A Century’s Shared Memories

I do not fancy myself the sentimental type. I’m not one to cry over maudlin movies or hokey songs on the radio.

Yet, I cannot listen to this year’s version of “Auld Lang Syne” by pop musician Kenny G without being moved to tears.

It is not the music that does it; not the soulful saxophone riffs or the familiar melody.

It is the cavalcade of history that makes up this so-called “Millennium Mix”; the kaleidoscope of voices from the past hundred years that reminds me of all that our nation hoped for and tried to be as we stumbled through this century.

To hear Martin Luther King Jr. declare his dream of equality, while George Wallace promises “Segregation today, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever,” and Malcolm X warns that the white man is still our enemy.

To hear Ted Kennedy’s voice break as he bids farewell to the second of his murdered brothers. And Ronald Reagan eulogize the Challenger dead, on the day they “slipped the surly bonds of Earth, to touch the face of God.”

The song recalls our triumphs and our tragedies; the pain we have inflicted and the pain we have endured: the bombings of Pearl Harbor and Hiroshima. The young lives lost in Vietnam, Kent State, Columbine.

It features declarations of war and proclamations of peace. Touchstones of pop culture--the Three Stooges, Marilyn Monroe, “Sesame Street,” Elvis Presley. Reminders of sportsmen such as Jackie Robinson, Mark McGuire and Muhammad Ali.

It is a moving and emotional journey; its landmarks spanning the generations and ranging from the tawdry to the profound.

There is FDR’s clarion call from my father’s era: “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”

And my generation’s call-to-arms, voiced by John F. Kennedy: “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.”

And our children’s pitiable legacy, in this trademark line from our current leader: “I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky.”

There are phrases so familiar, so much a part of the American lexicon, they need no context or explanation:

“Are you a member of the Communist Party?”

“One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

“I am not a crook.”

“You’ve got mail!”

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It is a tapestry that, through aural memory, reveals our sense of humor and reflects our eccentricities.

And there is something comforting in the notion that the collective history it depicts trumps our individual differences and transcends our diversity, to tie us together--for this moment, at least--by virtue of our shared nationality.

It is clear, when I query neighbors, co-workers and friends, that the song affects different people differently; that our reactions have less to do with musical taste than with our own personal memories.

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I am undone by the voice of Martin Luther King, reduced to sobs by the sound of the Kennedy brothers. Even today, they pierce my heart with memories of lost promises and dreams.

My daughter’s teacher cries at references to the space shuttle explosion. She remembers the horror of watching the disaster unfold on TV, as the Challenger lifted off and the astronauts perished . . . a schoolteacher among them. “Hearing it reminds me,” she says, “of what heroes they were.”

My young baby-sitter grieves at the sound of a young Princess Diana, pledging her troth to Prince Charles. “She was so happy then,” she explains. “It’s like, she had no clue how much pain there was ahead. How cruel is that?”

And my teenage daughter is moved by this reference to Columbine High, from a memorial for the slain Colorado students: “The young killers of Columbine High School do not stand for the spirit of America. We can rise up and we can say, ‘No more!’ ”

It is clear we assign different weights and measures to the events that mark our world; that what we draw from our memories reflects our personal ties to the news of that day.

But it is also clear that there is a body of history that we share; that the tears we shed reflect not just our individual pain, but the way we are bound to this country.

So I look back and am reminded by my tears of how much of this nation’s collective memory I share, how much I am steeped in its history, how big a piece of this rock my heart owns.

And I look forward and wonder what history is yet to be made, what events yet unlived and unforeseen will bind my children to this country and mark their march through a new century.

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Sandy Banks’ column is published on Sundays and Tuesdays. Her e-mail address is sandy.banks@latimes.com.