by Mad Dog

   A study done by scientists at Georgetown University found that moths remember things that happened to them when they were caterpillars. You know, things like having gone hours without a good leaf to munch on, hearing butterflies taunt their parents by calling them a “colorless waste of wings,” and seeing a centipede flash them by lifting each of its hundred legs. Just kidding again. Actually what they remembered was a scientist making them smell nail polish and then giving them a shock, but then who wouldn’t remember that kind of larval abuse?

   The amazing thing is that an adult moth can remember anything, since their transformation from caterpillar is basically one of complete deconstruction, going from crawling larva to soupy mess to flying moth. And you thought your adolescence was tough. But they do remember things, and if they have remembrances of their formative days as a caterpillar then we must hold on to our early memories too. Call me an optimist, but I like to think we’re at least as evolved as a creature that flies into a candle flame even after watching its whole family fall for the same trick.

   The truth is, we don’t need to retain childhood memories. In fact, we don’t need to remember anything anymore because we have the Internet. It’s not necessary to cram anything more in our minds — or even retain what little we have left — as long as we remember how to find Google. True, this doesn’t work too well for personal memories, but that’s only the case if you’re older than Hannah Montana. For the younger generation, their lives will be completely searchable.

   It starts when parents post photos and blogs as soon as their children are born. Then when the tykes are old enough to click a mouse button and hack NetNanny — usually by age four — they post their lives on MySpace, Facebook, YouTube, and I-Don’t-Care-Now-If-There’s-No-Privacy-But-I-
Suspect-I-Will-When-I-Try-To-Get-A-Good-Job-
One-Day.com. It’s all there for the world to see, Google to catalog, and them to retrieve later in life when someone asks who their third grade teacher was, what street they grew up on, or what their parents’ names are. Not needing to remember that information will leave them more room to store the important things in life, like their cell phone number, how to get to the highest level of Grand Theft Auto: The White House, and the password to www.sothatwasmylife.com.

   Then there are the memories that are based on apocryphal stories and anecdotal evidence. These were handed down by my parents, who I’m convinced stayed awake at night making up what they thought were cute — and we interpret as being mortally embarrassing — stories about us. I don’t remember having slid down the snowy driveway sitting in one of my mother’s good pots, asking my father if we could plant a hot dog tree in the garden, or calling a bathing suit a “baby soup,” though I do remember hearing my parents tell me about them. At every opportunity. Over and over again, especially in front of any friend, girlfriend, or homeless stray I was stupid enough to bring into the house. My childhood was co-opted by my parents’ stories.

   Like Woodstock, where 500,000 people showed up, 175 remember more than a blurry haze, and everyone who’s ever seen the movie —including people who weren’t born yet — is convinced they were actually there, it’s easy to have our memories co-opted. Just ask any moth. Chances are they remember two things from their youth: getting shocked after smelling nail polish and Jimi Hendrix playing the Star Spangled Banner as the sun rose over Woodstock. The question is, Do they really remember these things or did they read them here? I’d tell, but I don’t remember myself.

©2008 Mad Dog Productions, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
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