A drawer of pebbles with names I no longer remember.
A folder of stickers I’m too afraid to use.
A handful of bow ties from my 5th grade individuality complex.
The list goes on. Although I’ve had to condense my collections over the years, they are evidence of the many phases I’ve weaved in and out of.
The first collections I remember are Breyer Horses and Star Wars action figures, objects accumulated by my dad and shared with me in an attempt to pass on his interests. Whether he succeeded or not, he ingrained in my head that objects have value. Going between my mom’s house and my dad’s house, I liked the idea that objects were both certain and constant. I developed attachments to objects to the point where 4th grade me cried on the playground after losing a shiny rock. Every object was a memory, a relationship, an experience –– and I was afraid of losing them.
My obscene amount of graphic t-shirts is a journey through every phase I’ve been through: the TV shows, the trips, the elementary school shirts that somehow still fit me. The hangers in my closet may as well be points on a timeline of my life, documents of my self-expression as I tried to define myself by my interests. I would go through phases of wearing the same shirt virtually every day: a Radiohead shirt from my first concert or an obnoxiously red shirt from a family vacation. These shirts marked memories and experiences that I never wanted to forget. In my eyes, they were the best way to keep the people and memories I cared about as close as possible. I struggled expressing myself with words, so I reflected myself onto the screen-printed cotton. Beyond t-shirts, I learned more about myself through playing guitar, making films, drawing, and more. The interests and skills I’ve accumulated throughout my life have helped me learn more about myself and connect with others.
Another documentation of my life is the binder of CDs that used to sit in the glove compartment of my dad’s car. A new album every week would fill 45 minute periods of conversation and sometimes uncomfortable silence. The time my dad and I spend in the car is the most one-on-one time we have, whether it be driving to school or to the record shop where we would browse the shelf of CDs. The CDs we accumulated were not only my first introduction to some of my favorite songs, but were also a way I connected with my dad. Through this, our car conversations stretched from questions of “how was your week?” to topics of shared interest like music or movies. Since I only see my dad on Thursdays and every other weekend, there’s a lot of time we miss out on. I wouldn’t say I know my dad any less because of it––I just know him differently. The time we spend apart allows me to see how he’s grown over the years and, through him, I see myself grow. I’ve grown to appreciate the time I spend with him, even the uncomfortable silences. Even if we’re not talking, looking out the window at familiar roads and listening to music we’ve shared makes me feel closer to my dad.
Through my collections, I’ve learned to value memories and relationships–– even though they don’t last forever. My accumulated interests and memories form the collection that is me, and I can always go back and look through these objects to see evidence of how I’ve grown. Objects will always mean a lot to me, but I no longer need them to remember what’s important. My hope for the future is to expand my collection of skills as I continue to grow and discover who I want to be. Just like finding value in mundane objects, I’ll make the most out of any experience.