The Whole Truth and Nothing Like the Truth (So, Help Me, God!)

"The difference between false memories and true ones is the same as for jewels:  it is always the false ones that look the most real, the most brilliant."  ~Salvador Dali

New York City is in the throes of Winter's final days.  And, as Winter lies thrashing upon the table, churning up snow and sleet in its final battle against the warmth of Spring, it has also agitated the sediment of our lives that settled during our long hibernation.  In an attempt to get through the darkest days of the year, both literally and figuratively, it seems that we might have let questions go unanswered and doubts go unexplored.  It is the only explanation I can think of for the sudden emotional upheaval so many of my friends (myself included) have been experiencing in the last couple of weeks -- like our psyches are vomiting the rotten ends of winter doldrums so that they might feast on Spring.


In the course of this "Spring cleaning" of sorts, we've all gone a few rounds with sorting back over the events of the last few months, trying to make sense of the fragments of moments that we remember.  And, as we sit around trying to sort out who said what (and how) and where we are now, the problem that I see occurring is one that I recognize well: the speciousness of human memory.  In fact, the (un)reliability of eyewitness memory recall is the bane of every trial lawyer's existence at one time or another.  Extensive studies have been conducted (like the one summarized here) showing the tendency of eyewitnesses to a crime (empirically, one of the most heavily relied upon sources of truth) to distort their own perceptions and memories of events based on internally- and externally-introduced biases, otherwise known as "confirmation bias." (For a less-legal-y discourse on confirmation bias, check out the article link to the right --->)

Basically, the study shows that, once the witness assumes an ending, his memory and his interpretation of remembered facts is colored by that narrative.  If he identifies a person as the perpetrator, all of his memories will be interpreted in such a way as to support that conclusion, even if the original identification was wrong.  On top of that, the memory may already have been compromised by pre-exiting assumptions about the course of events.  For instance, if a witness to an altercation between a Latino teen and an old white man has a pre-existing bias against young Latinos that they tend to be criminals, then that witness's memory of the altercation is colored by that assumption even as the memory is formed.  As the witness takes information in, he sorts it into those bits that support his bias and those that do not.  Guess which ones he actually retains?  Those that don't confirm his assumptions about Latino youths are either modified to fit or discarded entirely. 


Eventually, in making a positive identification for the police, his assumption will shift from "Latinos are criminals," to "that Latino is a criminal."  And, upon every re-telling -- to the prosecutor, to the judge, to the jury, to the defense attorney, to friends and family, to the media -- the story will be subtly altered to fit the expectation of the audience and to bolster the credibility of the witness himself, so that each reiteration adds yet another layer of distortion.  Worse yet, we actually believe that what we are saying is true.

It gives me goosebumps to think about how heavily juries rely upon "credible" witness testimony in convicting defendants.  In fact, I think it unsettles the justice system itself -- hence the secrecy surrounding jury deliberations.  A decision concerning guilt or innocence must be made, but if it is to be based on dubious human memory no one really wants to know.  In our personal lives however, we don't have the luxury of closing the doors on a jury and accepting our fate.  We are our own judge and jury; we play both witness and deliberator.  And, for better or worse, we are privy to every judgment we make about what happened and what it meant.


Like eyewitnesses to a crime, we often have our own personal narratives and assumptions about ourselves and others, which can lead us each to cling to certain facts and ignore others -- to interpret events in a certain way.  For instance, if my personal narrative is that men are interested in me intensely at first but fizzle out before anything real can materialize, then I will expect that pattern to recur and look for signals that support my narrative.  No matter what the truth is, I color every interaction with the assumption that admiration is only temporary and that disinterest is inevitable.  In my recounting of events to friends or family, I will tell the tale on a slant, maybe even leaving out facts, with the assumed end in mind, so that they can give me the advice I need to hear in order to justify my narrative.  And, looking back over a course of events, I will even remember them in such a way that I end up saying, "Ah, yes, of course I should have known.  See there?  That's where it shifted.  (Sigh.) This happens every time."   

Given this phenomenon, it is easy to see how we can get drawn into cycles and patterns of behavior.  Approaching each new relationship as though it will meet the same end as the ones before it may very well guarantee it does.  If we assume that men have commitment issues, then we will see every action as an indication of impending flight.  If we assume that we ourselves have commitment issues, then we will introduce doubt into every genuinely connected interaction.  And, if something happens that we are unable to reconcile with our personal narrative and its attendant assumptions, it can throw us into utter turmoil.  Case in point:  Back in 2007, as my wedding approached, I received all kind of signs that something was amiss in the relationship, but my assumption that I would fall in love and build the ideal suburban dream was so strong that to deal with the panic that ensued, I convinced myself that I just had cold feet -- I fit even these things (so incongruous with marital bliss) into my narrative to spare myself the agony of departing from it.  Now that I know the true ending (i.e. we were incompatible, hence the divorce), I can look back over the facts and re-interpret them to fit a different version of the truth.  The truth is, however, that there is no truth in memory but the one we construct.

