Memory, Erasure, and History

Barbara Anne Radtke

I am a widow of almost 10 years. On May 1, my husband Andrew would have celebrated his 75th birthday. On special dates like his birthday and our anniversary, I have created small rituals to mark these dates that were personally special to us. On his birthday, I take a drive to Gloucester, a place we both loved. I ride past the beach where we often celebrated birthdays. We also sat on that beach on spring and summer evenings and watched the sunset. I take a drive past scenic spots on “the long way,” a route we often drove on the way home. I often end up at a bakery where Andrew sometimes bought me a treat – and I buy myself a cupcake. After all, I am celebrating a life and remembering a birthday. :-)

This year I was amazed at how much is changing on my sentimental route. The boutique hotel where we honeymooned, which looked out on a rocky shore and a sometimes tumultuous Atlantic, is gone. It looks like town houses are going up there. I am not surprised. The hotel had been empty for a few years. The only thing left of the restaurant where we dined our first evening and on many visits after is now a lot with a pile of dirt where a new foundation is being dug.

These changes do not make me feel sad; they make me feel old – not the kind of old that means outdated; the kind that means I am the holder of memories, in this case of places that later generations will only know through local history. They used to be landmarks. (Well, the restaurant is a stretch as a landmark.) No longer familiar signposts, they are facts for the trivia category of “used to be.”

I also feel amused. The ocean and its shoreline, often heralded as ever-changing, seems the one constant in a town remaking itself as towns should if they are to keep themselves on the map. And, separate from whether these places currently exist or not, I have memories – ones that will not be woven into history books but which will remain part of my personal narrative.

This seemed enough to ponder for one blog post, but an episode of NPR’s TED Radio Hour, “Anna Malaika Tubbs: The Three Mothers" extended my reflection. Tubbs, a sociologist and author, recounts the biographies of Alberta King, Louise Little, and Berdis Baldwin, the mothers of Martin Luther King, Jr, Malcolm X, and James Baldwin respectively. Tubbs points out that these women, independent of whom they birthed and raised, were shapers of the nation’s discourse on race. As mothers, they shaped the values, attitudes, and character of their sons. Built on the personal memories of their family and friends, Tubbs resurrects their biographies. She shows how these women are nearly absent from historical accounts. Her book and the podcast (which is also my Pick of the Week) help restore to history what has been almost erased.

Response from Kathy Hendricks

So many of us can relate to the personal history you named in your post. We often talk about celebrating a loved one’s life and your rituals certainly honor this as you recount sweet memories of Andrew and your life together.

I am taken with your phrase about being a holder of memories and how these will be woven into your personal narrative. Just as the landscape around us changes so, too, does our inner landscape. I find this time of life to be one richly layered by memory. It doesn’t matter that so many of them are my own and that few others remember the people or places that are part of my inner landscape. Holding them – but not being held by them – is a treasure.

Your reference to the women who played such a key role in the formation of their sons brings to mind a story that was broadcast on NPR over Mother’s Day weekend. It referred to the reinvention of the term “mama’s boys” and how a new generation of men is embracing it to honor the positive influence of their mothers in their lives and careers. I add the link as an addition to your reference to the TED Radio Hour broadcast. In addition, I hope our readers will post some of their rituals that derive from memory.