The persistence of memory

Sláinte, March 17 will be St. Patrick’s Day! While we will once again forego the annual block party this year, some may still choose to gather in tipsy indulgence, when the Lenten restrictions are lifted for a single day, so we may observe the culture and heritage of the Irish by “drowning the shamrock” to remember a saint. Was it the snakes St. Patrick drove out of Ireland? Or Paganism? And since when does tossing back a few help us remember anything?

Memory is a fickle thing. When I was 12, I used to read so many books at the same time that I needed a diary just to keep my reality straight from fiction. I suddenly realized that I could manipulate my own memories simply by recording them differently in the diary. Keep the good; throw out the bad. The world could forever be preserved in rose-colored glasses. In a world where so much of our memory is stored externally — on a SIM card, a GPS, a hard drive — who’s to say what little we commit to storing between our ears is in any way a reliable source of evidence of things past?

As a server for many years, my memory was stored on my scratchpad. My first restaurant manager, when I was 19, told me I’d better write everything down so no one would ever have to tell me anything twice. It wasn’t until much later that I learned a guest’s response is resoundingly more exuberant if you remember their name, even more so than their order, though the latter is far more frequently recorded than the former, especially during a busy dinner rush. Of course, a bartender is expected to recall, seemingly, hundreds of recipes on demand. And as a bartender who, for one desperate year, held down six jobs at the same time, let me tell you, a well-honed memory is no small feat; it takes practice.

Like any well-practiced skill, it seems only natural that a thorough memory be a source of pride. So when is a polished memory a hindrance? When is not being able to forget something more damaging than the consequences of absentmindedness or even amnesia? I’ve recently become a patient of a new breakthrough technology in medicine which uses magnetics to repair and reconnect neurons that have become severed, either by severe physical or emotional trauma. After only a few weeks of this “brain therapy,” not only was I thinking clearer, but I was also more focused, my thoughts were well-organized, and my stress levels seemed to have melted away to near zero, though my workload stayed the same. Even my Electroencephalography (EEG) scan was trending optimally. Then my partner and I got in one of those fights where both of you refuse to let go, and the rumination continued in my head, first as a whisper, but grew to a deafening torrent of anger and anxiety which kept me from sleep for days on end. I was shocked when my next EEG scan revealed a familiar blue cloud of “brain fog” reminiscent of my initial scan, before I had started my treatments. What had happened?

Is it any coincidence that both Friedrich Nietzsche and Alexander Pope praise the “eternal sunshine of the spotless mind”? Both the great philosopher and the artistic exponent appear to argue for the virtue of a mind which functions a bit more like a sieve than a steel-jaw trap, capturing only the larger good, and letting the rest slip through, unincumbered. If emotional trauma shocks the mind into becoming stuck in a sort of negative paralysis, perhaps there is something to the saying, “Forgive and forget.” Nietzsche claims, “Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of their blunders.” Perhaps maintaining a perfect memory (or scratchpad), complete with all its injustices, complaints and frustrations wasn’t of the essence that my former manager would have had me think. Perhaps it is not a frailty of the mind, but an attribute — sometimes, when it’s healthy — to be able to let go.

We wear green on St. Patrick’s Day, but how many of us remember what the other colors of the Irish flag stand for? While green represents Irish nationalism, and orange, the Protestant minority, the white in between is said to be reflective of the lasting peace between the two parties. Enter Jameson Orange. The quintessential, green bottled, classic has come out with a new flavor, in none other than the same warm, striking hue as reflected in its national flag. For those who crave a lighter, citrusy twist on the iconic Irish whiskey, may I offer a low ABV cocktail option to encourage, slowly and safely, sipping away that pesky persistence of memory.

Alicia Yamachika is a bartender and craft mixologist, who currently is the key account manager at Southern Glazer’s Wine & Spirits on Oahu. Follow her on Instagram (@alicia_yamachika). Her column will appear every second Wednesday in Crave.