Just as people see in pictures, they understand in stories. Stories are causally related sequences of events. People relish causal trails, whether in narratives or not. No one wants to live in a world of random events. It makes sense to us that our front lawns are white when we look upon them now because it precipitated overnight and the air and ground temperatures were below the freezing point. Once we know the fundamentals of weather, we begin to presume its orderly functioning in our environment. People yearn for order and being led down the path of a story (even if it is fictional) puts us at ease. We enjoy knowing why what we perceive is the way that it is. These explanations dull the edge of mystery which is otherwise so apt to slice. The topsy-turvey world of disorder and ignorance is pacified by reasoning. Sickness becomes more bearable by knowing who gave us the cold, does it not? Perhaps we ought to seek an understanding of the link between adulthood and childhood rather than simply looking at it.
Brandon Hayes, whom I've introduced you to before, generously answered in writing a question I posed to him regarding aging. I asked him what events sprang to mind when he thought of his childhood. Below are the stories he shared with me.
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Story: Episodes of Aging
I remember being in the backseat of my parents' car. I was engulfed by warm maroon fabric. My view of the grey October sky was obstructed by the monolithic front seats. I remember being unhappy and launching into a tantrum. I shrieked and slammed my head repeatedly against the foam backing of the bench seat. Each time I struck it, the foam sprung my head back forward. I even remember the tugging of my cheeks upon my face as the fleshy pockets lagged behind. I returned the volley with a snap of my little neck. My mother remained impervious to the siege, but my father eventually turned around.
"Do you have any idea how unpleasant you are making this trip for mom and I?" His tightly-formed lips added velocity to the reprimand. Pierced, I stopped immediately. I forgot the cause of my unhappiness; I was dumbfounded. The frustration in my father's eyes--the outward similarity with the frustration inside of me at the time--transported me to a different perspective. In my mind, I left my body. I pictured myself looking back at my bodily self, red and crying in the backseat. The rhetorical question had revealed for the first time a truth about the human condition. I inadvertently learned that the world contained many viewpoints, not just my own. In a flash, I was ripped from my youthful solipsism. I blinked at the grey sky in the center of my field of vision that had filled in my father's vacancy. I was at once fascinated and frightened. I was not alone and yet I was alone. There were others similar to me, and yet they were not the same. Residual tears glided along my conflicted face to my smooth chin.
What if, instead of realizing that I was but one citizen in the world, I drew a different conclusion? What if I thought instead that I was the only citizen that mattered and that these other people, mere aliens, were obstructions. I would be a very different person.
I remember too feeling certain there were other moms and dads, but only one Mom and one Dad. I remember feeling like the only Brandon in the world. My experience was unique and thus a unique name was appropriate. I liked being original. It had taken me more than five years of life to realize other people had my first name. The other times I had heard the name, they must have glided over me. When in pre-school and I met another Brandon, the name stuck out. As the teacher called roll she said, "Brandon" twice: once for Brandon Baulderling and once for Brandon Hayes--myself. I was dumbfounded. How could someone else be called the same name? It was my name; it defined me. It fixed me in a stable medium of letters. I felt like I lost my identity. I was offended by the possibility of replication. It was my sad introduction to the peculiar staleness of human affairs. After that disappointing pre-school morning, the extent of my unoriginality was often expanded. Everywhere I looked I saw more wearisome similarities. Height was shared; eye color was shared; language was shared. Even my name--the thing I introduced myself with--was not just shared but well-worn. Brandons were wandering all over the world. Years later I ruminated on the extent of my own banality. I was curious as to the number of dead Brandons in the ground, how many women hated their faithless Brandons, and how many men would take a bullet for their loyal Brandons. I did not like sharing then, and in ways I do not like sharing now. It made me feel like my portion of human dignity was diminished every time the population increased. The only benefit with time is that I can now articulate my feelings more clearly. I feel frequently lost in obscurity, as a zebra must within a pack of his siblings.
What if, rather than be humbled by my commonality with other people, I drew a different conclusion? What if I became determined to distinguish myself and be the penultimate Brandon? I would be a very different person.
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What has Brandon told us about aging? See how smoothly the younger becomes the older? The movement which was so contrary when viewed from without is quite concordant from within. The person of yesterday hands off life to the person of tomorrow like a baton in a marathon. The thread of personal history ties a self together.
Here again we find that time is crucial. What we have seen makes us who we are. If Brandon had not had a classmate with his name until kindergarten (instead of pre-school), would he have been more prepared? Would it not have debilitated him?
In trying to answer one question we raise others. Why did Brandon draw the conclusions he did rather than the others he considered later (or any of the others he did not consider, for surely there are plenty of conclusions he could have left with)? Little Brandon had not aged enough to make a fully informed choice about it. He could not weigh the outcomes. He simply reacted. Could it be a random response? Could it be instead the result of some mood already established earlier in the day? Ought we circle back further towards earlier and earlier times that Brandon cannot remember, like scalding hot milk in a bottle or the warmth of a wool sweater on his face? Does the explanation of self end in tail chasing? The specter of irrationality drifts into view. How ever are we to come to an answer? We have muddled things thoroughly despite seeking clarity. How murky the human experience!
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