Do you care how you’re remembered?
I’m feeling fine, thanks, but the clock ticks, and I foresee my grandkids’ puzzled eyes on my remains, wondering what to make of me. Capn, yes – but who was that? A kidder – making silly jokes. His eyes lit when we arrived. He liked cooking us “chicken nuggets and fries!” Blobby in his bathing suit. Always writing.
I’m fantasizing, of course. I’ve no idea what they’ll recall. Maybe a quip that stung. Or a missed birthday. (I remember, for some reason, my father’s feet.)
Younger, I’d have said I didn’t care. Dead is dead – you’re powerless in the matter and you’ll never know, so just live. Grandkids changed that. Willy-nilly, they’ll carry me into the beyond. Their memories may be the last trace of my earthly stay.
Their verdict matters to me more than the world’s. But why?
Writers famously bask in posthumous regard. I’ve written about the Emily Dickinson Society, of which George Herbert, Thoreau, Gerard Manley Hopkins are members, and countless others whose names were writ in water. Vindication feels fine, even if it never occurs.
About my words’ fate, all I can do is my best – and forgive myself for breaking my ankle scaling Parnassus’ slippery slope. My grandkids’ recollections I can affect by present conduct. Happy or cranky? Affectionate or dismissive? Attentive or in-? As my time shrinks, I grow more eager to ace it.
Humans are apparently the only creatures who dread posterity. That’s because we can envision a future in which we’re no longer participants, able to do battle in our own behalf. Alive, in defeat, I could always vow, “I’ll show them!” My intrepidity consoled me, however implausible.
Dead, I can be abused with impunity, kicked around like a deflating beachball, mercilessly mocked. My pride whimpers – Poor me! – and aches for my descendants to rally in my defense. Preserve that beachball! Establish it like a pennate in a place of honor! Many peoples revere their ancestors, Americans rarely.
This notion of posthumous evaluation, however puerile, improves behavior. Whether it’s Saint Peter at the gate or our grandkids’ snapshots, eventual judgment makes us think twice. Kant argued that we should act in a manner of which reasonable hindsight could approve. I’d welcome Reason’s blessings but the smiles I really crave are Love’s.
Such thinking is nonsense, my irked intellect cavils. Just do your best and let the chips fall where they may. We all end up dust, so why fuss?
Humans, because we can conceive of time, seek to impress in every time period. We rewrite our histories and exaggerate our accomplishments to make ourselves look good. I’m as guilty of this as the next guy. Haven’t you noticed how – subtly, I hope – I make myself the hero of my tale?
Most ludicrously, we want our lives to have “meant something.” To accomplish this mental trick, we must define what meaning means. Are benefactions, achievements, subservience, intentions, loyalty, bravery, behavior proof of virtue? We tweak definitions to tip the scales in our favor.
My avidity is love, always has been. I didn’t experience much growing up so my appetite remains voracious. I can’t get enough of it and, if I get some, I don’t trust it. My every word and action is to wangle love. I must write better – more freshly, vividly, appealingly – to merit your regard. I don’t know how, but I keep trying.
This fixation is my salvation, a sickness which protects me from indifference or despair. I must be kind, gentle, truthful, funny, fun, industrious, because I long to be remembered thus.