Of truth and memory - a response

I received the following comment from Michael after posting “A Taste of Memory”. I decided to respond via a standard post when my reply to him began to grow the more I thought about the comment. Pardon my long-winded response and feel free to add a comment of your own.


Michael M. wrote:

Your preface [to "A Taste of Memory"] raises the interesting issue which contrasts the concepts of truth versus fact. One's truth is not necessarily their perceptions. The truth of the sweater color, for example, would be what it was, not what he or she remembered it to be. Saying that "It is in the telling of the memory that the truth ultimately lies", suggests that everyone has their own truth, which suggests relativity, which in turn denies the definition of Truth.

I think that one difference we have is in the use of “truth” – lower case t - and “Truth” - upper case T. Truth with the upper case T is a metaphysical ideal – the essence of what is actual and factual and absolute. In contrast, truth, with a lower case t, is that which one believes to be accurate, but is still subjective to some degree, especially, I would argue, when referring to memory and to memoir.

Take the sweater color example again – If I am red-green color blind then my memory of the sweater being black may, in fact, be accurate, since it may look black to me. If I am never told differently by someone who sees it as red, I have no way of knowing any different and, therefore, would retain my belief as true. Let’s complicate it a bit more. If I am unable to see red, yet I am told my perception of it as black is wrong and the sweater is red according to another set of eyes, I have to decide if I will accept the new information as true or maintain that my original thought is. Whose truth is right? To what degree does the sweater’s color affect the purpose of the piece written?

A psychologist friend of mine and I had a discussion about childhood memories of an incident between a child’s parents that was witnessed by that child and the parents' memory of that same situation. The memory retained by the child of the incident, which is observed from a child’s point of view, processed by a child’s brain, and stored in that fashion, does not necessarily reflect the same memory (or truth, if you will) of the situation as recalled by the parents. Yet both child and parents will believe his/her memory of the situation to be true. Who is right?

As a teenager I remember having an extremely heated discussion with my mother about an incident that I was adamant happened to me during my 2nd grade year at school. She had no memory of the situation, though I clearly remembered coming home with a black eye and bloody lip. She told me that she would remember such an incident since it would have startled her badly to see me in such a state. Since she didn’t remember it it couldn’t have happened. I refused to accept her answer at the time, convinced I was absolutely right.

Writing “A Taste of Memory” got me thinking about that 2nd grade situation and I realized that I could no longer clearly recall the circumstances. Does that mean that it didn’t occur? Does it mean that it did, but I am losing access to the memory? Does it mean that my mother’s adamancy about not remembering something so significant colored my own ability to remember it? And how do the answers to these questions affect whether I write about it later and how?

At this point in my life, knowing myself as well as I do, I am fairly certain that what I did as a child was create a wonderful story, probably acting it out to some degree on the playground that day, and then incorporating it into my memory as real. Having done that, I would then defend it with vehemence to anyone who would challenge my recollection of it. As a child I firmly believed what I remembered as true. Today I would suggest otherwise. Yet which is right? And, how much does it matter?

At some point the writer must decide why s/he is writing – what is the purpose of the piece – so s/he can also decide how to write it. Questions arise regarding the accuracy of the memories written down, which memories have significance and which do not, what voice should be used in the retelling, how much should be told, and how much withheld.

I could attempt to verify my own story by searching for Allen and asking him to recall the day I wrote about, but I no longer remember his last name and have no idea what became of him since he moved away from that neighborhood a little over a year later. Does this complication and lack of corroboration detract from the story I shared? I say the story is true. You only have me to believe. Do you trust me well enough to accept my version?

We know that memoirs have been written that contain nothing but fact. They exist, in part, because that level of attention to detail was deemed important. Others have been written with great literary license and the apparent lack of accuracy made way for a more poignant story that connected deeply with readers. Still others find some way to successfully blend those two extremes. The point where “the truth” of a memoir becomes a problem is when the trust between writer and reader is some how broken.

The responsibility for this bond does not end with the writer. As readers we need to ask ourselves why we are reading the memoir we have chosen. That answer informs us of just how much trust we will put in the writer, what we expect from him/her in terms of accuracy and proof, what type of connection we need between the writer, his/her story, and ourselves. Our reason for choosing the piece in the first place is as important as why it was written. When these two things don’t mesh the issues of truth and trust and merit arise.

~ Peace and musings