AMNESIA?

After class last Monday I was driving home. The Number-3-Blue-Bus stopped right in front of
me when I was ready to turn right unto Venice Blvd. Somehow it took too long, so I decided
to go around it. The second lane was empty, so I passed the bus and turned a sharp right.
The driver of the Blue Bus was either as impatient as I, or maybe not watching out for me,
because he pulled out precisely as I turned and he rammed the right-hand side of my rear
bumper. The sudden impact caused a whiplash that bounced my head against the side
window.
I gathered this information from the Police Officer who was at my window as I regained
consciousness.
The officer kept asking, “Sir, are you all right?” I was dazed and he was patiently waiting for
me to respond. “I‘m OK.” I responded hesitantly. He asked for my driver’s license and
registration and I proffered them. I noticed that my car had been pushed off to the curb on
Venice Blvd. The officer went back to his patrol car with its over-head lights still flashing.
When he returned he asked, “How do you pronounce your last name, Sir?” I drew a blank. “I
don’t remember my last name”. He queried again looking at my driver’s license. “Do you
still live at this address?” I drew another blank and replied. “I don’t know my address”. He
asked to see proof of insurance and I looked through my wallet, and handed him my medical
insurance card. He took it and then asked for the envelope I had left on the passenger’s
seat. He pulled the proof of insurance he wanted. The officer went back to his patrol car and
made some calls. Finally he came back and asked me if I thought I could drive. I said yes,
and he asked me to follow him. He drove slowly and guided me to a Kaiser-Permanente clinic
near my home. In the parking lot he told me he could cite me for several violations, but
since I looked so rattled he was going to let me go with just a warning. He gave me his card
and asked me to call him if I needed additional information. He handed me back my
documents as well and left.
I walked into the clinic and headed for the reception desk. The attendant took my card and
said they had been expecting me. Apparently the police officer had called previously to
report my accident, and they had set an appointment for me.
The attendant gave me a sheet of paper, attached my card to it, and told me to wait until I
was called. I was called almost immediately. I was ushered to an office. The nurse checked
blood pressure and body temperature. Noted information onto the sheet, and instructed me
to wait. I did. A lady Doctor arrived and greeted me with a smile, “Good morning Mr. Chao, I
hear you were involved in an accident. Can you tell me what happened?” I drew a blank
again, so I replied, “No. I know I regained consciousness after I had lost it, but I don’t
remember anything before that”. She stated that I had been her patient for several years,
and she proceeded to enquire about surgeries. I didn’t remember any of them. She then
said, “Mr. Chao you seem to have a case of amnesia. She wrote it down on the sheet of
paper and handed it to me on the clip board. I suggest you Google it today”. She examined
my head, and handed me a wet towel to press against the left side where my head showed
some swelling. While I pressed on it she checked my reflexes. She tapped my knees with a
mallet, and reported, “Mr. Chao, you have no reflexes”. She handed me a black-plastic
paddle and asked me to cover my left eye. She turned a bright light on her head and looked
through a viewer. Then she asked me to cover my right eye and repeated the procedure on
the left eye. When she finished she said, “There doesn’t seem to be any damage to your
eyes, did the bright light bother you?”
“No”, I responded, “but when you looked at my right eye I got the impression that I was in
Barcelona in the 14th Century, and when you looked at my left eye I got the impression that I
was in Galicia in the late 19th century”. Doc removed the light from her head, shook her hair
and asked, “How can you tell that you were there and precisely at those times”. I was

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looking for an appropriate reply. First I rubbed my eyes and my head and then responded. “I
don’t know. I just know that I know”.
Doc handed me the paddle again and asked me to cover my left eye again and tell her
everything that came to mind. She sat down with a blank sheet of paper and pen at the
ready. I covered my left eye and proceeded to tell her.

