I found some records today. Hoboken curbside posted on their Instagram regarding over 200 records sitting outside of an apartment building off of 5th street. I convinced some friends to go with me, and we grabbed probably just about half of them between the three of us. What surprised me was that these records weren’t primarily classic rock, or 80s pop music, but classical music. Bach, Chopin, Mozart, and dozens more renowned composers, simply sitting on the ground, in old dilapidated cardboard boxes, riddled with water damage and scratches. Many are covered in dirt and dust, while others are missing entire chunks of their covers, having been damaged simply by time. As I was sorting through these artists’ work, I found a memory. George Fredric Handel’s Messiah, completely untouched by any sort of damage, and still wrapped in the plastic it came in years ago. Immediately, I audibly gasped and was whisked away, back to a tiny house on the Kalaheo hillside.
I was about seven years old when my parents got me a CD player. I was playing in my room when they brought it in, along with a bunch of brand new CDs. The collection was composed of biographies of 15 U.S. Presidents, and George Fredric Handel’s Messiah. Night after night I listened to Messiah, holding every single note close to me. I was so in love with the music that I couldn’t help but feel like I was a part of it and that it was a part of me. Through my parent’s deployments, through elementary school crushes, and through just the growing pains of being a child, I knew that Handel would always be there to listen to when I closed my eyes. I listened to all the CDs for years—over and over and over—to the point where I had completely memorized every note of Messiah, and nearly every word of, specifically, Abraham Lincoln’s biography. But I lost all those CDs, and that CD player after two or three moves across the country.
I haven’t heard Messiah in years. I would always find myself humming or singing to this phantom music, and I never really stopped to think about where it came from, or what it was. And, sure, you may say that I could just look it up on Apple Music or Spotify and play it anytime I want, but I must admit, I had completely forgotten that Messiah even existed, or had any significance in my life, other than the random humming that would present itself. As a child, you gravitate towards things that have sentimental value, but as you grow, the distractions of life progressively occupy more and more of the space where your childhood memories are stored. Your brain is constantly trying to make sense of the world, and the vast amount of information it takes in. As a result, some memories may fade over time because they are not as important to your day-to-day life.
Eventually, the things you once cherished become nothing more than faded memories. Thus, you tend to forget some things that were once incredibly meaningful.
But, I have this record in my possession now. As soon as I get home, I know the very first thing I will do: I will lay on my bed, put the needle on the vinyl, and play the music that built my childhood.
Mind of a Freshman is an Opinion column written by one or two first-year Stevens students to discuss life experiences during their time at Stevens, and other related subject matter.
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