Today’s episode is guest hosted by Leslie Sainz.

Transcript

I’m Leslie Sainz, and this is The Slowdown.

Today is my thirty-second birthday, and I’ve vowed to add Ginkgo Biloba to the laundry list of supplements I take each day to improve my quality of life, or placebo-effect my way into believing the quality of my life has improved. I never had an impressive long-term memory to begin with, but some unfortunate combination of chronic stress, clinical depression, and dissociative amnesia seems to have eroded my ability to recall large swaths of memories formed after age seventeen.

This has proven rather debilitating in social situations. I’ve lost count of the number of times those close to me ask if I remember “the time we did X,” with X standing in for a formative memory they assume we share. Given their description of the event, I’m usually in agreement that I should remember it, even though I don’t. It can feel like a twisted version of Lucille Clifton’s iconic poem “why people be mad at me sometimes,” which reads, in its entirety:

they ask me to remember
but they want me to remember
their memories
and i keep on remembering
mine.

There is one strange caveat, however. Though I might have extreme difficulty remembering what I said or did on a particular evening, I always remember what I wore. And, for the most part, what everyone else wore.

I’ve given this some thought, and I want to blame the early to mid 2000s, the era of the “going-out top.” This special occasion number dominated our closets: tube tops, peplum tops, and halter tops decorated with rhinestones, sequins, or lace. The “going-out top” was meant to be the statement piece of your outfit and was often paired with your favorite pair of jeans and a questionable pair of wedges. For all its cringe and glory, the “going-out top” solved a problem and defined casual womenswear for several years.

Is it such a loss that my memory bank resembles an extravagant wardrobe? As fashion theorist Jesica Elise says, “clothes communicate an understanding of dominant society and one’s role within it.” So maybe they’re all I need to stitch together the past. I want to believe so.

Today’s poem transports us to a night out worth remembering, not for its intoxicating music or the surprise of a celebrity sighting, but because our response to disappointment can function as a measure of individual growth.

This is a poem by Khadijah Queen.

When I Was in My Early Thirties I Saw Elton John in a Nightclub in Atlanta Called Tongue and Groove

my sister  thought  he  was  an imposter  but  his  haircut  seemed  right  &  no one 
could   miss   those  rhinestone   or   maybe   diamond-framed  eyeglasses   &  lime 
green  paisley  suit   purple  satin  shirt   &   matching  necktie  except  maybe   the 
drunk  twentysomethings  dancing slash  stumbling  you could  smell the alcohol 
in the  humid  air  &  feel  the  spills  fuse  to your  shoe soles  &  I was unlucky I had 
just  gotten  dumped  &  some  fool  splashed  half  a  Long  Island  Iced  Tea  on my 
white sheath  dress  &  I  was  ready  to go  &  dancing  was  supposed to  make me 
feel better  but instead  marked the end  of seeing nightclubs  as fun  despite the 
wake of Elton John  whizzing by so close I could see the fabulous gap in his teeth

"When I Was in My Early Thirties I Saw Elton John in a Nightclub in Atlanta Called Tongue and Groove” by Khadijah Queen from I'M SO FINE: A LIST OF FAMOUS MEN & WHAT I HAD ON © 2017 Khadijah Queen. Published by YesYes Books. Used by permission of the poet.