“I live in the Jewish quarter in Barcelona. My name is Jacobo Chaoski. The neighbors call me
Jake. Until recently I was a money lender. Just recently a royal decree was issued instructing
all Jews to either leave the Realm or convert to Catholicism. I didn’t want to leave, so I
converted. The conversion ceremony was simple. The priest from the near-by church in the
Gothic Quarter came to our house. He didn’t seem too pleased to make our acquaintance,
but he managed to come through the threshold and inspect our meager belongings. Then he
asked us all, my wife, my two children and me, to kneel down. He then, ceremoniously,
placed both hands as if he were pouring baptismal water on each of our heads and while his
palms were a couple of inches from each head he chanted, “You’re Catholic, you’re Catholic,
you’re Catholic”. After the ceremony he turned to me and said. “Now that you are Catholics
you can not a money lender be. Find another profession”. I was flabbergasted. Money
lending was the only activity I knew. I had even lent money to the Prince of Catalunya – not
that he ever paid, but that is not the point – what was I going to do now?
The answer came a few days later. The remaining 20% of Jews who decided to convert
gathered at the Old Synagogue, which had ceased to be one, and now posed as a business
exchange. Several of us ex-money-changers associated and formed an insurance company.
We insured cargo and ships, and collected premiums in advance. It turned to be even better
than money lending. Soon the Prince came to our Association to request money, which he
collected as insurance, not as a loan, to keep appearances before the Inquisition. Our
association was profitable, and I became a deacon at the church – which we were forced to
attend.
New neighbors moved in to fill empty houses in the old Jewish Quarter. Housing prices were
ridiculously low because the previous owners had to leave in a hurry. We had to be watchful
of our activities. We wanted to be beyond suspicion of dereliction of duty in following
Catholic dogma. In fact, we acted more Catholic than born Catholics. We crossed ourselves
when we walked in front of the church. We wore crosses on our chests, and like devout
Catholics we did not eat meat on Fridays. But that’s where I messed up.
One Friday morning I asked my wife, to prepare corned beef for dinner. She was distressed
and responded, “Today is Friday. We do not eat meat”. I was adamant. I wanted corned
beef, and I was going to have corned beef even if I had to go to confession afterwards. That
evening we ate corned beef.
Immediately after dinner the priest knocked on our door. After we let him in he said he had
received complaints from our neighbors that we were eating meat on Friday. I tried to make
light of the issue and I told him that I had converted the meal using the same procedure he
used. I had placed my hands on top of the meat and chanted, “You are a fish, you are a fish,
you are a fish”. Therefore it was fish that we ate. The priest was not amused and informed
me that he had to report us to the Inquisition, and the Grand Inquisitor would probably issue
a light sentence; perhaps 15 whip lashes for each of us, a minor sentence considering that it
was our first infraction.
I knew I could stand the punishment, but my wife and kids were innocent, and they probably
would not. The following morning I made arrangements to have a 2-wheel cart wait for us at
the western door to the city, and I paid a guardian to open the door for us at midnight.
During the day we prepared, and shortly before midnight we left under cover of darkness. We
carried only a bundle per person. Among our belongings, the only item I had, to remind me
of the good-old-days, was an old Menorah I had inherited as a family heirloom.

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Doc removed the black paddle from my left eye. She took a breath and instructed me to
place it on my right eye. I did and I continued in what Doc said sounded like a younger-man
voice:

I live in Santiago de Compostela, Galicia, my name is Felipe Chao, but my friends call me Phil.
Santiago is a tourist town. Devout Catholics come from all over Spain and beyond our
borders to visit our Saint which grants miracles with open hands. But the economy is sour
everywhere and people can not afford to travel. The Franco-Prussian War has kept pilgrims
from France and Germany away for years. Even people from our colonies in America have
stayed away. I think the Mexican-American War and the Civil war both had an impact on
tourism. We can’t make it without it. We all grow small gardens, but they hardly produce
enough. Children and old people suffer the most. They are the ones we carry on our
shoulders to the cemetery every day. My dad procreated 7 children, and then starved so we
could survive. I inherited his place and I must provide for mom and my siblings. But I’m
training my brother to do what I do, and next year, as soon as I am sure that he can take
over, I am following the route of the conquerors. I’m going to Mexico, to Veracruz, even if I
have to go aboard as a stowaway.

Doc removed the black paddle from my right eye, and looked at me incredulously.
She enquired, “Mr. Chao, are you a religious man?” I was baffled, I hesitated and finally
replied, “I don’t know”. “Well”, she exhaled loudly, “I think that, from now on, you should
believe in reincarnation”. She wrote it down on the sheet of paper, handed it back to me and
instructed me to google it as well. “Mr. Chao”, she continued, “come back on Friday, and by
the way, I would hate to ask you to close both eyes at the same time. I‘d be afraid you would
declare that, in another life time, you were Shirley McLaine”. With that she ushered me out
the door.
Following instructions from the reception-desk I found my home. I let myself in and found
that I own a computer. I walked across the street and introduced myself. The neighbor
smiled and introduced himself as well. Then he stated we’d known each other for over 15
years, and questioned why I was there. I regaled him with a brief recounting of the day’s
events while he smiled a lot. Finally I asked him to show me how to “Google” something. He
walked across the street with me, and watched me inspect family pictures on counters and
walls. Then he proceeded to show me how to google.
I googled amnesia, reincarnation, and Shirley McLaine. I was surprised at the vast amount of
information which appeared on the screen. After a few hours, my eyes needed a rest. So,
right there, in front of the screen, I arched my back and closed my eyes. I couldn’t believe
what I saw. It was a third reincarnation. With both eyes closed I saw myself as a successful
Venetian merchant in the 12th century, my name was Othello and my darling wife was
Desdemona. I was astounded because a mirror reflected me as a muscular black man, while
she was fair, and her facial features were almost a duplicate of Shirley McLaine’s.

By the way, those of us who suffer amnesia have one advantage. So many brain cells are
idled that it is easy to learn anything. I decided to learn how to sell on E.Bay and recently I
closed a transaction. I sold one piece of old candelabra which had been on our mantle for
years. I got a bundle. It turns out it was an antique menorah, probably from Spain’s Middle
Ages, which I had won from my brother on a coin-toss when we split items found in the attic
of our parents’ house.

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