By: Andrés Manuel Cintrón-Scala
I have a habit of collecting tokens. Not those that are circular and stamped with an icon and proof of having visited some place – albeit I do collect some from time to time – but instead any small trinket that I easily found room for on shelves, inside drawers, on top of dressers, and desks. Upon entering a space of my own, one will find seemingly a room filled with clutter. However, each item arrived at its current place of rest from somewhere else. As such, each small figure, toy, fold of paper, bottlecap, or dead device holds within it a memory.
In my conscious life, I have thus far created six spaces of my own, consisting of college dormitories and new rooms from family moves, all of which have produced a refinement of what I have collected. I find that I seldom take away what I have placed down about my space and always require some kind of moving to take away from what is displayed. I wonder if those who have moved spaces more often than I, or those who prefer the look of a clean space, hold far less clutter and thus have spaces that are much more refined than mine. Perhaps some find it easy to keep their things. Nonetheless, it is in this refinement that we choose what we wish to remember.
I often find that, when I gain ownership of a new space, I prefer not to bring all I own out at once and instead choose to take out what I wish to see as the interest arises. There is a pleasantness to this, since, as the space begins to slowly fill with my trophied tokens, both new and old, every glance about my room evokes something I attribute to myself and speaks to who I am. There is undoubtable transparency in this mode of decoration. An inspection of my space will reveal all that which I admire and value.
One can find the chronological acquisition of my tokens by observing the layer of dust collected on its surface, exposing a narrative of my life. The oldest, and most dust-filled, are often staples that I require to be shown. They are the catalyst artifacts that conjure the essence of I. Through them, memory communicates back to me and I am reminded of myself; where I have been, what I have done, and who is valued in my mind. They often speak more truth than what I am willing to write or say.
In the boxes that hold the rest of my clutter, one will find dated memories. Digging through these, I often find some memory of my past that casts a smile upon my face, and alas, a new heirloom has been found. The clutter that I am too lazy to remove is the stone, and the token is the mineral.
* * *
Not every token must house such greater, meaningful memories. Most tokens are supposed to, and meant to, bring about a sense of enjoyment. So, I am personally uninterested in tokens that conjure otherwise. For example, these prized tokens could be of favorite media characters, like my many Darth Vader and Pokémon figures. I look at them because they are cool or cute. Their sight plays scenes of them in action, and I am entertained.
Interestingly enough, I struggle to remember how I acquired most of these types of tokens. Perhaps I could guess the year they were obtained based on their tagging, but beyond that, their origins are lost to me. I wonder if, while within my grasp, wishing for their full memories to become exposed would cause me to curse the thing.
* * *
The thought of collecting toothbrushes, I felt, should not be very common, let alone sanitary. However, there is one woman by the name of Maryly Snow who has made a mark by having the largest collection of toothbrushes from all over the world. Snow has collected over 2,500 toothbrushes that began as a joke for an art project. However, later, she discovered that she found them “endlessly interesting,” and began accepting all toothbrushes sent her way. She has a website with pictures of her diverse collection, mainly highlighting how they are organized, though the website does share that she has many that play music, change color, and dispense their own paste.
One of my earliest memories is the memory of how hard my father would brush my teeth. To allow my head to be subjected to a firm grip while stiff hairs grind at my gums and the head of the brush jabbed at my cheeks was something I loathed as a part of my daily routine, but I knew it had to be done. Eventually, I took to brushing my own teeth to avoid this sanding of the mouth. Some may think that never having experienced cavities is lucky, or that I have good genes. While certainly those things could be true, I like to think I simply took to the habit early.
* * *
We undoubtedly have received many things throughout our lives; within those many things, there are those we have come to cherish. However, items, received as gifts, can have an expiration date attached to them. The easiest example of this is to recall a time when you received something you were not very fond of, such as a pair of fluffy red and white checkered socks that release their tufts of fuzz like the tangling seeds of weeds. Out of kindness, one may keep these gifts around while the company of their givers still continue to mingle, but the items will soon see themselves off to other places after at least one more reconsideration. And once those items are out of sight, so too will the memories of the occasions they came from to be lost. Minds may strain to recollect these memories, but the items served no purpose and were then discarded, resulting in an experience that holds no value of recollection. And so we find here that memory can attach itself to items, and consequently, we choose what we wish to forget when we throw them away.
