Legacy

When I first got my driver license it had a pink dot on the back that read “donor.” I did it because I thought it was a kind thing to do, but when the folks got a little weird about it the button came off. After all, I’ve always believed that decisions we make about our posthumous selves should be governed mostly and probably solely by the concerns of those who will survive us; our own desires are irrelevant at that point (indeed we can argue about their in vivo relevancy!).

So with that guiding ethos in mind I sit here and scratch my head and wonder at that age-old theme that looms so large in the great works: legacy. We speak of the legacy of presidents, philanthropists, artists and even us common folks. Legacy takes the form of accomplishment, money, bloodline, reputation, and even just plain ol’ being remembered. Once dead, though, why should any of us care? But everyone does and I don’t really understand why, though the usual reasons come to mind.

Does my stance sound glib or naïve? Think about it. Aren’t the usual reasons (and I’m purposely leaving them for the reader to define) concerned less with how people will remember us than with fears that we’ve fallen short during our lifetimes? Why can’t we let the record speak for itself? Why do we feel a need for embellishment, to justify? Are we merely substituting who we were with the memory of who we hoped to be? Who do we fool? Our loved ones? Ourselves? Our God?

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On a totally unrelated and much lighter topic, why do we congratulate people on their birthdays? As if we never expected them to make it so far!