Books are one of my favorite ways to cope with isolation, grief, stress, anxiety… you know, all the feelings that have been going on for nearly a year now and very much intensified this past week. My favorite genre is non-fiction/memoir, and my favorite writers are folks like Mary Karr, David Sedaris, and Samantha Irby. I love hearing true stories from people who can turn the mundane into gold. 

Both Mary and David write a lot about their childhoods and people they grew up with. Both are now in their 60s, and together they share the privilege of growing up in a time where people were able to lose touch with one another. That is something uniquely generational. I remember as a child, my mom would tell tales of a girl she had befriended in grade school named Rebecca Utley. They were the best of pals and reminded me of my childhood best friend.

“What happened to Rebecca? Where is she now?” I asked when I was little. My mom remembered that they had a falling out after Rebecca transferred to a nicer middle school, but beyond that – nothing. I found this horrifying. How could you be so close to someone yet lose touch with them so easily? I worried this would happen to me. I was terrified that, some day, every little face from my fifth grade class would fade from my memory.

Oh little Heather – you should have worried about the opposite happening.

Unlike Mary, David, or my mom, my generation is cursed with the godforsaken invention of Facebook. We can’t lose touch with anybody. People I would love to write about might read this newsletter. Some of them sure as hell listen to the podcast. I know they do because people who bullied me in school will DM me saying how riveted they were at a story we covered. Great! Thank you! I still remember all the shit you pulled! 

It’s nice to hear that people from my past listen to the show or read what I write, even if I didn’t know them real well. Heck, it’s nice to have anybody listening or reading. But knowing who may be reading definitely makes me think twice about some of the stories I would like to tell.

Mary Karr discusses how she obscures characters for her stories in her how-to book The Art of Memoir. She’ll change a character’s hair color, origin story, or name. Sometimes she mixes two or more people and creates hybrid characters. For all I know, David Sedaris does the same. Maybe he made up the names in his stories. Some people have said he even made up some of the stories themselves.

I don’t care either way. He’s not a reporter; he’s a comedian. Still, for some reason, I feel inauthentic about changing details and people’s names when I remember them so clearly. I’m going to have to make peace with changing the details enough so as not to get sued but also not feel like I’m lying to you. 

Just recently I got an email from a friend of a friend letting me know he enjoyed the show. Turns out someone who I’d gone to high school with was the one who recommended the show to the guy. The recommender and I were several years apart and never had classes together. Though, one memory of this person is seared into my mind.

It was a rainy day in tenth grade when my mother picked me up from school in our minivan. It had been raining for a while, so pools of water had accumulated beside every curb and drop-off.

I saw this student standing near one of these curbs, headed to a bus stop. They clutched an instrument to their chest, maybe something like a violin, wrapped up in a fabric case. Just then, a car drove by, and student was absolutely annihilated with a tidal wave. After the car had passed, I saw my classmate there, drenched and devastated.

At this sight, I let out a deep laugh that scratched a petty itch inside me. As a kid who never took the time to learn an instrument beyond the recorder, I harbored an envious contempt for those who had joined band and orchestra, for those kids who could play songs and read sheet music. That is why I felt so satisfied seeing this person standing on a curb, absolutely wrecked by rainwater.

My mom admonished me for laughing, but it didn’t matter. The image was formed in my brain, a little treasure I tucked into my memory to pull out on a rainy day.

The problem with recounting a memory like that now is that it is that it’s not some nebulous concept of a kid. It’s a real person who I know exists to this day. I know that they grew up to be a good person, at least so far as I can tell from the internet. I know that they’re happily married and have a kid or two. They haven’t posted any prejudiced content or ignorant memes. They tick all the boxes of a person I wouldn’t mind having as a neighbor.

While I used to relish the delicious memory of their misfortune, of the mental image of the filthy street water seeping into the case of their precious instrument, it’s not the same anymore. I’m cursed with the knowledge of how the story ends.

The one thing I can still hold onto are the strangers I encounter now. This is probably why I hesitate being friendly with my neighbors. If I maintain a certain sense of anonymity, it is easier to relish the silent pleasure of their mishaps.

Take, for instance, the little shit up the street who ran in front of me this week on my walk. He darted into the street without looking and cut so close to me I could feel my jacket rustle. Hoverboard in hand, he made it to the other side where he set the hoverboard on the sidewalk. Triumphant, he climbed on top, only to wobble, rock, then fall backwards onto the concrete. He didn’t fall hard enough to be injured, just enough to avert his eyes, ashamed, by the time I caught up to him.

Facebook may have stolen away my beautiful memory of the ruined violin, but at least I can still enjoy the simple things like this new kid eating dirt.

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This piece first appeared in Sunday Morning Hot Tea. Subscribe so you don’t miss another piece.