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A New, Old Obsession

I'm taking a class right now on history, nostalgia, and American collective memory. This week, I will present an article on the Enola Gay controversy that took place in the mid 1990's. A little background: the Enola Gay is the fighter plane that dropped the first atomic bomb over Hiroshima in 1945. In 1994, the Smithsonian proposed an historical exhibition on the events leading to and the results of the bombing, featuring the restored fuselage of the Enola Gay, photos and mementos from a destroyed Hiroshima, personal narratives from American soldiers and Japanese survivors, etc. The exhibition caused a huge controversy prompted by the right, namely the American legion, who felt that the exhibition was un-American in its attempts to present the motivations for and the effects of the bombing in a way that did not blow sunshine up Uncle Sam's ass. The right proved quite effective, evoking the Republican Congress to threaten the Smithsonian with restricting funds if curators of the museum didn't work with American veteran groups, rather than just professional, academic historians, in creating the exhibit. The Smithsonian eventually caved, which pissed off the left who effectively argued that the "historical cleansing" the American Legion and their ilk were pressing for, was just another way to hijack history in favor of a carefully constructed, pro-American rhetoric where the government is some icon of morality and all of its actions are justified. The exhibition was abandoned for years as those who valued their own memories and sentiments of the war and the bombings fought it out with those who valued interpreting the facts and documents in a historical context with effects relevant to contemporary culture.

I said more about that than I meant to. I really just want to talk about my petty ego. But this class has really got me thinking. If American history can be hijacked by and for political motivations, then what about our own histories? Our personal histories. What politics are they hijacked by? Something in one of the readings I had for this class keeps coming into my head: "Nostalgia and romanticism are the equivalents of forgetfulness." Yes, exactly. That one statement articulates sentiments that I have had for a long time but have been unable to put into words. What is it that causes us individually and collectively to substitute nostalgia or, god forbid, romanticism for our actual lived experience? Do we really just forget the truth?

Here's my petty example: I have been known to revisit old relationships. Old, tired ass relationships that ended for perfectly legitimate reasons that I conveniently seem to,... well, forget. It hasn't happened countless times, but it has happened enough for me to know that I don't want to date anyone that I have already dated and broke up with again. And again. And, yeah, I know, some relationships are on-again, off-again. That's not what I am talking about; I am talking about relationships that have been dead (and buried) for years. YEARS. In the most recent of amnesianic random encounters with an ex, I was starkly reminded that this was a person who I had grown so far away from in the relationship, while we were in it, that we became virtually unrecognizable to one another. But because the only remnants of the relationship that I have are goofy pictures of us cutting up and romanticized memories, I convince myself the relationship was all shits and giggles and then I am disappointed that it isn't anymore. Even though the relationship ended (badly) years ago. What the fuck is that? I want to be able to run into an ex, or an old friend from a million years ago who I have nothing in common with anymore, and not be forced to pull whatever shreds we can conjure from the past into the now as if an old relationship could arrive in the present in tact.

If I could create an exhibition of my life, I'm worried that I would only want my selective memory represented. The memories of myself and the community around me that reflect me at my best, rather than me as I actually have been. What do I gain by allowing myself to block out the uglier parts of my life and my relationships? Am I convincing myself that I am actually a specific type of person by actively pursuing the memories that are the most attractive to me? Not that I want to constantly relive painful experiences, I certainly don't. But I also don't want to delude myself into thinking that my experiences have been anything other than what they have actually been, even if they don't look good on paper.

I guess it's tacky, and offensive, to talk about atomic bombings and old relationships in the same breath (although, all of a sudden it doesn't seem so far fetched...). What I'm really at odds with right now is how fragile and malleable and deceptive memories can be. And how much I sort of feed into the deception in order to convince myself of how much I've changed, or to remember myself in a way I might never have actually been. I'm going to start a 'shitty moment' archive and fill it with all the crappy things I have seen and done and said. Something to remind me to not forget.