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February 2096
The History of Psychology 2335
“Today’s lecture will be a continued discussion over the papers you turned in last month regarding your choices if you could live a worry-free life.”
Mr. Holiday is captivating without an ounce of effort. He knows it, and continues to demand respect during every lecture with his perfectly poised posture.
“I was incredibly impressed with the vulnerability shown by most of you. I’m here to facilitate a healthy and productive discussion; however, today I hand the baton over to you. Class is in your hands.”
Limping over to his chair behind the podium, he takes a seat and folds his hands on his lap. His encouraging smile grows wider and wider as he waits patiently for our participation. The silent treatment works every time, so before I can stop my hand from betraying me, it catapults high into the air. The relieved glances of my classmates sweep my shaky ship out to sea.
“I can start . . . if that would be okay?”
No one nods in encouragement. They’re waiting to see if my ship clears Mr. Holiday’s reef of criticism, but his unchanged expression offers no guidance for my journey. Is this when I’m supposed to take his apathy as a yes, and start talking? Even the overachiever is expectantly staring, shock written all over her face at my prompt participation.
“Thank you, Rayne. Your powerful essay—or, poem—is an excellent place to start with this discussion.”
My classmates’ faces soften at his approval. I can’t believe he got my name right—pronunciation and all. Usually, people assume it’s “Rain,” when really it’s pronounced “Rain-ey.” My mother insists that rainy days are her favorite, and so am I.
You will not be for everyone, just as rainy days are not, she always says. Apparently it’s something her mom told her anxious friend once. It helped, so she never stopped saying it.
There’s no reason to try to be everything to everyone. Those who need you will find you, and you will feel their love.
I steady myself with her words. Those who need me will find me. Those who get this will get this.
Come on, voice. Sound sure.
Sound strong.
“Then class, welcome to discussion. I’m Rayne, and I think you’ll be pretty surprised by how thorough you can be in a one-page paper.”
My nervous chuckle is the last thing I hear before beginning.
The gift of a world forgotten
is an intriguing gift to receive,
It’s promise of freedom and hope,
an easy thing to believe.
When anxiety and worry knock on my door,
declaring what could have been,
I welcome the offered defense against
thoughts claiming they’re a friend.
What could have been glory,
what could have been riches,
what could have been love everlasting,
Erased by the gift that sets our souls free,
erased by The Gift of Forgetting.
The year begins and the fun soaks in,
the most lavish parties I’ve seen,
Living invincible,
a feeling restored from when I was only sixteen.
But then we arrive at the first glitch in time,
and I see my found family,
A year spent building a life worth remembering,
victim to the system’s depravity.
The grim reaper arrives and stares in my eyes,
my gaze a plea for him to wait,
As yet again the clock strikes midnight,
challenging the course of fate.
My soul grows weary of longing for more,
for a purpose beyond the fun,
Did I even live, or learn, or love
if forgotten by everyone?
This wandering life is not enough,
to live without leaving a mark,
To know the pain of loving a man,
but not recognizing his heart.
Stuck in the labyrinth of eternity alone,
an impossibly forlorn destiny,
The protector of the general public
has become our own worst enemy.
To have to let go of the life I’ve built
every time the year concludes,
The purpose of living fully,
what a dangerous thing to lose.
Impossible to erase the volcanic eruption,
our past left covered by obsidian,
Our souls set free only to be lost
in the damning grip of oblivion.
To answer your question of how it would feel
to live then, Mr. Holiday,
To live in a world where all is forgotten . . .
I think I would wither away.
My voice cracked during my final sentence, spooking my fragile strength back into the cave of my chest. Looking around for any form of comfort, I’m met with the stare of a hundred wide-eyed dolls. Someone needs to pick the overachiever’s jaw off of the floor and hand the three best friends in row four a box of tissues.
Even Mr. Holiday is speechless, his eyes filled with glimmering tears. As the freshman begins to clap, he clears his throat. That’s right, she’s clapping. Oh god, everyone is. My goal was never to become a public spectacle, only to silence the aching guilt in my chest when no one was participating in discussion.
Too afraid I’ll cry if I speak, I nod a silent thank you and sit down to hide my burning face. A voice from the third-row frat pack cuts through the clapping, ending my standing ovation.
“It’s an interesting idea, but if you couldn’t remember anyway, then you wouldn’t feel sad. And if you did, it would be the New Year and The Gift would nullify the sadness.”
Here’s the conflict I’d initially anticipated, but I’ve done my part. My opinion is my opinion, so now I get to sit back and watch the train wreck.
“Not necessarily. If we knew that to be true, then the government wouldn’t have had a reason to experiment at all,” counters a girl from across the room.
Solidarity, sister.
“The entire Experiment was to test the strength of the human heart. If the heart really can remember even when the brain can’t, then eventually the memories would catch up with you emotionally,” replies another girl.
Over the next thirty minutes, the room divides into two groups—those who side with the frat pack, and those who side with me. Ironically, the support for each side is almost evenly split by gender, with a few stragglers sprinkled in. Most of the men support the idea that it would be a gift, and most of the women agree that they would desire more in life; forgetting would be too empty.
It makes sense, with women’s affinity for a good fairytale, but I don’t actually believe that either side is wrong or right. Everyone should be able to choose to live how they feel the safest and most authentic.
That’s the point—they should get to choose.
Mr. Holiday has remained still and silent most of the discussion, so when he stands, the room immediately grows quiet.
“We are out of time for today, but I congratulate you on a well-managed discussion. You all should be getting paid a professor’s salary,” he jokes.
“Well, who was right?” the freshman blurts. How typically freshman to assume he’ll answer.
“This exercise wasn’t about being right, but about proving that decisions, however obvious they may seem in hindsight, can be quite intricate when you’re living in them.”
“But—”
“It’s not so easy being the group to agree and decide on the course of history . . . is it?”
Sorrowful silence is the only reply. Without another word, he gathers his things and limps out of the lecture hall.