Not crazy or anything
One thing that really grinds my gears vis a vis the human condition is the fallibility of memory. Lou will ask me some question about my childhood, and I’ll waffle — who was that kid? Not me! All we share is a heart-shaped birthmark and a fondness for ill-fitting jeans.
I cling to my few memories that feel true and immediate, like my brother stabbing me with a pencil in the Safeway parking lot. I’ll stare at the grey speck in my right palm: This happened. I remember this. But there are only a handful of islands in the fog.
I have a picture of myself aged seven sitting on the edge of a playground next to my friend Will. My towhead is wildly disheveled, and my reversible faux leather- faux cowhide coat is falling off my shoulders. The sun’s in our eyes and mine are almost closed as I grin widely. Will is squinting, lips in a vague line. I can trick myself into believing I remember this moment, but I don’t.
I don’t remember anything about Will either, except that I was obsessed with him. I believed at the time that he was one of my closest friends, but looking back, I’m not so sure. For one thing, he didn’t invite me to his birthday party. Afterwards I asked him why, and he said he was embarrassed to ask his mom to invite a girl. I forgave him instantly.
I think I only realized that someone was not my friend if they physically ran away from me. Sometimes I worry that’s still the case.
My last clear memory with Will is of singing to him in the cafeteria. I don’t know what precipitated this, but I can only think I must have been feeling rejected. I do remember that I planned the confrontation, that I walked over to where he was sitting (probably with his actual friends), tapped him on the shoulder, and started belting.
I didn’t know it at the time, but this song, initially released in 2000, became extremely popular in late 2001 as a sort of ode to the first responders of 9/11. I didn’t even know the lyrics, really, except for the chorus:
I’m more than a bird,
I’m more than a plane,
I’m more than some pretty face beside a train,
and it’s not easy, to be me.
This memory will pop up every so often, but it’s only recently that I’ve realized that this song choice makes no fucking sense. It’s not about love, or even friendship. I think it’s about… how it’s hard to be Superman? But I can still remember what I wanted to communicate: I am lovable, I am complex, and I know what it is to suffer. I cringe thinking about how many monologues in my adult relationships have come down to this: It’s not easy, to be me.