Why bother to remember?

How playful nostalgia yields multiple rewards

While writing an issue of When We Were Seven, I resurrected an unexpected memory. It is precisely why I do this but it is never planned. I rewatched the 1982 movie, E.T.(The Extra-Terrestrial) to write the When We Were Seven issue: Gertie age 7. As I wrote the piece, I realized that Gertie was probably short for Gertrude. I’d never given it much thought and then debated including the detail that was probably obvious to everyone but me.

And that’s when it happened—the kernel, the snap, the surprise of a childhood memory resurrected.

It was the name Gertrude. Then… wait, no… it was Gwendolyn.

I had always been adamant about my name. My three siblings had all been “nicknamed,” shortened and adding the letter Y to the end. According to my family, as soon as I could talk, if someone called me Jenny I immediately protested. Jennifer became the default. I don’t directly remember anyone calling me Jenny. 

But one of my parent’s friends—a grown ass adult man—used to inexplicably call me Gwendolyn. Every time he said it, I would yell back, “My name is Jennifer!” 

He'd grin really wide and all the adults around would laugh. The advice from my parents regarding any teasing (never called bullying) had always been just ignore them and they’ll stop. They’re only doing it to get a rise out of you. But they were always referring to my siblings or other kids.

Even then, I just didn’t understand why the grown-ass-adult man kept teasing me, especially after I’d been so clear with my words, when it was so obvious that I was upset by it. 

This happened way before I was 7 years old. My first memory of yelling at him was in the front living room of the house we lived in when I was between 2 and 6 years old. There’s also a memory of a fuzzy pink coat, which I loved, given to me by a family friend, but I can’t be certain it was the same couple. Still, how all the more difficult for a child if the anger of a hurtful thing mixed with the sensory memory of a soft, happy thing.

Later, around age twelve, my parents and brother and I were on a road trip vacation. They said we’d be driving near an old friend’s house and would stop to visit. 

“You remember the so-and-sos?” — I didn’t recognize the name.

Then Mom added, “You know, the one who used to call you Gwendolyn?” 

The moment we walked into their house, my posture and attitude retreated inward, easily dismissed as being a moody adolescent. Though, in all honestly, for all I can be certain, I might have put on the happy face—I was very good at acting a part to avoid confrontations. And so I probably laughed along with the adults as they waxed nostalgic about the days of Gwendolyn.

What does it matter to remember a small thing I’d temporarily forgotten?

Or as my dad used to put it, “Why dredge up the past?”

This particular memory retrieval resulted in a branch of opportunities.

As a grown-ass adult woman, I can gift my younger self validation: You were right. The adults were wrong. Such affirmations sand down another thin layer of self-doubt, of second guessing my instincts, and I feel lighter.

Through my lived experiences as an imperfect adult, I can also choose to permanently hold an adult in contempt or to temper my judgement under the more generous assumption that their behavior wasn’t out of malice but ignorance. (The jury is still out on this one.)

It also opens up opportunities for dialogue about using people’s preferred names, pronouns, and taking the time to learn to pronounce all names properly. Tapping into my old fury of being misnamed only strengthens my resolve to advocate for those who want a name that aligns with their gender and preferences.

This is why I love this project. A fun nostalgic trip with an “old” movie yielded all of this. It doesn’t happen every time. (Honestly, it would be exhausting if it did.) But when it does, the outcomes are satisfying. 

I hope that When We Were Seven might do the same for you. It’s not about the accuracy of a specific age. Seven-years-old is just a starting point, a rung on a ladder, to get you from the wide expanse of “childhood” to a more focused memory.

I’d love to hear from you in the comments.
What story can you tell about your name?

If you enjoyed this issue of When We Were Seven, please subscribe (button below—it’s free) and share it with others. It’s not only for those who want to write about their past; it’s for anyone who wants to (or needs to) appreciate new understandings of their memories. (Plus, fun with books, essays, movies, and music!)

*A fan of Pixar’s Inside Out? Me too! I was absolutely picturing a dusty memory ball popping up in the headquarters. * I now go by both Jen and Jennifer * Check out the List & Links page I set up for When We Were Seven * Other reasons to subscribe * Was I overly excited to post on 7/7? Yes, yes I was *