Mysterious Memory

When I was a child, my maternal grandmother, about whom I have written previously, would occasionally recall the seminal historical event of her lifetime — the bombing of Pearl Harbor. I’m not sure what prompted her — maybe a war movie on television or the aroma of some particular food cooking in the kitchen — but now and then she’d go back to the moment she and my grandfather heard the news.

“Grover was sitting by the radio listening to his program,” she’d begin.

“They came on and said the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor.” Mee Maw pronounced the word bombed as if it were spelled with a “u” instead of an “o.” Bumbed. That’s an odd thing to remember but that’s how she pronounced it and I always had to stifle a laugh.

Then, she’d say, “And he just sat there by the radio with his head in his hands. He kept sayin’, ‘What are we gonna do, Jane? What are we gonna do?’ Over and over, with his head in his hands, he just kept asking that question.” He had fought in World War I and, I suspect, the events of December 7, 1941, took him back to a place he didn’t like to visit.

Memory is a mysterious power. We can call up where we were and what we were doing, sometimes in astonishing detail, when something momentous happened. I was painting the living room wall in a house on Prince Avenue in Athens, GA, when I heard that Elvis died. The paint was semi-gloss latex. Taupe. It was the north wall.

I was walking down Concourse D at Hartsfield International Airport in Atlanta, on my way to pick up my mother-in-law, when Challenger exploded. As I passed an airport bar, I saw two Catholic nuns inside staring up at a television set. That was unusual — two nuns in a bar — so I doubled back to see what they were watching. One of them was wearing blue sneakers. They kept crossing themselves.

Of course, you know where you were on September 11, 2001. Remember how confused we all felt — how surreal it looked on television — what you were wearing — who you were with — how the on-air people struggled for words and composure — the weirdly empty skies after the FAA grounded everything — how we all, everyone of us, Black, White, Hispanic, Asian, Democrat, Republican, clung to each other and prayed together and asked, “What are we going to do?”

It’s bewildering and sad that fourteen years after we were hugging each other’s necks, so many of us are at each other’s throats. I fear we have forgotten. I know we are forgetful.

That’s why we meet on Sundays and take communion. Something about breaking the bread and drinking the wine staves off forgetfulness. Eyes are opened. The unfamiliar is recognized. We are called back to the seminal event in history and the memory makes our hearts burn with hope. Hope that it doesn’t take a tragedy to make us cling to each other. That the worst things we can imagine are powerless in the presence of the God who reverses death. That one day, the past with its failure and shame and violence will be washed away in a future of forgiveness and grace and peace.