My mind doesn't work, my memories don't work like a computer

"My mind doesn't work, my memories don't work like a computer file where I can just retrieve them and, boy, there it is. My mind is selective in terms of memories. When I try to think back to college or high school, there are gaps. I try to fill them in. But I can't tell you it's always the truth." These words spoken by John F. Kennedy, echo the complex and nuanced nature of human memory and the fallibility of our recollections. Kennedy’s admission reveals a truth that resonates deeply with the ancient wisdom of those who understood the malleable nature of the human mind. It is not merely the recounting of events that makes up the truth, but the way in which we perceive and interpret them. Our memories are not static or infallible, nor do they exist like neatly filed documents in a vault of our mind. Instead, they are shaped by time, emotion, and the passage of life—ever-evolving and sometimes distorted, even by the very act of recalling them.

In ancient thought, the mind was often regarded as a vessel, and memory as a treasure trove of experiences and knowledge. Plato spoke of memory in his dialogues, acknowledging its fleeting nature and the ease with which the mind could be misled by false impressions. To Socrates, memory was a tool for learning, yet it was never an exact mirror of reality. It was something more fluid, influenced by our desires, our fears, and our experiences. Just as Kennedy reflects, memories are selective, and the truth of our past is often more elusive than we would like to admit. What we remember, how we remember it, and what we forget often says more about the present state of our mind than it does about the actual events themselves.

Consider the story of Homer, the ancient poet, whose epic tales of war and heroism—like the Iliad and Odyssey—are built on the memory of events that were passed down orally. These stories, told from generation to generation, were not exact retellings of specific moments, but rather interpretations shaped by the needs, emotions, and experiences of those recounting them. In the same way, Kennedy's reflection on his own memories reveals the tension between the events of the past and our understanding of those events. The way we recall history, whether personal or collective, is often colored by what we desire to remember or what we are able to recall, not necessarily by what objectively took place.

This selectiveness of memory is not a flaw in the mind, but rather, it is part of what makes us human. Think of Nelson Mandela, whose memory of his long years in prison was undoubtedly shaped by both the physical suffering he endured and the emotional growth he experienced. His memory of those years would differ from the account of someone who might have been with him in prison, or from a historian looking at those events from the outside. Each person’s memory of the same event is subjective, and often incomplete. Mandela’s reflections on his imprisonment would, as Kennedy suggested, have gaps—some of those gaps filled in by interpretation, others by the passage of time. The truth of his experience was not just the events that transpired, but how he processed and made sense of them.

The concept of selective memory is crucial in understanding both the individual and collective human experience. Truth is not always a simple, linear narrative of what happened, but an unfolding story shaped by our perceptions and recollections. Kennedy's statement reminds us that our memories are not objective recordings, but living, breathing accounts of the past that are subject to the whims of time, emotion, and circumstance. The truth of our experiences is not always the truth we recall. It is a deeper, more complex thing, one that often lies hidden beneath the layers of our personal interpretation and the passage of years.

The lesson to be learned here is that we must approach our memories with humility and understanding. To recognize that our recollections, though valuable, are not the final word on any event is to acknowledge the fragility of our minds and the imperfections of our personal histories. This does not diminish the importance of memory; rather, it calls for a deeper appreciation of the ways in which we weave our stories. Just as Plato taught that the search for truth involves questioning and refining our understanding of the world, so too must we question and refine our understanding of the past, acknowledging that what we remember is shaped by forces beyond our control.

In our own lives, we should practice mindfulness in how we reflect on the past. It is tempting to treat our memories as the absolute truth, but doing so blinds us to the complexities of our own experiences. We must be open to the idea that our recollections may not be the full picture, and that there are aspects of our lives that remain beyond our comprehension. Rather than clinging to a perfect version of the past, we should embrace the imperfections of our memories, knowing that they are part of the ever-unfolding story of who we are. Truth, like memory, is not static—it is an evolving process, and our understanding of it deepens as we move through life. Let us approach our memories not as fixed truths, but as a living testament to the experiences that have shaped us, and let us be open to the lessons that they continue to offer.