Beware,The Purpose of Memory Is Changing Once Again
and I just found out what souvenir means in French
At 90, Anne isn’t ageless, but timeless. Her wrinkles are more appreciative of longevity than an example of it. The curls in her hair reach not for heaven, but towards the ether above us, where dreams float freely. A white blouse as nondescript as her charcoal slacks lulls you into believing this extraordinary woman is anything but. Yes, the onslaught of passing years might have finally met a worthy opponent, one who refuses to fight at all.
Greater than salads after dinner or burying saint figurines in the front yard, my relation to Anne encompasses the very best of Italian heritage. She is neither my grandmother nor my great aunt, but more a cousinly matriarch whose family role supersedes hierarchical bloodline. So whenever the doom of tragedy struck her loved ones - a constant in the story of immigrant families - Anne’s designation, Anne’s power, served as the rock in which hard times broke against.
The dog days of summer seemed like the perfect time to meet her for lunch. My family and I took Anne to a restaurant where the waiters have accents and the forks crescendo by size. It would be long before I forget this afternoon. Not for the remiscising about my father or others claimed by the Past. Nor for the myriad family secrets spilled by Anne and the stories used to reveal them. Not even the savory rice ball appetizer.
My Great Worry
The function of memory is shifting once again. It likely began as a necessity for human survival. Ages ago, perhaps 40,000 years for those wanting specifics, cave walls became canvasses. By etching their experiences into posterity, early humans demonstrated their episodic memory. We were taking events and images in our head and depositing them in the physical world, perhaps to serve as a reminder of the harvest or locations for hunting grounds. Or perhaps to honor some divine being or pray into fruition that one exists.
Studying the offloading of memories into savable, reviewable formats reflects the progression of our species. In due time, we repurposed memory devices to do more than record crop schedules and medicinal remedies. Indeed, the first shifts in memory functions unveil the deepest of human anxieties; from instructions of how to worship the gatekeepers of the afterlife, to oral epics delineating how a legacy can either be erased or revered in perpetuity.
Nevertheless, the history of how humans capture and present memories is consequently a study of human nature. What are we recording and why is it displayed in that certain way? Forgetfulness is the mother of turmoil or worse, catastrophe. So of course, memories unshared must always begin with an investigation into their secrecy.
It is hard for us who have never experienced the past to properly conceptualize just how paradigmatically different today’s technology is. Paired with the internet, the semiconductor has ushered in an entirely new era of humanity; one where intelligence finally embraces an egalitarian accessibility. With it is coming a shift in how memory is collected and exported.
What’s more, due to the advent of smartphones and the social media platforms therein, the monetization of personal memory has exploded. Memories were once sold inside long-winded memoirs - poorly disguised hagiographies that took ions to write. The video camera allowed individuals to document their recollections and hawk them to fans. Today, however, the rapidity of recording and uploading experiences has propelled the Attention Economy to the forefront of entrepreneurship. The allure of overnight wealth has only grown more potent as viral success stories began to number.
My Thesis
Without question, losing my memory is among my greatest fears. I’ve made my peace with surrendering decades of knowledge earned through library rentals and discussions with those much smarter than me. It’s not as if I can take it with me anyways so with any luck, whatever afterlife unfortunate enough to claim me will pity me enough to confer upon me it omnipotence.
But also within my memory rests my sense of self. I’ve forsaken elegant metaphors such as the mosaic or spiderweb and decided to compare my memory to a stew. Although I’ve yet to determine how their import is determined, details harvested throughout my years - no matter how intricate or unassuming they seemed at the time - have been dumped into a magical stock pot that simmers in perpetuity. For now, its recipe remains intuitive and innate but, rather tragically, impermanent as well. Forgetting which ingredients make this stew taste most familiar, most recognizable, would be worse than death.
Persons much more empathetic than I have attempted to solve a particular quandary: How can those with Alzheimer’s retain their sense of self as they gradually lose their ability to remember? Philosopher Marya Schechtman suggests that individual identity is formed by experiences and culminate in an “autobiographical narrative.” Thus, folks with memory loss diseases “lack the capacity to consolidate new autobiographical memories, which has quite undesirable consequences for their self.”
Technologies like the SenseCam have tried to reinvigorate memories in Alzheimer patients. This device hangs around the neck and snaps photos throughout the wearer’s day, letting them peruse through them at a later point to regain memories and therefore, identity. To date, researchers have found that it can stave off depression and limit the reduction of functional capacity.
After its release, social media conglomerates co-opted then tweaked this tool. Its offspring includes the livestreams found on Twitch, Twitter, Instagram and other platforms. From there, intrepid entrepreneurs were quick to monetize. Social Media sites draw ad money when videos receive large audiences, so they incentivize content-makers to produce mesmerizing entertainment by offering them a piece of the pie.
Hence, we are undergoing a sinister transition; one going unnoticed by the guardians of societal wellbeing. The purpose of memory is being reconfigured from byproduct to export, aftereffect to commodity.
