionable. Retold stories characteristically add background details absent from the originals, hence not only reordering past scenes, but creating wholly new ones (Lowenthal).

Another phenomenon, called the ‘Mandela effect’ also goes to show how collective memory, i.e., memories of large groups of people can also be contradictory to actual events. One of the most popular examples is the dialogue “Luke, I am your father” by Darth Vader from the Star Wars saga. The phrase is closely associated with the series, with millions’ worth of merchandise having this dialogue on them. However, Darth Vader never actually said these words – he said “No, I am your father” as a response to Luke. Nonetheless, fans incorporate this dialogue into their lives and swear that it is a true memory. Hence, these false memories and recollections are not just held by individuals, but also by larger groups, even societies. Collective memories, in this case and many others, have often proven to be constructed realities – events that people want to believe were true, but are actually not.

Loftus describes memory as being “like a Wikipedia page – you can edit it, but so can others” (“How reliable is your memory?”). The idea of retroactive interference comes into play here. It is a phenomenon wherein new information learnt comes in the way, and interferes with the old information which our memory has stored (Williams). For instance, one might have had a bad experience with a course at college. Over the years, they keep meeting people who are convinced that it was an amazing course. After a while, the person will also start to believe that their experience of the course was amazing. This is because the old information is still being stored in our memory, but it cannot be retrieved because of the competition created by the new information that comes in. Hence, we can be led to believe that we had a drastically different experience, making our memory of events unreliable and unstable.

In fact, an act as simple as describing an incident of the previous day is not completely accurate. Michael Gazzaniga says that we are basically programmed to lying – that there is an ‘interpreter’ in the brain that reconstructs events, and in doing so makes errors of perception, memory and judgement. This interpreter also tries to keep our story together, and to do that, it learns to lie to itself. This is especially apparent in cases of autobiographies and memoirs – even though they describe the person’s life to a certain extent, a large part of the narration is this ‘interpreter’ lying to itself to give an illusion of being in control (Freeman). Elie Wiesel’s Night is an autobiographical account of the author’s experience in a German concentration camp, and the horrors he faced during that one year of his life. Whether his image of the camp is completely accurate is questionable – the unreliability of memories is increased when they engage traumatic materials (Ibrahim). Memories involving emotional or physical distress demand avoidance and repression – so, Wiesel’s account can’t be seen as a factual retelling of the occurrences of the concentration camp (Childers).

Despite evidence that suggests otherwise, history in textbooks portrays itself to be a factual and exact account of events of the past. The narrator in such textbooks offers a detached and objective view of history and leaves no scope for things such as differences in vantage points, memory lapses, perception etc. Hence, the history that we’re traditionally taught in school does not present an actual view of what went down in the past, but creates an image of the past which is sparsely sprinkled with truths.

Repression affects the decisions we make in many aspects of life. For instance, a memory that is so revolting it can be retrieved in the subconscious and maybe after a few years later the memory may appear again into the consciousness. Furthermore, many legal scholars test the validity of repressed memories for evidence. They gained support for repressed memory theory, different factors offer examples of horrific experiences of little children whose minds cannot handle severe trauma and who, in turn, repress the memories of these experiences. Opponents of the theory likewise produce images of families torn apart by false accusations of child molestation and sexual abuse. The truth appears to lie somewhere in between these two extreme views. Repressed memories commonly occurs to a childhood sexual abuse memory that has been repressed for many years back. This may trigger “recovery”. For example, “recovery” may occur through supplementation of the patient’s memory. While issues of reliability are not completely settled in the case of stimulus-triggered, spontaneous resurfacing of repressed memories, this type of memory recovery more easily avoids the potential problems of improper influence. However, when a memory is “recovered” through therapy, outside influences can create room for greater error. “Modern cognitive psychology examines the Human Information Processing System. This model of cognition is similar to the different forms of information storage on a computer. Humans perceive stimuli through their sensory memory.” The five senses of touch, smell, sight, sound, and taste allow the brain to take in data from the outside world. Sensory memory is extremely brief and automatic. “Next, information passes into the short-term memory, which bridges sensory memory and long-term memory by encoding sensory memory, thereby holding the data for a relatively brief amount of time. The data, or memory, is then learned or forgotten. The long-term memory represents data that has been learned. Long-term memory involves the storage of information on a relatively permanent basis. Thus, the “forgetting” of information substantially differs from the repression of a memory, which in turn differs from.”

