Fingerprints of Influence

Spending a significant amount of time at my parents place is a lot like regressing back in time. After three consecutive days in my old bedroom long forgotten memories of high school and my early childhood come creeping back in, some unwelcome but others treasured. It’s not surprising that this should happen since nothing significant has changed in my room since I left for University about 6 years ago. All the same pictures are still up including the painting Mr. Intellectual bought me for our second Christmas, which is hung above my bed, and the picture his father took of us before we left for his high school prom, which sits on my dresser. I thought about putting them away but just couldn’t bring myself to alter my childhood room, even if those pictures serve as a constant reminder of what isn’t in my life at the moment. The pictures that cause the most painful memories are tucked safely away in a drawer.

Seeing these things got me to thinking of him, the time we spent together and how much he has shaped and influenced the person that I am now. I feel like he has left invisible fingerprints all over me that I can’t always see, but are there. Places where he has pressed softly into my skin with a single finger, left an impression, and unalterably changed me. At times the recognition of one imprint of influence appears to me in a most surprising way like my desire to get a miniature schnauzer one day soon, while other fingerprints are intrinsically known to me, like my passion for history. It all began when he encouraged me to take that course in Modern Western Civilizations in my final year in high school despite my avowed dislike of all things to do with history. It would take me almost a year in University to figure out that I really wasn’t cut out for my degree in Psychology and that the siren song of a History degree was calling out to me instead. It’s a choice that I have no regrets making, and in the end it was one of the best things that he has brought into my life.

Mr. I also broadened my literary horizons by introducing me to books that I otherwise would never have given a chance. While I am an avid reader I’m also cautious about new authors, especially if it means purchasing the book since I’m much more careful with money than he is. He threw caution to the wind and bought new books with a sense of abandon that I envy, since I always want to make sure that each book I purchase will be a loved edition to my library. In the end it was I who benefited the most since he introduced me to books on political commentary, philosophy, humour, all time periods of history and obscure writers of the most amazing fiction I had ever read. I still appreciate when he recommends something new to me, although at one point in our relationship I resisted and ignored his choices since it was such a one sided tutelage that I grew to resent.

I realize now that when we met at 17 I was a sponge, hungry for knowledge and open to be influenced. So, I soaked up his musical tastes, favourite books, passion for movies, interests and just about anything he could teach me. He on the other was very much closed off to any influence I may have had on his life and at times openly resisted it. I look at the man he is today and wonder if there are any lasting imprints made by me in our six years together, or if like water off a ducks back I am just a passing memory. I remember the way he would mock my musical choices, deride the fiction I read and turn up his nose at any movie selection I made to the point where I started to shut down. I became more passive to avoid argument and deferred to his choices because it was just easier than standing up for my personal tastes. There were so many movies that I chose that he turned up his nose at but resignedly went to see with me, only to love them later often without telling me until much, much later. It was infuriating and hurtful and rankled with me because I didn’t understand why he was like this.

In the end I know that he is the one that missed out, and my life has been enriched by the new influences I found in him. However, that doesn’t stop me from feeling a profound sadness when I examine him now, only to see a blank slate where I expected to see lasting impressions of my influence over his life. When I look in his eyes I don’t see mirrored there a love of fine art, an interest in photography or the desire to collect antiques. Instead I see nothing of myself or what we shared together beyond the memories we hold in common and although I may be the person who knows him in the most complete sense because of our 8 years of close friendship, I still know so little about him and he seems to know almost nothing of me.