The solution to the issue of personal narratives, I guess, is to be more open to alternate endings.  To identify our assumptions about ourselves and others and re-invent our interpretations in contradiction of them.  Of course, we stand to feel foolish should the story unfold as we originally expected despite our machinations against it.  But, I have a feeling that the very exercise of cross-examining of our unconscious biases will yield enough truth to make a difference. 


In the courtroom, where truth is measured in shades of gray, defense attorneys pounce on any scrap of favorable testimony made by a prosecutorial witness.  The premise is that a witness for the prosecution is relating the facts (probably unconsciously) on a pro-prosecution slant, assuming guilt, playing to his primary audience -- the prosecutor.  Therefore, anything that that witness might say that tends to exonerate the accused carries more weight than anything he said that tends to incriminate, if only because it is said against bias, despite an assumed ending, and in contraction of the established narrative.  These things conspire to make it more true than the competing truths.  In the same vein, while re-interpreting our feelings and the actions of others against the grain of our assumptions may throw into question the truths we thought we knew, we can also be doubly sure of any truth that remains the same despite the reversal of the narrative.


Life is a big unwieldy and unavoidable mess.  The thing about personal narratives is that, even though they may be painful or frustrating or unfulfilling, they are familiar and comfortable.  They give us a sense of control over the course of our lives.  Letting go of them can be a struggle, and we will probably need to forgive ourselves for the push and pull of grappling with the gravity of our ingrained assumptions.  But, little by little, we may actually be able to re-color our bits of perception and memory, build a new concept of the truth, and, in so doing, re-write our entire story.


_________________________________________________
As Spring shakes the last bits of snow off its shoes, so does the rest of New York City.  Time to re-enter the world and remember what we love about this place.  No matter who you are or what your version of the truth may be, the following testimony would hold up in any court:

Risotteria
Bleeker St. between Cornelia and Morton
Risotteria's claim to fame is that it is one of only a handful of totally gluten-free Italian places in the city.  But don't read into that too much.  If I hadn't already heard the virtues of this place extolled ad nauseum by my gluten-free BFF, I'd never have known the difference.  Perhaps ironically, these were the BEST bread sticks I have ever had.  In my entire life.  Period.  No, not kidding.  Serious.  We had oven baked pizza and seafood risotto, which were both done exactly as they should be (which everyone knows is not always easy to do with risotto).  And, the gluten-free tiramisu may have been some of the best I have ever had, gluten or no.  It's small, squished, and hard to get in to (the don't take reservations).  But it is worth it.


Kashkaval

9th Ave between West 55th and west 56th Sts.
Found this place totally by accident on one of those long Sunday afternoon walks where you get so lost in Manhattan that you end up ducking in wherever you can for food because you realize you've been wandering for four hours and are nowhere near where you started.  This place is a market in front, restaurant in back.  On the menu are wines, cheeses, tapas, fondue, and middle eastern treats of all kinds.  But, to really sum it all up, this is a DIP place.  And, I am a DIP person.  What luck!  A stack of toasted pita and a plate full of strange and colorful dips paired with a basic but tasty glass of wine more than made up for the fact that we still had to walk back to the East Village afterwards.  It's cozy.  People were friendly.  And the Brussels sprouts were addictive.

Terroir
East 12th St. between East 12th St. and Ave. A
(This is the East Village location of Terroir -- there is also one in Tribeca, I think.)  Before Terroir, I thought mead was just something characters drank in fanciful, timeless tales like Harry Potter and Robin Hood.  But no!  Mead is real, and it's delicious.  Fermented honey water, highly alcoholic -- truly the stuff of legends.  JK and I had a great time at Terroir, not only because of the mead.  The wine list is more like a book -- a scrap book, really, with illustrations and sarcastic notes written in.  The book and the bartenders are a wealth of knowledge on all things wine.  On top of that, they're interesting and friendly and more than willing to share tastes of the best bottles for nothing more than a smile.  True to it's word, Terroir definitely is "The Elitist Wine Bar for EVERYBODY!"