* * *
So then, what are the memories and ideas held within the items around my room and how are they influencing the person I am becoming? In other words, what memories does my space contain? There are four areas of note: My desk, walls, shelves, and dresser. I find that my desk serves as testing grounds for what will remain, as this is where I will place newly acquired tokens to see if I value them the same after the novelty subsides. Currently, I have a collection of small figures and toys from my study abroad in Japan sitting on an elevated platform to the left of my monitor. From amongst these, I already feel the attraction of culling at least a few – considering now that it has been close to a year since my traveling – and saving the area for only those of most interest, leaving the others to migrate to new places. Studying abroad in Japan was a momentous milestone in my life, so it is no wonder that these figures have been untouched for so long. To disturb their rest means to disturb their memory, and I am uncertain of where that could lead.
* * *
If my desk is to be the arena, then my shelves and dresser are the podiums of champions. On those surfaces, I place prized possessions; or the heirlooms, tokens, I wish to pass on. One of the oldest tokens on my shelves is a framed “Golden Heart” award from 2012 which I received from a local community group. The award was given for my relationship with my brother, Adrian, who has cerebral palsy. I’ve always made sure to have it on display so that I am reminded to keep a golden heart. I remember that when I was awarded the framed piece of paper, I didn’t understand why my name had been called and my parents were pushing me to the stage, and I didn’t fully understand what the award was for after I received it. In hindsight, the item appears more like a participation award for simply loving my brother. Though now the award, more of a certificate in look and feel, has accrued more value as it continues to serve as a reminder.
Adrian was born three years after me and, as one might expect, it was not straightforward. Adrian developed alongside his twin brother, Alejandro, who would die shortly after being born. After a C-section, Adrian would be placed in NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) for the remainder of his developmental period. The death of a child and the tumultuous delivery of my brother put a strain on my parents that I must have noticed at the time, because the rest of my life would involve me trying to be the lightest burden on their backs. The doctors told my parents that Adrian would not be able to talk or have much control over his motor functions. While the latter is true, as he is unable to walk, Adrian has grown to be the most talkative, celebratory, and charming person I’ve ever known.
* * *
On my dresser sits an empty bottle of Peroni, an Italian Pale Lager. In my opinion, it’s not a good beer. However, the bottle is from a shared moment with my father: of us sitting on the back porch, enjoying each other’s company and a beer. While not a top pick for my father either, he told me that it used to be my grandfather’s favorite brand. My grandfather was the stoic father of my mother. Iconic, for his demeanor, amongst the rest of my temporarily woven family. And so we drank in memory of him.
* * *
In recent years, it has been a priority to not take my friendships for granted, and so I have begun collecting their various vulgar and comedic gifts. I find that when placing these on my walls or about my space, I get a greater sense of appreciation or connection with my friends and imagine what they would quietly think when they find that I have kept their throw-away gag. I wish I had more tokens to associate with them, though the acquisition of tokens is a natural process that can not be forced. The tokens I receive from friends, or associate with experiences with friends, carry a value mainly supported by my sentiments. They can be ruined if not kept in the state that I received them in, or if some later revelation or confession spoils the memory.
