Does the past matter?

The impetus for this article was provided by the discrepancy stemming from the previous article between me and Kyle (whom I am grateful to for being the most sincere, honest, and critical reader I could ask for) about the importance of the past. But it’s also an issue that I constantly face in my political/cultural/religious/historical/societal studies, as well as a deeply personal issue. But before I start, let me just say this is probably the last article I write for a while since school is now in full swing and I have two research projects that I don’t know how I’m going to finish on time. One concerns a paper on Tariq Ramadan (perhaps the most important European Muslim intellectual today) and the other is about Islam in Hungary. Besides these two massive projects, I have several other papers to write, many books to read and, of course, playing hockey for Georgetown. But enough of my personal life, lets talk about the past.

How important is it to remember one’s past? Is it merely an accessory to be aware of or deisregarded depending on the circumstance? Is it a tool of convenience that can be brought forth to accentuate a particular story and event and hidden if it is particularly embarrassing or damaging to the individual? Is the past something permanent and concrete or does it change when new events and new attitudes come forth?

I read an interesting article the other day that talked about an individual’s experience with a concussion where he was unable to remember conversations as soon as they were over, lost track of names and addresses, and would suddenly find himself on the street or subway without any idea where he was or where he was heading. Of course, we all forget things: we've all had the experience of walking into the kitchen and then losing track of why we came, or fumbling for the name of someone we've met a dozen times. But this was different. This was a complete erasure of linear time. Every moment was new, without history, and grounded in the past only by the detailed notes he kept for himself. Think of the film Memento.

Now the really interesting part of this story is that this man claims that because he was unlikely to remember the meal, conversation, or film that he was enjoying, he was freer to enjoy these pleasures more by truly living in the moment. He had been skeptical, uptight, and nervous, but now he preformed poetry at slams, danced at bonfires in the desert, and traveled to new countries on a whim. Without memory, he glided from moment to moment with everything always being a complete surprise. He had no choice but to trust everything around him which he described as “relaxing.”

Undoubtedly, this sounds extremely liberating and anyone could therefore agree that inhibition is a bad thing. It’s better to eliminate self-consciousness if it weighs you down right? Better to forget weaknesses, imperfections and guilt because they are nothing but an impediment to happiness.

But the man’s story is not over.

After six months the symptoms of permanent amnesia wore off and he returned to “his old self.” Except “he” was no longer there. In the six months, many things changed. He had quit his job, his girlfriend left him, and he came out of the closet. He couldn’t remember anything that happened during that six month period.

Now it’s obvious from the first part of his story that the temporary amnesia helped him to be happy in ways he never could have been otherwise. Furthermore, it fundamentally transformed his personality and character, for the better he admits. But then he says something really shocking: the loss of his memory was really a loss of his identity. The memories, flavors, and formative experiences that made up his current identity were gone, and therefore he had nothing to root his current preferences, inclinations, and self in. True, he has a better finished product and admits he is happier than before the concussion. But the inability to remember his experiences has him admitting in the end that given the choice, he would reverse everything that had happened.

I think I can understand why. Have you ever played a game and lost? Have you ever tried to build something and failed? Of course, we all have. The point is: the path towards the finish line is more important than the result itself, otherwise engaging in activity without a guarantee of success would be absurd and we are, for the most part, rational individuals. The experience has value in and of itself, and is therefore, more important than the result itself. Any Olympian would agree with me. Would you not run a marathon if you couldn’t be first? Would you not engage in activity if you weren’t guaranteed success?

Many wonderful memories of mine have arisen from failure and losses. Even from humiliation and embarrassment, I can often look back and laugh. This is why being without memory, to me, is more than mere forgetfulness: it is being set adrift on an eternal present, without trajectory or history. This is why the past is important. Mystics from around the world will say a temporary suspension of memory, and of thought, allows for “peak experiences.” Yet in every wisdom tradition that I know of, there is also a return. The Zen monk comes back to the marketplace; Moses descends from the mountain; Christ emerges from the wilderness. Without memory, there may be beauty and happiness, but there is no coherence. There are episodes, but no continuous narrative. Pure moments of being may be the closest we come to enlightenment. But then, where is the telling of the story?