| Block Time It was a perfectly normal day in first grade; the other kids and I were engaging in �block time.� Block time involved stacking brightly colored boxes of cardboard into �houses,� �castles,� and �submarines,� in spite of the fact that they all looked like uneven piles of blocks. Then my life took a fateful turn, and an event that would turn out to be one of my most influential was just moments away. I felt queasy. Unfortunately for everyone, at the age of five I had not yet developed the synapses that tell you: �When you feel sick, you will vomit.� I threw up all over the blocks. At that moment, all the first graders� �vomit-radar� kicked in and they came from distant classrooms to investigate. From what I am told, it was orange. Seven years later I had nearly forgotten the incident and thought that it was irrelevant. I was sorely mistaken. In eighth grade I was reunited with a former classmate I hadn�t seen since second grade. At first we scarcely remembered each other, but then he thought about it a little and realized who I was. I was famous. I was an integral part of his elementary school experience. He abruptly blurted out, much to my chagrin, �You�re the girl that threw up on the blocks!� I have been reunited with dozens of former classmates and the only thing any of them can remember about me is the infamous block incident. For a while it bothered me that no one remembered the good things that I had done (like memorizing the Gettysburg address) or at least some of the weird things I had done (like memorizing the Gettysburg address for no real reason). I can�t really blame them though; all I can remember about various elementary school acquaintances are Katelin�s Troll-themed birthday party, Noah�s lactose-intolerance, and the time Zack got paint in his eye. It seems to me that it�s a natural function of the human brain to remember only bad and weird things (like the names of all the James Bonds) and forget normal and useful things (like names of people I�ve actually met). I was at a track meet in fourth grade, minding my own business, and a complete stranger walked up to me and greeted me by name. As hard as I tried, I couldn�t think of who she was. We kept up a nervous, meaninglessly polite conversation for about a minute before she got up the nerve to ask: �Do you remember who I am?� I was forced to admit that I had no idea who she was. It turned out that she was the girl who ate Play-Doh and had a Little Mermaid birthday party when we were three. This was not an isolated incident; family reunions, social events, and trips to the grocery store reveal dozens of former acquaintances. Perhaps I have an unusually bad memory for names and faces, or perhaps these people are simply not remarkable. My brain does not bother to put into its long-term storage those who slide politely, quietly, and normally in and out of my life. If only more people threw up on the blocks: then maybe I would remember. |