I’m not a sentimental person

It was the middle of fall quarter, but Santa Barbara was convinced that it was summer. The sun’s rays broiled the tar beneath the sand, leading to soft, thick waves of carbon being washed up on campus, transported by the breeze. The weather was so perfect that it seemed people were looking for excuses to be outside, as if they’d ever need a reason. 

Both my roommates were gone after finding their excuse, leaving me a quiet opportunity to play the records I’d long neglected since moving into my dorm. They sat abandoned in a dusty milk crate under my desk, locked away for times when nobody else was around to hear them. I picked out a Childish Gambino record, wiping the dust off with the inside of my grandfather’s hand-me-down shirt. It has holes all over the chest and backsides, but I keep it because it fits me well and reminds me of him. I put the record on.

I was reminded about a story my uncle Nick used to tell me, about how he and his brother would rummage through my grandfather’s record collection, searching for those he’d miss the least. They’d throw them out of the window like frisbees, creating a grand welcome of disc-shaped stepping stones for when their father came home from work. This was never my favorite story. It felt like he was using their youth as an excuse to burn away my grandfather’s age. Those records could have been sitting in my milk crate, a storage unit or anywhere else where they could be kept safe from the weathering of time. 

I’m a sentimental person. I keep old clothes, read old books and rewatch the same old shows. I grew up spending lots of my time in my grandfather’s room, putting on his old motorcycle helmets and playing with his “Looney Tunes” figurines that he had kept for decades. Over time, I picked up on this habit, keeping any item that has any sort of sentimental value attached to it, whether it be old essays I’ve written or Pokémon cards that were freshly traded from an elementary school playground. Keeping items like this felt like a layer of protection. The memories could not fade if I had a physical reminder of them, an anchor to a time that I wanted to remember. Love is the day you can’t forget, and I could always feel it if I held my possessions close. 

But, this habit has a byproduct: the slow amassing of piles and piles of keepsakes that I no longer could take care of, or pay the respect that the sentiment in my heart thinks they deserve. It made me feel guilty — I kept all these things because I believed that their memories were important to me, but I failed to take care of their image. It made me question if I cared that much in the first place, like I was an imposter in upholding my own sentimental values. What does it say about me that I can’t take care of simple things that I value the most?

When I moved into my dorm freshman year, I knew that I could not bring everything with me. I wanted to use my new space as an opportunity to change course, to remove the nostalgic comforts that sit in my room at home collecting dust. The only things I decided to bring with me that year as decor were about a dozen books off my bookshelf, my records and my record player. 

The seasons changed, and the foggy breath of the springtime descended over Santa Barbara. I had made space for myself at this point in the year, a small collection of friends from my building and some from across the lagoon. I wanted them to know who I was and what I liked, and I felt the best way to do that was to go against my nature and give my items away. My desk became a library, and my closet a makeshift dressing room. I learned the satisfaction you could have in sharing a piece of a memory with someone else, even if they were never there to experience it. They might not know the full history of my grandfather’s leather jacket, but they carry it with them on their back during a night out. I learned these pieces of time can be shared, as long as I become comfortable in allowing it. 

When I moved out of my dorm that year, I carried less than I did before, with pieces of my life scattered outside of my reach. This time, though, it no longer felt like I was downsizing. My books may be collecting dust, but they were now on someone else’s shelf. There may come a time where I will miss having certain items and momentos, like comforts that can no longer be afforded to me. But, there is now a chance for someone new to turn the page, and allow a bottled memory to be opened, its contents evaporating into the air. Love is the day you can’t forget, but so too is allowing yourself to be seen by others, even if it’s in the most abstract ways. 

I’m not a sentimental person. At least, I try not to be. 

Dylan Hunter needs to do some summer cleaning