* * *
A token I could see myself gradually attaining more of are maps. Currently, there are three maps on my walls and they are amongst my most thought-provoking tokens. I imagine my interest in maps derives from their natural affinity to inspire exploration. Cartographers, in days recently passed, would sail along the coasts of continents, hike mountains, and trace the edges of woods; what they transcribed was a calculated report of their exploration. Though, two of the maps, the Appalachian Trail and the neighborhood I was raised in, have been produced with the assistance of satellites, Geographical Information Systems (GIS), and Global Positioning Systems (GPS); somehow less impressive in my mind. The third, then, is a fictional map of the Province of Skyrim, which comes from a game that places you in as a hero destined to slay an evil dragon. That land is one that I have walked across for thousands of hours and have explored every nook and cranny of, to the point where revisiting their locations becomes akin to revisiting the towns of my past. I find hand-produced maps to be the most intriguing, as they are an artistic representation of a person’s perception. Due to the lack of advanced technologies, hand-crafted maps seemingly take many creative liberties that hinder their accuracy. I would imagine most who had the experience of following one of these maps would find that, if they were the cartographer, they would have made different choices. As such, I find these kinds of maps to be more entertaining.
The map of my old neighborhood is one that I seldom study, though I can imagine myself standing at each point. Such was the magnitude of my exploration. The map, a cropping of Google Maps printed on brown paper, torn and burned at its edges with overlays of a phantom skull, compass, and sail ship, was made by my father for my scavenger hunt birthday party. My friends and I, at the time, were the rangers of that domain, and thus we saw this birthday’s theme as the ultimate test of our knowledge and geographical familiarity to our small country. Such were the times before we fully understood our mortality and the rails of life that were being set in place. We perceived no future, for we would be the forever kings of our realm. So when this twelfth birthday party doubly served as a farewell (because my family was moving to a single-story house for my brother), I thought I would be back to reclaim my throne. Even as I haven’t been there for a decade, I still have dreams of walking along the street perpendicular to the one where my house sat; the bridge where all my adventures began.
The map of the Appalachian Trail is then my final and most recent map. Again, not a very charming thing to notice, as I find the clash of soft green and blue to be quite bland and soul-sucking, like the anatomical diagrams and medical advertisements in a doctor’s pale office. However, it retains its value and place on my wall as a reminder of a pipedream to one day travel along its entirety. Like the Ring-bearer, traveling from The Shire to Mordor, I too will undergo a pilgrimage that will test my strength and will. However, to me, it would be more like traveling from Mordor to The Shire. Undoubtedly, I believe that I should return with a token or two, signifying the completion of the task. Perhaps I should bring a ring of my own.
I must note, however, that I currently do not possess anywhere near the recommended physique nor the economic, material, or knowledge requirements to provide the necessary confidence to undergo such a trial. Standing at a frame of 5’4” with a weight that barely touches 100 lbs, even after a streak of feasting, my limbs would likely snap at the first fall. However, this doesn’t dissuade me.
* * *
The hike along the natural Colonial border would likely not occur until the passing of my old dog. A dog who, after recalculation, my family realized would be turning seventeen years of age instead of the assumed sixteen. This would only serve to exemplify his vigor – as he is often still mistaken for a puppy – but deepen a foreboding of his impending end. As the minor quirks of his age continue to amass in frequency, I fear that any day could lay down the final straw that would have me pressed to make one of the most complex decisions of my life.
For the past several years, I have often thought about what token I should gain from this event. His harness is too worn and awkward to display, and I never liked the clinking of the tag hitting against the metal loop. Continuing to leave up the hooks with the word “DOG” cut out of the back connecting plaque where I hang his harness, leash, poop bags, and my umbrella would only serve to show that I have yet to move on from his passing – unless I were to reuse it for the next best friend to come along. A lock of his curly hair could suffice: I would place it in a small plastic bag like my parents had done with my first cut of hair. At least then I could be reminded of his heart-rate-reducing stench. Or perhaps I simply take the scratched pin of my high school club from his harness and place it somewhere I will always see. Or even carry it with me. Perhaps I’ll do all of these things.
I would like a large portrait of him standing tall on a stone, as if he were some Renaissance noble, casting harsh but fair judgment.
