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Saturday the 13th, March 2010
Have you ever found yourself in a moment that you knew (as it was happening) would be one of your favorite memories? Or: What is your favorite memory? Prompt
I have a wealth of fond memories. I enjoy reliving moments from my past almost as much as I enjoy speculating about the future (either activity can become a nightmare when I'm low). There have been many times when I've taken particular notice of a moment, tucked it away in my memory for later… but I'm not sure how a memory could surprise me by becoming a favourite if I didn't notice that it was something wonderful at the time.
Each year, my high school had an elaborate prize-giving ceremony in the townhall. I don't recall seeing any empty seats. This hall has a capacity of two and a half thousand people. The ceremony ended with everyone singing Gaudeamus Igitur while the graduates filed out. (The school was 125 years old when I left.) Due to the size of the hall and the number of students, Gaudeamus Igitur was sung numerous times, growing increasingly rowdy as people learned the words (or grew bored, I suppose). Each year, I'd played this tune in the orchestra ad nauseum. In my final year, I struck a deal with our conductor.
Like the other graduates, I left the orchestra near the end of the ceremony to sit with my friends. We were seated behind the stage, facing the audience. For the procession, we descended along either side of the stage, around the orchestra, past our conductor, and out of the hall through a central aisle. I was near the end of the procession… when I reached our conductor, I tapped him on the shoulder and he handed me his baton.
I stepped onto the podium and conducted the orchestra with a few thousand voices. The orchestra could have played the music blindfolded. For all I knew, our conductor was waving his arms covertly behind me. I didn't care. The students I knew best were grinning and the sound was incredible. I felt as if everything I'd done that year (and I'd done so many things) had been worthwhile. I was proud of what I'd achieved.
I almost skipped my final year of high school. I could have started university when I was sixteen, but I chose to stay. I tutored juniors who had English as a second language. I coached a chamber group. I conducted the orchestra during rehearsals when our conductor was busy. When our orchestra went touring, I was involved in organising everyone. I also helped with our 125th anniversary celebration. I was the music director for a stage competition (which meant a great deal to at least some of the students involved). I edited the paper and the unofficial senior yearbook. I often skipped other classes to help in the music department. My English teacher asked me to teach our class about the score for a film (for a section of our university entrance exams). I was secretly in counseling for my self injury and OCD. In the end, I won scholarship grades for my top three subjects (placing within the top 5% of national scores). I created my design folio in a single week, so it was no surprise I didn't do so well. Ironically, my lowest score was in music because I'd spent more time helping other students around the department than I had on my own studies.
It was the most energetic, busiest year of my life. It was also the year when I was most in love. Perhaps it was a coincidence, but it meant the world to me that someone cared and believed in me. Whenever my anxiety let up, I was euphoric. I had some crashing lows, but nothing like the nervous breakdown I had two years later.
I haven't had that grandiose sense of achievement since. The public celebration of excellence and service has been replaced by the private satisfaction of 'doing well, given my OCD.' It doesn't compare. I could qualify this and pretend it's only the confidence in my contribution that I miss (the smiles when I stepped up, knowing that I'd helped), but the truth is, I also miss the acknowledgement.
I couldn't have cared less about my university graduation. I only attended because my parents wanted me to. I accepted my bachelor's degree (with first class honours) along with so many other graduates, all strangers to me. I'll graduate with my master's degree (with distinction) in absentia. It's not only that the town hall there is smaller and shabbier. The ceremony was a casual shambles compared to what I was accustomed to. This is something of a shame, given that it is (was?) the most prestigious university in the country. (At least it will always hold onto the title of being the oldest.) I only knew one other graduate and he wasn't a friend of mine. I didn't care about anyone else who was there and none of them cared about me (except for my parents, whose expressions of pride, however sincere, tend to wash over me instead of sinking in).
Despite my best attempts to be content with 'I've done well, given my OCD,' it's never quite as good. I won't have a new favourite memory of this kind until I do well, end of story. It might happen if/when I get a PhD or if/when I publish an article or book. But I suspect it's more likely to happen when I'm in another mentoring situation; a big fish, small pond sort of situation. If I'm ever so confident that I've made a positive difference as I was that night, then I'll have a new favourite memory.