The ordinary human response to atrocities is to banish them from awareness. Certain violations of the social compact are too terrible to know about or to utter aloud. This is the meaning of the word ‘unspeakable.’ Violence, however, refuse to be buried. As powerful as the desire to deny atrocities is the belief that denial does not work. Remembering and telling the truth about terrible events are essential tasks, both for the healing of individuals and for the restoration of the social order. The conflict between the will to deny horrible events-the will to forget them-and the will to proclaim them aloud is the central dialectic of psychological trauma.’ In the abstract, it is relatively easy for many people to accept the concept of traumatic amnesia. (8) The idea that someone might bury the functioning is not beyond the realm of possibility to the average person. Stranger things have happened. And there is still so much to be learned about how the human mind works yet the scenario of an adult recovering long-repressed memories of child sexual abuse can strike fear into the hearts of parents and others in constant contact with children. Visions of being hauled into court to defend against charges of child molestation scare those who are guilty, of course. But these visions are also threatening to the innocent who hear of psychotherapists brainwashing patients into believing they were abused as children and who shudder to think they could be accused of such an unspeakable atrocity. The fear is understandable; the mere passage of time makes it extremely difficult to disprove the charges.

The term ‘repression’ was coined by psychologist Sigmund Freud. He believed that many of his patients were sexually abused as children and that their repressed memories of those events had caused them to develop psychological problems. But four years later, Freud changed his mind and stated that the patients’ memories were their own fantasies. The term ‘repression’ was forgotten–at least for a little while.

Seeking therapy for various problems such as substance abuse, eating disorders, depression, or marital difficulties, unhappy adults (specifically white, middle and upper middle class women in their thirties and forties) report memories of abuse that usually surface during the course of therapy. “Recovery groups, self-help conferences, and books on the subject of repressed 80 memories may also trigger these memories as well.” (6) These memories typically appear as terrifying images or flashbacks that proponents believe are genuine, if not precise, memories of earlier abuse.

In most cases, the accusations are brought by adult daughters against fathers long after the alleged incest. Fully one quarter of the charges involve both parents. Other abusers may include religious leaders, teachers, or other relatives. In any case, the abuser is usually someone a child trusts–all the knowing that this child will hide the abuse from others. For example, Ross Cheit, a law professor, who was molested by his camp counselor as a child, remarked, ‘These were not just perverse acts, but the most profound betrayals possible for a kid’

While there has been much support of the existence of Repressed Memories, there is also much criticism against it. Many researchers doubt its existence because of the many claims of repressed memories that were actually false memories. In fact, an organization called “the False Memory Syndrome Foundation, founded in 1992, helps families get back together after the pain from these false accusations.” But there are reasons for the false claims of repressed memories. One reason for these false accusations is the lack of experience on the therapist’s part. (7) Psychiatrist Herbert Spiegal warns, ‘We have a large number of poorly trained, inept therapists who are propagating a cottage industry of discovering child abuse in their patients . . . a good hypnotic will vomit up just what the therapist wants to hear’ Unfortunately, there are too many of these inexperienced therapists.

“These unskilled therapists usually use methods such as sodium amytal (‘truth serum’) or hypnosis to find these memories in clients. These situations have been prone to controversy and abuse. In 1991, in Ohio, an appeals court supported an abuse award to a woman whose psychiatrist injected her with truth serum more than 140 times to help her uncover buried memories of alleged sexual abuse by her mother.”(5) Hypnosis is not always the best method either. If anything, hypnosis makes the patient more gullible to the therapist’s suggestions of possible abuse. While under hypnosis, the patient’s mind becomes productive ground for the therapist to plant false memories. Also, “Harvard psychiatrist Judith Lewis Herman states that hypnosis may heighten a person’s tendency to create remembrances in order to please a therapist. The therapist may be probing so deeply into the patient’s unconscious that the helpless patient may surrender to their unyielding therapist.” (1)

The mind has been a mystery to researchers for years, so it is no doubt that they question the theory of Repressed Memories. Again, they argue that because there is not enough study done to determine exactly how or why we remember things, there is definitely nothing to support repressed memories. Memory researcher Elizabeth Loftus confirms this, stating, ‘Memory is not a computer or videotape recording. We do not just pop in a tape or call it up in perfect condition. Memory is not objective, but suggestive and malleable’ (2) True, memory is malleable. The false claims of abuse through faulty methods have proven this. Most people do recover their repressed memories through flashbacks or images. Of course it will not be a ‘perfect’ picture as Loftus claims it to be, but the pieces of memory will still be there. Also, advocates of the wonder claim that Loftus’ work simply does not apply to abuse.

