History transcends generations

We are history. Everything about us propels the story of humankind forward throughout time. We are born, we learn, we procreate and then we die. This simple summation paints a generic mural of what we can expect, but there is more to it.

Each of us leaves a mark, an indelible residual of memories that transcends our deaths. No space can contain it, and it is immune to the dulling flow of time. Splashes of our personal stories, each distinct and luminous, paint everyone we touch. They pass through generations and their forms readily accept the additions that we make to it during our lives. The splashes are memories. They are history and we all share them.

Where were you when Kennedy was shot? When Apollo 13 finally made it home? When the Challenger exploded? These greater, more commanding moments on the historical mural are shared by all of us who were alive at the time. Those events seemed large enough to wield their own gravity — one that tugs each of our lives slightly off its original path. They impacted against us and made our awareness larger somehow. But that effect only lasts for a moment — barely longer than the event itself. What fills our lives with substance — what bears significance on us — are the pieces of history passed on by our families.

Where were you when your parents told you that your grandma died? When you found out that your dad had cancer? A moment cannot contain these events any more than words can express your reaction to them. They grow with you and they will forever mark the opera of your lives.

If I allow myself to drift long enough, I can recall a million memories that somehow tie together to make up my young (ha ha) life’s tapestry. Although I regard some with joy and some with bitterness, I cling to them all. They have defined me and will continue to do so until I am gone.

When I was 5, I didn't know what multiple sclerosis was, and I didn't know why my mother was chosen to get it. The tests that she had to determine this crippling nervous condition left her immobile for days. I was convinced that I had to take action to help heal her. My solution: I made frozen chocolate-covered bananas. Somewhere inside me, I believed that these bananas contained exactly what was needed to make her right again. According to her, they did.

Four years later, in Little League, I remember how quickly my dad ran onto the field when a batted ball slammed into my mouth, nearly knocking this would-be professional pitcher unconscious. I also remember his kind, reassuring laughter when, through my choked tears, I told him that I didn’t think I could finish the game. He was proud of me, and that alone made him my hero. He still is.

However, neither of my parents was particularly proud when I failed to graduate high school. They didn’t get to see my commencement and weren’t able to add that particular bit of color to the memory of their lives. It meant nothing to me at the time. It means quite a bit more today.

So now my dad has cancer, and I remember exactly what I was doing when I heard that a larger-than-baseball-sized tumor had surrounded part of his spine. The news slammed me pretty hard, but it hit him harder. Now it seems that it's my turn to run out onto the field. I want him to know that I'll be there, but I'm not ready for him to walk off just yet.

Every weekend since then has found me racing home to spend time with him — to make up for what I may have lost during my angst-riddled teen-age years.

Every Friday, the drive up is filled with thoughts of my childhood. I pore over our memories together as the road spills out before me. I think of the stories he's told me about his time in the war. I think of the ones I've heard countless times and yet need to hear again, lest I forget. I've heard him pass on the defining moments of his life throughout all of mine.

But now I spend my time watching. I've known his tales by rote for years, but now I'm digging for meaning. I watch his eyes. I watch his hands. I am painting the pictures of him across my memory so that I may pass them on to my children if he is unable.

I will walk down the aisle alone in Elliott Hall of Music on May 13 with only a slight concern for my degree of accomplishment. Every thought will be focused on my parents, who cannot be there. I’m sure my mind will begin to drift …

Every day now, I crave one more story — one more part of him forever carried on through me — so that one of the most important parts of my life may splash color and history on someone else, particularly my future children.

John Cody is a senior in the School of Liberal Arts.

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