I have many childhood memories which don’t seem to make any sense, or seem like they might be pure fantasy. There is one in particular I would like to share with you. I promise, I’ll divulge the reason why later. I will also preface this with this little bit of information: If a day, or event, happens to become important to me for any reason, a snapshot in time becomes ingrained in my memory (whether I like it or not)- the clothing worn, smells (cologne, food, body odor), specific words used, position of the Sun or shadows, etc. (yes, I know, I’m a freak – but I do not normally have a photographic memory)

For those of you who are not aware, I was born and raised in the Philippines. I have a very early recollection of tagging along with my mother to a grade school in Philippines very early in the morning. I remember the sun was just starting to rise. The school buildings were constructed of wooden posts buried in concrete, and clad in recycled corrugated tin roofing as the walls and roof. I was somewhere between the ages of three and five. My eldest sister was present, as was our family Doctor, a few friends of the family, and a school teacher. This motley group was “investigating” a strange phenomenon in one specific classroom which only happened a few minutes after sunrise. The teacher hushed us after she looked at her watch and said “it’s about to begin”. She darkened the room and directed our attention to a sliver of light approximately 3 inches off the floor. Light streamed into the inky blackness through a nail hole, and projected a curious glow onto the classroom floor. At this point I could hear schoolchildren outside walking toward their classrooms. There was the clatter and shuffle of shoes and children laughing and shouting. Suddenly, images of little children with bags and umbrellas filled the little glow on the classroom floor. This was interpreted by the teacher as a window into a different world or dimension. Despite having witnessed this phenomenon before she was still visibly shaken. Over 95 percent of all Filipinos are Catholic, yet they contradictorily believe in the occult.

Just as quickly as the children outside had disappeared into their classrooms, the little children in the glow also disappeared. Everyone was stunned for a moment. My mother finally acted, and sent my sister outside and told her to do something without telling us what she planned on doing. As my sister walked outside the classroom door I caught sight of a tiny being in the light on the floor. She looked like a miniature version of my sister. The girl flicked her hair, and my Mom excitedly called out “Did you just flick your hair?” and my sister acknowledged. My sister made some other movements, and everyone in the room could see it happening on the floor. Case closed, end of memory. What an odd and extraordinarily detailed memory for a 3-5 year old, to have.

This silly little memory has been bouncing around in my mind for the last three and a half decades. As a child, I asked my mom if she had ever done anything remotely resembling what I just shared with you. My questions were always met with the “what kind of drugs are you on?” kind of look, as well as the “you’ve just got an over active imagination!” speech. In my own mind, I questioned the reasoning for having this random group of people to investigate this “paranormal” occurrence. What possible credentials could a housewife, a Doctor, a teenage girl, and assorted other people have had to warrant being the authority on this sort of thing? I bought into the “overactive imagination” theory, yet this memory was so vivid and complete. To me, this brought credence to my mother’s claim of my “overactive imagination”. From then on I lived with the stigma of someone whose memories were half fantasy, and to this day my family always chides me about things I remember from childhood. “Is this real, or one of your made up stories?” they always ask. It’s quite irritating, sometimes even maddening. It’s been the reason behind feelings of self-doubt my entire life.

As a young boy I tinkered, and built things. I was very interested in science….all kinds of science. we had 5 sets of encyclopedias in the house and I would lay in bed every night with one or two volumes, flipping pages until something caught my eye. I would obsess on that topic for a few nights, and cross reference the information gleaned between all the other volumes of encyclopedias. This was before Al Gore “invented the Internet”.

One night, while flipping through pages, I stumbled across an article regarding pinhole cameras and how they worked. The rich illustrations and images on the glossy encyclopedia paper struck a chord. Shallowly suppressed memories of that day at the school surfaced and I suddenly clearly understood how a tiny nail hole in a boxlike, darkened room could feasibly project images from the outside world onto a classroom floor (in color no less). That weekend I built a pinhole camera out of an old shoe box, Aluminum foil and some Japanese rice paper to see how it worked, and after seeing the results secretly claimed victory, telling myself the memory had a chance of being real. I kept this to myself until just recently.

A few months ago, my mother, my sister (the one in the story), and I were chit chatting at the dinner table. The subject of my “faulty” memory was resurrected and ridiculed once more. Needing closure and vindication, I launched into a fully detailed description of my memory as I had never done before. This time I made mention of peoples names, the name of the school. the time of day, etc., etc. For the first time, ever, there was a glimmer, a dim spark of recollection, in my sister’s eyes. She told us that she remembered the incident, her role, and the people in my memory, but only distantly. That was all I needed, some confirmation, albeit shaky, that I was not completely insane.

I have come to understand, and accept, that no one remembers this as clearly as I do because I was slightly older than a toddler when this occurred. The spectacle must have invoked feelings of excitement, wonder and awe when I saw strange little beings, the size of toy soldiers, walking and talking on the concrete floor. It must have been like magic to me. My neurons must have fired off so many times that the vision of this time and place was indelibly “burned” into my mind. To others present, it was probably just another day; Another day lost among other nondescript, unremarkable, unmemorable days.

I have many memories, just as richly detailed, that have yet to be corroborated by members of my family. My mother is notorious for not remembering what she did yesterday, or the exact names of her children(!), and yet my memory gets questioned. This memory was so vivid that I had to reconcile everything that came through a young child’s eyes, and filter it years later through the mind, knowledge, and know-how of an adult. Although I feel better about it today, this one particular memory has caused me grief almost my entire life. To this day I hesitate committing things to memory, yet I can recall our very first phone number, and street address in 1970 (I was only 2).

I told you that story to highlight this one concept. One day your child will come to you and ask you about something of which you have no recollection. He or she will insist it happened, and you’re going to be frustrated because the child just won’t let it go. Instead of brushing it off as pure fiction, simply say “I don’t remember”. Chances are the incident did happen, but meant nothing to you, and your subconscious has since purged the memory to make room for the RBI of a certain baseball player in 1986, the correct timing on a 351 Cleveland, or the Pythagorean Theorem. The incident that is completely meaningless to you may be a treasured moment for your child. Tread lightly.