In researching Repressed Memories, researchers have used dozens of studies, many which prove its existence for instance, “It has been estimated that 18-59 percent of sexual abuse victims repress memories for a period of time. In one follow-up study of 200 children who had been treated for sexual abuse, Linda Williams of the Family Violence Research Laboratory at the University of New Hampshire found that 1 in 3 did not recall the experience of abuse that had been documented in their hospital records 20 years before them.” (U.S. News and World Report, 1990) (4)

How did you meet your best friend? What were you for halloween in middle school? What did you have for dinner last night? Everything that just went through your head, even if it was ten years ago or just last night, is a memory. Children start remembering things by the age of three. However, at seven years old, these early memories begin to fade. That’s why it’s hard to remember your first birthday but easier to remember your elementary school teachers. Everyday memories are created and remembered. They connect us to the past. Yet some people can’t make these memories as easily.

My grandma was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 2014, which meant she couldn’t remember much anymore. My sister and I were scared when our parents told us, but they said not to worry. Shortly after, she was moved into an assisted living home, where she helped in the garden. Gardening was her favorite thing to do and I remember her planting a flower with each of her 18 grandchildren at her old home. After a life filled with lots of love, my grandma passed away in February of 2017. Grams funeral was full of family, friends, and people she’s touched in life. Full of tears and hugging. Towards the end, my aunt came up to and slid a beautiful gold ring on my finger, she explained how it was the one gram wore everyday. I fell in love with it, but was confused on why I got it out of 10 granddaughters. Despite that, I wore it with pride and haven’t taken it off since.

Memories are what we are. Without them we would be nothing. They change us as people and affect every single decision we make. I remember my first track meet ever during freshman year. I was a tiny 14 year old who was nervous for a week leading up to this day. You would have thought I was giving a speech to the president, but in reality I was just running one lap around the track. Surprisingly I survived it and have run many more laps around the track since, but the adrenaline and feeling of that first one will never leave me. If it wasn’t for track and that first meet, I would be a completely different person than I am today. I would not be as strong physically or mentally and not be determined to go after a goal, even if someone said it was impossible.Some memories have changed your life forever. I remember when my parents told me I was going to have a little sister. I was only three years old at the time, but I remember crying hysterically. Screaming about how I didn’t want a little sister, but a pet bear instead. But it turns out, a little sister wasn’t going to be that bad. Melissa is my other half and I wouldn’t be close to the person I am today if it wasn’t for her. She has taught me how to do a backflip on the trampoline and more importantly to smile even when it is hard to do. She has been my best friend, just one door down.Memories are amazing to keep but that doesn’t mean they are always positive. You go into high school with everyone saying how you won’t leave with the same friends you started with. I did not think that was the case with my group of five. With sleepovers every weekend full of laughing and future wedding planning to concerts and beach trips, we were always with each other. The school knew us as a group and we were rarely apart. Sure, we had our fair share of fights but I never would have thought one would end it all. The following week I was lost and confused, I only knew life with my girls. I thought the world was over, but life goes on. I grew stronger and learned to be more independent. It’s hard when people you love leave your life, but nothing occurs at random, there is a reason.

My grandma couldn’t make new memories or recall her past ones. She couldn’t remember her wedding day or even the names of her kids, but I have the ability to do that. By wearing her ring, I feel as if I am letting her have some of my memories. When I first got the ring, I didn’t understand why it had been given to me. It took me a year, but I finally figured it out. My aunt chose me because she knew I’d be able to take on all the responsibility. She knew just this simple gold ring would teach me a lot. Teach me to live in the moment. To remember the good memories and get through the bad. Teach me to make memories and hold on to them for as long as I can.

With my sapped body completely drained at 6:30 a.m., a sudden thought comes to mind: ‘Why am I doing this?’. There was a glare from the rising sun entering my bedroom. The room itself was musty, and it was almost as if the humidity in the air from that morning could suffocate me. I am hit with inertia as I start to open my eyes in my snug warm bed. Beads of sweat were dripping down my forehead. It was a hot day, but I still decided to cover up under my blankets. Despite my urge to call in sick, I managed to rise and join my fellow track team after school for meticulous drills. Track and field is a sport that requires nothing more than your body, a will to become great, and a fiercely competitive drive to push you over the top. People can run, but it takes years of practice to run with efficient technique and optimal power production. Sprinting issued a mind-over-matter output for me. Every day I strived to do better than yesterday’s maximum, which ignited a burning ambition inside me. Every time I pass the track down at the FDR I’m reminded of my first track meet. And in this essay, I am going to share my memories.

