How many of Me are there?

Yesterday I finished a book on philosophy on the topic of personal identity. John Locke had a theory that philosophers refer to as ’simple memory theory’. Essentially it is that the person you are is made up of the conscious thoughts that you have. And if you don’t have a first-person memory of it, then it wasn’t you that experienced that event. With that being said, any person can be any number of people. Think back to your very first memory. If it wasn’t until you were 5, then you were someone else from birth until 5. And you’re next memory is at what, 8? Different person from 5-8. This was the first topic that got my undivided attention in the last two weeks. I started to think how much it would suck if it wasn’t me that lived so many of my great experiences.

My first real memory is when I was three and I was getting my pictures taken with my Mother. I now lovingly refer to that particular photo shoot as ‘ the divorce shoot’. Because my parents got divorced exactly 14 years from that day, anyways. I was in a little suit and my mom was in some conglomeration of neon green and yellow with what I can only imagine was spandex. Needless to say it was 1994 and fashion was bad. I had just lost my two front teeth and I was sitting on a chair with my mom laying on her stomach. The photographer lady looked at me and said “say ‘my mother has stinky feet!’” After the shoot we went back home and I told my grandma all about it, I spent the rest of the day walking around my house saying “my mother has stinky feet”.

Then there was kindergarten graduation. I remember getting to walk with Mary-Brooke because we were the tallest in our grade. I had a huge crush on her so this was a big deal. I still think about that days when I thought about her. lol. It was the first time I can remember getting those awful, unsettling butterflies. Now I cherish those butterflies. Back then I thought it was nausea.

My next memory, that isn’t picture enhanced, would be when I was 6. It is the first baseball game that I can remember. It was the first time I learned to keep book, the first time I saw Frank Thomas, the first time I was in Comiskey, the first time I fell in love. It has been in my heart ever since.

What I don’t remember is the first time I met my first best friend. Or even who it was. Chris maybe. I don’t remember my first day of school. I don’t remember reading my first book. I don’t remember my first fight with my sister. I don’t remember many early birthdays, in fact, those memories are pretty scattered. Roller rinks, but I couldn’t tell you how old I was. I don’t remember the first wedding. I don’t remember the first time I cried over a broken heart, girl or otherwise. I don’t remember trying on my first pair of vans, but now I have more than I can count. I don’t know when I fell in love with bracelets. I don’t know how I met my first love. I don’t know the first time I listened to ‘Nsync, but I know they are still one of my favorite bands. I don’t know the first time I walked into Wal-Mart, but I know I can’t live without it now. I don’t know the first time I told my dad I loved him or when I knew that he was my best friend. I don’t know when I realized how much alike my sister and I are. I don’t know when I started taking grams for granted.

To sum it up, I don’t know when a lot of things in my life happened or became important but I know that it was me who experienced those things. Could you imagine if every time you couldn’t remember something that meant that it wasn’t you that actually went through that? I can’t. Just because it isn’t burned into my memory doesn’t mean it didn’t help define who I am.