Memories

When I think abut my experiences in middle school I am filled with a great deal of pain. I remember my experiences in special education being taught that, as a human being, I was defective and wrong. I remember the beatings, the dirt and the rocks, the destruction of my things. I remember the humiliation, the isolation, the loneliness. I remember the pain of beginning a male puberty. I remember a lot of things I would sooner like to forget.

I had the opportunity to look through my old sixth-grade yearbook tonight. I had wanted to look somebody up who I had been thinking about recently. I took the opportunity to thumb through my class pictures.

I cried a little.

I expected to remember the bullies. I expected to remember the pain that had been caused. I had thought that the faces of my memory, the pain, would come and surface again as I looked at the rows of portraits.

But it didn't, and I was surprised.

I was surprised that, as I looked at the faces of my former classmates, memories of what brought happiness came back to me. I looked at a face and I remembered how we used to talk for hours secretly hidden away from the other children. Another face and memories of my first crush came back to me -- memories of a young heart racing, too scared to open up. Looking across the page I remembered my first kiss.

I thumbed through my old yearbook. It brought back memories and I am reminded. I am reminded that even in the midst of pain there is joy and life. In the end, when we remember what is truly important, that is what we remember.

Sometimes that is so easy to forget.