More From "I Forgot"

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I was once at an Ohio Arts Council meeting in Columbus, Ohio in support of a local organization’s grant application. The moderator of the meeting asked that everyone in the audience take turns standing up and introducing themselves. I stood up and promptly forgot my name.

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I have often forgotten that others don’t necessarily share my confusions—about sex, poetry, and the art of living. Other people are apparently confused about other things—or, I guess, confused about nothing at all.

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One morning, halfway to work, the unbidden question: Had I closed the garage door? Turned around, headed back home. Passed my house. Forgot to see if I’d closed the garage door. Had to go back again.

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From 3rd through 5th grade, I attended a Special School. It was an urban institution that had a dual function. It was a neighborhood school in a majority black neighborhood. It also had programs for kids with disabilities. I fell into the latter camp. But I hung out, of course, with the black kids and picked up on their language. Sometimes I forgot to leave their lingo at school. In those days, the early sixties, it was apparently a novelty for a caucasian 3rd grader to, exasperated, say “muthafucka” in the presence of his Mom.

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I sometimes forgot that I was a problem child, but my parents were happy to remind me.

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I once, as a child, forgot to brush my teeth before going to the dentist. When he examined my mouth, he asked if I’d eaten cake before coming to see him. I thought he was a genius. How did he know that?

When I told my mother about this exchange, she explained (in no uncertain terms).

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I often have forgotten how embarrassing it can be to be around me.

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