Ah, Neverland. The carefree land of perpetual juvenility and an enigmatic interpretation of time that gets in the way of nothing-as the eternal playground allows all who visit to eschew any and all responsibility-well except that of evading the evil and single-handedly most evil pirate of all, Captain Hook. His foreboding presence showed that interminable youth came with a potential price, as children were willing to risk harm from a metallic appendage in exchange for the opportunity to avoid growing up, working, paying taxes, and having to decide what to make for dinner every night for the rest of their lives.
Growing up often presents the unavoidable dichotomy of wanting to advance through the normal stages of growth while obtaining all of the privileges contained therein, oftentimes counting down the years, months, and days until that magical age is reached whereupon the downside of youth is left behind, and a new life is gently set before eager eyes- this in direct opposition to looking at the maturation process with weary eyes as we see adults in our lives growing more old, frail, cranky, and weak until one day they finally cease to be.
Now that I find myself firmly rooted in middle age with a young daughter and a job that has me in a status of disseminator of knowledge to the future of the world, I realize that I am, without a doubt, not getting any younger. In fact, that gap between myself and the students who populate my classroom each year is only growing wider, a schism that cannot be crossed by attempts to try to relate to the trends that my students find to be relevant. With every class of students, it will only get worse- as the age of high schoolers will remain constant, as mine ascends like a helium balloon that one of them has let go of. I’ll continue to soar upwards- occasionally drifting aimlessly to and fro until eventually- “POP”!
Until that moment, however- I shall continue to have many years in which I can soar magically towards old age, that moment when I may find myself reposed in a chair telling whimsical tales of fancy that took place over the past several decades. Depending on location, I could either be surrounded by fellow octogenarians, or maybe my grandchildren, nieces, nephews and random school children who wandered away from a school field trip on which they bond with old people for a few hours are gathered around to hear my voice. I’m telling a random story about something that happened back in the 1990’s until eventually my mind trails away into obscurity as the events I’m trying to relay to my listeners have now evaporated into an amorphous cloud. I simply wave my hand while saying,
“Bah! Never mind.”
I’ve become fascinated by how the human mind works, especially with our ability to remember random things from decades ago- but ask what we had for lunch yesterday, and some mental gymnastics have to take place before we have a vague idea of what was consumed barely twenty-four hours prior. I have always known that the human brain’s peak is in one’s early twenties, as the mind is truly working, functioning, and producing tangible results to the best of its ability. It gave me comfort then to think that the curve would flatten at that point with the brain working as a cognitive powerhouse for decades to come until the increase in white and grey hairs coincided with a decrease in brain cells capable of handling complex tasks and problem solving.
Realizing that a nugget of knowledge that was not in my possession was a precise age range at which a mental declension becomes noticeable to others, but possibly not by the individual whose brain power is sneaking off before evaporating into the air. Upon the completion of some simple research, an article posted last year in the journal Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America (PNAS) reveals that scientists at Stony Brook University determined that our cognitive degeneration begins at the age of forty-four, and like a snowball rolling down a hill, picks up speed until the age of sixty-seven where peak acceleration is obtained. By the age of ninety, it starts to level off. I can only imagine that-
Wait. Did they say forty-four? Let me go back and look again. Yup. Forty-four. I’ve got some time before…wait. Hang on just a minute. It just so happens that in less than two months, I’ll be settling into a seat, placing the safety bar over my lap, and keeping all hands and arms inside the vehicle as the hill is crested and screams abound as the downhill journey begins, with the track extending out of sight and cognitive ability being stripped away by the breeze that only picks up in intensity as we hurtle downward into a bank of fog that slowly begins to seep into the mind.
During the time I attended secondary school, I often chided my hometown for being small and boring. There wasn’t much to do in town, and compared to nearby schools, we were quite small. I have told my current students that my entire high school would have been smaller than their freshman class. They often look at me confused, wondering how a small-town country bumpkin could have somehow emerged from the cow fields, made a hero’s journey to a large city to become a successful teacher. While I’ll often chuckle at the small nature of my town, I’ll remind them that it comes with one pretty awesome advantage.
Were I to dig out my high school yearbook today to find that somehow, the letters had mysteriously fallen off the pages due to some sort of odd ink defect, I could probably name just about everyone in my graduating class of somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred fifty. There might be a name or two that would slip my mind, but I prophesize that the number of forgotten monikers will only grow as I get older. Those former classmates of mine would wander off somewhere, possibly huddling together, or eventually drifting apart as they also begin to forget each other.
The older I get, the more I find myself writing things down, or putting something somewhere to remind me to get something done. I think back to the lists that would lie upon the counter next to the stove, created for each day by my mother in her attempt to make sure that nothing important was forgotten. There would be a few days on the page with each task in a little box beneath the appropriate date. Some tasks were repetitive while others were new to the list, but no matter what, they remained visible and legible until completion, at which point they would be crossed out. Mom was also quite clever, as she knew that my curious eyes would sometimes scan the list- so if there were an outstanding task that was not meant for my knowledge, she would dig into her toolbox still carried from her secretarial career to list them in shorthand. I’ve never learned to decode those hieroglyphics, so…well played, Mom. Well played. ‘
This was in addition to all of the events that were written on the Sierra Club wall calendar, many of which were transferred from there to the paper lists on the counter. There were events and things to do everywhere in the kitchen, but nothing was forgotten. The idea of writing things down kept things streamlined while my mother was distracted by life, parental responsibilities, and of course the annoyance of my twin sisters and I with whatever issues, big or small, we placed in her way.
The process is much easier today than it was during my list-filled days of my childhood nearly forty years prior. Smartphones and watches allow us to set reminders and receive notifications, or even vibrations upon the wrist when something must be done. One of the cool shortcuts that I have learned is to set location-based reminders so that I remember to do certain things every day when I arrive at school. With the increased responsibilities that accompany aging, it is much easier to have reminders automatically present themselves, rather than have a bajillion sticky notes, lists, or other physical reminders scattered about, making my desk look like Broadway in New York City after a ticker tape parade.
I shall do my best to make the most of the last few weeks I have as I look around and take in the world from the peak of the roller coaster before I begin the descent into ascent-mindedness. Almost as if divine intervention interceded to give me additional material this morning- about two hours after arriving at school, I questioned whether or not I had remembered to put my lunch in the faculty workroom fridge. I went back and checked, simply to realize that it was safely there- it was just the remembrance of action of doing so had slipped my mind. I then spoke with someone about whether we were on a regular schedule today and then proceeded to head up to my room about twenty minutes early (utilizing the wrong end of the block). My mind, busy allocating resources to one place, left the other spots running on fumes- causing me to forget simple things that should have easily been remembered.
Were the bedroom window to suddenly open (and it would have to take place at home, as my classroom windows don’t do that fancy-shmancy opening thing), and Peter Pan himself invited me to fly to Neverland, I would likely decline the invitation but do so kindly. At this point, I’ve become comfortable with the aging process, and that my mind will slowly but surely undergo changes, looking less like a safe and more like a wilting slice of Swiss cheese. However, I’m holding on to memories now as best I can. Some things will inevitably slip through, including the occasional name of a former student. I wish I could tell each and every one of them that if they ever greet me by name, and I simply nod and smile with a generic salutation, it’s not that I don’t like you. I certainly remember you, it’s just that your name has wandered away, joining those of my forgotten classmates’ identities- wherever they have gone off to.