They were once the result of times well lived - adventures, sojourns and the unforeseen moments Life sprinkles on us in Her magnanimous wisdom. Think of the the French word souvenir, which literally means “memory.” Your folks would allow you to buy “just one” from whichever tacky boardwalk shop was closest to your hotel, commemorating a week spent cavorting in the summer sun. Although I am no etymologist, I’d point you to the memor root in the bolded word. Regardless, the memory was the prize, not the intention. Living came first, remembering second.
That sentiment is deteriorating. The livestreams, videos posts and pinned photos found on Social Media, by virtue of their capture, are memories necessarily. The illusion lies in believing they are sold as nothing but experiences from afar. What’s more insulting, these con artists traffic in oxymorons. Content-makers peddle viewing communities that never meet face-to-face, breathtaking scenery that doesn’t surround you, physical temptations you’ll never touch and most importantly, memories you’ll never feel.
The true cost lies not in the price of YouTube subscriptions, but the stale decaying of the buyer’s identity. Specialness is something we’re not born with, but something we slowly, if at times randomly, construct. Arguably mankind’s greatest preset, the intuitive yearn for fun, for mischief and risk, is being suppressed and ignored. Instead, our youth go blind by looking through the eyes of another. What results is an atrophied soul lacking the strength to crawl out from purgatory and into the real world where consciousness finds purpose.
And how emphatically does Anne’s life embody the joy of when memory is used for its natural reason. During lunch, she smiled from the inquisitive nature of her family. The stories we begged her to share were born of genuine love. Amongst gnocchi and Pellegrino we stumbled upon reverence, not for the sake of honoring a long life, but because Anne sat with the tranquillity of someone who had conquered it.
We talked about my old man, although I steered the conversation towards happier grounds. I keep my father in my own way, which is silence. Anne sensed this. We talked about her son, Andrew, a fallen officer who presented the best of what it means to serve and protect - another hero I had the honor of eulogizing.
As time passed Anne wittily recounted the twists and turns of her life with the charm of someone who has surpassed the hardest obstacles and realized they were no match for her. My family and I learned more about Anne that day and of course, ourselves. By divulging the pillars of her identity, she reinforced mine - a gift and superpower only the truly weathered can possess.
There is much to be learned from her. Approaching a century on Earth, the sheer enormity of Anne’s experiences and remembrances has granted her a new, sagacious purpose. Her memory’s purpose, however, remains the same. Watching Anne reflect on her mental souvenirs reminded me to how to become myself, and do so in a correct manner that maximizes the soul while minimizing the dependency on others to find it for me.
But Not Everyone Has An Anne
The studies from Philosophers J. Adam Carter and Richard Heersmink helped me hone whatever idea I’m trying to express. I recall them writing about the purpose of remembering, and how poignant they were:
“It seems that the intentions of the user are more important to establish the memory function of an artifact…The intentions of the user and the cultural practices of artifact-use are more important than the intentions of the designer.”
In other words, artifacts find their worth from the person viewing them, not from the person who created them. For internal artifacts such as memories, both user and creator are one in the same, which I imagine only amplifies the experience of recollecting. In a world drowning in the floods of TikTok vapidity, however, the countless videos put out by content-makers find purpose as a memory by those behind the camera, not in front of it. The immensity of such power, such sovereignty is understated. Let me explain.
Memories are the acrylics used to paint the canvas of our selfhood. The trick, however, is acknowledging that humans have agency over which colors to paint with. If we want to be something, then we can do something and ultimately, keep that something in a cherished altar within our memory. Many people gravitate towards what fancies them naturally and that activity or idiosyncrasy gets painted onto the canvas. For instance, I grew up in a Sandlotian neighborhood and fell in love with the camaraderie of friendship. Those memories constitute my identity and anyone who knows me, if even for a half-hour, senses how integral that is to my being. This happened in part by nature and in part by the blink luck of where I was raised.
Throughout the years, however, I have also embraced other passions, many of which hermitize me. Reading, thinking-time walks, perfecting my jumpshot in the park all keep me alone. I can literally remember the moment I fell back in love with literature and to be sure, it was definitively a choice. Suffering from what Derek Thompson calls “information anxiety” - the world’s most fortunate disorder - I derive happiness from books. Opting into this passion has accented my sense of self and now my identity bemuses my friends, who humorously struggle to label me as outgoing or walled-up.
Nevertheless, the point is made. Some of the memories fashioning our self-identity were manufactured through intuitive choices we our simply drawn to, inexplicably. Yet some of these memories can be the output from choices of our own doing. And therein lies the power. There yet remains some sovereignty over how we see ourselves.
I think today’s young folks are expressing that sovereignty poorly. The research is now commonplace: the newest generation spends somewhere around 7-8 hours on a screen everyday. The plurality of it, around 2.45 hours each day according to JAMA, is spent streaming videos. The amount of time spent watching other people do things that you yourself could be doing - playing video games, putting on makeup, working out, talking music with friends, etc - is as astounding as it is unhealthy.
A quick Sandlot callback. Remember how Smalls used to peek out from behind the ballpark fence to watch Benny and the guys play baseball? He desperately wanted to join in, but he didn’t know how to play. Luckily, Benny lent him a hand. Today’s youth are more comfortable being behind the fence than on the field. They like it that way.
