Most individuals would be quick to acknowledge the fundamental role the written word plays in recording memory. Our thoughts, jotted down on paper or typed on a keyboard with varying degrees of elegance or utilitarianism, are given life and become something of a more tangible record of things transpired, activities accomplished, or feelings experienced. But even we who write are not as swift to acknowledge the role we have individually and collectively in shaping knowledge and memory through the words we choose or ignore, the details we include or disregard, and ultimately, the narrative we tell.
I do not consider myself a postmodern in any sense of the word. Yet even I must admit that writing has a climatic impact on how we remember our lives, our work, and our experiences—both for good and for ill. It is worth considering, in a brief polemic, the evolution of prose for the purpose of conveying real-felt experience.
Briefly, I will touch on three dimensions of writing as memory: that it records memory, that it is memory, and that it becomes memory. Afterward, I’ll conclude with some remarks on assessing and evaluating our memories, and the historical implications arising therefrom.
Writing Records Memory
Those of us who write nonfiction, particularly anything historical or autobiographical, to some degree hope to record memory. That is, we hope that what we put down conveys truly the facts, feelings, and circumstances of what we have experienced firsthand, heard directly from witnesses, or studied in scholarly books and primary records. If we do our work with any degree of accuracy, we are recording memory. Our words may be used to convey thought—and hopefully truth—from one generation to the next.
Thus when I interview my grandmother about her experience at the 1939 and 1940 World’s Fair, and the noticeable differences she discovered between those two pivotal years in world history, I am chronicling the memory of one individual in the greater context of known world events. Naturally, her experience is subject to individual interpretation and has been shaded by decades of subsequent history and notable events. She was able to retrospectively tell me how the effects of World War II were apparent in the closing of certain pavilions controlled by the Axis powers and their occupied territories. When I write this down, I can still say with some degree of confidence that I am writing memory, that in fact I am recording oral history, and that this historical information conveys truth.
Unfortunately, as we will see, this is not always the case. Writing in a very real sense does not simply record memory, but is memory.
Writing Is Memory
Whether one is a chronicler or a historian, writing from the beginning is a conduit of memory. But there is a recognizable phenomenon that occurs the further one travels from the initial recording of events. However regrettable it may be, the further one becomes from actual events, the less reliable our collective memories become, and the more rely on the artifacts of the past to serve our weak and fallible memories.
Thus we rely, yes, on the written word, but also on photographs and videos and any number of ancillary records to recall past events. We read old newspapers that record events and listen to testimonies recorded of eyewitnesses now long gone. In this regard at some point, far sooner than most historians would like to admit, writing is memory. What we have written before is all we will ever have about a specific happening. Even introspectively in our own lives, what we wrote when we graduated from college or said our marriage vows is the closest we will ever be to experiencing the event again first hand.
In this sense writing is an invaluable thing and deserves to be treasured. But it also comes with a weighty caveat: although with the progression of time we may very well have a more complete understanding of the context of events, and therefore be able to project a superior historical interpretation upon the past, we will not have greater access to the thoughts and feelings we had erstwhile recorded as memory. Thus what we have is memory, broadly, and what we write adds to that memory.
This leads to the third point: that writing becomes memory over time.
Writing Becomes Memory
Between the realities of writing recording memory and being memory, there is a sense of a latent process of involved, that of writing becoming memory. Sometimes this process is supremely apparent, such as a court stenographer recording verbatim the words of witnesses and jurists. Undoubtedly, this individual knows the worth of each word and that in the act of writing, the public memory is indelibly shaped.
On the other hand, the process is just as often something more gradual: a note taken and stuck on the refrigerator, a journal entry in a personal diary, an anonymous submission to a prayer chain. Each of these forms of writing gains momentum over time as memory recalled. And then there is writing crafted for a contemporary audience that is transformed into historical record over time. In numerous instances (though certainly not all—the Bible being the great exception), the original authors did not know that their prose would be the basis of historical record and interpretation. And yet, the natural tendency of writing is that it becomes the primary, if not always sole, form of memory over time.
Such a phenomenon certainly has fascinating and sometimes daunting implications for writers. Particularly in a digital age, anything we write, and especially that which we publish openly and online, can be used for and against us. It is a lasting memory, so long as we have the means to keep the records of the distant past of the internet known and available to all. Naturally we should be at least respectably cautious about our words, but also cognizant of the fact that the tendency of all writing is to become memory, and that all of these things cannot be of equal value historically or argumentatively.
Assessing and Evaluating Our Memories: Historical Implications
Humans are so feeble, so limited in their ability to remember, to record, and to convey truth. This exercise is obviously essential when instructing the next generation, and so in the real sense we vehemently ought to value truth and to seek to serve and honor it at every corner.
And yet, our memories take on a life of their own. We will remember something differently in ten years or forty than we do today. Our writing today is but a snapshot in time, destined to become something else and perhaps even take on a life of its own as it transforms from recording memory to being memory. So we must be cautious about our own memories, especially when we write.
When I write personally, especially about my own life, I attempt to capture a particular feeling I experience, sometimes negative but in general positive. In general, the mood I wish to capture affects those details I include and those I disavow, and more specifically the emotions I dwell on and the ones I suppress.
Therefore, I am sure I can somewhat distort the truth insofar as historical purposes are concerned, but also can be a means of catechesis to our own narrative past. We want to remember certain happenstances in certain ways, and we hope to encourage those memories that inspire us and lead us toward truth. Likewise, we may wish to clear our minds of that of which we are embarrassed or not proud.
In so doing, we must admit that our memories become less reliable as recorded history. But, I submit, these words remain valuable. They teach us about ourselves, about truth we have experienced in the world, and about the journeys each of us are on. If we teach ourselves well, we are reminded both of our finite nature, but the infinite gifts we have received as infinite beings. One of those gifts is the ability, nay, the responsibility to speak truth and love and extend it missionally from generation to generation.
So the next time you sit down to write a few words, remember that this is your opportunity to contribute to this paradigm. You have the opportunity to record history, doing so as accurately and genuinely as you are able. But you also can contribute to an overall narrative of truth that breathes life into coming generations, that extends beyond the limited and dwindling capacities of our own minds to help future generations remember what is right, and true, and honorable. And that is a mission worth committing to memory.