Multimodal Activity: Memory Box

These photos are imperfect and blurry, a reflection of the memories associated with them.

For instance, my birthday cards. Given to me the day I arrived back in California after spending three weeks away this summer in Belize. I was exhausted, but was picked up from the airport by my best friend. She handed me these cards, one from her and one from our roommate Catherine, along with gifts she had brought me from her own summer travels and a piñata. I cried happily, relieved to be back in my home country and relieved to feel so loved and comfortable. These women never cease to make me smile, and remain to be important aspects of my community and group identity.

My sister bought me this magnet. We stopped into a store near Pike Place in Seattle, and looked around at the hilarious art that decorated the walls. The artist and store owner encouraged us to buy a poster or magnet, and she took the bait. This trip was special, only the second trip we’ve taken together with my father and our other sister as adults. My dad is 75 years old, and my sisters have children that are my age. We’ve never been close, and animosity between myself and my half-siblings has existed since I was born, an unfortunate product of my mother and father beginning a messy relationship during my dad’s divorce of his first wife. But in the past few years, there has been a conscious effort to dismantle the hurt keeping us apart, and see each other as individuals undefined by our family’s past.

“Love you babe. Always.” He no longer calls me babe, but I would like to think he still loves me. Not in the same way of course, but we have known each other since middle school. It wasn’t until college that we dated, but we were friends before and have remained friends since ending things. Our relationship was complicated, and despite our commitment and love for one another, it came at a time when I wasn’t able to care for myself properly, much less focus my energy on a relationship with someone else. But he undeniably shaped my personality and who I am today, and taught me so much about what sacrifice and compassion looks like in a relationship.

Two items that represent the same person, but at different times. The first, a journal, reflects a time of hurt. Each word on the left documents the medication that my mother was on during her treatment for cancer. It was late when the doctors caught it, stage 4, and the treatment was aggressive and unforgiving. Her medications changed her personality, and having to care for her changed the nature of our relationship. I grew up quickly, and became her caregiver while I was hardly old enough to care for myself. I denied my weaknesses to become strong, while she became more and more dependent.

The sand dollar reflects something different entirely. When I was younger, walking along the beach, I mom and I would play a game. For every sand dollar I could find, she would give me a dollar in return. It couldn’t be cracked in half or missing a chunk, which seemed nearly impossible considering the fragility of sand dollars. I found maybe three over the years of us playing this game, but it didn’t matter. I always kept looking regardless of its unlikelihood. About two weeks after she passed, I was walking along the beach, reflecting on our game. Without really even trying, I found five that day, none of which were shattered or broken. It was lovely, and it felt like I was heard in my grief.

In both large and small ways, my mother and her untimely death have shaped my identity. I feel a strange connection with others that also lost their parent young, and uniquely understand the effects of cancer treatments and medications. I miss out on mother-daughter brunches and worry about who might walk me down the aisle. But even in smaller aspects of my identity, I have been changed by her influence on me. I listen to Justin Timberlake because she loved his music, I know quotes from Friends because we watched together, and I can’t stand roses because she didn’t like them either. Growing up I fought with tooth and nail to avoid becoming like her; now, I savor the opportunity to emulate some part of who she was.