My youth is a mystery.
I interact with a lot of millennials and younger people on social media, and I’m fascinated by how they record the minutia of their lives. I’m a tiny bit envious, but mostly I am relieved.
My own youth is largely undocumented. What happened during the first thirty-odd years of my life is contained largely within my own biological and untrustworthy soup of memories, and to a lesser extent in the equally unreliable memory dumps of those who knew me then. Other than that, there are a few photos, public records, and other documented facts—but not many.
That Iggy Pop concert…a great memory, one of the best shows ever—but would I want to relive it? Not a chance. Same goes for that party on the golf course, and the night I lost my virginity, and that South Tucson disco…oh yes, so many events that must be severely edited.
My past is a mystery, even to me. I shudder to think of today’s young people facing the raw records of the future past they are recording today.
I am thankful that so many things I have said and done will never be known. And I am sad that much of it is gone forever, surviving only as fading echoes of that which made me who I am.