I was still in middle school at the time. I’ve always admired the runners I see on the television during the Olympics, and in my mind getting on that track would give me a feeling that I belonged here and would show my talent. I still remember the feeling I had on my way to the event. I was extremely excited, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of these butterflies in my stomach and the feeling that if I didn’t win I wouldn’t be accepted by anyone. I still remember the feeling of pure exhilaration and anxiousness I had felt simultaneously. I remember what felt like crowds of people watching, I felt like the world’s eyes were on me. I didn’t really socialize before the race, I came to handle my business and prove myself. I still remember getting down in my starting pose and being so nervous that I thought I wouldn’t be able to move. The weight I felt over me felt as if I had two ginormous cinder blocks on each side holding me down. However, as soon as we were told to go, my legs and arms just began to move on their own, I wasn’t even aware that the race had started for a few seconds. What was nervousness became pure euphoria. I was no longer worried about who was in front of me or behind me, I was doing this for myself now. I crossed that finish line with the conviction that no matter if I wasn’t first I still mattered. I wouldn’t break out and become a sore loser. I would salute the boy that came in number 1 and knowing that there was still room to grow and become number 1 drove me further and further.

This track is where I realized I have boundless capabilities as a human. Some days, the air is humid and unbelievably hot, and surviving practice seems like an unachievable goal. On other days, the coolness strips my esophagus dry. Through shin splints, aches, and unfavorable weather, I developed the most important qualities that I had lacked throughout my life – confidence and determination. I started to become aware and proud of what my body was capable of doing. Every day I am faced with challenges and every day I take on those challenges with the courage and dedication I developed from the middle school track. I have become determined to become a better person than I have ever been before and I believe that I can walk down my path and take on the challenge of anything that comes my way in the future.

It was just the beginning of my secondary school life. I was just a snotty-nosed primary six student, stepping into a whole new daunting world. The first thing that struck me was how much bigger my new secondary school was. Standing in front of the massive, imposing founder’s statue at the entrance, I didn’t know where to go. And then there was a scary sea of humans all gathered in the canteen willy-nilly which further led to my confusion.

At the beginning of my first year, I was very introverted. Being an only child, I was socially awkward and did not have many friends. I wasn’t on track at all. I was just worrying about being cool and hanging out with my friends. I was trying to break out of my shell. Not knowing that those little things were going to affect me throughout secondary school life.

Growing up I didn’t have a role model, or someone to look up to. Mostly everyone in my family didn’t even have a secondary school certificate or even attempted to pass their secondary four examination. This was because both my parents started work when they were in primary school as they came from impoverished backgrounds. Even my grandparents who were immigrants from the Indian continent did not have the financial means to attend school.

I remember one day, in secondary one, I had come home from school. I just learned something new in maths that day. The teacher gave us homework, and it was so hard at the time, and I didn’t understand it. So I decided to go home and ask for help. When I got home, I sat down and called my mom over to help me. She came but didn’t even attempt to help me. All she told me was to go ask my dad, so I did. Went to him, and he told me to ask my sister. Each time I asked for help, they would send me off to someone else. After ten minutes of that, I got frustrated, and so I decided to go next door to my best friend’s house, and just do my homework with her.

Besides my best friend, I didn’t have any motivation in my life. I wanted to cast a spell over the rest of the cohort who had joined the school at the same time as me.

Maybe one or two of my older friends, who were already in secondary school, only told me not to play the fool in secondary three, or it would mess me up throughout secondary school. They never told me about the expectations, they never told me about a lot of things. And they were considered the shining stars at the level. Knowing myself, and knowing how unmotivated I was, I decided to join an extra-curricular activity after school hours.

One fine afternoon, I went to a school band meeting to pick out our instruments. I immediately was drawn towards the saxophone, probably because it was so weird-looking, and my dad suggested that I play it. Later, I met my new band teacher, Mr. David Tan, and it turned out that he had played the saxophone in secondary school and college. My parents bought me the instrument that night and I brought it home hastily and opened the case straight away. I was so excited to play it, but with my inexperience, I didn’t even know how to hold it properly. I tried practicing it a couple of times but the only sound that came out was discordant squeaks and tuneless noises. Finally, school started and on Thursdays, I rushed to the band room. Eventually, I started joining their weekly band practices

With my sapped body completely drained at 6:30 a.m., a sudden thought comes to mind: ‘Why am I doing this?’. There was a glare from the rising sun entering my bedroom. The room itself was musty, and it was almost as if the humidity in the air from that morning could suffocate me. I am hit with inertia as I start to open my eyes in my snug warm bed. Beads of sweat were dripping down my forehead. It was a hot day, but I still decided to cover up under my blankets. Despite my urge to call in sick, I managed to rise and join my fellow track team after school for meticulous drills. Track and field is a sport that requires nothing more than your body, a will to become great, and a fiercely competitive drive to push you over the top. People can run, but it takes years of practice to run with efficient technique and optimal power production. Sprinting issued a mind-over-matter output for me. Every day I strived to do better than yesterday’s maximum, which ignited a burning ambition inside me. Every time I pass the track down at the FDR I’m reminded of my first track meet. And in this essay, I am going to share my memories.