* * *
My parents have certainly kept things that had once been used or given by me, though now they are split, perhaps unevenly, between them. I know that my mother has the stuffed animals, clothes, and yearbook of my early life, but they are stones in boxes. My father, then, has gifts recently given to him and a small deer figure holding a charm – from when we visited Nara Park together in Japan – on his desk at home. I know there are some more gifts on display at his desk at work, one of which I believe is a small glass figure of a hammerhead shark, his favorite shark. I know that, once, his desk displayed an Indiana Jones father’s day card with a recorded message (that has long since decayed) of single-digit-year-old me saying, “I love you daddy, you’re the best!” before playing the theme song. I believe I saw it last tucked away in a small black-wired basket. My mother picked out that card because my father’s nerd obsession at the time was Indiana Jones, and she helped me record the message. Perhaps because of this, it is hidden in a Limbo state, noticeable only when digging for office supplies in Adrian’s room.
My mother, then, collects pictures as her tokens. Her craft desk displays various family pictures, such as her deceased aunt, her brother and his wife, and me as a baby in her father’s arms. I know now that she is quite lonely and misses her family in Puerto Rico, whom she only gets to see perhaps once or twice a year, but such is the fate she prescribed for herself while in that anger she unleashed on us.
* * *
I don’t have many tokens that shine images of my parents. The outliers are these small Watchover Voodoo dolls, which sit inside these stained-glass shot glasses I acquired from someone old in my family. The oldest doll is a knight that my mother and I purchased at the beginning of a tradition that would only come to last a streak of two or three years. When my mother would leave early in the morning to take my brother to a summer camp, she would promptly come back to pick me up, where we would drive around on “dates” to stop for drinks at Starbucks and visit stores to find something fun to buy. Amongst the dolls bought were resupply packs of colored rubber bands for making bracelets, of which only one unopened pack of dark blue ones sits at the bottom of a box.
* * *
Whenever my father enters my room to tell me something, he often makes a note of a token and points it out, unfamiliar as to how I obtained it. I would imagine that, if I were to ask him about any other item around my room, he would be able to name the source of only a small handful. Perhaps it is because of the secrecy I’ve led my life by, or my parents’ aversion to encroaching upon my privacy, that they have missed or forgotten the significance of these artifacts. If I were to disappear, upon my return, I would find that only the most iconic ones – Legos, Star Wars figures, guitars, and my most worn clothes – would have been kept. The rest would gradually turn to stone or be dropped off at a thrift store to be of service in another’s life. That is to say, I do not believe I would find many tokens that I would attribute to carry my essence. Only those that fit within the projected reality my parents associate with me.
* * *
My partner and I share this habit of collecting, and use it to mark the small but cherishable moments of our shared lives. It is easy to have one’s memory become dominated by the large swathing experiences that give life its general color. Yet somehow, the single image of her plucking the leaves from a tree settling in for its yearly slumber comes streaming out the crinkled pores of those very same leaves, now taped to my wall, and fills me with a type of calm that acts like a wash of warm water. Our tokens, enchanted by the memories formed together, begin to create an identity separate from our own that combines the aesthetics of our personalities. Through this practice, we learn what catches each other’s eyes and where our minds linger when idle. So much so, that upon entering her space, I become immersed in what she calls home, and I begin to revel in the fact that I have been allowed entry to such a sanctum.
While not very experienced in relationships as personal as this, I would say that learning about the tokens, new and old, of my partner is an excellent way to understand her more intimately, and holds a similar weight as learning about her favorite songs. She has many dead things in her space: Three ceramic ghosts named Chester, Charlie, and Phil, a life-sized skeleton hanging in her closet, a small skeleton only a foot in height, and a life-sized skull with one surviving taped-on googly eye who recently began a career in piracy. The tokens that play me in her mind are mixed into her collection of trinkets: A Polaroid, a sticky note with a hastily written “I love uuuu,” and my first poem to her. These are but fragments of what will one day be a trove of enchanted artifacts, a display of not only ourselves but also of the synergy of memories and virtues.
* * *
So as I continue to collect and refine, I will see which artifacts will stand the test of time and which new memories will influence the path I take in life as my mind manifests itself upon my space.
Andres Manuel Cintron-Scala is a student at Kennesaw State University where they Major in English and Minor in Professional Writing. When not writing, Andres likes to sketch, play guitar, practice mixology, and play tabletop RPGs with his friends.