RECONSTRUCTIVE MEMORY, A SERIES

An exploration into the power of memory, the act of unrooting harmful narratives and the freedom of giving our past selves the grace, credit and endings we deserve.

As a child, I wrote for a few reasons: to make sense of what was happening around me, to feel connected to ancestors and elders I sought to know more intimately, and to will my dreams into being. If I was hurting and needed to express emotions I didn’t understand, I journaled and wrote poems. When I wanted to feel tethered to and affirmed in my Blackness (for a time I was the only Black girl in my school) I re-wrote and recited works of people like Paul Laurence Dunbar and Toni Morrison. And when I felt excited or hopeful about the idea of something to come, I wrote out my prayers and sometimes, created collages that told the story I wanted to become reality.

My writing has gotten me into (mostly good) trouble, it’s gotten me recognized and opened professional doors, it’s brought me closer to God, but at times it’s also made me feel disconnected from myself. All-in-all, writing and storytelling have been personal exercises in balancing freedom and boundaries.

I believe “good” writing is limitless in the sense that it carries readers through a story or series of facts in ways that create entry points for learning, debate, exploration of self, etc. But it can also be unvarying due to rules and parameters set by institutions, publications, communities and audiences. Many resist the notion that there’s “good” and “not good” writing, and I am here for that. The standards set by the academy and journalistic institutions weren’t created to account for the diversity of experience, language and dialect, culture and imagination that exist outside of the narrow confines of whiteness and heteronormativity.

But as it stands, many still strive for writing that meets those standards because it provides access to opportunity. Many of the best writers and storytellers I know— be they Black, Brown, queer, disabled, from other impacted communities or otherwise—find themselves in the never-ending two-step of wanting to tell culturally-resonate, powerful and authentic stories that have mainstream appeal and meet the standards of the industry.

As a journalist and narrative scientist, I feel this deeply. Not just because writing and story connect most parts of my past and present, but because that dance I referenced is one I’m struggling to master as a daughter, sister, friend, business woman and organizer every single day. I’m dancing to figure out how to both live freely and stay within the boundaries I’ve set for myself and others.

Even when the melody is different and writing isn’t the vehicle through which I’m practicing this, the ultimate goal is the same: to share authentically, to help people see me (or those I’m representing) fully and fairly; to feel free, bold and audacious. All of that while staying within the parameters needed to maintain my position; to manage expectations and to be accessible without being simultaneously drained, taken advantage of our erased from my own story altogether. It’s a lot.

In the inaugural note, I said Fettered Access is where I’ll explore the nuances of this dance battle for balance through essays, analysis, interviews, and other offerings. I’ve been dragging my feet yall, I’m sorry. But I have something to share that I hope starts a conversation across the community we’re cultivating here.

First up, an essay series exploring the act of reminiscing from both the cognitive and narrative perspectives. A universal truth is that we’re all the central characters and narrators of our own stories, and therefore, we are the most important audience we’ll ever have. No one will ever know the full breadth, richness, grief, exuberance, difficulty, or complexities inside of our biggest and insignificant moments. That is why it is both wild, and unfortunate, that we tend to obfuscate, minimize, and even villainize ourselves in our own memories—especially those we never speak out loud. I was curious about this phenomenon around the holidays and wrote about an instance that proved this experiment as worthwhile as it was challenging.

It is entitled RECONSTRUCTIVE MEMORY.

It sounds like a therapy term because… it kind of is. In my understanding of and experience with the process, reconstructive memory is not an exact reordering and hyper-fixation of past events, but a reconstruction of core memories blending the actual events with our current emotions, beliefs, and understanding of past context that we might not have had at the time. Where reminiscing tends toward the nostalgic, this kind of reminiscent process enables us to infuse grace and reason into past memories that ache.

This type of memory recall aided me in understanding my role in past experiences more fully, and it’s helped me assign new value to experiences that impacted my perception of myself. To be clear, this isn’t an exercise in delusion or sidestepping accountability. I’m not recasting myself as the victim or champion in every story. However, this process has been revelatory, aiding me in unrooting harmful narratives that I’ve told myself and reclaiming memories that I discarded because parts were too painful or upsetting… despite the fact that there were joyful or significant moments intertwined as well. Above all else, it’s proven that a rewrite is always something worth considering because there might be a more honest, uplifting ending tucked behind the ending you assigned years ago.

Author’s note: This essay will be shared in parts. Today you got the Introduction and Part 1. I’ll release another section each day this week. I can’t wait to hear what you think. Thanks for being here!

Chelsea