And I mean this literally. Youth sport participation is plummeting. The time adolescents spent with friends is plummeting. Teenage dating and partying is plummeting. The amount of 16-year-olds getting their license - the purest symbol of adolescent freedom and friendship - has dropped from 43 percent in 1997 to 25 percent today.
To boot, the U.S Surgeon General had to declare a loneliness epidemic. I am incredibly concerned that young people are not creating the types of memories needed to form a confident, unique and fruitful sense of identity. With this comes a host of unnerving questions.
Teens are still gaining autobiographical memories, but they’re of watching someone else do something. How will this impact their sense of selfhood? How will they know what they like or dislike? When, if ever, will they uncover a passion that leads to a vocation? How will they connect to the rest of humanity; the ones who have a strong self identity? Is the rise of identity crisis among adolescents directly related to this era of apathy, where someone else’s experience becomes your memory? It can’t be a coincidence, can it? This must be a core reason for the bothersome ascent of teenage apathy.
Carter and Heersmink may have incidentally provided some insightful answers to these questions:
“Objects that are personally significant such as souvenirs, clothing, furniture, books, and musical instruments, are often connected to specific personal experiences or specific episodes from one’s past... Such objects connect us to our past but not necessarily by means of their representational properties. The mnemonic function of such objects is not established through isomorphism, direct causal connections, or symbolic properties, but through the meaning we subjectively attach to such objects.”
They relay both memory and meaning as something akin to arithmetic. When one takes an experience and adds a physical object to it, what results is an emotion. Although a mathematician (or philosopher) I am surely not, I’d take this a step further. What results from such emotional recall can be a sense of self. Alarmingly, today’s young folks are missing part of this calculation: the experience. Even more disconcerting, however, is that the equation still works! These kids will have an identity, but it will be distorted and perforated, incomplete and foreign.
But is is not just the memory purchasers who will suffer. No, the sellers are in jeopardy as well. In The Ethics of Memory, philosopher Avishai Margalit elucidates what caring means to us humans. Margalit relays that care is something one shows to another through dedicating attention. It is an action, a choice. Instead of cultivating relationships then receiving care as an externality, so many of us are perverting this process, “going viral” to gain attention from others without any meaningful relationship at all.
This is what memory sellers do. Unquestionably, the likes, retweets and subscription fees they receive from adoring masses are interpreted as symbols of true care. After all, they are observable signals of attention. Yet, and as Margalit explains, care derived from attention is only implied, and one can be fooled into thinking the person giving it to you sincerely means it.
There is a mad dash to become the seller. What I’m afraid our youth does not understand is that the attention these memory sellers receive is merely a mimetic forgery of true care. What is beloved by memory purchasers is not the person on the camera, but the entertainment they provide. The sex appeal they provide. The humor they provide. The escapism. But never the human themselves. And of course they’re not actually cared for. How silly it is to remind us that in order to treasure someone you must actually know and interact with them. But alas, Margalit leaves both sellers and purchasers with a warning.
“We should be even more suspicious of those who pay attention only to what they feel towards others but are incapable of paying attention to others.”
The Passing Of Wisdom
In the most allegorical sense possible, lunch came to an end. As a gesture of gratitude, my sisters and I reached for the bill and split it amongst us. No Anne, you’ve paid us enough already with your wisdom and the memories now shared. I feel that money will inevitably fall short.
Because passage through her storied threshold can only be paid with a currency of sincerity. For Anne safeguards her memories with the ferocity they command. In a world where self worth is crowdsourced by unloading memories onto as many worshippers as possible, her sagacity might be the only key left for unlocking individuality.
For those my age and younger, events are prioritized as future memories that can be packaged and sold; a bargaining chip to get us something in return, perhaps social capital, real capital or elevated status. But Anne has always inverted this process. For our elders, the memory is the return. The product is so remarkable that it becomes crystallized in the mind and the soul before contributing to personhood.
How desperately we need to revert to this memory purpose. And how desperately must our youth be taught its worth. Their identity is in such a precarious spot. Those selling their memories to others have been captured by the easy cash flow that is brought in through monetizing their experiences. They’ll never recognize their complicity in this crisis. So it is up to us - those who know how to live like Anne - to rescue our youth. A deprogramming as literal as it is figurative is necessary; an introduction into a life that can be solely yours and the extraordinary profundity that comes with it.
Stop watching others do things.
Do them yourself.
Do them because your gut told you to.
Guard the goddamn memories.
Only share them with a worthy few who have earned it, and never for vanity or money.
Become your whole self, the one you made.
After lunch
I cried in the parking lot. In my Subaru Outback, baby-poop brown. It wasn’t the tales about my Dad that did me in. Nor the bittersweet thought that Anne may be with him someday relatively soon. I was simply emotional. It took weeks, but I figured out that I was crying because that’s what people do when they’re overrun with feelings. I simply felt more. I don’t know what was filling me at the moment, but I know Anne put it there. And it felt good, like more soul.
This was my favorite cry.
Thank you, Anne,
- Jerry’s youngest