I was still in middle school at the time. I’ve always admired the runners I see on the television during the Olympics, and in my mind getting on that track would give me a feeling that I belonged here and would show my talent. I still remember the feeling I had on my way to the event. I was extremely excited, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of these butterflies in my stomach and the feeling that if I didn’t win I wouldn’t be accepted by anyone. I still remember the feeling of pure exhilaration and anxiousness I had felt simultaneously. I remember what felt like crowds of people watching, I felt like the world’s eyes were on me. I didn’t really socialize before the race, I came to handle my business and prove myself. I still remember getting down in my starting pose and being so nervous that I thought I wouldn’t be able to move. The weight I felt over me felt as if I had two ginormous cinder blocks on each side holding me down. However, as soon as we were told to go, my legs and arms just began to move on their own, I wasn’t even aware that the race had started for a few seconds. What was nervousness became pure euphoria. I was no longer worried about who was in front of me or behind me, I was doing this for myself now. I crossed that finish line with the conviction that no matter if I wasn’t first I still mattered. I wouldn’t break out and become a sore loser. I would salute the boy that came in number 1 and knowing that there was still room to grow and become number 1 drove me further and further.

This track is where I realized I have boundless capabilities as a human. Some days, the air is humid and unbelievably hot, and surviving practice seems like an unachievable goal. On other days, the coolness strips my esophagus dry. Through shin splints, aches, and unfavorable weather, I developed the most important qualities that I had lacked throughout my life – confidence and determination. I started to become aware and proud of what my body was capable of doing. Every day I am faced with challenges and every day I take on those challenges with the courage and dedication I developed from the middle school track. I have become determined to become a better person than I have ever been before and I believe that I can walk down my path and take on the challenge of anything that comes my way in the future.

It was just the beginning of my secondary school life. I was just a snotty-nosed primary six student, stepping into a whole new daunting world. The first thing that struck me was how much bigger my new secondary school was. Standing in front of the massive, imposing founder’s statue at the entrance, I didn’t know where to go. And then there was a scary sea of humans all gathered in the canteen willy-nilly which further led to my confusion.

At the beginning of my first year, I was very introverted. Being an only child, I was socially awkward and did not have many friends. I wasn’t on track at all. I was just worrying about being cool and hanging out with my friends. I was trying to break out of my shell. Not knowing that those little things were going to affect me throughout secondary school life.

Growing up I didn’t have a role model, or someone to look up to. Mostly everyone in my family didn’t even have a secondary school certificate or even attempted to pass their secondary four examination. This was because both my parents started work when they were in primary school as they came from impoverished backgrounds. Even my grandparents who were immigrants from the Indian continent did not have the financial means to attend school.

I remember one day, in secondary one, I had come home from school. I just learned something new in maths that day. The teacher gave us homework, and it was so hard at the time, and I didn’t understand it. So I decided to go home and ask for help. When I got home, I sat down and called my mom over to help me. She came but didn’t even attempt to help me. All she told me was to go ask my dad, so I did. Went to him, and he told me to ask my sister. Each time I asked for help, they would send me off to someone else. After ten minutes of that, I got frustrated, and so I decided to go next door to my best friend’s house, and just do my homework with her.

Besides my best friend, I didn’t have any motivation in my life. I wanted to cast a spell over the rest of the cohort who had joined the school at the same time as me.

Maybe one or two of my older friends, who were already in secondary school, only told me not to play the fool in secondary three, or it would mess me up throughout secondary school. They never told me about the expectations, they never told me about a lot of things. And they were considered the shining stars at the level. Knowing myself, and knowing how unmotivated I was, I decided to join an extra-curricular activity after school hours.

One fine afternoon, I went to a school band meeting to pick out our instruments. I immediately was drawn towards the saxophone, probably because it was so weird-looking, and my dad suggested that I play it. Later, I met my new band teacher, Mr. David Tan, and it turned out that he had played the saxophone in secondary school and college. My parents bought me the instrument that night and I brought it home hastily and opened the case straight away. I was so excited to play it, but with my inexperience, I didn’t even know how to hold it properly. I tried practicing it a couple of times but the only sound that came out was discordant squeaks and tuneless noises. Finally, school started and on Thursdays, I rushed to the band room. Eventually, I started joining their weekly band practices