Liz deBeer
Six Steps to Forget Your Past
Step One:
Throw out old photos of yourself.
Start with yearbooks. No reminders of yourself in cowl necks, orthodontic braces, failed Farrah Fawcett haircuts, uneven mullets, or lacy granny dresses. Every picture-a-reminder of kids like Martin who spat in your Jello. Or Kate who stopped speaking to you when her father went to jail. Or Steve, your first real date, first real kiss. Or that math teacher who accused you of cheating.
Step Two:
Focus on the present.
Don’t look back. Since smells elicit memories, avoid overcooked hot dogs, dried-out fish sticks, sour milk, sweaty gym clothes, chalk dust, frogs soaked in formaldehyde, Jean Nate’s After-Bath-Splash, and musty books.
Step Three:
Move away.
But first donate your Levi corduroys, Sperry boat shoes, Izod striped shirts, plus anything with shoulder pads.
And your electric typewriter, Radio Shack record player, rotary phone.
And the sweatshirts adorned with the Blue Bison mascot.
Then throw out your high school ring because who wants that outdated, clunky, fake gem engraved with your graduation year?
Once you leave, don’t return, even for reunions.
Step Four:
Shun social media.
Don’t look at who’s posting political memes you disagree with including Bret who you felt sorry for in homeroom because he seemed lonely, but now he’s an infested mosquito sucking life from everyone with his angry posts. Turn from photos of classmates’ kids because they resemble their parents, who no longer look like how you remember.
Step Five:
Avoid reading obituaries.
Ignore rectangular memorial images of classmates. Like Dawn who sat with you on the bus every day. Laughing about jokes from Hee Haw and Happy Days. Discussing John Steinbeck novels. Analyzing yesterday’s field hockey game. Planning the next post-football celebration at Ground Round where they served free popcorn and soda refills. (Why’d you lose touch with her? You had so much in common.)
Or Phil with the wavy black hair who taught you to fry bologna in a non-stick pan and played baseball on your front lawn. (Who imagined him bald as an adult?) Or Billy whose family owned the farm stand where you bought corn, string beans, snap peas, blueberries. (All those fresh foods, yet he died so young.)
Step Six:
Avoid regrets.
You may feel pangs, wondering if anyone remembers you. Like your field hockey team. Or the drama club. Or the kid who cut up that frog in bio. Or your English teacher who gifted you a Robert Frost poetry collection for graduation.
You may pause, pondering if you really can forget the past. Like when you notice teens wearing ponchos, bell bottoms, and tie-dye shirts, shockingly similar to what you wore in the yearbooks you threw away.
You may survey your scars. Like the one on your knee from a high school car accident. Faded, but not gone.
Maybe your past is woven into your being, too. Maybe you absorbed parts of Dawn, Phil, Billy, Kate, Steve. Even Martin. And, you-hate-to-admit, Bret too. Maybe every time you fry bologna, or watch a Happy Days rerun, or eat farm-fresh corn, your history simmers.
Liz deBeer is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now, a writing cooperative based in New Jersey. Her latest flash has appeared in Switch, Fictive Dream, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bending Genres, Bright Flash Lit Review, Sad Girls Diaries, and others. She has written essays in various journals including Brevity Blog. She holds degrees from University of Pennsylvania and Rutgers University. Follow Liz at www.ldebeerwriter.com and https://lizardstale.substack.com.
