Autobiographical

Autobiographical is a big word that not many people know.

Eidetic isn't so big, but even fewer people know what it means.

Photographic is the least impressive of the three words, and we all know what it means.

But all three of these words have been used to describe my memory.

Even in kindergarten and before, I could remember lots of things. I could see an eleven-word spelling list once and not think twice about getting eight words right later in the day. I still think nothing of it.

But my peers do.

I've stood out ever since they realized that I could remember like that. I just accept it. It's never been any different. My siblings are all so much older than me, I was different from the start.

But as I've grown, I've wanted friends. School is not as much fun as it used to be. It's a place where I truly am an outcast, with writing that my teachers swear is college-level and math skills that have gotten me into algebra a year early. School is no longer the best place in the world--it's nothing nearly as good as it once was.

So I remember.

I remember my early childhood, my mom getting my brother the exact same gloves he already had for his birthday when I was three years old. I remember kindergarten, when I nearly skipped school over finger painting (I hated it.) I remember first grade, my mystery obsession, when I first read Cam Jansen and realized that other people were like me. (Of course, for a while, I thought everyone was like me....) I remember second grade, when I finally accepted that I was different. I remember third grade, when bullies and music were all I knew. I remember fourth grade, when I first learned that not all stories could take place in our world. I remember fifth grade, when I first opened Microsoft Word with the intent to write a novel (even if it was still childish). I remember sixth grade, when I started to deal with bullies again, and took refuge in my own mind. I remember seventh grade, standing up for myself after watching Temple Grandin in health class, realizing that in no way was I really all that different.

I remember.

I remember five verses of Samuel Butler's translation of the Iliad, completed in 1901. I remember all three verses of O Captain! my Captain! which I first learned for Social Studies. I remember the first three verses of The Raven, by Edgar Allen Poe, and how my English teacher couldn't recite even the first without stumbling through. I remember a large portion of The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, which I started reciting on a fifth grade field trip to Boston, much to our guide's surprise. I remember 84 digits of pi after the decimal point, resulting from an unfinished competition with a fellow nerd in school. I remember the first four lines on page 347 of The Complete Sherlock Holmes (long story, but it's in Silver Blaze, the most inaccurate story Doyle ever wrote.)

I remember.

And I am proud of that fact.