The Shredder

It's interesting how a simple task like shredding paper can bring a tumult of emotions and memories. I remember one point in my life where my mom and I sat on the living room floor, pulling out strands of tape from the cassette tapes that had recorded memories that I did not have: memories that were not very pleasant. They were the voices of me and my dad at the age where I was still in diapers. He wanted to change me, and I refused. He wanted me to go get a diaper, and I refused still. He yelled at me. He was angry at me. While I don't have this memory, but only what I heard on the tape, it raises questions. Why was it recorded in the first place and why was it being destroyed? And why did I play a part in the destruction?

The next memory that shredding paper at work brought back was the time my mom bought a shredder. I was older then, and the memories were long gone. But, shredding brings back memories for me. I remember that we were, again, sitting on the living room floor. My mom had pulled out a ton of paper records that had been filed away in a locked filing cabinet in our apartment. Why they were there, I don't know. And why they were destroyed, I wish I knew. They were papers of the past: papers recording the things that happened to me. They were papers telling of the aweful events of my three year old life. And again, I was taking part in their destruction.

She didn't mean for me to see it, but I did. It was a paper that, obviously a small child had colored on. The picture: an outline of a person. The color of choice used: black. Of course, the color was not contained in the lines, but strategically and angrily scribbled on one part of the figure's body: a place where no child should have to color.

When I saw it, I, of course did not remember it, but knew I had done it: for who else could have? My question now is not what was it about, but why was it all destroyed? It was my past. It could tell me what happened. It could tell me what I have always wanted to know. It would have taken time before I could look at it, but it was supposed to be mine. I should have had them. I could have had the truth. I could have had solid evidence, not just what someone has said to me.

Why did she have to shred them?